He watched the Vauxhall out of sight, then crossed the road and entered the promisingly named Market Street. Shortly thereafter he found himself at the docks and, following his nose, arrived at the fish market. He felt safely anonymous in the bustling, noisy, smelly market, where everyone was dressed in working clothes as he was. Wet fish and cheerful profanities flew through the air, and Faber found it hard to understand the clipped, guttural accents. At a stall he bought hot, strong tea in a chipped half-pint mug and a large bread roll with a slab of white cheese.
He sat on a barrel to eat and think. This evening would be the time to steal a boat. It was galling, to have to wait all day, and it left him with the problem of concealing himself for the next twelve hours; but he was too close now to take risks, and stealing a boat in broad daylight was much more risky than at the twilight end of the day.
He finished his breakfast and stood up. It would be a couple of hours before the rest of the city came to life. He would use the time to pick out a good hiding place.
He made a circuit of the docks and the tidal harbour. The security was perfunctory, and he noted several places where he could slip past the checkpoints. He worked his way around to the sandy beach and set off along the two-mile esplanade, at the far end of which a couple of pleasure yachts were moored at the mouth of the River Don. They would have suited Faber's purpose very well, but they would have no fuel.
A thick ceiling of cloud hid the sunrise. The air became very warm and thundery again. A few determined holidaymakers emerged from seafront hotels and sat stubbornly on the beach, waiting for sunshine. Faber doubted they would get it today.
The beach might be the best place to hide. The police would check the railway station and the bus depot, but they would not mount a full-scale search of the city. They might check a few hotels and guest houses. It was unlikely they would approach everyone on the beach. He decided to spend the day in a deck chair.
He bought a newspaper from a stall and hired a chair. He removed his shirt and put it back on over his overalls. He left his jacket off.
He would see a policeman, if one came, well before he reached the spot where Faber sat. There would be plenty of time to leave the beach and vanish into the streets.
He began to read the paper. There was a new Allied offensive in Italy, the newspaper headlined. Faber was skeptical. Anzio had been a shambles. The paper was badly printed and there were no photographs. He read that the police were searching for one Henry Faber, who had murdered two people in London with a stiletto...
A woman in a bathing suit walked by, looking hard at Faber. His heart missed a beat. Then he realised she was being flirtatious. For an instant he was tempted to speak to her. It had been so long... He shook himself mentally. Patience, patience. Tomorrow he would be home.
She was a small fishing boat, fifty or sixty feet long and broad in the beam, with an inboard motor. The aerial told of a powerful radio. Most of the deck was taken up with hatches to the small hold below. The cabin was aft, and only large enough to hold two men, standing, plus the dashboard and controls. The hull was clinker-built and newly caulked, and the paintwork looked fresh.
Two other boats in the harbour would have done as well, but Faber had stood on the quay and watched the crew of this one tie her up and refuel before they left for their homes.
He gave them a few minutes to get well away, then walked around the edge of the harbour and jumped onto the boat. She was called Marie II.
He found the wheel chained up. He sat on the floor of the little cabin, out of sight, and spent ten minutes picking the lock. Darkness was coming early because of the cloud layer that still blanketed the sky.
When he had freed the wheel he raised the small anchor, then jumped back onto the quay and untied the ropes. He returned to the cabin, primed the diesel engine, and pulled the starter. The motor coughed and died. He tried again. This time it roared to life. He began to manoeuvre out of the mooring.
He got clear of the other craft at the quayside and found the main channel out of the harbour, marked by buoys. He guessed that only boats of much deeper draught really needed to stick to the channel, but he saw no harm in being overcautious.
Once outside the harbour, he felt a stiff breeze, and hoped it was not a sign that the weather was about to break. The sea was surprisingly rough, and the stout little boat lifted high on the waves. Faber opened the throttle wide, consulted the dashboard compass, and set a course. He found some charts in a locker below the wheel. They looked old and little used; no doubt the boat's skipper knew the local waters too well to need charts. Faber checked the map reference he had memorised that night in Stockwell, set a more exact course, and engaged the wheel-clamp.
The cabin windows were obscured by water. Faber could not tell whether it was rain or spray.
The wind was slicing off the tops of the waves now. He poked his head out of the cabin door for a moment, and got his face thoroughly wet.
He switched on the radio. It hummed for a moment, then crackled. He moved the frequency control, wandering the airwaves, and picked up a few garbled messages. The set was working perfectly. He tuned to the U-boat's frequency, then switched off. It was too soon to make contact.
