Tapestry of Fear Read Online Free PDF

where we had left the car the going was comparatively easy. The beach was churned by many footprints and the grass where the car had been parked was flattened and scored by tyre marks, the gorse bushes nearby trampled and torn from their roots.
    Jose circled the tyre marks, then bent down, trying to follow them as they disappeared into the springy turf.
    â€œDid they get away?” I asked fearfully.
    He stood, clasping his shoulder, staring at the ground. “ I don’t know.” he said at last. “ The car was certainly driven off in a hurry, but it could have been the police.”
    â€œOr could it have been Miss Daventry …” I said, filled with desperate hope. “They could be at the cottage now … waiting for us.”
    He winced, holding his shoulder, and in the moonlight I could see that the wet bandage, black with blood. Abruptly he turned, striding towards the road with a terse, “ Come on.”
    I ran after him, the grass making our progress silent. When we reached the empty road he crossed it, skirting the thin line of trees that separated it from the open fields, and then dropping stealthily among the vines. Beyond us in the darkness loomed the dim shapes of hills and woods, and somewhere, miles distant, were the mountains and the cottage. My heart was beating light and fast as I padded after him, my ears straining for the sound of cars on the nearby road, dreading once more to see the menacing beams of light in the still darkness. A small animal brushed past my feet, startling me into a cry. Jose’s hand tightened painfully and I tried to remember that I was supposed to be helping him. Our roles seemed to have reversed themselves. I was feeling more and more like excess baggage and wondered how he would take the suggestion that I should return to Miguelou. But it was no good. If I did that I would be tormented by visions of him collapsing on the bare hillside and bleeding to death. An encumbrance I might be, but at least I was fit and would be able to help him when the going got rough. His strength was amazing. Despite the loss of blood and the pain he was in, he moved swiftly through the fields, making straight for the sides of the hill and the belt of pines. Soon we were in the inky depths of the trees and the wind dropped. Our rapid walking had whipped some warmth back into my body, but I still had only my underslip on and both of us were barefoot. The pine-needles dug into the soles of my feet, pricking and stinging. Then we found a narrow pathway and gratefully exchanged the tortures of the pine-needles for that of soft, dry sand.
    When the woods petered out the path continued, winding like a pale snake up into the hills. We trudged on, heedless of the physical discomfort, heedless of everything but the necessity of reaching the haven of the cottage once more. The path grew steeper and I toiled beside him, wanting to know how his shoulder felt, dreading to ask. His breathing was hoarse and raw and his footsteps hesitant and stumbling. His hand clasped mine, guiding me on, then he pitched forwards, tripping over a gnarled tree root. He looked indescribably weary as he struggled to his feet, saying brusquely: “Come on. It isn’t far now.”
    â€œYour shoulder,” I said. “Let me see.…”
    He swung away from me. “The blood is drying.”
    In the pale moonlight it looked freshly damp and the fear I had been fighting flickered into life.
    â€œCome on,” he said again, his voice little more than a thick whisper. “ We can’t give up now.”
    â€œJose.…” I put a hand out to him and he grasped it, pulling me along beside him.
    The breeze soughed through the branches of the trees below us, ladening the air with the pungent scent of the pines. Exhausted, I limped on, my feet hurting, my body cold, mind numbed.
    The way seemed endless, time after time, I slipped and fell so that my slip was torn and filthy, my