Night Sky (78 page)

They couldn’t save her. They’d try of course, but Fischer knew it would be no good. Neither could they escape; no-one had ever made a free ascent from this depth and lived.

Fischer stared back at them. For the moment there was nothing he could say to them.

He would think of something later, something appropriate, something to prepare them for the end.

But all he could think of now was that they had put their faith in him and they had been wrong. Even now, they were waiting expectantly.

There is nothing I can do for you, my friends
.

It might take them a day to die, maybe longer, depending on how long the air lasted.

Then he looked down at the gathering water and thought: No, it’ll be quicker than that. We’re going to drown first.

He shook his head and smiled at his brave uncomplaining men with affection.

He wanted to say: I never was a god. Why did you ever think I was?

But they already knew it. They could see it in his face and, one by one, they looked away.

Julie wished it wasn’t so dark.

She wasn’t so worried about the sailing now – the boat seemed to be dancing along quite happily – but she did wish she could see.

Still … there was only this night to survive, and then, some time in the morning, land would come into sight – or a plane – help of some kind at any rate. Then – she could almost imagine it now – the massive overwhelming
relief
. And the peace.

A picture floated in front of her eyes, as real as if she had seen it herself: it was a picture of a small cottage, standing alone on a hilltop, with a wonderful view of the distant sea which was pale and sparkling in the sunshine. The cottage was whitewashed and surrounded by a small garden with borders of softly coloured flowers. Sitting in the garden were two people: she was one of them. The other was Richard. They had been there some time, living in the small cottage. They were very happy.

Extraordinary how clear it all was. She tried to hold on to it but other pictures flashed into her mind: a small terraced house – her mother’s – a clifftop, her uncle and aunt walking on it, a dance at Plymouth … Then everything got jumbled up and people were laughing at her, and it was some kind of nightmare, and they were pointing at he … Then she was drifting away, out to sea, in a strange boat without a tiller …

She woke up. Reality.

She shone the dim torch at the compass and put the boat back on course. She looked around. Nothing had changed.

She peered down into the darkness by the stern. She could just make out the dark shape of Peter’s body curled up in the corner.

Then she heard it.

A faint noise, so indistinct that at first she thought she was mistaken.

Wide awake now, she peered into the darkness ahead.

There it was again. A faint – something …

A whispering? No, more of a swishing …

She gulped and stood up.

Where was it coming from?

She looked around wildly. The sound seemed to be all around her. Or was it ahead, more?

It faded then died away. Perhaps she was imagining it …

No!
There it was again, like muffled thunder, a soft boom which rolled, then fell away …

She stood still, frozen, gripped by fear.

Again, a low rumble. Closer.
Closer
.

She clamped her hand to her mouth.

Then she saw it and almost screamed. A flicker which grew into a long smudge of glimmering whiteness.

‘God! God!
’

It was water – white water, leaping, moving, rising, falling back, a great line that stretched across the sea in front of her.

She yanked the tiller towards her. Pulling, pulling until it would go no further.

‘Turn! Turn!
Please
…’ She pulled on the tiller until her hands hurt.

The boat turned on a wave and lurched over, throwing her sideways against the boat’s side.

She grasped the rail and turned back to look.

White water … rising, thundering up against black walls, falling back …

She cried out, ‘
Oh God!
’ And watched the terrible water, mesmerised, the fear gripping her like ice.

Then she remembered. The tiller: she had let it go. She reached out for it, found it, took hold of it, suddenly realised she had lost all sense of direction.

The white water was to her right now. Whimpering slightly she looked around her. Turn still more: she must turn still more.

Away, away, back to the open sea …

She pulled on the tiller, took another look at the white water … it was almost behind her …
behind
her … Yes, yes – behind her now … She shouted, ‘Oh, go away!
Go away!
’ For a moment it seemed that the white water was dragging her back, then she realised it was fading, turning grey again …

She collapsed, shaking and weak, on to the seat, murmuring, ‘Oh, Oh …’

Something made her look up – a sound; a dull roar; falling water. Her blood froze.

Somebody screamed. She dimly realised it was herself. Ahead of the boat was a wall of brilliant silver and white cascading downwards and backwards, rushing out towards the little boat. Then a wave rose, higher and higher, and Julie was aware of the little boat rushing forward, hurtling headlong towards a black mass rising into the sky, blacker than the night.

She grabbed for the tiller and pulled desperately, but the wild forward motion of the boat was inexorable. The black mass rose higher and larger, rushing forward to meet the boat.

She screamed again and turned to reach out for Peter. A second later the breath was pushed from her body and she was thrown forward, flying headlong.
Peter! Peter!
She was twisting in the air; turning; then landing on something brutal and hard which dug deep into her back.

She looked wildly about and screamed,
‘Peter!
’

Some way below her she saw the dim outline of the back of the boat, where Peter had been, but so dark that she couldn’t see
inside
.

‘Peter!
’

Water came roaring towards her in a great deluge, flooding over the boat. She grabbed at something and, closing her eyes, held on tight. The water came thundering over her head, filling her eyes and ears and trying to drag her away.
Hold on, hold on
. She held on until her arms were breaking. Something jerked at her waist, pulling at her body.

The water subsided, sucking back in a great gasp, as if taking another breath.

She rasped for air and tried to move towards the stern, towards Peter, but the rope was tight around her waist, dragging her to the side.

