“No,” he said.
“It's nice when you play your radio.”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly.
“Dat's nice.”
“And your cat gets up in your lap.”
“Yes. Dat's a good pussy,” he said. He was silent for a moment. “All right!” he said. “Now ve take a little ride, hey? Den I cook something?”
He disappeared into the cabin; the engine started, and the little craft shook. He came out again and cast off, and they started smoothly through the smooth water.
“He's crazy,” Killian said, half to himself.
“No,” Jocelyn said. “Not really. He's had a bad time, that's all.”
“Who hasn't?”
“He was in a shipwreck,” she said. “He was in a small boat with four or five other men, for days and days in the tropics. And in that horrible sun he used to think about the North Pole.”
“And he still thinks about the North Pole.”
“That's what everybody does,” she said. “When we're perishing of thirst and anguish, we think about a cold, empty, white world.”
How can you talk like that? he thought. How can you look like that? So kind, and so patient.
“Why do you pick him out to be sorry for?” he asked. “He's had a bad time,” she said again.
I've judged you, thought Killian, looking at her. I've decided that you're not capable of any pity, or any kindness, or anything good. I've decided that you're poison. My decision is final. I stand before you, like a judge.
Her hands lying in her lap, looked helpless. The breeze blew her hair and fluttered the sleeves of her blouse. What have I done? he thought. Look at her! Nineteen. Look at her lovely face, so quiet and sad. Look at her lovely throat and her little hands.
“May I have a cigarette, please?” she asked.
He felt in his pockets, but he had none.
“I've got some, I think, in my coat,” she said.
The white coat lay over a chair behind her. He felt in the pocket and brought out a crumpled pack, and an envelope. It was addressed “Angelo,” and very dirty.
Killian took out the note that was in the envelope.
Meet me Sunday morning at six-thirty where the wall begins. I'll bring what you want. Burn this.
Jocelyn.
He read it over again. When he glanced up, Jocelyn sat half-turned in her chair, looking at him through a veil of loose hair.
He first thought he could not speak a word. But he had to. “Did you—do that?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I mean,” he said, “did you run him over?”
“Yes,” she said again.
“It was an accident, I suppose.”
“No, it wasn't,” she said. “He was the one who saw you throw me overboard. I had to keep him quiet. For your sake.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE THREW THE pack of cigarettes overboard.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“I don't know,” he said. “Keep quiet. Let me alone.”
She got up and wandered away, into the cabin, and he stood by the rail. The sun was very low, standing on the horizon in a lake of fiery gold.
I'm alone, he thought. Let me stay alone, that's all I want. I'm free now.
He was as free as an unborn soul. He felt no love and no hate, no regret and no hope. He remembered nothing; he wanted nothing but just this—the salt wind and the swift motion, and the solitude. They were passing a low spit of land, and he saw little sandpipers moving on it; the quiet water lapped the shore; a shaft of sun made the reeds a pale, translucent green.
They're alive, he thought, watching the sandpipers.
You talk about the sun going down, but that's not what happens at all. The earth runs past it. You could almost think that the earth runs over it and crushes it out. Angelo had the life crushed out of him. When the sun came up this morning, he was alive. Now he's dead. She did that. Then she went home and had her breakfast. I fed her with toast. She could do that. She could eat and drink, and look so sweet.
I'm free now. I'm alone.
When you are not thinking about anything and not feeling anything, the time slips by very easily. The earth has run over the sun now; nothing left but a few little light clouds. They fade, and there is nothing but a vast grey calm. Rather a nuisance for those lights to spring out on the shore, twinkling. Why twinkling? Why not steady? A long string of them, twinkling sadly in the dusk. That must be a road.
The harbor of Rio is one of the most beautiful in the world. When I first saw Rio... A horrible pain seized him. He remembered exactly how he had felt when he had first seen Rio. Before sunrise, it had been, and he had stood on deck, thinking how he would describe this when he got home. He had been violently happy, as if he had accomplished something admirable. This was the first foreign port he had seen. So the world is like this, he had thought. It's better than anything they told you. I'm young and strong; I can see all the rest of it. I got myself here; I can do anything.
Youth was gone now. All those strong, clear feelings were gone. Can I go back? Can I be like that again?
Lights came on in the roof of the deck. He resented them; he wanted to get away from them. The boat stopped; the anchor went overboard. What's the idea of this, he thought? What are we stopping here for?
“Come in and make a cocktail, Jocko?” said Jocelyn from the door of the cabin.
“I don't want a cocktail,” he said in a queer voice. That was because his throat was stiff.
She came out to him. The overhead lights made her face look wan. “Cigarette, Jocko?” she said, holding out a pack.
“No, thank you. Where did you get those?”
“From the Captain,” she said.
“Why have we stopped?”
“Oh, just while he cooks,” she said, and sat down on the rail.
Don't sit on the rail! But he didn't say that aloud. “The Captain's an interesting character,” was what he said aloud.
He was only talking to stave off something that was pressing in on him. She was sitting on the rail in a white dress.
“I saw a lot of sandpipers a while ago,” he said.
