Desmond Bagley - The Tightrope Men

Denison walked down to the marsh acutely aware that the man behind him was holding a pair of pistols. He bent down and began to fill the buckets. Schmidt lobbed the pistols one at a time into the marsh, using an over arm throw like a cricketer. He spaced them well out and Denison knew they would be irrecoverable. He straightened his back and said, ‘How will we know when it’s safe to come out of the hut?’

There was a grim smile on Schmidt’s face. ‘You won’t,’ he said uncompromisingly. ‘You’ll have to take your chances.’

Denison stared at him and then looked down at Harding who shrugged helplessly. ‘Let’s go back to the hut,’ he said.

Schmidt stood with his hands on his hips and kept his eyes on them all the way to the hut. The door closed behind them and he hitched his pack into a more comfortable position, spoke briefly to his companion, and set off along the edge of the marsh in the same direction from which he had come, keeping up the same stolid pace as when he had arrived.

It seemed to Denison that of all the episodes he had gone through since being flung into this hodge-podge of adventures the time he spent in the hut at Sompio was characterized by a single quality — the quality of pure irritation. The five of them were pent up — ‘cribbed, cabined and confined’, as Harding ironically quoted — and there was nothing that any of them could do about it, especially after McCready tested the temperature of the water.

After two hours had gone by he said, ‘I think we ought to do something about this. I’ll just stick my toe in and see what it’s like.’

‘Be careful,’ said Harding. ‘I was wrong about Schmidt — he doesn’t bluff.’

‘He can’t leave his men around here for ever,’ said McCready. ‘And we’d look damned foolish if there’s no one out there.’

He opened the door and stepped outside and took one pace before a rifle cracked and a bullet knocked splinters from a log by the side of his head so that white wood showed. He came in very fast and slammed the door. ‘It’s a bit warm outside,’ he said.

‘How many do you think there are?’ asked Harding.

‘How the hell would I know?’ demanded McCready irritably. He put his hand to his cheek and pulled out a wood splinter, then looked at the blood on his fingertips.

‘I saw the man who fired,’ said Denison from the window. ‘He was just down there in the reeds.’ He turned to McCready. ‘I don’t think he meant to kill. It was just a warning shot.’

‘How do you make that out?’ McCready displayed the blood on his hand. ‘It was close.’

‘He has an automatic rifle,’ said Denison. ‘If he wanted to kill you he’d have cut you down with a burst.’

McCready was on the receiving end for the first time of the hard competency which Carey had found so baffling in Denison. He nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘As for how many there are, that’s not easy to say,’ said Denison. ‘All it needs is one at the front and one at the back, but it depends on how long Schmidt wants to keep us here. If it’s longer than twenty-four hours there’ll be more than two because they’ll have to sleep.’

‘And we can’t get away under cover of darkness because there isn’t any,’ said Harding.

‘So we might as well relax,’ said Denison with finality. He left the window and sat at the table.

‘Well, I’m damned!’ said McCready. ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

Denison looked at him with a half-smile. ‘Have you anything to add?’

‘No,’ said McCready disgustedly. He went over to Diana and talked to her in a low voice.

Harding joined Denison at the table. ‘So we’re stuck here.’

‘But quite safe,’ said Denison mildly. ‘As long as we don’t do anything bloody foolish, such as walking through that door.’ He unfolded a map of the Sompio Nature Park and began to study it.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Harding.

‘Fine.’ Denison looked up. ‘Why?’

‘As your personal head-shrinker I don’t think you’ll be needing me much longer. How’s the memory?’

‘It’s coming back in bits and pieces. Sometimes I feel I’m putting together a jigsaw puzzle.’

‘It’s not that I want to probe into a delicate area,’ said Harding. ‘But do you remember your wife?’

‘Beth?’ Denison nodded. ‘Yes, I remember her.’

‘She’s dead, you know,’ said Harding in an even uninflected voice. ‘Do you remember much about that?’

Denison pushed away the map and sighed. ‘That bloody car crash — I remember it.’

‘And how do you feel about it?’

‘How the he’ll would you expect me to feel about it?’ said Denison with suppressed violence. ‘Sorrow, anger — but it was over three years ago and you can’t feel angry for ever. I’ll always miss Beth; she was a fine woman.’

‘Sorrow and anger,’ repeated Harding. ‘Nothing wrong with that. Quite normal.’ He marvelled again at the mysteries of the human mind. Denison had apparently rejected his previous feelings of guilt; the irrational component of his life had vanished. Harding wondered what would happen if he wrote up Denison’s experiences and presented them in a paper for the journals — ‘The Role of Multiple Psychic Trauma in the Suppression of Irrational Guilt’. He doubted if it would be accepted as a serious course of treatment.

Denison said, ‘Don’t resign yet, Doctor, I’d still like to retain your services.’

‘Something else wrong?’

‘Not with me. I’m worried about Lyn. Look at her.’ He nodded towards Lyn who was lying on her back on a bunk, her hands clasped behind her head and staring at the ceiling. ‘I’ve hardly been able to get a word out of her. She’s avoiding me — wherever I am, she’s not. It’s becoming conspicuous.’

Harding took out a packet of cigarettes and examined the contents. ‘I might have to ration these,’ he said glumly. ‘I’ve also been wondering about Lyn. She is a bit withdrawn — not surprisingly, of course, because she has a problem to solve.’

‘Oh? What’s her problem? Apart from the problems we all have here?’

Harding lit a cigarette. ‘It’s personal. She talked to me about it — hypothetically and in veiled terms. She’ll get over it one way or another.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘She’s a fine person. A bit mixed up, but that’s due to her upbringing. I suppose the problem has to do with her father.’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Harding. ‘Tell me; what was the difference in age between your wife and yourself?’

‘Ten years,’ said Denison. He frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Nothing,’ said Harding lightly. ‘It’s just that it could make things a lot easier — your having had a wife so much younger than yourself, I mean. You used to wear a beard, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Denison. ‘What the he’ll are you getting at?’

‘I’d grow it again if I were you,’ advised Harding. ‘The face you’re wearing tends to confuse her. It might be better to hide it behind a bush.’

Denison’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean... Diana said something... she can’t... it’s imposs...’

‘You damned fool!’ said Harding in a low voice. ‘She’s fallen for Denison but the face she sees is Meyrick’s — her father’s face. It’s enough to tear any girl in half, so do something about it.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Talk to her, but go easy.’ He went to the other end of the room and joined McCready and Diana, leaving Denison staring at Lyn.

McCready organized watches. ‘Not that anything is likely to happen,’ he said. ‘But I’d like advance notice if it does. Those not on watch can do what they like. My advice is sleep.’ He lay on a bunk and followed his own advice.