The waves increased in size as he progressed into deeper waters. Now the boat reared up like a bucking horse with each wave, then teetered momentarily at the top before plunging sickeningly down into the next trough. Faber stared blindly out of the cabin windows. Night had fallen, and he could see nothing at all. He felt faintly seasick.
Each time he convinced himself that the waves could not possibly get bigger, a new monster taller than the rest lifted the vessel toward the sky. They started to come closer together, so that the boat was always lying with its stern pointed either up at the sky or down at the sea bed. In a particularly deep trough the little boat was suddenly illuminated, as clearly as if it were day, by a flash of lightning. Faber saw a grey-green mountain of water descend on the prow and wash over the deck and the cabin where he stood. He could not tell whether the terrible crack that sounded a second afterward was the thunderclap or the noise of the timbers of the boat breaking up. Frantically he searched the cabin for a life jacket. There was none.
The lightning came repeatedly then. Faber held the locked wheel and braced his back against the cabin wall to stay upright. There was no point in operating the controls now; the boat would go where the sea threw it.
He kept telling himself that the boat must be built to withstand such sudden summer gales. He could not convince himself. Experienced fishermen probably would have seen the signs of such a storm and refrained from leaving shore, knowing their vessel could not survive such weather.
He had no idea where he was now. He might be almost back in Aberdeen, or he might be at his rendezvous. He sat on the cabin floor and switched on the radio. The wild rocking and shuddering made it difficult to operate the set. When it warmed up he experimented with the dials but could pick up nothing. He turned the volume to maximum; still no sound.
The aerial must have been broken off its fixing on the cabin roof.
He switched to Transmit and repeated the simple message, "Come in, please," several times; then left the set on Receive. He had little hope of his signal getting through.
He killed the engine to conserve fuel. He was going to have to ride out the storm if he could then find a way to repair or replace the aerial. He might need his fuel.
The boat slid terrifyingly sideways down the next big wave, and Faber realised he needed the engine power to ensure that the vessel met the waves head-on. He pulled the starter. Nothing happened. He tried several times, then gave up, cursing himself for switching it off.
The boat now rolled so far onto its side that Faber fell and cracked his head on the wheel. He lay dazed on the cabin floor, expecting the vessel to turn turtle at any minute. Another wave crashed on the cabin, shattering the glass in the windows. And suddenly Faber was under water. Certain the boat was sinking, he struggled to his feet and broke surface. All the windows were out, but the vessel was still floating. He kicked open the cabin door and the water gushed out. He clutched the wheel to prevent himself being washed into the sea.
Incredibly, the storm continued to get worse. One of Faber's last coherent thoughts was that these waters probably did not see such a storm more than once in a century. Then all his concentration and will were focused on the problem of keeping hold of the wheel. He should have tied himself to it, but now he did not dare to let go long enough to find a piece of rope. He lost all sense of up and down as the boat pitched and rolled on waves like cliffs. Gale-force winds and thousands of gallons of water strained to pull him from his place. His feet slipped continually on the wet floor and walls, and the muscles of his arms burned with pain. He sucked air when he found his head above water, but otherwise held his breath. Several times he came close to blacking out, and only vaguely realised that the flat roof of the cabin had disappeared.
He got brief, nightmarish glimpses of the sea whenever the lightning flashed. He was always surprised to see where the wave was: ahead, below, rearing up beside him, or completely out of sight. He also discovered with a shock that he could not feel his hands, and looked down to see that they were still locked to the wheel, frozen in a grip like rigour mortis. There was a continuous roar in his ears, the wind indistinguishable from the thunder and the sea.
The power of intelligent thought slipped slowly away from him. In something that was less than a hallucination but more than a daydream, he saw the girl who had stared at him earlier on the beach. She walked endlessly toward him over the bucking deck of the fishing boat, her swimsuit clinging to her body, always getting closer but never reaching him. He knew that, when she came within touching distance, he would take his dead hands from the wheel and reach for her, but he kept saying "Not yet, not yet," as she walked and smiled and swayed her hips. He was tempted to leave the wheel and close the gap himself but something in the back of his mind told him that if he moved he would never reach her, so he waited and watched and smiled back at her from time to time, and even when he closed his eyes he could see her still.
