The road grew harder to see. His wipers could no longer keep up with the torrent, and his headlamps were barely effective. As the Bentley raced down the winding lane, Brody did not see the sharp turn approaching. Even with a clear head, he could not have navigated it safely. He was going too fast. The rain made the road too slick.
He pulled the brake lever with all his strength, but he kept sliding. The front end of the Bentley ripped through a thorny hedgerow. The tangled branches slapped the bonnet, then the windscreen, and, finally, tore through the canvas top of the motorcar. Brody felt the roof give way, peeling back like an old tin of kippers, ripping the tweed cap off his head.
He held on for dear life as the Bentley careened through the hedgerow and out into a pasture. It rolled—once, twice—sending his battered body flying off the seat. Brody felt the slap of grass and mud. Suddenly, it was in his mouth, his eyes. Even his ears. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. As his chest smashed against the wooden steering wheel again and again, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.
The Bentley came to rest on its side. Brody lay in a tangled heap of canvas and wood, his limp body hanging half-in and half-out of the motorcar. The big, beautiful engine hissed in agony. One of the headlamps still worked, shooting a sad beam of light awkwardly into the wet earth. Beyond that, there was not a light or a sound, save the faded moon and still-driving rain.
No one would pass here for hours. Help might not come until daybreak. It would be a miracle if he lasted that long.
Brody pulled himself from the wreckage. His leather driving gloves saved his hands from being sliced to ribbons. His Burberry’s greatcoat and heavy tweeds protected the rest of him from the broken glass and metal shrapnel that blanketed the muddy ground.
Brody stood on shaking legs. He felt himself allover. No broken bones, but certainly a couple of bruised ribs. Every time he sucked in air, his chest caught.
He reached over and cut the ignition. The Bentley went quiet. Brody stood in the wreckage, pelted by rain and wind. Cold mud seeped through his trousers. He’d freeze to death out there in the elements—injured, exposed, and sick from withdrawal.
Christ. He needed to go for help.
He took a few tentative steps toward the road. His brown leather brogues sank in mud up to his ankles. Thank God for sturdy boots. They held fast as he put one foot in front of the other, fighting through the mire.
At last, he reached the country lane. Brody climbed through the thorny hedgerow, and stood in the middle of the road. He scanned the nearby hills for lamplight or chimney smoke, but the night was as cold and black as it ever was.
CHAPTER TWO
Brody walked for miles without encountering another soul. He hugged his tattered greatcoat tighter, fighting the wind and rain that cut to his bones, stopping once or twice to vomit.
He was past the tremors stage. Now, he’d entered into gut-wrenching sickness. When there was nothing left in his stomach to heave up, he retched until he spit blood. Damned morphine. He was going to die out here, alone and afraid, without anything to take the edge off.
His muscles cried out in agony. His veins begged for precious morphine. His body couldn’t understand why the needle wasn’t there. It didn’t care that he couldn’t get the stuff in the middle of nowhere. He’d never gone this long without an injection. The pangs had never been this strong—even at their worst—and it frightened him to know just how powerful a hold the medicine had on him.
Brody knew he’d do anything to stave off withdrawal, if only for a moment. He’d walk until his feet bled, until his heart burst from exhaustion. The rain didn’t matter. His injuries couldn’t stop him. He dragged one foot forward, then another. One step at a time toward the promise of morphine that called to him through the night.
A bleak life—living from one dose to the next—but it was his existence now. Before the war, he’d been at Cambridge. He’d had hopes, dreams, and more ambition than he could fulfill in a lifetime. He’d had friends. Girls. Family. Then, the war came and he’d joined up like so many chaps his age. Heading off to France was just another page in his story. Brody had not expected war to be so cruel. He had not expected to see his friends cut down in their prime.
No wonder he needed something to cope. Without morphine to drag him into a dreamless sleep, it all came rushing back. He lived in a nightmare world where the war never ended. His friends haunted his dreams. He saw their deaths over and over again, until he couldn’t take any more. So Brody had gone searching for a cure, and found it packaged in neat, glass vials.
He’d give anything to hear the clink of glass now. To feel the bite of the needle as it kissed his vein.