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eet。
He breathed a long sigh of relief。 He needed a smoke； but it was too risky。 All around him a black void。 No need even to crawl。 Just tread warily。
Jubilation！ It had e off。 He had beaten them。 They were too busy turning back cars at the pass。
But he had overlooked one factor； a scientific innovation…infra…red lenses on telescopic rifle…sights！ Realisation came to him in the vicious whine of an M1 Carbine bullet； passing a foot above his head。 The sharp report followed a tenth of a second later。
He remained standing； the idea of flinging himself headlong into the heather never even occurred to him。 He stood in total surprise as footsteps approached。 One man； not even using a torch。 Damn the fucking army！
'Stay where you are； mate。 That one was intended to miss。 The next won't！'
Just a vague shape； denser than the enveloping darkness。 Houston did not move。 The voice was young： just a kid； not too old to have his arse tanned。 Except for that rifle。 Houston wondered if there were others with him。 Sure to be…but how close？
'Back the way you came； mate。 And don't hang about！'
He could not think of a suitable reply…not even curses。 He had made the attempt and failed。 Now he had to go back。
'Move！'
The mand had more than just a ring of authority about it。 Power！ After hours of boredom the soldier would probably delight in shooting again。
Houston contemplated the return trip along that eighteen…inch…wide sheep…track； with an almost sheer drop on the one side for almost twenty yards。
'Are you going； or ain't you？'
A metallic click。 He turned slowly away。 A finger rested on that trigger； all the more dangerous because it belonged to a raw recruit。
Margaret Houston did not speak as her husband came into the bedroom and began to undress； without switching on the light。 He was earlier than usual； but he had been out tonight。 Just when she thought that it was all over。 She couldn't hold back the sobs as he slid into bed alongside her。
Tuesday。 The church was cold； the primitive heating off。 Too spacious for just four people。 Three of them in the front pew： Coyle； Jane； and Sarah。 The Reverend James Mortimer stood on the altar steps。 His voice was low； and at times the three could not discern his words。
No tears； those had all been shed。 Coyle felt the absence of a coffin made a mockery of it all。 The two women wished the vicar would get it over quickly so that they could return home。 No longer did this place have an aura of a sanctuary。 So much had changed since Sunday。 It was more like a tomb。 As was this whole valley…and the living just waiting to be buried。 Balzur's curse was now a grim reality。
The minister's voice droned on。 The clamouring of the crowd outside was louder now； penetrating the almost empty building。 They resented the army cordoning them off from their God。 Some were threatening to rush the line of soldiers。
Coyle sighed with frustration； and risked a surreptitious glance at his watch。 No more than five minutes； surely。 Then they could go； and the masses would fill the pews once more。 They would not notice the cold as they huddled together； united in a mon cause； prayer overshadowed by terror。 A last plea for deliverance。
Outside the soldiers had unslung their rifles； a demonstration of military authority which the O。C。 hoped would be sufficient。 The bullets were no longer rubber。
'Let us through！'
'You can't keep us out of the church。'
'For God's sake； what next？'
A man had pushed his way through the milling crowd； his face white and strained。 He wore an old…fashioned mackintosh reaching below his knees。 He came to a halt barely five yards away from the muzzle of the nearest rifle。 It was David Houston！
'Get back！'
'I'm a relative。'
'The service will be over in a few minutes。'
'Couldn't get through the crowds。 Let me go in； just for the end。 Please！'
The soldier glanced sideways at his manding officer； the barrel of his rifle unwavering。 The latter sighed； nodded reluctantly。 Houston walked forward through the line of soldiers； hastening towards the rotting wooden porch of the church。 They had not even asked for proof of his identity。
His nerve was almost at breaking point…sheer desperation； blind vengeance swamping all reason。 Nothing else mattered； there was nothing else to live for。 He clutched at something beneath the raincoat。 It weighed the garment down on the one side； but nobody noticed。
