Eye of the Needle (29 page)

The wireless was in the bedroom, a complex-looking construction of wires and dials and knobs. There was something that looked like a Morse key; she touched it experimentally and it gave a beep. A thought came to her from distant memory—something from a schoolgirl thriller—the Morse code for S.O.S. She touched the key again: three short, three long, three short.

Where was Tom?

She heard a noise, and ran to the window.

The jeep was making its way up the hill to the house.

Henry had found the booby trap and used the gasoline to fill the tank.

Where was Tom?

She rushed out of the bedroom, intending to go and bang on the outhouse door, but at the head of the stairs she paused. Bob was standing in the open doorway of the other bedroom, the empty one.

“Come here, Bob,” she said. The dog stood his ground, barking. She went to him and bent to pick him up.

Then she saw Tom.

He lay on his back, on the bare floorboards of the vacant bedroom, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his cap upside down on the floor behind his head. His jacket was open, and there was a small spot of blood on the shirt underneath. Close to his hand was a crate of whisky, and Lucy found herself thinking irrelevantly, I didn’t know he drank that much.

She felt his pulse.

He was dead.

Think,
think
.

Yesterday Henry had returned to her cottage battered, as if he had been in a fight. That must have been when he killed David. Today he had come here, to Tom’s cottage, “to fetch David,” he had said. But of course he had known David was not there. So why had he made the journey? Obviously, to kill Tom.

Now she was completely alone.

She took hold of the dog by its collar and dragged it away from the body of its master. On impulse she returned and buttoned the jacket over the small stiletto wound that had killed Tom. Then she closed the door on him, returned to the front bedroom and looked out of the window.

The jeep drew up in front of the house and stopped. And Henry got out.

34

L
UCY’S DISTRESS CALL WAS HEARD BY THE CORVETTE.

“Captain, sir,” said Sparks. “I just picked up an S.O.S. from the island.”

The captain frowned. “Nothing we can do until we can land a boat,” he said. “Did they say anything else?”

“Not a thing, sir. It wasn’t even repeated.”

“Nothing we can do,” he said again. “Send a signal to the mainland reporting it. And keep listening.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

IT WAS ALSO
picked up by an MI8 listening post on top of a Scottish mountain. The R/T operator, a young man with abdominal wounds who had been invalided out of the RAF, was trying to pick up German Navy signals from Norway, and he ignored the S.O.S. However, he went off duty five minutes later, and he mentioned it to his commanding officer.

“It was only broadcast once,” he said. “Probably a fishing vessel off the Scottish coast—there might well be the odd small ship in trouble in this weather.”

“Leave it with me,” the C.O. said. “I’ll give the Navy a buzz. And I suppose I’d better inform Whitehall. Protocol, y’know.”

“Thank you, sir.”

At the Royal Observer Corps station there was something of a panic. Of course, S.O.S. was not the signal an observer was
supposed
to give when he sighted enemy aircraft, but they knew that Tom was old, and who could say what he might send if he got excited? So the air raid sirens were sounded, and all other posts were alerted, and antiaircraft guns were rolled out all over the east coast of Scotland and the radio operator tried frantically to raise Tom.

No German bombers came, of course, and the War Office wanted to know why a full alert had been sounded when there was nothing in the sky but a few bedraggled geese?

So they were told.

THE COASTGUARD
heard it too.

They would have responded to it if it had been on the correct frequency, and if they had been able to establish the position of the transmitter, and if that position had been within reasonable distance of the coast.

As it was, they guessed from the fact that the signal came over on the Observer Corps frequency that it originated from Old Tom, and they were already doing all they could about
that
situation, whatever the hell that situation was.

When the news reached the below-deck card game on the cutter in the harbor at Aberdeen, Slim dealt another hand of blackjack and said, “I’ll tell you what’s happened. Old Tom’s caught the prisoner of war and he’s sitting on his head waiting for the army to arrive and take the bugger away.”

“Bollocks,” said Smith, with which sentiment there was general agreement.

AND THE
U-505
heard it.

