Rogan moved in close and incredibly, one gnarled hand grabbed for his ankle and pulled hard, jerking him off balance so that he fell heavily to the cobbles. Fletcher’s great hand clawed across his body, reaching for the throat. Rogan grabbed at his wrists and they rolled over in the rain.
They cannoned into the wall beside the horse trough and Rogan, with a supreme effort, threw him to one side and got to his feet. Fletcher reached for the edge of the trough and pulled himself up. As he reached his full height, Rogan moved in fast and kicked him in the stomach. Fletcher doubled over and a knee like iron lifted into his face sending him back over the edge of the water trough.
He sprawled there, head under the surface and Rogan leaned on the edge to get his breath. After a while, he grabbed the big man by the shirt front and hauled him
out. He dropped him on the cobbles and turned to find Hannah and Morgan watching him.
When he spoke, his voice seemed to be the voice of a stranger and the blood pounded in his ears. ‘You tell him next time I see him with a bottle, I’ll break it over his skull.’ He pushed Morgan violently out of the way and lurched across the yard towards the house.
He was sitting in the chair beside the kitchen table, he was aware of that, and Hannah was wiping the blood from his face with a towel and warm water, tears pouring down her cheeks, and then she was in his arms and his lips were against the cool flesh and it was as if this had always been.
Outside in the rain, Morgan crouched beside Fletcher who was moaning in pain, eyes half open. ‘What was it you called him, Jesse? Just a big Irish bogtrotter? Hit him in the right place and he’d split clean down the middle.’
He started to laugh, turned and walked to the house and left Fletcher lying there alone in the heavy rain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MORGAN and Fletcher left for Manchester straight after breakfast the following morning, Fletcher sullen and angry, his eyes smouldering with hate whenever he looked at Rogan.
Rogan stood at the gate and watched the brake move away down the dirt road. He turned and looked up at the mountains, feeling relaxed and at peace. The morning was bright and clean, the moor purple with heather and the haze of autumn was on the land.
He turned and found Hannah watching him, a slight smile on her face. ‘A fine morning.’
‘With those two gone it’s like being rid of a bad taste in your mouth.’ He took a deep breath as a small wind lifted from the stream in the valley bringing with it the dank, wet smell of rotting leaves.
‘My favourite season, autumn,’ Hannah said. ‘Always something a little sad about it. Old dreams like smoke in the air, lingering on for a moment before fading for ever.’
There was a poignancy in her voice that touched something deep inside him and he reached out and caressed her face gently with the back of his hand. She turned and kissed his palm, her face flushed and beautiful.
‘What would you like to do?’ he said. ‘The way I see it, we’ve got the day to ourselves.’
She turned, shading her eyes, and looked up at the fells. ‘I’d like to go up there, I think. It would be nice to be above the world for an hour or two. I could make some sandwiches.’
‘Sounds fine to me,’ Rogan said. ‘What about your uncle?’
‘Slill sleeping it off. Brendan went up the valley half an hour ago. We’ll probably see him up there.’
They returned to the house. Hannah went into the kitchen and Rogan had a shave. When he had finished, he helped himself to the oilskin jacket he had used the night before and an old tweed cap from a peg behind the door, and waited outside.
Hannah joined him a few minutes later. She was wearing leather knee-length boots and jeans and her sheepskin jacket. A scarf was knotted around her head and she carried an old army knapsack.