Hammond Innes: The Strange Land

The man shook his head dumbly.

‘Good. I thought not. You are very fortunate man, Mr Wade. One time I do not think you make it. But now, everything is all right, eh? I am Kostos.’

The man stared at him with the same concentration with which he had stared at the police. He was puzzled and uneasy. The sergeant cleared his throat and addressed Kostos. ‘You know this man, Senor Kostos?’

‘Si, si.’ The Greek nodded emphatically. ‘He is Mr Roland Wade — an Englishman. The yacht out there is called Gay Juliet. He has sailed it direct from England.’

‘Is this correct, senor?’ the sergeant asked.

The man I had pulled out of the sea stared wildly round the group, half-nodded and pushed his hand wearily through his hair. ‘Please, I am cold. I must get some clothes. I’m very tired.’

The sergeant was sympathetic, but he was also correct. ‘Have you anything by which to identify yourself, Senor Wade? Your passport? The certificate of registration of your boat? Entry into the International Zone of Tangier, you must understand, can only be permitted on production of the necessary passport.’ It was really rather ridiculous, the pompous little sergeant demanding a passport from the poor devil there on the sands in the roar of the wind and the sea.

The man moved his hand in a vague, automatic gesture towards his breast pocket and let it fall limp at his side. His eyes closed and he swayed. I thought he was going to pass out. So did Kostos. We both caught hold of him at the same time. ‘Can’t you settle this in the morning, sergeant?’ I said. ‘The man is in no state to go through the immigration formalities now.’

The sergeant hesitated, frowning. He stared at the stranger, whose body sagged heavily between the two of us. His eyes ceased to be impersonal, official, became sympathetic. ‘Si, si.’ He nodded energetically. ‘The formalities will be dealt with in the morning. For the moment, senor, I permit you to land.’ He made an expansive, accommodating gesture, and looked round for confirmation from the Customs officers, who nodded agreement. They crowded round him then, bowing and offering him their congratulations at his miraculous escape from death.

‘Help me get him out of here, Lat’m,’ Kostos hissed.

‘Mr Wade.’ He shook the man’s arm. ‘I have a car waiting for you. Can you walk to my car?’

The officials had broken away from us and were going down the beach to recover their rope. The man seemed to pull himself together. ‘I’m all right,’ he mumbled. He had his eyes open again and was standing more firmly.

‘What about the other man?’ I asked him again.

‘What other man?’ His voice was slurred, almost inaudible against the sound of the surf.

‘There were two of you on the boat.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘No. Only myself. I am single-handed — all the way from England.’ He spoke quickly, violently.

‘You see,’ Kostos said to me. ‘It is as I tell you in the cafe. There is only Wade on the boat.’ He tightened his hold on the man’s arm. ‘I have been expecting you.’

‘Expecting me?’ The man stared at him, his expression one of bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I tell you. I am Kostos.’

‘Leave it at that,’ I said. ‘He’s about all in.’ ‘You keep out of this, Lat’am. Mr Wade.’ But the man had turned and was staring up the beach. And then he saw the girl and stopped. She was standing about ten yards away. She had her back to the moonlight and I couldn’t see the expression on her face, but her hands were held slightly forward, her body too, as though she were entreating him to say he was her husband.

And for a moment I thought he knew her. His eyes had come suddenly alive and his mouth opened, but all he uttered was a sort of groan and then his eyes closed and his knees buckled slowly under him. The police sergeant ran forward, clicking his tongue. He bent over the man’s body lying there in the sand and then he looked up at the girl. ‘You know Senor Wade?’ he asked. She backed away slowly and shook her head. ‘No. I do not know him.’ Her body seemed suddenly slack as though all the strength had gone out of her with the realisation that the man was a stranger. She turned, slowly, reluctantly, her head bowed, and walked back alone across the bluff, back towards the taxi.

So Kostos was right. Kavan wasn’t on the boat. I went and got my clothes and pulled them on. By the time I was dressed, the little party of officials, carrying the unconscious body of the man I had rescued, was climbing the bluff. Only Kostos still remained there on the wet, gleaming stretch of the sands. He was staring after the little cavalcade. I stared at them, too, wondering about Kavan. Had he changed his mind? Had he decided at the last minute not to sail in Gay Juliet? I felt tired and dispirited. And as I walked up the beach, I wasn’t thinking about the girl. I was thinking of myself, of the people of Enfida and the mountain villages who needed a doctor, of the fact that the way to their confidence, to the success of my work, lay through medical aid.

Youssef was waiting for me at the foot of the bluff. I gave him his djellaba and we climbed through the wet sand. At the top of the bluff, I turned to look at the yacht again. A glint of metal caught my eye. Kostos was still there on the beach and he was ripping open the discarded life jacket with a knife. As I watched him, he flung the jacket down and started up the beach towards us.

I glanced at the yacht. The starboard shrouds had already parted and the mast was swaying wildly. It was only a matter of time before the whole thing broke up. It was cold there in the wind and spray and I turned and hurried after Youssef along the path beside the oued. We caught up with the others just as they reached the cars. They had halted beside the jeep, the half-conscious man held up between them. He was shivering violently and I suggested that he’d better come with me in the taxi. It would be warmer. The sergeant nodded. ‘You will take him to the hospital, senor?’

Apparently the poor devil understood Spanish, for he caught hold of my arm in a quick, urgent movement. ‘Not a hospital,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me; I just want some sleep, that’s all.’ He was scared of something. It was there in his eyes. They were imploring like the eyes of a stray dog. And I heard myself tell the sergeant that I would take him to my hotel. He asked me the name of it and I told him the Hotel Malabata. He glanced at the man and then nodded and climbed into his jeep.

I saw the look of relief in the man’s eyes and then he had closed them and his body sagged as though he had suddenly relaxed his hold on consciousness. Youssef and I had to carry him to the taxi.

I had expected the girl to be sitting there, waiting for us. But she wasn’t in the taxi and when I asked the driver whether he had seen her, he said ‘No.’ I turned and stared back along the path but there was no sign of her. I wondered whether to go and look for her, but I was cold and the man was just about all in. I decided the girl would have to look after herself and I got into the taxi. As we drove off I caught a glimpse of Kostos running towards us. He shouted something. I think it was the man’s name. And then we were bumping our way back to the village and the road to Tangier, the police jeep following behind us.

It seemed a long drive back to Tangier. I felt tired and sick and dispirited, and the taste of the salt water I had swallowed was like a thick, furry film on my tongue. The man I had pulled out of the water lay slumped in his corner and I sat and stared at him, almost hating him. Why couldn’t it be Kavan? If only one man was going to arrive in that boat, why couldn’t it be … We were on a bend and his eyes suddenly flicked open and he grabbed at me. ‘Look out! Hold on!’ His voice was thick and blurred. He was back on the boat. Then he slumped back in the seat again and his head was lolling and he was mumbling to himself.