Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [82]
There was something terribly thrilling in watching the elements spit and sway and roar in fury, in standing fractionally too close to the cliff edge, feeling threatened and safe at the same time, shivering with cold and perspiring in fear. It was thrilling, and there were few thrills in her life.
She was about to go back, mindful of Jo’s health, when she saw the boat.
It was not a boat any more, of course; that was what was so shocking about it. All that was left were the large timbers of the deck and the keel. They were scattered on the rocks below the cliffs like a dropped handful of matches. It had been a big boat, Lucy realized. One man might have piloted it alone, but not easily. And the damage the sea had wrought on it was awesome. It was hard to detect two bits of wood still joined together.
How, in heaven’s name, had their stranger come out of it alive?
She shuddered when she thought of what those waves and those rocks might have done to a human body. Jo caught her sudden change of mood and said into her ear, “Go home, now.” She turned quickly away from the sea and hurried along the muddy path to the cottage.
Back inside, they took off their wet coats, hats and boots, and hung them in the kitchen to dry. Lucy went upstairs and looked in on the stranger again. This time he did not open his eyes. He seemed to be sleeping very peacefully, yet she had a feeling that he had awakened and recognized her tread on the stairs, and closed his eyes again before she opened the door.
She ran a hot bath. She and the boy were soaked to the skin. She undressed Jo and put him in the tub, then—on impulse—took off her own clothes and got in with him. The heat was blissful. She closed her eyes and relaxed. This was good, too; to be in a house, feeling warm, while the storm beat impotently at the strong stone walls.
Life had turned interesting, all of a sudden. In one night there had been a storm, a shipwreck, and a mystery man; this after three years of…She hoped the stranger would wake up soon so that she could find out about him.
Meanwhile it was time she started cooking lunch for the men. She had some breast of lamb to make a stew. She got out of the bath and toweled herself gently. Jo was playing with his bath toy, a much-chewed rubber cat. Lucy looked at herself in the mirror, examining the stretch-marks on her belly left by pregnancy. They were fading, slowly, but they would never completely disappear. An all-over suntan would help, though. She smiled to herself. Fat chance of that! Besides, who was interested in her tummy? Nobody but herself.
Jo said, “Can I stay in a minute more?” It was a phrase he used, “a minute more,” and it could mean anything up to a half a day.
“Just while I get dressed,” she told him and hung the towel on a rail and moved toward the door.
The stranger stood in the doorway, looking at her.
They stared at each other. It was odd—Lucy thought later—that she felt not a bit afraid. It was the way he looked at her; there was no threat in his expression, no lewdness, no smirk. He was not looking at her pubis, or even her breasts, but at her face—into her eyes. She looked back, a bit shocked but not embarrassed, with just a tiny part of her mind wondering why she did not squeal, cover herself with her hands and slam the door on him.
Something did come into his eyes, at last—perhaps she was imagining it, but she saw admiration, and a faint twinkle of honest humor, and a trace of sadness—and then the hold was broken and he turned away and went back into his bedroom, closing the door. A moment later Lucy heard the springs creak as his weight settled onto the bed.
And for no good reason at all she felt dreadfully guilty.
20
PERCIVAL GODLIMAN HAD BY NOW PULLED OUT ALL the stops.
Every policeman in the United Kingdom had a copy of the photograph of Faber, and about half of them were engaged full time in the search. In the cities they were checking hotels and guest houses, railway stations and bus terminals, cafes and shopping