Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [116]
He seemed to be driving more and more slowly, and the rain and mist became more impenetrable. He began to worry about the cliff edge on his left-hand side. He felt very hot, but suffered spasms of shivering. He realized he had been speaking aloud about Otto and Friedrich and Helmut, and he recognized the signs of delirium. He made an effort to think of nothing but the problem of keeping the jeep on a straight course. The noise of the wind took on some kind of rhythm, becoming hypnotic. Once he found himself stationary, staring out over the sea, and had no idea how long ago he had stopped.
It seemed hours later that Lucy’s cottage came into view. He steered toward it, thinking, I must remember to put the brake on before I hit the wall. There was a figure standing in the doorway, looking out at him through the rain. He had to stay in control of himself long enough to tell her the lie. He had to remember, had to remember…
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time the jeep came back. Lucy was worried about what had happened to the men, and at the same time angry with them for not coming home for the lunch she had prepared. As the day waned she had spent more and more time at the windows, looking out for them.
When the jeep came down the slight slope to the cottage it was clear something was wrong. It was moving terribly slowly, on a zigzag course, and there was only one person in it. It came closer, and she saw that the front was dented and the headlight smashed.
“Oh, God.”
The vehicle shuddered to a halt in front of the cottage, and she saw that the figure inside was Henry. He made no move to get out. Lucy ran out into the rain and opened the driver’s door.
He sat there with his head back and his eyes half-closed. His hand was on the brake. His face was bloody and bruised.
“What happened? What happened?”
His hand slipped off the brake, and the jeep moved forward. Lucy leaned across him and slipped the gearshift into neutral.
“Left David at Tom’s cottage…had crash on way back…” The words seemed to cost him a great effort.
Now that she knew what had happened, Lucy’s panic subsided. “Come inside,” she said sharply. The urgency in her voice got through to him. He turned toward her, put his foot on the running board to step down, and promptly fell to the ground. Lucy saw that his ankle was swollen like a balloon.
She got her hands under his shoulders and pulled him upright. “Put your weight on the other foot and lean on me.” She got his right arm around her neck and half-carried him inside.
Jo watched wide-eyed as she helped Henry into the living room and got him onto the sofa. He lay back with his eyes shut. His clothes were soaked and muddy.
Lucy said, “Jo, go upstairs and get your pajamas on, please.”
“But I haven’t had my story. Is he dead?”
“He’s not dead, he’s had a car crash and you can’t have a story tonight. Go on.”
The child made a complaining sound, and Lucy looked threateningly at him. He went.
Lucy got the big scissors out of her sewing basket and cut Henry’s clothes away: first the jacket, then the overalls, then the shirt. She frowned in puzzlement when she saw the knife in its sheath strapped to his left forearm; she guessed it was a special implement for cleaning fish or something. When she tried to take it off, he pushed her hand away. She shrugged and turned to her attention to his boots. The left one came off easily, and its sock; but he cried out in pain when she touched the right.
“It must come off,” she told him. “You’ll have to be brave.”
A funny kind of smile came over his face, then, and he nodded. She cut the laces, took the shoe gently but firmly in both hands and pulled it off. This time he made no sound. She cut the elastic in the sock and pulled that off too.
Jo came in. “He’s in his pants!”
“His clothes are all wet.” She kissed the boy good night. “Put yourself to bed, darling. I’ll tuck you up later.”
“Kiss teddy, then.”
“Good night, teddy.