Ring of Terror by Michael Gilbert

of blows from his new attacker. A lot of them fell on his opponent as they rolled together on the ground. Then a crack on the forehead which dazed him.
    When the mist had cleared a little he levered himself up on to his knees. He could hear two sets of footsteps running away round the corner and disappearing into the distance. He was in no shape to follow. His left arm felt as though it didn’t belong to him, his head was still spinning. He felt sick.
    He was sick.
    This restored him sufficiently for him to get to his feet and stagger towards the only destination that mattered – his bed. As he went, there were two thoughts in his mind. The first was that there was something wrong with his arm. Something very wrong. And it wasn’t only his arm, now. His legs were misbehaving. As they buckled under him and he went down face first into the gutter there was another quite independent thought in his mind. There had been something odd about the second set of footsteps. Something he ought to remember.

 
3
    For some time there had been nothing firm, nothing to cling on to. Flashes of consciousness had been followed by intervals of darkness which were too disturbed to be called sleep.
    In these intervals he seemed to spend most of his time walking down the Ratcliffe Highway, a frontage of buildings with nasty, dark, dangerous little alleys between them. Every other building was a tavern. Between the taverns were shops that catered for sailors. Peering through the windows as he strolled past he could see sou’westers and pilot coats, thigh-length rubber boots, sextants and bosun’s pipes, knives and daggers. Why, you could fit out a whole ship from each shop, he said. Ship, shop. Ship, shop. Clip, clop. Hansom cab coming up behind him. Dodge before it runs you down. The effort he made to escape jerked him back to consciousness.
    A man with a beard, whom he had seen before, was smiling at him. He said, ‘That’s right. Cheated the parson this time. Lucky these youngsters have got such hard heads, isn’t it, Mrs Hutchins.’ There was a woman with him who reminded him of Mrs Parham. He remembered her as one of his regular visitors, who gave him hot sweet drinks which made him sick.
    On one occasion, most remarkably, it had been DDI Wensley who had stared down at him, looking like a mournful seal, and said something that sounded like ‘bloody young fool’. After that it was the motherly woman again. This time she had given him a cold and rather bitter drink which he had succeeded in keeping down.
    Then he really had slept.
    When he opened his eyes he saw Joe, perched on a chair beside his bed, reading a magazine. All he could see of it was the picture of a girl with beautiful legs which, very reasonably, she was making no effort to keep hidden. Wanting to see more, he hoisted himself up on to his elbows
    “Ullo ‘ullo,’ said Joe. ‘The sleeping beauty has awucken. And you’re not supposed to sit up.’
    ‘Why on earth not?’ said Luke, sitting up.
    ‘Bin at death’s door, haven’t you?’
    ‘Nonsense,’ said Luke. ‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’
    ‘Whole thing was a fiddle, if you ask me. Three days in the infirmary and Mother Hutchins clucking over you, like as if you was her long-lost son.’
    ‘Have I really been here for three days?’
    ‘Best part of. Every precaution known to science has been took.’ He was examining a chart which hung at the foot of the bed. ‘This one shows your temperacheer. And here’s a list of ticks and crosses. Nothing to say what that is. Might be the number of times you wet your bed.’
    ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ said Luke. ‘Tell me. Did old Wensley come and have a look at me? It seemed like him and I thought I heard him say “bloody young fool”.’
    ‘Taken by and large,’ said Joe, ‘that seems to sum up the general verdick. Letting yourself be knocked on the napper by a couple of cheap Ruskies. Mind you, I’m beginning to wonder if we was quite as smart as we