to get up.
He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray that stood on the small table and then, suddenly, he was alone with the darkness and it moved in on him, pushing against his body with a terrible weightless pressure that was terrifying in its relentless force. The darkness moved in and moved out and a curious sibilant whisper rippled through the void. For a moment he swayed on the edge of panic and then he hurled aside the bedclothes and lurched to his feet.
His trembling fingers fumbled with matches and a small flame blossomed out of the darkness. He turned up the wick of the bedside lamp with his free hand and touched it with the match. Light spread to each corner of the room, driving the shadows before it, and he sat down on the bed and lit another cigarette with hands that shook slightly.
After a while he took the lamp and went into the bathroom. His shirt was damp with perspiration and he stripped it from his body and sluiced his head and shoulders with cold water. As he dried himself he examined his face in the mirror. Dark, sombre eyes that were too deeply set in their sockets, stared out at him with an expression he could no longer analyse even to himself. The ugly, puckered scar that slanted across his right cheek, lifted the corner of his mouth giving him an oddly bitter and sardonic expression that was accentuated by the dark fringe of his beard.
He returned to the bedroom and rummaged in a drawer until he found a clean shirt. He pulled it quickly over his head and buttoned it with fingers that had found their sureness again and then he took the lamp and left the room. It was cold in the stone-flagged passage and he passed quickly into the kitchen. He took a bundle of kindling from a box in one corner and went into the main room of the cottage.
His typewriter rested on a table by the window and the floor was littered with crumpled balls of paper. He gathered them together quickly and used them to start the fire with. In a few moments the dry kindling was burning brightly and he carefully added logs from the pile in the hearth.
He sat back on his heels and stared deeply into the bright flames and after a while, when the fire was burning steadily, he straightened up and moved to a dresser on the far side of the room. He took down a fresh bottle of whisky, turned down the lamp, and sat in a chair by the fire, a glass in one hand and the bottle on the floor beside him.
The flames flickered across the oak-beamed ceiling, casting fantastic shadows that writhed and twisted constantly. The liquor in the glass gleamed, amber and gold, and Fallon savoured it slowly and felt its warmth flowing into him. He sighed with pleasure and started to refill his glass and suddenly a light flashed through the window, illuminating the far wall for a second, and disappearing as quickly as it had come.
He moved quickly to the window and peered out into the darkness and the driving rain. There was nothing to be seen. He was about to turn away when car headlights appeared from a dip in the road below. The car was moving slowly and then it appeared to stop. He watched it for a few moments until the lights moved forward again and turned into the track that led to the cottage.
Fallon pushed the typewriter out of the way and opened a drawer in the table. He took out a Luger automatic pistol and an electric torch. He checked the action of the Luger and then opened the door and moved out into the covered porch.
The car came to a halt a few feet away and the engine was turned off. For a little while there was silence and he waited patiently in the darkness as the rain hammered steadily into the ground. He heard one of the doors open and there was a snatch of conversation and then the door closed again and two figures came towards him. They paused a few feet away from the porch and a voice said, ‘It’s a God-forsaken spot. Do you think he’s here?’
Fallon eased the safety-catch off and held the Luger against his right thigh. He raised the torch and said quietly, ‘He’s here!’ Light stabbed through the darkness, picking out the startled faces of the two men who stood before him.
There was silence and then a voice that he had not heard for many years said, ‘Is it yourself, Martin?’
For a moment he held the torch steady on them and then he directed the beam downwards and said, ‘You’d better come in. Watch the step with that leg of yours, O’Hara.’
He went back into the cottage and turned up the lamp. The two visitors followed him in and closed the door behind them. Fallon turned and faced them. He suddenly realized that he was still holding the Luger in one hand and he laughed shortly and put it down. The younger of the two men said, ‘Old habits die hard.’
Fallon shrugged. ‘What would you be knowing about my old habits?’
The man he had addressed as O’Hara laughed. ‘A good answer,’ he said. ‘A good answer.’ He was old with sagging shoulders and he supported his massive frame on a stick.
‘You’d better take your coat off and sit down,’ Fallon told him. He turned away and took two extra glasses from a shelf.
The younger man helped O’Hara off with his coat and the old man sat down in a chair by the fire with a sigh of relief. ‘Ah, now, is it a drop of the right stuff you’re going to offer us?’ he said as Fallon came forward with the glasses.
Fallon poured a generous measure into a glass and gave it to him. ‘Who’s your friend?’ he said.
O’Hara laughed again. ‘Fancy me forgetting my manners like that. This is Jimmy Doolan. He’s wanted to meet you for a long time, Martin.’
Doolan smiled quietly and held out his hand He was a small, quiet man with good capable hands and a Dublin accent. ‘I’ve dreamed of this day, Mr Fallon. You’ve been a hero to me since I was a kid.’
Fallon grunted. ‘A fine sort of hero.’ He handed Doolan a glass of whisky. ‘A lot of bloody good it did me.’
A puzzled expression appeared on Doolan’s face and O’Hara leaned forward and said easily, ‘Now then, Martin. Don’t tell me you’ve turned bitter in your old age.’
Fallon shrugged and sat down. ‘Bitter? It depends how you look at it. It’s one of the few luxuries I can afford these days.’
There was another short, uneasy pause before O’Hara said, ‘How’s the writing going? I never seem to see anything under your name.’
Fallon nodded. ‘You never will. I write thrillers under two different names. They wouldn’t interest you. They don’t even interest me. All they do successfully is pay the bills and keep me in whisky.’
Doolan leaned forward. ‘Don’t you ever feel like doing something else, Mr Fallon?’
Fallon looked at him for a moment and then smiled. ‘Not particularly. What would you suggest?’
Doolan fumbled for words. ‘Well, now, what you were doing before was not such a bad thing.’
‘I was in prison before,’ Fallon told him. ‘I was doing hard labour. Would you have me do that again?’ There was a short, tense silence and he stood up and said, ‘What is it, O’Hara? What do you want with me?’
O’Hara sighed heavily and poked a log that was threatening to fall into the hearth, back into place with the end of his walking stick. ‘The Organization needs you, Martin,’ he said. ‘It needs you bad.’
Fallon started so that whisky slopped over the edge of his glass. He gazed at O’Hara in astonishment and then he laughed harshly. ‘The Organization needs me?’ he said and there was incredulity in his voice. ‘After all these years it needs
