P. James - The Skull Beneath The Skin

'Not to the island, to Speymouth.'

'You'll be wanting a doctor, then?'

'Not a doctor, the police.'

Still he asked no questions, but put the boat about. After a few minutes, with warmth and energy flowing back into her limbs, she tried to get up and give him a hand with the ropes. But she seemed to have no strength in her arms. He said:

'Better go into the cabin and get some rest.'

'I'd rather stay here on deck if that's all right.'

'You'll not be in my way.'

He fetched a pillow and a heavy coat from the cabin and tucked her up beside the mast. Looking up at the pattern of unregarding stars, hearing the flap of canvas as the boom swung over and soothed by the swish of the waves under the slicing hull, Cordelia wished that the journey could go on forever, that this respite of peace and beauty between the horror passed and the trauma to come might never end.

And so in a companionable silence they sailed together towards the harbour, feeling the peace of the night flowing between them. Cordelia must have slept. She was dimly aware of the boat gently bumping the quay, of being carried ashore, of his hands under her breasts, of the strong sea-smell of his jersey, of a heart beating strongly against her own.

The next twelve hours remained in Cordelia's memory only as a confused impression of time passing but disorientated, of a limbo in which individual pictures and people stood out with startling and unnatural clarity as if a clicking camera had spasmodically recorded them, fixing them instantaneously and for ever in all their capricious banality.

A huge teddy bear on the desk at the police station, humped against the wall at the end of the counter, squint-eyed, with a tag round its neck. A cup of strong sweet tea slopping into the saucer. Two sodden biscuits disintegrating into mush. Why should they produce so clear an image? Chief Inspector Grogan in a blue jersey with frayed cuffs wiping egg off his mouth, then looking down at his handkerchief as if sharing her wonder that he should be eating so late. Herself huddled in the back of a police car and feeling the rough tickle of a blanket on her face and arms. The foyer of a small hotel, smelling of lavender furniture polish with a lurid print of the death of Nelson above the desk. A cheerful-faced woman, whom the police seemed to know, half supporting her up the stairs. A small back bedroom with a brass bedstead and a picture of Mickey Mouse on the lampshade. Waking in the morning to find her jeans and shirt neatly folded on the bedside chair and turning them over in her hands as if they belonged to someone else; thinking that the police must have gone back to the island the night before and how odd they hadn't taken her with them. One old man silently sharing the breakfast room with her and two women police officers, paper napkin tucked into his collar, a vivid red birthmark covering half his face. The police launch butting its way across the bay against a freshening wind with herself, like a prisoner under escort, wedged between Sergeant Buckley and a policewoman in uniform. A seagull hovering above them with its strong curved beak, then dropping to settle on the prow like a figurehead. And then a picture which jerked all the unrealities into focus, brought back all the horror of the previous day and clamped it round her heart like a vice; the solitary figure of Ambrose waiting for them on the quay. And among all these disjointed images there was the memory of questions, endless repetitive questions, of a ring of watching faces, of mouths opening and shutting like automata. Afterwards she could recall every word of the dialogue although the place had slipped for ever from her mind, whether it had been the police station, the hotel, the launch, the island. Perhaps it had been all of these places and the questions had been asked by more than one voice. She seemed to be describing events that had happened to someone else, but to someone she knew very well. It was all clear in the mind of that other girl, although it had happened so long ago, years ago so it seemed, when Simon had been alive.

'Are you sure that when you first arrived at the trapdoor it was up?'

'Yes.'

'And the door itself resting back against the wall of the passage?'

'It must have been if the trapdoor was open.' 'If? But you said it was open. You're sure you didn't open it yourself?' 'Quite sure.'

'How long were you with Simon Lessing in the cave before you heard it crash down?'

'I can't remember. Long enough to ask about the key to the handcuffs, to dive and find it, to set him free. Less than eight minutes perhaps.'

'Are you sure that the trapdoor was bolted? Did you both try to lift it?'

'I tried at first, then he joined me. But I knew it wasn't any good. I heard the scrape of the bolts.'

'Is that why you didn't try very hard, because you knew that it wasn't any good?'

'I did try hard. I pressed my shoulders against it. I suppose it was a natural reaction, to try. But I knew it wasn't any use. I heard the bolts being shot home.'

'You heard that small sound against the rush of the incoming tide?'

'There wasn't very much noise in the cave. The tide spouted in quietly like water into a kettle. That's what was so frightening.'

'You were frightened and you were cold. Are you sure you would have had the strength to push open the door if it had fallen accidentally?'

'It didn't fall accidentally. How could it? And I heard the bolts.'

'One or two?'

'Two. The scrape of metal against metal. Twice.' 'You realize what that means? You understand the importance of what you're saying?' 'Of course.'

They made her go back with them to the Devil's Kettle. It was neither kind nor merciful; but then, they weren't in the business of being kind or merciful. There were bright lights trained on the trapdoor, a man kneeling and dusting it for prints with the careful delicate strokes of a painter. Then they raised it, not resting it against the rock face but balancing it upright on its hinges. They stood back and, after no more than a couple of seconds, it crashed down. She shivered like a puppy, remembering another such crash. They asked her to raise it. It was heavier than she had expected. And underneath was the iron ladder leading down to death, the ray of bright daylight shining from a crescent exit, the slap of dark, strong-smelling water against the rock. They even made her go down, then shut the trapdoor gently over her. As they had instructed, she pushed her shoulders against it and was able without much strength to force it open. One of the officers climbed down into the cave and they closed the trapdoor and gently shot back the bolts. She knew that they were testing how much she could have heard. Then they asked her to balance the trapdoor on its hinges and she tried but couldn't. They asked her to try again, and when she failed they said nothing. She wondered if they thought that she wasn't trying. And all the time she saw, in her mind's eye, Simon's drowned body with its gaping mouth and glazed eyes, turning and :twisting, sucked to and fro like a dead fish in the ebbing tide.

And then she was sitting in a corner of the terrace, alone except for the unspeaking, unsmiling woman police officer, waiting beside the police launch which would take her away from the island for ever. Her typewriter and hand baggage were at her feet. There was still a wind but the sun had come out. She could feel its comforting warmth on her back, and was grateful. She had thought that, since yesterday, she would never be warm again.

A shadow fell across the stones. Ambrose had come up silently to stand beside her. The waiting policewoman was out of earshot but he spoke as if she were not there, as if they were totally alone. He said:

'I missed you last night. I was worried about you. The police tell me that they found a hotel for you. I hope that it was comfortable.'