He was slipping in and out of consciousness now. His mind would drift away, the sea and the boat disappearing first, then the girl fading, until he would jerk awake to find that, incredibly, he was still standing, still holding the wheel, still alive; then for a while he would will himself to stay conscious, but eventually exhaustion would take over again.
In one of his last clear moments he noticed that the waves were moving in one direction, carrying the boat with them. Lightning flashed again, and he saw to one side a huge dark mass, an impossibly high wave... no, it was not a wave, it was a cliff... The realisation that he was close to land was swamped by the fear of being hurled against the cliff and smashed. Stupidly, he pulled the starter, then hastily returned his hand to the wheel; but it would no longer grip.
A new wave lifted the boat and threw it down like a discarded toy. As he fell through the air, still clutching the wheel with one hand, Faber saw a pointed rock like a stiletto sticking up out of the trough of the wave. It seemed certain to impale the boat... but the hull of the craft scraped the edge of the rock and was carried past.
The mountainous waves were breaking now. The next one was too much for the vessel's timbers. The boat hit the trough with a solid impact, and the sound of the hull splitting cracked in his ears like an explosion. Faber knew the boat was finished...
The water had retreated, and Faber realised that the hull had broken because it had hit... land. He stared in dumb astonishment as a new flash of lightning revealed a beach. The sea lifted the ruined boat off the sand as water crashed over the deck again, knocking Faber to the floor. But he had seen everything with daylight clarity in that moment. The beach was narrow, and the waves were breaking right up to the cliff. But there was a jetty, over to his right, and a bridge of some kind leading from the jetty to the cliff top. He knew that if he left the boat for the beach, the next wave would kill him with tons of water or break his head like an egg against the cliff. But if he could reach the jetty in between waves, he might scramble far enough up the bridge to be out of reach of the water.
The next wave split the deck open as if the seasoned wood were no stronger than a banana skin. The boat collapsed under Faber, and he found himself sucked backward by the receding surf. He scrambled upright, his legs like jelly beneath him, and broke into a run, splashing through the shallows toward the jetty. Running those few yards was the hardest physical thing he had ever done. He wanted to stumble, so that he could rest in the water and die, but he stayed upright, just as he had when he won the 5,000-metre race, until he crashed into one of the pillars of the jetty. He reached up and grabbed the boards with his hands, willing them to come back to life for a few seconds, and lifted himself until his chin was over the edge; then swung his legs up and rolled over.
The wave came as he got to his knees. He threw himself forward. The wave carried him a few yards then flung him against the wooden planking. He swallowed water and saw stars. When the weight lifted from his back he summoned the will to move again. It would not come. He felt himself being dragged inexorably back, and a sudden rage took hold of him. He would not allow it... not now, goddamn it. He screamed at the fucking storm and the sea and the British and Percival Godliman, and suddenly he was on his feet and running, running, away from the sea and up the ramp, running with his eyes shut and his mouth open, a crazy man, daring his lungs to burst and his bones to break; running with no sense of a destination, but knowing he would not stop until he lost his mind.
The ramp was long and steep. A strong man might have run all the way to the top if he were in training and rested. An Olympic athlete, if he were tired, might have got half way. The average forty-year old man would have managed a yard or two. Faber made it to the top.
A yard from the end of the ramp he felt a sharp pain, like a slight heart attack, and lost consciousness, but his legs pumped twice more before he hit the sodden turf. He never knew how long he lay there. When he opened his eyes the storm still raged, but day had broken, and he could see, a few yards away from him, a small cottage that looked inhabited.
He got to his knees and began the long, interminable crawl to the front door.
The U-505 wheeled in a tedious circle, her powerful diesels chugging slowly as she nosed through the depths like a grey, toothless shark. Lieutenant Commander Werner Heer, her master, was drinking ersatz coffee and trying not to smoke any more cigarettes. It had been a long day and a long night. He disliked his assignment; he was a combat man and there was no combat to be had here; and he thoroughly disliked the quiet Abwehr officer with storybook-sly blue eyes who was an unwelcome guest aboard his submarine.
The intelligence man, Major Wohl, sat opposite the captain. The man never looked tired, damn him. Those blue eyes looked around, taking things in, but the expression in them never changed. His uniform never got rumpled, despite the rigours of underwater life, and he lit a new cigarette every twenty minutes, on the dot, and smoked it to a quarter-inch stub. Heer would have stopped smoking, just so that he could enforce regulations and prevent Wohl from enjoying tobacco, but he himself was too much of an addict.