She was still more than thirty nautical miles from Storm Island, but Weissman was roaming the dial to see what he could pick up—and hoping, improbably, to hear Glenn Miller records from the American Forces Network in Britain—and his tuner happened to be on the right wavelength at the right time. He passed the information to Lieutenant Commander Heer, adding, “It was not on our man’s frequency.”

Major Wohl, who was still as irritating as ever, said, “Then it means nothing.”

Heer did not miss the opportunity to correct him. “It means
something
,” he said. “It means that there may be some activity on the surface when we go up.”

“But this is unlikely to trouble us.”

“Most unlikely,” Heer agreed.

“Then it is meaningless.”

“It is
probably
meaningless.”

They argued about it all the way to the island.

AND SO
it worked out that within the space of five minutes the Navy, the Royal Observer Corps, MI8 and the Coastguard all phoned Godliman to tell him about the S.O.S.

Godliman phoned Bloggs, who had finally fallen into a deep sleep in front of the fire in the scramble room. The shrill ring of the telephone startled him, and he jumped to his feet, thinking that the planes were about to take off.

A pilot picked up the receiver, said, “Yes” into it twice and handed it to Bloggs. “A Mr. Godliman for you.”

“Hello, Percy.”

“Fred, somebody on the island just broadcast an S.O.S.”

Bloggs shook his head to clear the last remains of sleep. “Who?”

“We don’t know. There was just the one signal, not repeated, and they don’t seem to be receiving at all.”

“Still, there’s not much doubt now.”

“No. Everything ready up there?”

“All except the weather.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Bloggs hung up and returned to the young pilot who was still reading
War and Peace
. “Good news,” he told him. “The bastard’s definitely on the island.”

“Jolly good show,” said the pilot.

35

F
ABER CLOSED THE DOOR OF THE JEEP AND BEGAN
walking quite slowly toward the house. He was wearing David’s hacking jacket again. There was mud all over his trousers where he had fallen and his hair was plastered wetly against his skull. He was limping slightly on his right foot.

Lucy backed away from the window and ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs. The shotgun was on the floor in the hall where she had dropped it. She picked it up. Suddenly it felt very heavy. She had never actually fired a gun, and she had no idea how to check whether this one was loaded. She could figure it out, given time, but there was no time.

She took a deep breath and opened the front door. “Stop!” she shouted. Her voice was pitched higher than she had intended, and it sounded shrill and hysterical.

Faber smiled pleasantly and kept on walking.

Lucy pointed the gun at him, holding the barrel with her left hand and the breech with her right. Her finger was on the trigger. “I’ll kill you!” she yelled.

“Don’t be silly, Lucy,” he said mildly. “How could you hurt me? After all the things we’ve done together? Haven’t we loved each other, a little…?”

It was true. She had told herself she could not fall in love with him, and that was true too; but she
had
felt
something
for him, and if it was not love, it was something very like it.

“You knew about me this afternoon,” he said, and now he was thirty yards away, “but it made no difference to you then, did it?”

That was partly true. For a moment she saw in her mind’s eye a vivid picture of herself sitting astride him, holding his sensitive hands to her breasts, and then she realized what he was doing—

“Lucy, we can work it out, we can still have each other—”

—and she pulled the trigger.

There was an ear-splitting crash, and the weapon jumped in her hands, its butt bruising her hip with the recoil. She almost dropped it. She had never imagined that firing a gun would feel like that. She was quite deaf for a moment.

The shot went high over Faber’s head but all the same he ducked, turned, and ran zigzagging back to the jeep. Lucy was tempted to fire again but she stopped herself just in time, realizing that if he knew both barrels had been emptied there would be nothing to stop him turning and coming back.

He flung open the door of the jeep, jumped in and shot off down the hill.

Lucy knew he would be back.

But suddenly she felt happy, almost gay. She had won the first round—she had driven him off….

But he would be back.

Still, she had the upper hand. She was indoors, and she had the gun. And she had time to prepare.

Prepare. She must be ready for him. Next time he would be more subtle. He would surely try to surprise her somehow.

She hoped he would wait until dark, that would give her time…

First she had to reload the gun.

