look at the boat first thing, then I'll take you up to the farm to meet the others."
He backed out, closing the door, and Barry took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He stood frowning at himself in the cracked mirror above the washstand. There was something wrong. It spoke aloud in the girl's silence, in Salter's sly eyes.
"An unreliable sod if ever I've seen one," Barry said to himself and went to the door and turned the key.
He undressed, got into bed with only the lamp switched on, and sat propped against the pillows smoking and considering the job in hand. It was really very simple. Stop the truck, put the Germans and their escort out of action, drive down to Marsh End with th e r ocket pod, load it onto the boat Salter had arranged, and put to sea for the rendezvous with the Russian trawler later that night. Absurdly simple. So much so that something was bound to go wrong.
He lit another cigarette, and at the same moment watched the door knob turn slowly. He reached for the Ceska and was across the room in an instant, turning the key. He wrenched open the door to see Jenny walking back along the passage. She was barefoot and wore a white cotton nightdress, a shawl about her shoulders.
She turned and stared at him dumbly, her eyes taking in the gun in his hand. Yet she showed no reaction--no reaction at all. He stood to one side, and she crept past him into the room. She lay on the bed without a word, staring up at the ceiling, hands folded across the shawl. Barry locked the door, put the Ceska where he could reach it, and got on the bed beside her.
He was surprised at the strength of his own desire. When he kissed her, he was shaking like a boy, and yet there was no response, not even when his hands roamed freely over her body, pushing the nightgown up above her thighs.
She lay there passively, allowing him to do anything he would with her, still not responding, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide. By then, he was past caring, needing her in a way he hadn't needed a woman in years.
Afterward, he rolled to one side, exhausted, and reached for a cigarette. She lay there for a moment longer, then stood up without a word, unlocked the door, and went out.
Barry lay there, smoking, looking up at the ceiling. It was crazy. It didn't make sense. It had been a long time since he'd needed anyone like that, a hell of a long time. He closed his eyes and thought of Norah Cassidy.
Chapter Six.
The tide was drifting in, gurgling in crab holes, covering the mud flats with an expanse of shining water moving among the sea asters. Somewhere a curlew cried, lonely in a somber world.
Barry and the girl crossed a narrow stone causeway and followed a path through rough marsh grass and head-high reeds. Beyond, they stretched in an unbroken line toward the distant sea on either side of the estuary, swaying, the wind passing through them with an uneasy whispering sound.
Barry said soberly, "You'd swear there were eyes watching you from every thicket."
"Spirits of the dead," she said. "My father used to tell me the Romans were here two thousand years ago. Ravenglass up th e c oast was a port even then." She stood there for a moment, a strange, archaic figure in the head scarf and old raincoat. She shivered visibly. "I don't like this place. It frightens me. No one comes here, no local people, unless they can't help it."
She intoned the words in that dead voice of hers like the chorus from some Greek play. Barry said, "Fine. That's exactly how I wan t i t."
She moved on along the causeway, and he followed. A few moments later they emerged beside a narrow creek. There was a decaying wooden jetty stretching out into the water on rotting pilings. To Barry's surprise there were two boats moored there, not one.
The first was real class, with a sharp raking prow and trim lines. It was painted white with a black line along the water mark and was obviously lovingly cared for. The name Kathleen was neatly painted across the bow
He backed out, closing the door, and Barry took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He stood frowning at himself in the cracked mirror above the washstand. There was something wrong. It spoke aloud in the girl's silence, in Salter's sly eyes.
"An unreliable sod if ever I've seen one," Barry said to himself and went to the door and turned the key.
He undressed, got into bed with only the lamp switched on, and sat propped against the pillows smoking and considering the job in hand. It was really very simple. Stop the truck, put the Germans and their escort out of action, drive down to Marsh End with th e r ocket pod, load it onto the boat Salter had arranged, and put to sea for the rendezvous with the Russian trawler later that night. Absurdly simple. So much so that something was bound to go wrong.
He lit another cigarette, and at the same moment watched the door knob turn slowly. He reached for the Ceska and was across the room in an instant, turning the key. He wrenched open the door to see Jenny walking back along the passage. She was barefoot and wore a white cotton nightdress, a shawl about her shoulders.
She turned and stared at him dumbly, her eyes taking in the gun in his hand. Yet she showed no reaction--no reaction at all. He stood to one side, and she crept past him into the room. She lay on the bed without a word, staring up at the ceiling, hands folded across the shawl. Barry locked the door, put the Ceska where he could reach it, and got on the bed beside her.
He was surprised at the strength of his own desire. When he kissed her, he was shaking like a boy, and yet there was no response, not even when his hands roamed freely over her body, pushing the nightgown up above her thighs.
She lay there passively, allowing him to do anything he would with her, still not responding, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide. By then, he was past caring, needing her in a way he hadn't needed a woman in years.
Afterward, he rolled to one side, exhausted, and reached for a cigarette. She lay there for a moment longer, then stood up without a word, unlocked the door, and went out.
Barry lay there, smoking, looking up at the ceiling. It was crazy. It didn't make sense. It had been a long time since he'd needed anyone like that, a hell of a long time. He closed his eyes and thought of Norah Cassidy.
Chapter Six.
The tide was drifting in, gurgling in crab holes, covering the mud flats with an expanse of shining water moving among the sea asters. Somewhere a curlew cried, lonely in a somber world.
Barry and the girl crossed a narrow stone causeway and followed a path through rough marsh grass and head-high reeds. Beyond, they stretched in an unbroken line toward the distant sea on either side of the estuary, swaying, the wind passing through them with an uneasy whispering sound.
Barry said soberly, "You'd swear there were eyes watching you from every thicket."
"Spirits of the dead," she said. "My father used to tell me the Romans were here two thousand years ago. Ravenglass up th e c oast was a port even then." She stood there for a moment, a strange, archaic figure in the head scarf and old raincoat. She shivered visibly. "I don't like this place. It frightens me. No one comes here, no local people, unless they can't help it."
She intoned the words in that dead voice of hers like the chorus from some Greek play. Barry said, "Fine. That's exactly how I wan t i t."
She moved on along the causeway, and he followed. A few moments later they emerged beside a narrow creek. There was a decaying wooden jetty stretching out into the water on rotting pilings. To Barry's surprise there were two boats moored there, not one.
The first was real class, with a sharp raking prow and trim lines. It was painted white with a black line along the water mark and was obviously lovingly cared for. The name Kathleen was neatly painted across the bow
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