Everything now depended upon the gun which bulged in Houston's pocket。 His long dead father's favourite poaching weapon； a single…barrelled 。410 folding shotgun。 Less than three hours ago it had undergone a few improvisations…carried out with a hacksaw。 The skeleton wire stock had been removed； leaving only the pistol…grip。 The barrel had been reduced in length； cut down to five inches just above the chamber。 The range and penetration had gone along with the choke。 All that remained was a scatter…pistol； capable of inflicting a terrible wound if fired at close range。 After a lengthy search； Houston had discovered a cartridge hi the tool…box in the shed。 The paper case was damp and swollen； and he had needed to force it into the breech。 Yet the percussion cap was sound。 It would ignite。 Three…eighths of an ounce of No。 5 shot； destined for Sarah Coyle's head。 Her features would be unrecognisable afterwards。 As for himself； he did not care。 Everybody was under sentence of death； anyway。 There would not be time left for a trial。
His tense fingers closed over the handle of the church door； but it refused to yield。 He used his shoulder； restraining the panic which suddenly engulfed him。 The bastards！
They had locked the door…determined to go through with their memorial service to that useless lout； uninterrupted。
Houston stood back； knowing he could not force an entrance。 A hail of bullets would cut him down if he tried。 Instead he listened。 Above the shouting of the crowd he could hear the Reverend Mortimer's voice inside； a low monotone。 'May the blessing of God Almighty 。 。 。 Holy Ghost 。 。 。 now and always 。 。 。 ' followed by a halfhearted； almost inaudible 'Amen'。
The service was over。 Houston shook his head； and retreated slowly down the gravelled path as far as the dilapidated gates hanging precariously on rusted hinges。 His mac was undone； his right hand gripping the gun inside its spacious folds。 They would have to pass this way。
'They took their time ing out； and the crowd in the street was being even more restless； only the rifles holding them at bay。
Then the door opened slowly。 A gasp of relief from the surging watchers； two hundred or more。 Mortimer first； a black cape over his white cassock。 Jane； unseeing。 Coyle； eyes on the ground。 Sarah 。 。 。 she looked up and saw him。
Recognition and hate； but no fear。 She had no suspicions； looking away in contempt。 That was the moment when Houston's rage erupted。 A red haze before his eyes as he saw her finely moulded； almost aristocratic features。 His hate boiled； then was ice…cold in the same instant。 The home…made pistol was aligned with the striking speed of a card…sharper's derringer。 Three yards separated them。 Ample。 His finger tightened on the trigger。 Nobody would ever look upon that face again！
A shot rang out； crisp and clear。 Somebody screamed； continued to scream。 Jane。 Coyle was ashen…faced； rendered immobile by the suddenness of it all。 The crowd fell silent； staring in stunned horror。
Jane stopped screaming。 There was a faint mechanical sound； scarcely audible； as another shell replaced the spent one in the rifle held by the nearest soldier。 His features revealed a bitterness towards life itself； death meant nothing to him。 It was routine。 A two…year posting in Belfast had made him that way。 It had also taught him to shoot fast； accurately； and instinctively。 You sensed trouble before it began； and it was the first shot that counted； determining who lived and who died。 A wisp of smoke trickled upwards from the barrel of his rifle。 He looked coldly at the body of the man in the raincoat lying less than ten yards away； the gaping bloody hole in the back of the head； the unfired 。410 still clutched in the lifeless fingers。
Then Sarah began to sob。 The crowd burst forward in one human tidal wave； the scene before them a minor diversion as they fought their way into the church。
Chapter 15
Tuesday night。 Winston Dyne was still at his desk。 He ate there； and snatched the odd half hour of troubled sleep slumped across the paper…strewn surface； leaving the room only to answer the most urgent calls of nature。 He was afraid to leave the telephone…even more afraid when it jangled harshly。 But it was the dreams which frightened him most： nightmares that vanished on waking； leaving instead a fear that he could not recall。 Nevertheless； he was left with a feeling that something was dreadfully wrong 。 。 。 something he ought