Eye Of The Needle Part 36

"Downstairs," she whispered. "Quietly."

She held his collar and let him lead her down the stairs. In the darkness she felt for the banister, forgetting she had chopped it up for her barricades, and she almost overbalanced. She regained her equilibrium and sucked at a splinter in her finger.

The dog hesitated in the hall, then growled more loudly and tugged her toward the kitchen. She picked him up and held his muzzle shut to silence him. Then she crept through the doorway.

She looked in the direction of the window, but there was nothing in front of her eyes other than the deep blackness.

She listened. The window creaked-at first almost inaudibly, then louder. He was trying to get in. Bob rumbled threateningly, deep in his throat, but seemed to understand the sudden squeeze she gave his muzzle.

The night became quieter. Lucy realized the storm was easing, almost imperceptibly. Henry seemed to have given up on the kitchen window. She moved to the living room.

She heard the same creak of old wood resisting pressure. Now Henry seemed more determined: there were three m.u.f.fled b.u.mps, as if he were tapping the window frame with the cushioned heel of his hand.

Lucy put the dog down and hefted the shotgun. It might almost have been imagination, but she could just make out the window as a square of grey in the blank darkness. If he got the window open, she would fire immediately.

There was a much harder bang. Bob lost control and gave a loud bark. She heard a scuffling noise outside.

Then came the voice.

"Lucy?"

She bit her lip.

"Lucy?"

He was using the voice he used in bed-deep, soft, intimate.

"Lucy, can you hear me? Don't be afraid. I don't want to hurt you. Talk to me, please."

She had to fight the urge to pull both triggers there and then, just to silence that awful sound and destroy the memories it brought to her.

"Lucy, darling..." She thought she heard a m.u.f.fled sob. "Lucy, he attacked me-I had to kill him...I killed for my country, you shouldn't hate me for that-"

What in the world did that that mean...? It sounded crazy. Could he be insane and have hidden it for two intimate days? Actually he had seemed saner than most people-and yet he had already committed murder...though she had no idea of the circ.u.mstances...Stop it...she was softening up, which of course was exactly what he wanted. mean...? It sounded crazy. Could he be insane and have hidden it for two intimate days? Actually he had seemed saner than most people-and yet he had already committed murder...though she had no idea of the circ.u.mstances...Stop it...she was softening up, which of course was exactly what he wanted.

She had an idea.

"Lucy, just speak to me..."

His voice faded as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Bob would surely warn her if Henry did anything more than talk. She fumbled in Tom's tool box and found a pair of pliers. She went to the kitchen window and with her fingertips located the heads of the three nails she had hammered there. Carefully, as quietly as possible, she drew them out. The job demanded all her strength.

When they were out she went back to the living room to listen.

"...don't cause me trouble and I'll leave you alone..."

As silently as she could she lifted the kitchen window. She crept into the living room, picked up the dog and returned once again to the kitchen.

"...hurt you, last thing in the world..."

She stroked the dog once or twice and murmured, "I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to, boy." Then she pushed him out of the window.

She closed it rapidly, found a nail, and hammered it in at a new spot with three sharp blows.

She dropped the hammer, picked up the gun, and ran into the front room to stand close to the window, pressing herself up against the wall.

"...give you one last chance-!"

There was a scampering sound, from Bob, followed by a terrible, terrifying bark Lucy had never before heard from a sheepdog; then a scuffling sound and the noise of a man falling. She could hear Henry's breathing-gasping, grunting; then another flurry of Bob's scampering, a shout of pain, a curse in the foreign language, another terrible bark.

The noises now became m.u.f.fled and more distant, then suddenly ended. Lucy waited, pressed against the wall next to the window, straining to hear. She wanted to go and check Jo, wanted to try the radio again, wanted to cough; but she did not dare to move. b.l.o.o.d.y visions of what Bob might have done to Henry pa.s.sed in and out of her mind, and she badly wanted to hear the dog snuffling at the door.