She went into the kitchen. Tom kept everything in his kitchen—food, coal, tools, stores—and he had a gun like David’s. She knew the two firearms were the same because David had examined Tom’s, then sent away for one exactly like it. The two men had enjoyed long discussions about weapons.

She found Tom’s gun and a box of ammunition. She put the two guns and the box on the kitchen table.

Machines were simple, she was convinced; it was apprehension not stupidity that made women fumble when faced with a piece of engineering.

She fiddled with David’s gun, keeping the barrel pointed away from herself, until it came open at the breech. Then she figured out what she had done to open it, and practiced doing it again a couple of times.

It was surprisingly simple.

She loaded both guns. Then, to make sure she had done everything correctly, she pointed Tom’s gun at the kitchen wall and pulled the trigger.

There was a shower of plaster, Bob barked like he’d gone mad, and she bruised her hip and deafened herself again. But she was armed.

She must remember to pull the triggers gently so as not to jerk the gun and spoil her aim. Men probably got taught that kind of thing in the army.

What to do next? She should make it difficult for Henry to get into the house.

Neither of the doors had locks, of course; if a house was burgled on this island, one would know that the culprit lived in the other house. Lucy rummaged in Tom’s tool box and found a shiny, sharp-bladed axe. She stood on the stairs and began to hack away at the banister.

The work made her arms ache, but in five minutes she had six short lengths of stout, seasoned oak. She found a hammer and some nails and fixed the oak bars across the front and back door, three bars to each door, four nails to each bar. When it was done her wrists were in agony and the hammer felt as heavy as lead, but she was still not finished.

She got another handful of the shiny four-inch nails and went around to every window in the house, nailing them shut. She realized, with a sense of discovery, why men always put nails in their mouths: it was because you needed both hands for the work and if you put them in your pocket they stuck into your skin.

By the time she had finished it was dark. She left the lights off.

He could still get into the house, of course, but at least he could not get in quietly. He would have to break something and thereby alert her—and then she would be ready with the guns.

She went upstairs, carrying both guns, to check on Jo. He was still asleep, wrapped in his blanket, on Tom’s bed. Lucy struck a match to look at his face. The sleeping pill must have really knocked him out, but he was an average sort of color, his temperature seemed normal and he was breathing easily. “Just stay that way, little boy,” Lucy whispered. The sudden access of tenderness left her feeling more savage toward Henry.

She restlessly patrolled the house, peering through the windows into the darkness, the dog following her everywhere. She took to carrying just one of the guns, leaving the other at the head of the stairs; but she hooked the axe into the belt of her trousers.

She remembered the radio, and tapped out her S.O.S. several more times. She had no idea whether anybody was listening, or even whether the radio was working. She knew no more Morse, so she could not broadcast anything else.

It occurred to her that Tom probably did not know Morse code. Surely he must have a book somewhere? If only she could tell someone what was happening here…She searched the house, using dozens of matches, feeling terrified every time she lit one within sight of a downstairs window. She found nothing.

All right, perhaps he
did
know Morse.

On the other hand, why should he need it? He only had to tell the mainland that there were enemy aircraft approaching, and there was no reason why that information shouldn’t go over the air…what was the phrase David had used?…
au clair
.

She went back to the bedroom and looked again at the wireless set. To one side of the main cabinet, hidden from her previous cursory glance, was a microphone.

If she could talk to them, they could talk to her.

The sound of another human voice—a normal, sane, mainland voice—suddenly seemed the most desirable prospect in the world.

She picked up the microphone and began to experiment with the switches.

Bob growled softly.

She put the mike down and reached out her hand toward the dog in the darkness. “What is it, Bob?”

He growled again. She could feel his ears standing stiffly upright. She was terribly afraid—the confidence gained by confronting Henry with the gun, by learning how to reload, by barricading the door and nailing down the windows…all evaporated at one growl from an alert dog.

“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 muffled bumps, 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 muffled 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
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 circumstances…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 muffled 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. Bloody visions of what Bob might have done to Henry passed 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
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 glass 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 passed that she wondered what had broken the window.

She peered at the floor. Among the pieces of broken glass 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
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 glass, 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.