Dive in the Sun (12 page)

‘Nope. They’ve not taken on fresh water yet.’ Duncan’s voice was patient. ‘I saw some of the locals gettin’ the water cart filled, so they’ll be in for tonight, I reckon.’

‘Did you see her captain?’ Curtis turned his mind back to the plan.

‘What, the fat little bloke with the cap? Yeh, I saw him. He was gabbin’ about the water, I think. He didn’t look so hot, did he?’

It all seemed suddenly clear and urgent, and Curtis sat up with a quick, nervous movement.

‘Look here, Steve, this is how I see it.’ His voice was crisp, and Duncan eyed him with evident surprise.

‘We’ll get down to the village this evening, when it’s nice and dark, and have another poke round for Ian. At the same time we’ll get a wash and tidy up, so that we don’t stand out as bloody scarecrows if we want to show ourselves. I think the Jerries will be worried at having a saboteur hanging around the place, and sooner or later they’ll start putting the heat on the villagers. That’s what our friend was doing this morning, I imagine. Right so far?’

Duncan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeh, I think so. D’you think Jerry is worried about his gallant allies? I mean, d’you suppose he’s wonderin’ which way the cat’ll jump when our fellas get a bit closer?’

‘Well, wouldn’t you?’ Curtis smiled grimly. ‘I’d like to get my hands on some of the bastards!’

‘What in hell’s got into you, Ralph? I’d have thought you’d done your share of blowin’ ’em up!’

Curtis shrugged vaguely. He wondered at himself and why he was feeling so bitter again. Was it the girl’s expression? Was it that she had seen him for what he was? He shook his head angrily to clear it of these stupid fancies.

‘How’s the other pistol?’

‘S’okay,’ said Taylor. ‘I give it to Steve. ’E’s more ’andy wiv it.’ He held up the grenade with something like pride. ‘This’ll do me!’

‘Right. Well, hang on to it.’ Curtis surveyed them bleakly. ‘It’ll be quite something if we pull this off!’

Duncan tossed the pistol and caught it lightly in the air. ‘We’ll give the little Jerry lootenant something to write home about!’ He tossed the gun again, his mouth set in a hard smile. ‘I hope he’s enjoying himself with the local sheilas tonight!’

Taylor looked across. ‘Why, for Pete’s sake?’

The gun landed with a sharp smack in Duncan’s palm and pointed unwaveringly at the sea. ‘’Cause I don’t think he’ll get another chance, that’s why!’

They settled down to watch and sleep by relays, each man taking a turn in the vigil over the dusty village and the little glimmering ship.

Each man saw them differently. Duncan watched the white
cottages
and followed the movements of the villagers narrowly, with the eyes of a hunter. He didn’t feel either beaten or subdued, just the vague urge to get to grips with the future, and as soon as possible. A young girl walked down the path to the sea, leading a goat on a cord. He smiled secretly. A girl under the sun, with her mouth against your ear, and her body close to yours. That would be more like it.

Taylor saw only houses and vague shapes of people moving near them. They were all hostile and alien to him, and each untoward movement made him duck his head and curse the stupidity of leaving the submarine. Somehow he didn’t feel it likely that he was going to live much longer, and the more he thought about it, the more the shadows seemed to close in.

Curtis saw many things, although few of them were there to see. Once the girl’s face was there, shimmering in the sand, mocking him, like the girl in Chelsea. And then he began to sweat as he saw the twisting, distorted face of Roberts in the severed net. But as his body got nearer, Curtis saw that the face was different; this time it was Jervis, and the face was changing. It was no longer distorted and swollen, but sad and reproachful, and the dead lips said silently, “I trusted you, and you failed me!”

Curtis ground his teeth and mopped the sweat from his eyes. The sun smote his neck like a fiery sword, and he groaned aloud with the thoughts which tortured him. Was that why he wanted action? To free himself from his guilt? He tried to concentrate on the schooner, which seemed to quiver in the heat-haze. Tomorrow. What would happen then, and how many of them would be left?

He glanced back at his companions, who were sleeping in the shade of the bushes—Taylor with his mouth open and his breath rough and uneven; Duncan sprawled like a dead man in the sand, the pistol protruding from his belt like a wicked steel eye.

