The Moonspinners (7 page)

‘Very well.'

‘I will go now. You are not afraid?'

‘I am, a little, but then that's only natural. It doesn't change anything. You'll take great care?'

‘Of course.' He hesitated, then there came again that familiar gesture of hand to hip. ‘You would like this?'

‘This' was his knife. It lay across his palm.

I shook my head. ‘Keep it. If one of us is going to need it, I hope it'll be you! In any case, it would be wasted on me – I wouldn't quite know how to start using it. Oh, and Lambis—'

‘Yes?'

‘I've been thinking, sitting up there. Isn't it just possible that Colin may have got away? Or even that they've actually let him go? They know Mark's got away, and may be still alive, so they must know it'd only be running into worse trouble if they kill Colin. I mean, the first murder may be a local affair that they think they can get away with, but it'd be a different matter to involve two British nationals.'

‘I have thought this myself.'

‘And if he were free – Colin, I mean – he'd go first of all to look for Mark's body, then, when he didn't find it, he'd go straight to the caique, wouldn't he?'

‘I have thought this also. I have been hoping I shall find him there.'

I said doubtfully: ‘As long as
they've
not found the caique . . . I suppose, if they have, they'd be bound to connect it with Mark? Does the path, the “ancient path”, lead straight to the old harbour? Would they assume that was where Mark and Colin were making for? If so, you'd think they'd have followed it up.'

He shook his head. ‘The path goes on right over the hills, past the church, then it divides towards the hill village to the north, Anoghia, where the Cretan went, and to another village further along the coast to the east. There, there is a road to Phestos, where the antiquities are, and the tourists go. It is certain that the murderers would think that Mark was going that way. Why should they think of a boat? Mark and Colin had a haversack, and it would seem, perhaps, that they were walking, and sleeping out – going, perhaps, to sleep that night in the old church. People do these strange things, especially the English.'

‘Well, let's hope you're right. Let's hope they never think about a boat. Can it be seen easily, from the shore above?'

‘No, but I shall hide it better. There was a cave . . . not quite a cave, but a deep place between rocks, which could not be seen from the shore paths. I shall put her in there; she will be safe enough; there will be no wind tonight.'

‘But if Colin came back to where you had left her before—'

‘He will still find her. If he does go down to the place, and she is not there, you know what he will do, what anyone does. He will think, first, that this is not the same place, and he will search; there are many rocks and little bays, he will search them all, near by. And so he will see her.'

‘Yes, of course. It's what one does. If you expect to see something in a certain place, you simply don't believe it can't be there.' I looked at Lambis with a new respect. ‘And you? Do you really expect to find him there?'

He gave a quick glance at the door of the hut, as if he were afraid that Mark might hear him. ‘I know no more than you,
thespoinís
. It may be that they are now afraid because they have shot at Mark, and that they try only to persuade Colin to be silent – and that Colin is even now searching for his brother. I do not know. It may be that there is no danger at all.'

‘But you don't believe that.'

In the pause before he answered, I heard, high overhead in the darkening sky, the call of some late-going gulls. The sound was muted by distance, and very lonely.

‘No,' he said at length, ‘I do not believe it. There is danger here. The man I saw, he was dangerous, as a wild beast is dangerous. And the men Mark spoke of . . . yes, there is danger, I can feel it. It is in the air of these mountains.'

I smiled, I hope cheerfully. ‘Perhaps that's only because you're not used to them. You've become a city bird, like me. High mountains frighten me now.'

He said seriously: ‘The city, the hills, they are all the same, where there are wicked men. When I was a child, in my village, it was the same. We were afraid in our houses, in our own beds . . . only then, for a young boy, the war was also exciting. But this . . . no, not now.'

There was a sound from inside the hut, the rustle of dried leaves and a sighing breath, then silence again.

Lambis lowered his voice. ‘I must go. I will bring everything I can carry. Be careful,
thespoinís
.'

‘Nicola.'

‘Nicola, then.'