Heer had never liked intelligence people; he'd always had the feeling they were gathering intelligence on him. Nor did he like working with the Abwehr. His vessel was made for battle, not for skulking around the British coast waiting to pick up secret agents. It seemed to him plain madness to risk a costly piece of fighting machinery, not to mention its skilled crew, for the sake of one man who might well fail to show up.
He emptied his cup and made a face. "Damn coffee," he said. "Tastes vile."
Wohl's expressionless gaze rested on him for a moment, then moved away. He said nothing.
Forever cryptic. To hell with him. Heer shifted restlessly in his seat. On the bridge of a ship he would have paced up and down, but men on submarines learn to avoid unnecessary movement. He finally said, "Your man won't come in this weather, you know."
Wohl looked at his watch. "We will wait until 6 A.M.," he said easily.
It was not an order-Wohl could not give orders to Heer-but the bald statement of fact was still an insult to a superior officer. Heer told him so.
"We will both follow our orders," Wohl said. "As you know, they originate from a very high authority indeed."
Heer controlled his anger. The young man was right, of course. Heer would follow his orders. But when they returned to port he would report Wohl for insubordination. Not that it would do much good; fifteen years in the Navy had taught Heer that headquarters people were a law unto themselves... "Well, even if your man is fool enough to venture out tonight, he is certainly not seaman enough to survive." Wohl's only reply was the same blank gaze. Heer called to the radio operator. "Weissman?"
"Nothing, sir."
Wohl said, "I have a feeling that the murmurs we heard a few hours ago were from him."
"If they were, he was a long way from the rendezvous, sir," the radio operator said. "To me it sounded more like lightning."
Heer added, "If it was not him, it was not him. If it was him, he is now drowned."
"You don't know this man," Wohl said, and this time there was actually a trace of emotion in his voice.
Heer didn't answer. The engine note altered slightly, and he thought he could distinguish a faint rattle. If it increased on the journey home he would have it looked at in port. He might do that anyway, just to avoid another voyage with the unspeakable Major Wohl. A seaman looked in. "Coffee, sir?"
Heer shook his head. "If I drink any more I'll be pissing coffee." Wohl said, "I will please." He took out a cigarette, which made Heer look at his watch. It was ten past six. The subtle Major Wohl had delayed his six o'clock cigarette to keep the U-boat there a few extra minutes. Heer said, "Set a course for home."
"One moment," Wohl said. "I think we should take a look on the surface before we leave."
"Don't be a fool," Heer said. He knew that he was on safe ground now. "Do you realise what kind of storm is raging up there? We wouldn't he able to open the hatch, and the periscope will show up nothing that is more than a few yards away."
"How can you tell what the storm is like from this depth?"
"Experience."
"Then at least send a signal to base telling them that our man has not made contact. They may order us to stay here."
Heer gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not possible to make radio contact from this depth, not with base."
Wohl's calm finally broke. "Commander Heer, I strongly recommend you surface and radio home before leaving this rendezvous. The man we are to pick up has vital information. The Fuehrer is waiting for his report."
Heer looked at him. "Thank you for letting me have your opinion, Major," he said. He turned away. "Full ahead both," he ordered.
The sound of the twin diesels rose to a roar, and the U-boat began to pick up speed.
PART FOUR
When Lucy woke up, the storm that had broken out the evening before was still raging. She leaned over the edge of the bed, moving cautiously so that she would not disturb David, and picked up her wristwatch from the floor. It was just after six. The wind was howling around the roof. David could sleep on; little work would be done today.
She wondered whether they had lost any slates off the roof during the night. She would need to check the loft. The job would have to wait until David was out, otherwise he would be angry that she had not asked him to do it.
She slipped out of bed. It was very cold. The warm weather of the last few days had been a phony summer, the build-up to the storm. Now it was as cold as November. She pulled the flannel nightdress off over her head and quickly got into her underwear, trousers, and sweater. David stirred. She looked at him; he turned over, but did not wake.
She crossed the tiny landing and looked into Jo's room. The three-year-old had graduated from a cot to a bed, and he often fell out during the night without waking. This morning he was on his bed, lying asleep on his back with his mouth wide open. Lucy smiled. He looked truly adorable when he was asleep.
She went quietly downstairs, wondering briefly why she had awakened so early. Perhaps Jo had made a noise, or maybe it was the storm.