“Jocko, are you thinking about Angelo?”
“Don't talk,” he said. “Keep quiet and let me alone.”
“Nobody will ever know about it,” she said. “I got my note out of his pocket. Nobody will ever know what you did, either.”
“I didn't do that,” he said.
“Angelo saw you. I gave him some money to shut him up, but he wanted more. He'd have kept on wanting more.”
Don't ask any questions. “Did you chase him with the car?” he asked. Had to ask that one.
“No. I dropped my purse and he went to pick it up.”
“Then you ran over him. You squashed him. Then you got the note out of his pocket and you went home and had breakfast.”
“I did that,” she said, “because you made me.”
“No,” he said in a flat, unconvincing way. “No, I didn't.”
“I'm glad I killed Angelo,” she said, very low. “I'm glad I've done what you did. It's a bond between us, stronger than anything else could ever be.”
Two sinners. Two damned souls. Paolo and Francesca, flying through Hell in each other's arms, forever and ever. Only it's not like that. Sibyl sent you here to get murdered. By me. But I will not. There is no bond between us. I won't look at you, sitting on the rail in a white dress.
“Jocko, let's go away,” she said, in that same low voice, a little unsteady. “Let's start again. Let's forget all this, and start again. I'll be different, Jocko. I'll try—”
“Please don't talk!” he said.
I've got to get away, he thought. There's a dinghy tied astern. If I could get rid of her for a few minutes, I could get into the dinghy and row ashore.
“Jocko, let's get out of this,” she said. “I've got things I can sell for enough money to get us away.”
She rose. He moved
backward, but she followed him. “Don't!” he said. “Please don't, Jocelyn. Please let me alone.”
“Oh, Jocko!” she cried. “What's happened? I haven't anyone but you. Have you turned against me?”
Thou, too, Brutus? You, the trusted one, you, too? Yes. I've gone, too.
“I'm sorry,” he said anxiously, and put out his hand to keep her away. She caught it in both of hers. She was clinging to him again. “Dear...” he said, with the most ludicrous falseness. “Sit down, dear.”
She let his hand go, and he was off guard for a moment. She put her arm round his neck and laid her cheek against his. Her face was wet with tears.
“You couldn't not love me, now. Jocko. Not after this.”
Not after murder? He caught her in an embrace so fierce that she gasped. She yielded completely, limp, crushed against him, breathing with difficulty. Murderess. You've been talking too much about murder, my dear girl. You love me, do you? And I love you, do I? Do I?
You're wrong! This is not love—murderess. This is something else. You're hanging round my neck, murderess, and I've got to get rid of you. Somehow. Anyhow.
“No!” he cried, and pushed her away so suddenly that she staggered back against the rail.
“Jocko, what—”
“I have a chill,” he said. Maybe that was true. He was shaking. “I want some whisky. See if there's any whisky.”
She went into the cabin, and he ran aft and lowered himself into the dinghy. He was trying to untie the painter when a door opened just above him, and there she was again.
“Jocko!”
“I'm just going to row ashore,” he said. “I'm just going to get some aspirin. I'm just going to get some cigarettes.”
“Take me with you,” she said, and she jumped down into the dinghy, and it rolled over and nearly capsized. The oars went overboard.
“I'll have to get the oars,” Killian explained, and began to take off his shoes.
“Hurry!” she said. “The current's taking them away.”
“Yes. I certainly will,” he said.
He took off his coat and went into the water. It was very cold. He started to swim; the idea was to get out of the path of light from the boat. To get into the dark. He heard a clank on board. It didn't matter what happened there. What he had to do was to get away. He knew very well what he had to get away from.
“Jocko, are you all right?”
“Fine, thanks,” he answered, from the cold black water. Getting farther and farther away from her.
The engine started. “Jocko!” she screamed.
He stopped and turned, astonished. The boat was under way, pulling the dinghy after her. He saw Jocelyn stand up, swaying from side to side. She fell down on the seat. “Jocko!”
The boat was going faster than anything you ever saw in your life, heading out for the open sea. Red light, green light, shooting forward like an arrow.
He knew about this. He knew what it was like to be swimming alone in the sea at night. Now the lights of the boat were gone, and there was nothing. Except whatever might be living in the water. “No,” he said to himself, “it's not the same. The shore can't be far. Stop swimming out to sea. The shore isn't far. Take it easy. Stop swimming out to sea. You're a fool.”
He turned his head until he saw that row of little twinkling lights. Not far? It was as far as Heaven.
“You can't expect me to swim there,” he said indignantly. The water was like ice. He swam and swam, and made no progress at all. The little twinkling lights were fainter, he thought. I'm swimming like a mouse in a pail.
This was perfectly right. This was what had to happen, and what ought to happen. Everything was very clear in his mind now. It was Angelo himself who pushed her overboard. Must have been. Not me. I didn't kill her.
Dying? There's nothing to it. His arms were moving, trying to drag a tremendously heavy log through the water. All he had to do was to stop this struggle. It's too damn cold to swim. But the sandpipers. He remembered them, running among the green translucent reeds, alive. Maybe they were somewhere near here, asleep. But alive. I'd like to see them again, he thought.