She looked at the window...then realized realized she was looking at the window; she could see, and not just a square patch of faintly lighter grey, but the wooden crosspiece of the frame. It was still night, but only just, and she knew if she looked outside the sky would be faintly diffused with a just-perceptible light instead of being impenetrably black. Dawn would come at any minute, she would be able to see the furniture in the room, and Henry would no longer be able to surprise her in the darkness- she was looking at the window; she could see, and not just a square patch of faintly lighter grey, but the wooden crosspiece of the frame. It was still night, but only just, and she knew if she looked outside the sky would be faintly diffused with a just-perceptible light instead of being impenetrably black. Dawn would come at any minute, she would be able to see the furniture in the room, and Henry would no longer be able to surprise her in the darkness- There was a crash of breaking gla.s.s inches away from her face. She jumped. She felt a small sharp pain in her cheek, touched the spot, and knew that she had been cut by a flying shard. She hefted the shotgun, waiting for Henry to come through the window. Nothing happened. It was not until a minute or two had pa.s.sed that she wondered what had broken the window.

She peered at the floor. Among the pieces of broken gla.s.s was a large dark shape. She found she could see it better if she looked to one side of it rather than directly at it. When she did, she was able to make out the familiar shape of the dog.

She closed her eyes, then looked away. She was unable to feel any emotion at all. Her heart had been numbed by all the terror and death that had gone before: first David, then Tom, then the endless screaming tension of the all-night siege...All she felt felt was hunger. All day yesterday she had been too nervous to eat, which meant it was some thirty-six hours since her last meal. Now, incongruously, ridiculously, she found herself longing for a cheese sandwich. was hunger. All day yesterday she had been too nervous to eat, which meant it was some thirty-six hours since her last meal. Now, incongruously, ridiculously, she found herself longing for a cheese sandwich.

Something else was coming through the window.

She saw it out of the corner of her eye, then turned her head to look directly at it.

It was Henry's hand.

She stared at it, mesmerized: a long-fingered hand, without rings, white under the dirt, with cared-for nails and a bandaid around the tip of the index finger; a hand that had touched her intimately, had played her body like an instrument, had thrust a knife into the heart of an old shepherd.

The hand broke away a piece of gla.s.s, then another, enlarging the hole in the pane. Then it reached right through, up to the elbow, and fumbled along the windowsill, searching for a catch to unfasten.

Trying to be utterly silent, with painful slowness, Lucy shifted the gun to her left hand, and with her right took the axe from her belt, lifted it high above her head, and brought it down with all her might on Henry's hand.

He must have sensed it, or heard the rush of wind, or seen a blur of ghostly movement behind the window, because he moved abruptly a split-second before the blow landed.

The axe thudded into the wood of the windowsill, sticking there. For a fraction of an instant Lucy thought she had missed; then, from outside, came a scream of pain, and she saw beside the axe blade, lying on the varnished wood like caterpillars, two severed fingers.

She heard the sound of feet running.

She threw up.

The exhaustion hit her then, closely followed by a rush of self-pity. She had suffered enough, surely to G.o.d, had she not? There were policemen and soldiers in the world to deal with situations like this-n.o.body could expect an ordinary housewife and mother to hold off a murderer indefinitely. Who could blame her if she gave up now? Who could honestly say they would have done better, lasted longer, stayed more resourceful for another minute?

She was finished. They would have to take over-the outside world, the policemen and soldiers, whoever was at the other end of that radio link. She She could do no more.... could do no more....

She tore her eyes away from the grotesque objects on the windowsill and went wearily up the stairs. She picked up the second gun and took both weapons into the bedroom with her.

Jo was still asleep, thank G.o.d. He had hardly moved all night, blessedly unaware of the apocalypse going on around him. She could tell, somehow, that he was not sleeping so deeply now, something about the look on his face and the way he breathed let her know that he would wake soon and want his breakfast.

She longed for that old routine now: getting up in the morning, making breakfast, dressing Jo, doing simple, tedious, safe safe household ch.o.r.es like washing and cleaning and cutting herbs from the garden and making pots of tea.... It seemed incredible that she had been so dissatisfied with David's lovelessness, the long boring evenings, the endless bleak landscape of turf and heather and rain.... household ch.o.r.es like washing and cleaning and cutting herbs from the garden and making pots of tea.... It seemed incredible that she had been so dissatisfied with David's lovelessness, the long boring evenings, the endless bleak landscape of turf and heather and rain....

It would never come back, that life.

She had wanted cities, music, people, ideas. Now the desire for those things had left her, and she could not understand how she had ever wanted them. Peace was all a human being ought to ask for, it seemed to her.

She sat in front of the radio and studied its switches and dials. She would do this one thing, then she would rest. She made a tremendous effort and forced herself to think a.n.a.lytically for a little longer. There were not so many possible combinations of switch and dial. She found a k.n.o.b with two settings, turned it, and tapped the Morse key. There was no sound. Perhaps that meant the microphone was now in circuit.