‘God, let me go! Let me go!
’

She pulled on the rope, tried to yank it off, tried to tear it off, grappling wildly at the knot.
Get off!
Then she remembered – the rope!
The rope was Peter
. She screamed,
‘P-e-t-e-r!
’ and slid down the deck in the direction of the rope. Nothing. She groped around. She touched something soft and reached for it just as the next wave came thundering over the deck, knocking her sideways, roaring into her mouth. She reached out through the water – grabbed – found – clung – pulled him into her body …

She clung to him. She clung to him as the water carried them forward, bumping, crashing them along, forward, forward …

Something hit her head with a great bang. She swallowed water. Then they were up against something hard, and now the other way, now they were being dragged back, back, back.

And she clung to him. And in that fraction of a moment she would have died for him,
wanted
to die for him, the child of her body. She would have held the water back with her bare hands and clawed at the rock with her fists and killed any man or anything that stood in her way …

But now the water was carrying them forward again, faster this time and angrier, a great crested wave that carried them up, up, racing forwards to hurl itself on the unyielding granite, forward on to the mighty rock which waited to break the back of the impudent wave, as it had broken a hundred thousand before it.

Julie was aware that the deck had disappeared from under her feet. Instead there was only the water, spinning her round, trying to drag her down. She swallowed water, tried to breathe, choked, gasped for breath, found some precious air, gulped water again, felt the sea close over her head … flung out an arm and tried to fight her way up …

Still the wave raced forward.

And still she clung to him.

Then they were falling, falling in the great cataract of water. Julie braced herself. In that instant of time she saw a great panorama before her: a split second which covered all the happiness and joy of her life.

Something hit the back of her body with a sickening impact, it hit her so hard that her chin met her chest and her breath was exploded from her lungs. Then the water was clawing at her, dragging her over rough, sharp, hurtful things …

Everything began to slip away … She was drifting gently … the world was purple … white … black. She was drifting …

In a moment of lucidity she was aware of a terrible pain in her side, as if a great weight were pressing hard against it. One last time she murmured the child’s name.

Then she was slipping away again … into a cloud where a soft gentle wave enveloped her, soothing her aching head, removing all pain, making everything right again …

David thought: How strange that I should die here, in the sea.

The boat lurched again, slipping further down, wood scraping loudly and unhappily against granite.

The rushing waves came higher into the raised bow, grabbing at David’s legs, trying to pull him away.

David thought: I’ll be ready for you when you come.

He’d already said his last prayers and made his peace with God. Now he concentrated his mind on the small house in Germany, as it used to be, in the days when they had been so happy.

He started from the time when Cecile was very small. He remembered her podgy little arms reaching out to touch his nose, he remembered the three of them in the park …

A wave washed up to his chest and covered his head with spray. He was almost swept away, but managed to cling on.

Was that the one God had intended for him?

No. When he could hold on no more,
that
would be the one.

He had got to Cecile’s school days when the wave finally came. It was larger than the rest. It washed right up into the bow with a thunderous roar and as it receded his hands were torn away from the boat and he was travelling with the water …

Free at last. In a way.

Then he made himself go limp and waited, suspended by the lifebuoy. Water filled his mouth and nose and he choked and spluttered and fought for breath. He was vaguely disappointed. He’d thought it would be easy, just a matter of closing your eyes and waiting.

But finally the fight for breath became more difficult. He had no strength left. He felt himself ebbing away.

For one brief moment the soft air touched his face, then a wave hissed over him and filled his mouth and he knew he wouldn’t struggle any more.

The lifebuoy slipped up over his shoulders and he was floating downwards, drifting gently. In the last few moments panic gripped him, but he calmed himself by remembering that he was a lucky man: his troubles were finally over.

J
OE
T
RELEAVEN SNIFFED
the air. Cold. Cold for March and cold for the islands. The low dormer window was opaque with condensation. Puffing a little, he pulled a heavy oiled sweater over his head and, leaning down, rubbed the wetness from the glass and peered through.

It was almost sunrise. The dawn light was clear and hard as a diamond, the sky a yellow dome above the blackness of the sea. It would stay cold all day, Joe decided.

Easterlies. He shook his head and stomped down the cottage stairs into the kitchen. Easterlies were the only winds which could bring this kind of cold to St Agnes. Perhaps there was something to be said for turning the fields over to vegetables after all. Before the war he’d grown nothing but flowers and flowers didn’t like too much sharpness in the air.

Mind you, the bulbs kept coming up: you couldn’t stop them. And now that the transportation of flowers was forbidden there were fancy prices to be had on the black market, so he’d heard. Four pounds for a box of daffodils. By jove, that was enough to keep a man for a month.

He riddled the stove, opened the vent and poured more coal into the top. He picked up the kettle and, opening the latch, went out into the yard. He paused, as he always did, and looked out towards the Western Rocks. The wind of the previous night had dropped away and the air was still. It might be a good fishing day. Perhaps he’d take the boat and go lining for scad. But then perhaps he wouldn’t; perhaps he’d go weed-gathering for pigfeed instead.

He filled the kettle from the water barrel and, returning to the kitchen, put it on the stove. He made himself a breakfast of porridge and tea, then pulled on his jacket to go and feed the animals. As he approached, the pigs snorted in wild agitation. He gave them their usual mixture of vegetables and kelp, then threw the chickens a handful of grain.