Ken Follett - Eye Of The Needle

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, thank God. He had hardly moved all night, blessedly unaware of 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 old routine 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 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 found a knob with two settings, turned it, and tapped the Morse key. There was no sound. Perhaps that meant the microphone was now in circuit.

She pulled it to her and spoke into it. "Hello, hello, is there anybody there? Hello?"

There was a switch that had "Transmit" above it and "Receive" below. It was turned to "Transmit." If the world was to talk back to her, obviously she had to throw the switch to "Receive."

She said: "Hello, is anybody listening?" and threw the switch to "Receive." Nothing.

Then: "Come in, Storm Island, receiving you loud and clear."

It was a man's voice. He sounded young and strong, capable and reassuring, and alive and normal.

"Come in, Storm Island, we've been trying to raise you all night… where the devil have you been?" Lucy switched to 'Transmit', tried to speak, and burst into tears.

Percival Godliman had a headache from too many cigarettes and too little sleep. He had taken a little whisky to help him through the long, worried night in his office, and that had been a mistake. Everything oppressed him: the weather, his office, his job, the war. For the first time since he had got into this business he found himself longing for dusty libraries, illegible manuscripts and mediaeval Latin.

Colonel Terry walked in with two cups of tea on a tray. "Nobody around here sleeps," he said cheerfully. He sat down. "Ship's biscuit?" He offered Godliman a plate.

Godliman refused the biscuit and drank the tea. It gave him a temporary lift.

"I just had a call from the great man," Terry said. "He's keeping the night vigil with us."

"I can't imagine why," Godliman said sourly.

"He's worried."

The phone rang.

"Godliman."

"I have the Royal Observer Corps in Aberdeen for you, sir."

"Yes?"

A new voice came on, the voice of a young man.

"Royal Observer Corps, Aberdeen, here, sir."

"Yes?"

"Is that Mr Godliman?"

"Yes." Dear God, these military types took their time. "We've raised Storm Island at last, sir… it's not our regular observer. In fact it's a woman."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing, yet, sir."

"What do you mean?" Godliman fought down the angry impatience. "She's just… well, crying, sir."

Godliman hesitated. "Can you connect me to her?"

"Yes. Hold on." There was a pause punctuated by several clicks and a hum. Then Godliman heard the sound of a woman weeping. He said, "Hello, can you hear me?" The weeping went on.

The young man came back on the line to say, "She won't be able to hear you until she switches to 'Receive,' sir ah, she's done it. Go ahead."

Godliman said, "Hello, young lady. When I've finished speaking I'll say 'Over,' then you switch to 'Transmit' to speak to me and you say 'Over' when you have finished. Do you understand? Over."

The woman's voice came on. "Oh, thank God for somebody sane, yes, I understand. Over."

"Now, then," Godliman said gently, "tell me what's been happening there. Over."

"A man was shipwrecked here two, no, three days ago. I think he's that stiletto murderer from London, he killed my husband and our shepherd and now he's outside the house, and I've got my little boy here… I've nailed the windows shut and fired at him with a shotgun, and barred the door and set the dog on him but he killed the dog and I hit him with an axe when he tried to get in through the window and I can't do it anymore so please come for God's sake. Over."

Godliman put his hand over the phone. His face was white. "Jesus Christ…" But when he spoke to her, he was brisk. "You must try to hold on a little longer," he began. "There are sailors and coastguards and policemen and all sorts of people on their way to you but they can't land until the storm lets up… Now, there's something I want you to do, and I can't tell you why you must do it because of the people who may be listening to us, but I can tell you that it is absolutely essential… Are you hearing me clearly? Over."

"Yes, go on. Over."

"You must destroy your radio. Over."

"Oh, no, please…"

"Yes," Godliman said, then he realised she was still transmitting. "I don't… I can't…" Then there was a scream.

Godliman said, "Hello, Aberdeen, what's happening?" The young man came on. "The set's still transmitting, sir, but she's not speaking. We can't hear anything."

"She screamed."

"Yes, we got that."

Godliman hesitated a moment. "What's the weather like up there?"

"It's raining, sir." The young man sounded puzzled. "I'm not making conversation," Godliman snapped. "Is there any sign of the storm letting up?"

"It's eased a little in the last few minutes, sir."

"Good. Get back to me the instant that woman comes back on the air."

"Very good, sir."

Godliman said to Terry, "God only knows what that girl's going through up there…" He jiggled the cradle of the phone.

The colonel crossed his legs. "If she would only smash up the radio, then."

"Then we don't care if he kills her?"

"You said it."

Godliman spoke into the phone. "Get me Bloggs at Rosyth."

Bloggs woke up with a start, and listened. Outside it was dawn. Everyone in the scramble hut was listening too. They could hear nothing. That was what they were listening to: the silence. The rain had stopped drumming on the tin roof.

Bloggs went to the window. The sky was grey, with a band of white on the eastern horizon. The wind had dropped suddenly and the rain had become a light drizzle.

The pilots started putting on jackets and helmets, lacing boots, lighting up last cigarettes.

A klaxon sounded, and a voice boomed out over the airfield: "Scramble! Scramble!"

The phone rang. The pilots ignored it and piled out through the door. Bloggs picked it up. "Yes?"

"Percy here, Fred. We just contacted the island. He's killed the two men. The woman's managing to hold him off at the moment but she clearly won't last much longer."

"The rain has stopped. We're taking off now," Bloggs said.

"Make it fast, Fred. Good-bye."

Bloggs hung up and looked around for his pilot. Charles Calder had fallen asleep over War and Peace. Bloggs shook him roughly. "Wake up, you dozy bastard, wake up!" Calder opened his eyes.

Bloggs could have hit him. "Wake up, come on, we're going, the storm's ended!"