She pulled it to her and spoke into it. "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, is there anybody there? h.e.l.lo?"

There was a switch that had "Transmit" above it and "Receive" below. It was turned to "Transmit." If the world was to talk back to her, obviously she had to throw the switch to "Receive."

She said: "h.e.l.lo, is anybody listening?" and threw the switch to "Receive."

Nothing.

Then: "Come in, Storm Island, receiving you loud and clear."

It was a man's voice. He sounded young and strong, capable and rea.s.suring, and alive and normal normal.

"Come in, Storm Island, we've been trying to raise you all night...where the devil have you been been?"

Lucy switched to "Transmit," tried to speak, and burst into tears.

36.

PERCIVAL G.o.dLIMAN HAD A HEADACHE FROM TOO many cigarettes and too little sleep. He had taken a little whisky to help him through the long, worried night in his office, and that had been a mistake. Everything oppressed him: the weather, his office, his job, the war. For the first time since he had gotten into this business he found himself longing for dusty libraries, illegible ma.n.u.scripts and medieval Latin. many cigarettes and too little sleep. He had taken a little whisky to help him through the long, worried night in his office, and that had been a mistake. Everything oppressed him: the weather, his office, his job, the war. For the first time since he had gotten into this business he found himself longing for dusty libraries, illegible ma.n.u.scripts and medieval Latin.

Colonel Terry walked in with two cups of tea on a tray. "n.o.body around here sleeps," he said cheerfully. He sat down. "Ship's biscuit?" He offered G.o.dliman a plate.

G.o.dliman refused the biscuit and drank the tea. It gave him a temporary lift.

"I just had a call from the great man," Terry said. "He's keeping the night vigil with us."

"I can't imagine why," G.o.dliman said sourly.

"He's worried."

The phone rang.

"G.o.dliman."

"I have the Royal Observer Corps in Aberdeen for you, sir."

"Yes."

A new voice came on, the voice of a young man. "Royal Observer Corps, Aberdeen, here, sir."

"Yes."

"Is that Mr. G.o.dliman?"

"Yes." Dear G.o.d, these military types took their time. Dear G.o.d, these military types took their time.

"We've raised Storm Island at last, sir...it's not our regular observer. In fact it's a woman-"

"What did she she say?" say?"

"Nothing, yet, sir."

"What do you mean mean?" G.o.dliman fought down the angry impatience.

"She's just...well, crying, sir."

G.o.dliman hesitated. "Can you connect me to her?"

"Yes. Hold on." There was a pause punctuated by several clicks and a hum. Then G.o.dliman heard the sound of a woman weeping.

He said, "h.e.l.lo, can you hear me?"

The weeping went on.

The young man came back on the line to say, "She won't be able to hear you until she switches to 'Receive,' sir-ah, she's done it. Go ahead."

G.o.dliman said, "h.e.l.lo, young lady. When I've finished speaking I'll say 'Over.' Then you switch to 'Transmit' to speak to me and you you say 'Over' when say 'Over' when you you have finished. Do you understand? Over." have finished. Do you understand? Over."

The woman's voice came on. "Oh, thank G.o.d for somebody sane, yes, I understand. Over."

"Now, then," G.o.dliman said gently, "tell me what's been happening there. Over."

"A man was shipwrecked here two-no, three days ago. I think he's that stiletto murderer from London, he killed my husband and our shepherd and now he's outside the house, and I've got my little boy here...I've nailed the windows shut and fired at him with a shotgun, and barred the door and set the dog on him but he killed the dog and I hit him with an axe when he tried to get in through the window and I can't do it anymore so please come for G.o.d's sake. Over I can't do it anymore so please come for G.o.d's sake. Over."

G.o.dliman put his hand over the phone. His face was white. "Jesus Christ..." But when he spoke to her, he was brisk. "You must try to hold on a little longer," he began. "There are sailors and coastguards and policemen and all sorts of people on their way to you but they can't land until the storm lets up.... Now, there's something I want you to do, and I can't tell you why you must do it because of the people who may be listening to us, but I can tell you that it is absolutely essential absolutely essential...Are you hearing me clearly? Over."

"Yes, go on. Over."

"You must destroy your radio. Over."

"Oh, no, please..."

"Yes," G.o.dliman said, then he realized she was still transmitting.

"I don't...I can't..." Then there was a scream.

G.o.dliman said, "h.e.l.lo, Aberdeen, what's happening?"