‘Goodbye, and good luck.' I swallowed. ‘You be careful, too. We'll see you soon. And for pity's sake don't fall and break a leg in the dark . . . How long do you think it will take?'

‘I shall wait for daylight. Perhaps three hours after that.'

‘Right,' I said, as steadily as I could, ‘And if you're not back by noon, I'll come and look for
you
.'

‘Okay.'

He was soon invisible down the darkening hillside. His steps faded. I heard the crack of a twig, then, more faintly, the rattle of a displaced stone, and then silence.

The seabirds had gone. To the east, beyond the high towers of rock, the sky looked clouded, but from here to the sea it seemed clear, deepening rapidly towards night. The early stars, king stars, burned there already, bright and steadfast. I remembered that last night there had been a moon of a kind, a pale quarter, waning, like silver that is polished so thin that it has begun to wear away . . .

Beside me, the entrance to the hut gaped black, like a cave mouth. The hut itself crouched back against the rock as if huddling there for protection, as indeed it was. I glanced from it again up at the night sky. For Lambis' sake, I hoped there would be a moon, any sort of a moon, rising clear of the clouds, and dealing even a little light. But for my own, and Mark's, no night could be dark enough.

I shook the thought away. It did not do to think about the possibility of our being found. We would not be found. And if we were, the whole thing was a mistake, and there was no danger at all. None.

On this reflection – or bit of mental bluster – It turned and groped my way into the darkness of the hut.

‘Lambis?'

So he was awake. I went quietly across towards the voice, and sat down at the edge of the brushwood bed.

‘Lambis has gone down to the boat, to get supplies, and to see if Colin's there.'

‘Yes. Now don't worry, please. Someone had to go down. We couldn't either of us get stuff in the village, and I didn't know the way to the boat. He'll be back by morning. Are you hungry?'

‘What? No. A bit thirsty. But look, this is nonsense. I thought you'd have been safe in your hotel by this time. You ought to go, they'll ask questions.'

‘No, I told you, I'm not expected till tomorrow. My cousin Frances was delayed, and she can't arrive before tomorrow, either, so no one'll be worrying about me, honestly. Now stop thinking about it; I'll get you a drink, there's water in the flash . . . if I can just see to pour it out . . . Here.'

As his hand met mine, gropingly, on the cup, I could feel him searching for words. But he must have been weary, and still fogged with fever, for he accepted my presence without further argument, merely fetching a long sigh when he had drunk, and going back to the first thing I had said. ‘He's gone to the boat?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's told you all about it? About Colin?'

‘Yes. We think it's possible Colin may already have made his way to the boat.'

He said nothing. I heard the bedding rustle as he lay back. A dry, sharp scent came from it, not quite strong enough to counteract the smell of dirt and sickness. ‘How do you feel now?' I asked.

‘Fine.'

I found his pulse. It was light and fast. ‘I wish to goodness I dared heat some water. How's the arm?'

‘It's sore, but it's not throbbing quite so much.' He answered patiently, like an obedient child. ‘It'll be better by morning.'

‘If we can keep you warm enough,' I said, ‘and you get some sleep.
Are
you warm?'

‘Lord, yes, boiled.'

I bit my lip. The night, mercifully, was far from cold, and, as yet, the rock surfaces of the mountain breathed warmth. But there were hours to go, and the chill of dawn to come, and the possibility, at that time of year, of low cloud, or rain.

Under my fingers the light pulse raced. He lay, slack and silent, in his corner.

He said, suddenly: ‘I've forgotten your name.'

‘Nicola.'

‘Oh, yes. I'm sorry.'

‘It doesn't matter. You're Mark – Mark what?'

‘Langley. When will he get back?'

‘He didn't say,' I lied. ‘He's going to move the boat out of sight of the coast paths. He'll need daylight for that.'

