Just as his hands, curled like claws, reached for her, she lashed out. She ducked down and came at him in a rush, hands flailing out, her head butting him in the pit of the stomach. She took him completely by surprise — he fell, and she sprawled on the ground beside him. She scrambled to her feet, and then his hand hooked around her ankle and brought her crashing down.
“Oh, Ellen,” he said. “So you’ll make a fight of it...”
He had one hand on her ankle, the other hand higher up on her legs. She scrabbled at the ground with both hands, brought up fists full of dirt and tiny pebbles. She turned and threw the dirt at his face, and he let out a roar and rubbed furiously at his eyes with both hands. She pulled herself free and ran for the car.
But he was up and after her. He caught her, and when his cold hands touched her she almost gave up, almost quit, but something made her fight on. She spun away from him and kicked out, and he laughed and kept coming, and she kicked again and caught him in the pit of the stomach and he doubled up in pain, a moan escaping his lips.
For a moment she was frozen, almost unable to believe she had hurt him, unable to move now that the chance was hers. Then, as he was getting to his knees, she recovered herself and sprinted for the car. She almost ran around to the left-hand side, but then she remembered that the car had right-hand steering, and she got the door open and flung herself behind the wheel.
The motor was still running. She put the car in gear and pressed down upon the accelerator, and nothing happened, the motor roared but the car stayed in place. There was a moment of panic, and then she remembered the handbrake and released it, and the car leaped forward.
David, she had to find David!..
She spun the car around in a tight U-turn. She made the turn all right, but then the tiny motor coughed and died, and he was racing toward her now, and she wasn’t sure she knew how to start the car. She put the clutch in and turned the key and the starter whined and the engine caught, and he was grabbing at the door, clutching at the handle just as she fed the car gas and the car rushed forward again, pulling away from him, and when she looked in the mirror she saw him sprawled out on the road behind her, sprawled on his hands and knees while she sped away, safe, free.
She was safe.
She was alive, alive.
And he would not be able to come after her now. He had told her how deserted the road was, how days passed without another car appearing. He would be a long while on the road, and no one in Dingle would know what had happened. She could hurry back to Dingle. She could find David, somehow, and get him away from there. They would drive to Tralee and from Tralee to Shannon, and they would find someone, anyone, who could help them.
But they would have to hurry.
She checked the rear-view mirror. She could still see him, walking in the roadway behind her, covering the ground quickly in long, firm strides. He was coming after her on foot. She wanted to drive faster but didn’t dare. She was on the wrong side, it felt crazy driving on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road. And the road was so narrow, and there were hills, and she was afraid, God she was afraid.
No, she told herself. No, there was nothing to be afraid of. There was plenty of time. She had got away from him, that was the important thing. She was alive and she was free of him and he would never get near her again. That was the important thing. And David was innocent, David was really in love with her, David was hers, hers, and she would find him and he would drive the car and then she wouldn’t have to do it any more, and she would be safe, she would be David’s, everything would work out—
She saw the car in the rear-view mirror, a long way back. It wasn’t fair, she thought. It wasn’t fair. Hardly any traffic at all, days going by without a car, and now there was a car coming at just this time. It wasn’t fair. She watched in the mirror as Farrell stepped easily to the side of the road and held up his hand toward the onrushing car.
Maybe it wouldn’t stop for him. Maybe...
The car slowed, stopped. Farrell opened the door, got into the car.
Of course, she thought. Of course. And she burst out into hysterical laughter, humorless and involuntary laughter. Of course. For who in Ireland would think of refusing a ride to a priest?
The car behind her began to move again Grimly, desperately she pressed down harder on the accelerator and urged the little red Triumph on toward Dingle and David.
Fifteen
When she hit the outskirts of Dingle town she slowed down. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead and trickled down her arms to the backs of her hands. She was past fear now; she had lived with it too long and was now running on momentum and adrenalin. Somewhere in front of her was David. Somewhere behind her was Father Farrell — no, not Father Farrell, not even Farrell, but that would do until she knew his real name. Somewhere behind her was Farrell. She had not caught a glimpse of the car in a long while, and her first thought had been that the false priest had been unable to persuade his driver to match her speed. Now, the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that the car behind her had stopped. Farrell would not want an innocent citizen for company if he caught up with her. So he would make the driver stop the car, and then those hands, those horrid hands, would reach out for the man’s throat...
That would explain why the car had dropped back out of sight. And she knew he would do the deed without a second thought. He would probably yearn to do it, for that matter. She had seen the light in his eyes, had heard the wildness in his voice when he told her how he would kill her, told her all of it in heart-stopping detail. She had cheated him out of the thrill of a murder, and he would be hungry to kill, anxious to take any life, and the man who gave him a ride would have been sacrificed to that hunger.
So he’d have a car of his own now. And what sort of car? She hadn’t recognized it. It was one of those British automobiles designed like a 1954 Ford, and all of them looked quite alike to her. But whatever sort it was, whatever make, it was probably faster than the Triumph. It was certainly larger and likely to be more powerful.