She knelt in front of the fireplace, pushing back the sleeves of her sweater, and began to make the fire. As she swept out the grate she whistled a tune she had heard on the radio, "Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby?" She raked the cold ashes, using the biggest lumps to form the base for today's fire. Dried bracken provided the tinder, and wood and then coal went on top.
Sometimes she just used wood, but coal was better in this weather. She held a page of newspaper across the fireplace for a few minutes to create an updraft in the chimney. When she removed it the wood was burning and the coal glowing red. She folded the paper and placed it under the coal scuttle for use tomorrow.
The blaze would soon warm the little house, but a hot cup of tea would help meanwhile. Lucy went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the electric cooker. She put two cups on a tray, then found David's cigarettes and an ashtray. She made the tea, filled the cups, and carried the tray through the hall to the stairs.
She had one foot on the lowest stair when she heard the tapping sound. She stopped, frowned, decided it was the wind rattling something and took another step. The sound came again. It was like someone knocking on the front door.
That was ridiculous, of course. There was no one to knock on the front door-only Tom, and he always came to the kitchen door and never knocked. The tapping again.
She came down the stairs and, balancing the tea tray on one hand, opened the front door.
She dropped the tray in shock. The man fell into the hall, knocking her over. Lucy screamed.
She was frightened only for a moment. The stranger lay prone beside her on the hall floor, plainly incapable of attacking anyone. His clothes were soaking wet, and his hands and face were stone-white with cold.
Lucy got to her feet. David slid down the stairs on his bottom, saying, "What is it? What is it?"
"Him," Lucy said, and pointed.
David arrived at the foot of the stairs, clad in pyjamas, and hauled himself into his wheelchair. "I don't see what there is to scream about," he said. He wheeled himself closer and peered at the man on the floor.
"I'm sorry. He startled me." She bent over and, taking the man by his upper arms, dragged him into the living room. David followed. Lucy laid the man in front of the fire.
David stared at the unconscious body. "Where the devil did he come from?"
"He must have been shipwrecked... the storm..."
But he was wearing the clothes of a workman, not a sailor, Lucy noticed. She studied him. He was quite a big man, longer than the six-foot hearth rug and heavy round the neck and shoulders. His face was strong and fine-boned, with a high forehead and a long jaw. He might be handsome, she thought, if he were not such a ghastly colour. He stirred and opened his eyes. At first he looked terribly frightened, like a small boy waking in strange surroundings; but, very quickly, his expression became relaxed, and he looked about him sharply, his gaze resting briefly on Lucy, David, the window, the door, and the fire.
Lucy said, "We must get him out of these clothes. Fetch a pair of pyjamas and a robe, David."
David wheeled himself out, and Lucy knelt beside the stranger. She took off his boots and socks first. There almost seemed to be a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watched her. But when she reached for his jacket he crossed his arms protectively over his chest.
"You'll die of pneumonia if you keep these clothes on," she said in her best bedside manner. "Let me take them off."
The man said, "I really don't think we know each other well enough. After all, we haven't been introduced."
It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was so confident, his words so formal, that the contrast with his terrible appearance made Lucy laugh out loud. "You're shy?" she said.
"I just think a man should preserve an air of mystery." He was grinning broadly, but his smile collapsed suddenly and his eyes closed in pain.
David came back with clean nightclothes over his arm. "You two seem to be getting on remarkably well already," he said.
"You'll have to undress him," Lucy said. "He won't let me."
David's look was unreadable.
The stranger said, "I'll manage on my own, thanks, if it's not too awfully ungracious of me."
"Suit yourself," David said. He dumped the clothes on a chair and wheeled out.
"I'll make some more tea," Lucy said as she followed. She closed the living room door behind her.
In the kitchen, David was already filling the kettle, a lighted cigarette dangling from his lips. Lucy quickly cleared up the broken china in the hall, then joined him.
"Five minutes ago I wasn't at all sure the chap was alive and now he's dressing himself," David said.
Lucy busied herself with a teapot. "Perhaps he was shamming."
"The prospect of being undressed by you certainly brought about a rapid recovery."
"I can't believe anyone could be that shy."
"Your own lack in that area may lead you to underestimate its power in others."
Lucy rattled cups. "Let's not quarrel today, David, we've got something more interesting to do. For a change." She picked up the tray and walked into the living room.
The stranger was buttoning his pyjama jacket. He turned his back to her as she walked in. She put the tray down and poured tea. When she turned back he was wearing David's robe. "You're very kind," he said. His gaze was direct.