‘But if Colin goes back to the boat—'

‘He'll find it. He'll hunt. It'll be quite near, only closer under the cliff. Now stop thinking about it. We can't do anything till daylight, so if you can empty your mind, and rest and sleep, then you might be well enough tomorrow to move down towards the boat.'

‘I'll try.' But he moved restlessly, as if the arm hurt him. ‘But you? You should have gone. I'd have been all right alone. You really will go tomorrow? You'll get out of this – whatever it is?'

‘Yes,' I said soothingly, ‘when Lambis comes back, I'll go. We'll talk about it in the morning. You must be quiet now, and try to sleep.'

‘Did Lambis say there was an orange somewhere?'

‘Of course. Wait a moment till I peel it.'

He was silent while I dealt with the orange, and took the piece I handed to him, almost greedily, but when I passed him another, he suddenly seemed to lose all interest, pushed my hand aside, and began to shiver.

‘Lie down,' I said. ‘Come on, pull this up round you.'

‘You're cold yourself. You've got no coat.' He sat up, seeming to come to himself. ‘Heavens, girl, I've got your woolly thing here. Put it on.'

‘No. I'm fine.
No
, Mark, damn it, you've got a temperature. Don't make me fight you every inch of the way.'

‘Do as you're told.'

‘I'm the nurse, you're only the patient. Put the beastly thing on and shut up and lie down.'

‘I'm dashed if I do. With you sitting there with nothing on but that cotton thing—'

‘I'm all right.'

‘Maybe. But you can't sit there all night.'

‘Look,' I said, in some alarm, for his teeth were beginning to chatter, ‘lie down, for pity's sake. We'll share the wretched thing. I'm coming in with you, then we'll both be warm.
Lie down
.'

He shivered his way down into the bedding, and I slid down beside him, at his uninjured side. I slipped an arm under his head, and, quite simply, he half turned away from me and curled his back into the curve of my body. Avoiding the bandaged shoulder, I put my arms round him, and held him closely. We lay like this for some time. I felt him slowly begin to relax into warmth.

‘There are probably fleas,' he said drowsily.

‘Almost certainly, I should think.'

‘And the bed smells. I wouldn't be surprised if I smelt a bit myself.'

‘I shall wash you tomorrow, cold water or not.'

‘You certainly won't.'

‘You try stopping me. That Greek of yours'll kill you with his notions of super hygiene. I'd like to see what you look like, anyway.'

He gave what might even have been called a chuckle. ‘It's not worth it. My sisters tell me I'm nice, but plain.'

‘Sisters?'

‘Charlotte, Ann, and Julia.'

‘Good heavens, three?'

‘Yes, indeed. And then Colin.'

A little pause. ‘You're the eldest?'

‘Yes.'

‘I suppose that's why you're not used to doing as you're told?'

‘My father's away a lot, and I suppose I've rather got into the habit of looking after things. At present he's in Brazil – he's Resident Engineer on Harbour Construction at Manaos, on the Amazon, and he'll be there two years, off and on. Before that he was in Cuba. It's lucky, really, that I've been able to be at home most of the time . . . though of course they're all away now, mostly – Charlotte's at RADA, and Ann's in her first years at Oxford. Julia and Colin are still at school.'

‘And you?'

‘Oh, I followed in Father's footsteps – I'm a civil engineer . . . just. I did a couple of years in a drawing-office straight after school, then took a degree at Oxford. Passed last year. This trip's a reward, in a way . . . Father stood us three weeks in the Islands, and of course we waited till now, for the best weather . . .'

He talked on, half drowsily, and I let him, hoping that he would talk himself to sleep before he thought again, too closely, about Colin . . .

‘What's the time?' He sounded thoroughly drowsy now.

‘I can't quite see. You're lying on it. There.'

My arm was under his head. I turned my wrist, and felt him peering at it. The luminous dial was worn, but distinct enough. ‘'Bout midnight.'

‘Is that all? Are you sleepy now?'

‘Mm. Nice and warm. You?'

‘Yes,' I lied. ‘Shoulder comfortable?'