Which of us will be next? He reached wearily for the flask, and remembered the house on the hill. She would be there. Cool, soft dress, and slim brown hands stroking that long plait of hair. Damn her! And all the others! But the strange yearning
in
his chest persisted and kept him company throughout his watch.

The sun crossed its summit and began to move graciously over the flat sea. Some of its rays fell on the schooner, and some lighted the sails of the returning fishing boats. And some caressed the dark green trough which hid the flooded submarine, where it lay empty and harmless, like a dead shark.

SUB-LIEUTENANT IAN JERVIS OPENED
his eyes slowly and stared vacantly at the roughly-timbered roof above his head. For several long moments he lay quite still, as if waiting for life to re-start and events to fall into their proper perspective. He was aware instead of the throbbing pain which burned across his head like a branding iron, and the great feeling of weakness which made him groan again and move his head dazedly from side to side.

As his cheek brushed against the rough, dirty pillow under his head, he chilled, as the complete strangeness of the silent room brought the terrifying memories flooding back to him in a series of wavering pictures. Most of all, he remembered the sea. The great, black towering waves which dragged and beat at his body until he no longer held the breath to call out, and which filled his eyes until he could no longer look for the help which he knew could never come. He tried to wrinkle his brow, as if that might help to clear his brain, but the stabbing pain across his head made him cry out, and his eyes clouded with tears. Vaguely he could remember the beach rushing towards and then beneath him, as a wave lifted him up and flung him like a rag doll on the shore. Then the blow, a second of flashing light which exploded in his skull, and then … he stared round … and then what?

Slowly the picture of his refuge became complete, as with short, painful twists of his neck he examined each section of
the
room. It was only about ten feet by ten, and appeared to be some sort of hut. The floor was bare, stamped earth, and the bright sunlight which filtered around the sides of the strips of sacking which covered each of the two tiny windows displayed, amongst other things, a pile of old, sea-washed bottles and a torn net, while against the broken brick grate was stacked a mass of old driftwood, a navigation lamp, and a stinking bundle of rags. A movement in the grate made him gasp, and he lowered his gaze to meet the curious, unwinking stare of a large grey rat, which sat perched on an upended tin can, slowly and methodically cleaning its whiskers.

‘G’on! Scat!’ Jervis tried to shout, but his voice was a mere croak, and he let his head fall back on to the sacking of his pillow. He tried to think and keep back the tide of misery which threatened to engulf him with each new discovery.

As he moved his head, his palm touched the warm skin of his thigh, and with quick nervous movements he found that beneath the evil-smelling blanket he was quite naked. The shock made him struggle up on to his elbows, and the realization of his nakedness brought the feeling back to his limbs. The roughness of the blanket against his skin, the pain in his head, and the fact that he was alone in some strange hut, told him that at least he was still free. But who had put him there, and where his rescuer had gone, was quite another thing. And where were his clothes? A cold chill ran down his spine. Suppose someone had found him, and hidden his clothes while he fetched the police or the soldiers? He struggled with the blanket, suddenly frantic. Must get out. Must get away. The messages hammered in his head as he scrambled over the side of the battered couch. As his bare feet took his weight, the hut seemed to swim around him in a mad whirlpool, and he reeled against the wall, trying to fight off the dizziness and the pain, his hands scrabbling weakly for support. The rat scuttled amongst the old bottles and vanished, and Jervis stood with his legs astride, as if on the deck of a heaving ship.

Another movement caught his eye from across the couch, and for a moment he was almost too frightened and sick to look.

It was a long strip of cracked and scored glass, probably taken from an equally old wardrobe, and as Jervis stared at his own distorted reflection he hardly noticed the bruises on his sunburned skin, or even the crude bandage which entangled his skull like a turban. As the blood pounded through his veins, and his fingers gripped the wall behind him, he found that he was staring, not at a proud, dependable officer, but at a shaking, frightened boy.

With a sob he leaned back against the warm stonework and closed his eyes. He was suddenly both ashamed and completely without hope. To be found like this. … He looked down at himself in despair. It was the final stab of failure.

Where were Curtis and the others, he wondered. Most likely dead, as he himself might have been but for all this.

