Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  turning and coming back.

  He flung open the door of the jeep, leaped in, and shot off down the

  hill.

  Lucy knew he would be back.

  Suddenly she felt happy, almost gay. She had won the first round she

  had driven him off and she a woman!

  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 creep up on her.

  She hoped he would wait until dark, for 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, for David had examined Tom's then sent away for

  one exactly like it. The two men had enjoyed long discussions about

  weaponry.

  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, which 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 die breech. Then she worked out what

  she had done to open it, and practised doing it again a couple of

  times.

  It was incredibly 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 a maniac, 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 bannister.

  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 doors, three bars to each

  door, four nails to each bar. When it was done her wrists were agony

  and the hammer felt as heavy as lead, but she was not finished.

  She got another handful of the shiny, four-inch nails, and went around

  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 he could not get in

  quietly. He would have to break something and give himself away 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 colour, 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 patrolled the house restlessly for a while, 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 SOS 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; but 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? ... CM 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 thing 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 won by confronting Henry with

  the gun, by learning how to reload, by barricading the doors 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 bannister, forgetting that 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 velvet 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 f
ire

  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, and 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 repress the memories it brought to her

  unwilling consciousness.

  "Lucy, my darling ..." She thought she heard a muffled sob.

  "Lucy, he attacked me1 had to kill him... I killed for my country, you

  shouldn't hate me for that."

  She could not understand that. It sounded mad. Could he be insane,

  and have hidden it for two intimate days? He had seemed saner than

  most people and yet he had murdered before ... unless he was a victim

  of injustice ... Damn. She was softening up, and that must be exactly

  what he wanted.

  She had an idea.

  "Lucy, just speak to me..."

  His voice faded as she tip-toed into the kitchen. Bob would 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 found

  with her fingertips 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 into the living room to listen.

  '... don't obstruct me, and I'll leave you..."

  As silently as she could she lifted the kitchen window open. She crept

  into the living room, picked the dog up, and returned yet again to the

  kitchen.

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

  She stroked the dog once or twice, and murmured: "Iwouldn'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 ah!"

  There was a rush of small feet; a blood-curdling bark Lucy had never

  heard from a sheepdog before; a scuffling sound; and the noise of a big

  man falling. She could hear Henry's breathing, gasping, grunting; then

  another flurry of canine paws; a shout of pain; a curse in a foreign

  language; another bark. She wished she could see what was happening.

  The noises became muffled and more distant, then suddenly ceased. Lucy

  waited, pressed against the wall next to the window, straining her

  ears. She wanted to go and check on Jo, wanted to try the radio again,

  wanted to cough; but she did not dare to move. Bloodthirsty visions of

  what Bob might have done to Henry passed in and out of her mind, and

  she yearned to hear the dog snuffling at the door.

  She looked at the window. Then she realized she was looking at the

  window: she could see, not just a square patch of faintly lighter grey,

  but the wooden crosspiece of the frame. It was still night, but only

  just: she knew that 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. Then 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; but 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 that, 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 at the death of the faithful sheepdog. Her heart had

  been numbed by all the danger 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 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, mesmerised: a long-fingered hand, without rings,

  white under the dirt, with cared-for nails and a band-aid around the

  tip of the index finger; a hand that had touched her intimately, had

  played her body like a harp, 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.

  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; for he moved sharply 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,

  there came a scream of pain and loss, and she saw beside the axe blade,

  lying on the varnished wood like caterpillars, two severed fingers.

  She heard the sound of feet running away.

  Lucy threw up.

  3<>3 The exhaustion hit her then, closely followed by a surge of

  self-pity. She had suffered enough, surely to God, had she not? There

  were policemen and soldiers in the world to deal with situations like

  this nobody could expect an ordinary housewife and mother to keep a

  killer at bay indefinitely. Who could blame her if she gave up now?

  Who could honestly say they would have done better, lasted longer,

  stayed brave and resolute and 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 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, bless him. He had hardly moved all night, utterly

  oblivious to 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 simple life, now: getting up in the morning, making

  breakfast, dressing Jo, doing simple, tedious, safe household chores

  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 excitement, 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 analytically for a little longer.

  There were not so many possible combinations of switch and dial. She