He really didn't seem the shy type, Lucy thought. However, he was some years older than she-about forty, she guessed. That might account for it. He was looking less of a castaway every minute.
"Sit close to the fire," she told him. She handed him a cup of tea.
"I'm not sure I can manage the saucer," he said. "My fingers aren't functioning." He took the cup from her stiff-handed, holding it between both palms, and carried it carefully to his lips. David came in and offered him a cigarette. He declined. The stranger emptied the cup. "Where am I?" he asked.
"This place is called Storm Island," David told him.
The man showed a trace of relief. "I thought I might have been blown back to the mainland."
David pointed the man's toes at the fire to warm his bare feet. "You were probably swept into the bay," David said. "Things usually are. That's how the beach was formed."
Jo came in, bleary-eyed, trailing a one-armed panda as big as himself. When he saw the stranger he ran to Lucy and hid his face.
"I've frightened your little girl." The man smiled.
"He's a boy. I must cut his hair." Lucy lifted Jo onto her lap.
"I'm sorry." The stranger's eyes closed again, and he swayed in his seat.
Lucy stood up, dumping Jo on the sofa. "We must put the poor man to bed, David."
"Just a minute," David said. He wheeled himself closer to the man. "Might there be any other survivors?" he asked.
The man's face looked up. "I was alone," he muttered. He was very nearly all in.
"David-" Lucy began.
"One more question: did you notify the coastguard of your route?"
"What does it matter?" Lucy said.
"It matters because, if he did, there may be men out there risking their lives looking for him, and we can let them know he's safe."
The man said slowly, "I... did not..."
"That's enough," Lucy told David. She knelt in front of the man. "Can you make it upstairs?" He nodded and got slowly to his feet.
Lucy looped his arm over her shoulders and began to walk him out. "I'll put him in Jo's bed," she said.
They took the stairs one at a time, pausing on each. When they reached the top, the little colour that the fire had restored to the man's face had drained away again. Lucy led him into the smaller bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed.
Lucy arranged the blankets over him, tucked him in and left the room, closing the door quietly.
Relief washed over Faber in a tidal wave. For the last few minutes, the effort of self-control had been superhuman. He felt limp, defeated, and ill.
After the front door had opened, he had allowed himself to collapse for a while. The danger had come when the beautiful girl had started to undress him, and he had remembered the can of film taped to his chest. Dealing with that had restored his alertness for a while. He had also been afraid they might call for an ambulance, but that had not been mentioned; perhaps the island was too small to have a hospital. At least he was not on the mainland; there it would have been impossible to prevent the reporting of the shipwreck. However, the trend of the husband's questions had indicated that no report would be made immediately.
Faber had no energy to speculate about problems further ahead. He seemed to be safe for the time being, and that was as far as he could go. In the meantime he was warm and dry and alive, and the bed was soft.
He turned over, reconnoitring the room: door, window, chimney. The habit of caution survived everything but death itself. The walls were pink, as if the couple had hoped for a baby girl. There was a train set and a great many picture books on the floor. It was a safe, domestic place; a home. He was a wolf in a sheepfold. A lame wolf.
He closed his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he had to force himself to relax, muscle by muscle. Gradually his head emptied of thought and he slept.
Lucy tasted the porridge, and added another pinch of salt. They had got to like it the way Tom made it, the Scots way, without sugar. She would never go back to making sweet porridge, even when sugar became plentiful and unrationed again. It was funny how you got used to things when you had to: brown bread and margarine and salt porridge.
She ladled it out and the family sat down to breakfast. Jo had lots of milk to cool his. David ate vast quantities these days, without getting fat: it was the outdoor life. She looked at his hands on the table. They were rough and permanently brown, the hands of a manual worker. She had noticed the stranger's hands: his fingers were long, the skin white under the blood and the bruising. He was unaccustomed to the abrasive work of crewing a boat.
"You won't get much done today," Lucy said. "The storm looks like it's staying."
"Makes no difference. Sheep still have to be cared for, whatever the weather."
"Where will you be?"
"Tom's end. I'll go up there in the jeep."
Jo said, "Can I come?"
"Not today," Lucy told him. "It's too wet and cold."
"But I don't like the man."
Lucy smiled. "Don't be silly. He won't do us any harm. He's almost too ill to move."
"Who is he?"
"We don't know his name. He's been shipwrecked, and we have to look after him until he's well enough to go back to the mainland. He's a very nice man."