Cold, isn't it? Yes, isn't it, though! That was the way Sibyl talked. Here's five thousand dollars, and take her away. And kill her. I must be swimming upside down, it's so hard. If it wasn't for those damned little sandpipers, I'd quit. Too hard, this is. I'm not getting anywhere. The lights....
The lights had gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE LIGHTS had gone, and there was nothing at all. He turned on his back and floated, surging up and down on the gentle swell. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm very sorry. I've done very badly. I took the wrong turn, and I knew it. I was a stubborn sinner. Well...”
He was no more than an immensely heavy log floating gently up and down. It wouldn't last much longer. But the sandpipers, he thought. You don't quit. I'm sorry, but I have to quit. Too cold, and too tired. You don't quit. Even one light would be enough. Even a star would be enough.
Well, if you haven't got a light or a star, then you go on in the dark. A mouse in a pail goes on. He turned over, and his face went under the water. He lifted his arms and his head; he pushed that tremendous weight through the water. A great black shadow loomed over him. What's that? he thought. That was The End.
It's all right to die, as long as you don't quit. Swim into that black shadow. His frozen numb feet touched something. He tried to stand, but that was not possible. He kept on moving his arms, and the water got shallow so that he could kneel. He went forward on his knees, and after a while he could see over the top of a bank. The lights were there, still twinkling.
Between him and the lights was an illimitable empty desert. He had to walk like a bear, like a gorilla, all bent forward, and he kept falling down. The wind was like a knife. An Arctic wind, he thought. His feet were certainly dead; but when they struck things, a pain came in his shoulders. If you could call it a pain. He kept on falling down, and it was impossible to get up, and sometimes he crawled for a little way.
A dog was barking. I've got to stand up, if there's a dog. If there's an animal, you can't crawl like an animal. Only this time it was hard to get up. The dog jumped up at him, and knocked him down.”
“What's wrong with you, brother?” said somebody.
Brother. He did what he could about getting up. A little tremor went through the log lying on the grass. “Mr. and Mrs. Luther Bell,” he said....
“You're certainly tough,” said Sibyl.
He knew she wasn't really there. The thing for him to do now was to keep his eyes closed and not breathe.
“Swallow this, dear,” she said.
And a glass came bumping against his mouth. He opened his lips, and whisky came flooding in. Only he had forgotten how to swallow; he kept it in his mouth until it burned his gums, and then he let it run down his gullet.
“More, please,” he said.
He swallowed as much as she would give him. Unfortunately he had forgotten how to open his eyes. If I could find my hands, I could pull up my lids, he thought. Then the whisky began to run through his veins like hot sunlight. He could breathe now, and he could open his eyes.
And he saw the sun, up in a blue sky.
“Where?” he said.
“What, dear?” said Sibyl.
“When—is this?”
“It's Monday, dear. Are you better?”
Monday? Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... No. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday... Sunday...
“Jocelyn?” he said.
“Oh, she's fine,” said Sibyl.
He was lying in bed. He was warm now, but much too heavy to stir.
“Who's the other one—breathing?” he asked.
“Doctor Jacobs, dear.”
“I see,” he said.
He was all right now, except for being so heavy. He knew where his hands and feet were, anyhow.
“Where's Jocelyn?” he asked.
“She's fine!” Sibyl said, again.
“No,” he said, “I'm all right now. I want to know. Come on, sister. Give!”
She and Doctor Jacobs murmured together. The doctor came from somewhere and took his wrist.
“Give!” said Killian.
“My dear,” said Sibyl. “We don't quite understand what's happened.”
“Has the boat come back?”
She took a long time before she said, “No.”
“Anything heard of it?”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Wait!” he said, and dragged a great flapping hand across the blanket. “Time?” he said, with a lot of trouble.
“In a moment,” Sibyl said. She didn't understand.
He pulled himself together, and it hurt. It was pulling hundreds of little strings and making them tight. “Time,” he said, again.
“Just a little while,” she said. He gave up. She didn't understand.
He had to wait until the machinery was running better. My heart is picking up, he thought. Accelerating nicely. When the engine stops jumping like this, I'll be all right. So when he was all right, he said, “What time is it, pleased'
“Just about noon,” said Harriet.
“I see!” he said. “Wait, please.”
“I won't go,” she said.
He looked at the sun in the blue sky for a while. “Harriet,” he said, “I want to know.”
“Yes,” she said.
She's young, he thought. She's young enough to understand. She's cross. That's a good thing to be. Young and cross, and she tells the truth.
“The Captain?” he said. “Is he crazy?”
“I never thought so,” she said. “He used to seem a little queer sometimes when he talked about the shipwreck, that's all.”
He was quiet for a while, getting better.
“Are they looking for the boat?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Is there any news of her?”
“Do you want it?” Harriet asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
She was young enough to tell the truth in the right way. “The Coast Guard station got a report from somebody,” she said. “Somebody saw the boat heading straight into a squall last night.”
“Nothing else?”
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