He sensed that there was someone or something watching him, and he had to force his head round to look. The room was still and empty, the sun glinting on the old bottles and making his limbs shine against the filthy couch, like a statue. His eyes reached the heavy door and stopped. It was just the same as before, but for the cracks in the unplaned woodwork. They no longer allowed the sunlight to enter like little gold spears; they were black, covered from outside.

So they’ve come. He felt his limbs go slack, and a bitter resignation held him quite still and limp as he stood and watched the door. A small spark of defiance dared to lighten some of the blackness in his mind, and he tried to pull himself together, to get ready for whatever was to come.

The door opened with surprising quickness, and the strange figure stood black against the sunlight and the green hills, like a gaunt scarecrow.

The man stepped inside the hut with a queer, loping gait, and shut the door behind him. For a moment he leaned back against the door and stared fixedly at Jervis as the rat had done, without speaking or moving.

Jervis clenched his fists and gazed, wide-eyed. The man was dressed in a greasy, ragged smock which hung almost to his knees, and from under which his thin bent legs protruded like sticks. His feet were encased in a dirty pair of sandals, and
the
skin of his bare feet was thick with grime and filth.

Jervis could only stare at his face. It could have been any age between twenty or fifty, encircled with a mass of wild, straggly black hair and a thick beard, which left only the large, vacant brown eyes and a patch of sun-wrinkled skin uncovered. It was his mouth which drew Jervis’s fascinated eyes. It was wide and slack, and moved loosely with restless abandon, as if its owner neither possessed the will nor the wish to control it. Even as he watched, the creature’s tongue lolled wetly across the rim of his beard and an unheeded stream of spittle ran downwards across the tattered smock. As Jervis stood against the wall he saw that the man was carrying what appeared to be his uniform, rolled in a tight ball, the boots and pistol belt protruding from the middle.

‘I …’ began Jervis slowly, his voice shattering the silence of the room. ‘I must thank you …’ he stopped. The man only rolled his eyes wildly and allowed his mouth to slip into a lopsided grin.

God, he groaned inwardly, a raving lunatic! A crazy hermit or beachcomber who had stumbled across his body by accident, and who was going to torment him even more. He held out his hands for his clothes, and waited for the man to snatch them away.

Instead, the grin faded, and for a brief moment he looked almost solemn, and then, with great care, he handed the bundle to Jervis.

Keeping one eye on the figure by the door, Jervis began to struggle into his crumpled uniform. It was a tremendous effort, and once he would have fallen but for a clawlike hand which darted out and held his elbow like a vice until the weakness had passed.

Eventually he had finished dressing, and only the pistol belt lay between them on the floor. As he bent to pick it up a look of indescribable pain crossed the other man’s face, and he cowered back against the wall.

Jervis stood up, the heavy belt gripped uncertainly in his hand. For a moment he forgot his own pain and misery, and his heart filled with pity for the human wreck who had rescued
him
, bandaged his head, put him to bed, and dried his soaked clothing, and who now cowered with fear at the sight of the gun.

He tossed it on to the couch and grinned shakily. ‘See?’ He pointed at the gun. ‘See? Friends, yes?’ He stopped. It had sounded so ridiculous, and apart from the change of expression on the creature’s face it was obviously useless trying to speak English. As Jervis watched, the grin reappeared, and the man nodded violently, his thick tangled hair falling across his forehead like a mane. From his mouth came a queer, spine-chilling gurgle, as if he was choking, and then more nods.

Jervis sat down weakly on the couch and followed the man’s movements with his eyes, as he darted around the hut, searching and scratching amongst the piles of flotsam and junk.

An idea crossed his mind, and he waited until the man had his back turned, and then, mustering his strength, he called sharply across the room.

‘Here, you! Stand to attention when you’re addressing an officer! What’s your blasted name?’ He fell back on the couch, laughing uncontrollably and with something like hysteria.

What else can happen now? A deaf-and-dumb madman for company, and I don’t even know where I am! He jumped as he felt a prod in the thigh. The man was holding a cracked cup out to him.

Jervis held it to his lips. It was strange that he felt no thirst, but this poor creature had probably been pouring water down his throat while he was unconscious. He sipped the brackish water slowly, aware that the brown eyes were watching him eagerly.