The Action

by Peter Tonkin

  “What?” snarled the Commander.

  “I’m not sure, sir. There.” He gestured towards the north-east. The Commander took a pair of night glasses and peered into the dark. At first he saw nothing, then…an unsteady white mass…glinting…coming…The Commander smashed his fist onto the communications button. “Dive-dive-dive!” he screamed. “Crash dive. Now!” The submarine tilted. The water began to break over her. It was 0300.

  Chapter Nine: Kali

  24 July-25 July

  “Quiet!” yelled Eldridge Gant. “Will you be QUIET!”

  “Can you hear something?” asked Mrs Gash. “Is it Rebecca?”

  “No.”

  “Is it Letty?”

  “THERE!” He pointed up among the circling birds. It was an aeroplane. It caught the light like a jewel in the sky. “The fire,” he yelled. “Quick! The fire!” They ran the last few hundred yards up the island to the pile of sticks on the height of the cliffs. Gant was fumbling in his pocket for matches, swearing under his breath with the strain of the excitement. He fell on his knees by the fire, matches out, hands shaking too much. He spilt some, grabbed one, lit it. It went out. Slobowski and Mrs Gash arrived and clustered round. He lit another. “Is it still there?”

  “Yup.” From the phlegmatic Chicagoan.

  “Hurry!” twittered Mrs Gash. The single match was useless. He fumbled out three more and lit them all at once, pushing them into the kindling. “Burn,” he whispered. “Burn for Christsake!”

  Flames seared his fingertips, small but blossoming. The wind stirred. “It’s coming,” observed Slobowski. Gant took the last of the matches to the other side of the fire and the flames once again were small. He blew, terrified that his shaky breath would extinguish them altogether. They grew, took root in the wood. Smoke billowed into Gant’s face. He choked, eyes streaming. “Come on round…that’s it,” said Slobowski to the aeroplane. Mrs Gash began to cry. It came closer, lower. The roar of its jet engines grew, steady, reliable. It was coming in. “Here!’ Here!” they cried, but it already knew.

  It came over low, from the sea, scattering the raucous birds and thundering towards the low spit, causing the earth to quake under their feet. Its side was open. Things began to fall out. Boxes, packages blossoming parachutes as they fell. Finally, in the distance, a man, falling towards the far point of the island. The plane pulled up, turned, came back past them. The wings wagged: it was like a slow wink from an old friend. Slobowski waved. Mrs Gash yoo-hoo’d through her tears.

  Gant was already running down the island to where the man would come to earth. Head up, shoulders back, legs long, he ran as fast as he could over the scrub grass down the slope, past the sounding waterfall, through the clearing, over the dunes and there he was.

  “Hey! Hi! Hello!” He strode over the final ridge and down onto the beach, hand outstretched. He saw a man above medium height clad in light khaki shirt and slacks. He had the bearing of a military man. Greying hair. Clipped moustache. Level grey-blue eyes.

  “Eldridge Gant,” said Gant as their hands joined in a firm handshake. “And we are sure glad to see you!”

  “Perry Andrews from Lloyds’” said the man. He had an English accent as clipped as his moustache. “Came down to see if you are all OK and to wet-nurse the radio.”

  “Radio! Boy can we use one of them.” Gant went to it.

  It was in a heavy leather protective case, strapped shut. He squatted down and began to undo the straps. Now he could really be of some use - get the bastard who had been doing all the murders…Call the Marines…He was dizzy with simple relief. “We need all the help we can get,” he said over his shoulder. His fingers were busy. First strap back. “We seem to have some kind of lunatic loose amongst us.” Second strap back. “But with this we can…” Open the lid; broken glass. Smashed dials. He looked at the Englishman Andrews. “It’s broken.”

  “Oh damn! Now I wonder how the hell that could have happened?” He came over and squatted down. He smelt of aftershave, soap and talcum powder. Plausible son of a bitch, thought Gant. “I say, I’m most terribly sorry,” the man continued. “Still, help’s on the way.” It hasn’t sunk in, thought Gant, about Spooner, Laughton, Wells, Stone, the others. “It will be too late,” he said wearily. “He’ll just be trying all the harder now.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever this bastard is who’s trying to kill us all. Slobowski! It has to be Slobowski. But I just cannot prove a thing.”

  “What…”

  Slobowski and Mrs Gash arrived. “This is Mr Andrews,” said Gant.

  “Perry Andrews. How do you do? From Lloyds of London. Insurance investigator. The tall man was up, offering to shake hands, still utterly unaware of the atmosphere. “Thought I might be of some service. Where are the others? Have you any wounded?”

  “We haven’t anyone, period,” said Slobowski.

  “What!” Now the newcomer was shocked. “Just three of you?”

  “Four,” said Slobowski. “If Miss Dark is still around here somewhere.”

  Rebecca! thought Gant. “My God. Rebecca. We must find Rebecca.” He too was on his feet.

  “She’s quite vanished, you know,” said Mrs Gash. “Not a sign, … Gant flung himself past her, fighting to get his gun out. “What have you done with her, you…”

  “Naaaw!” yelled Slobowski. He smashed one huge fist into Gant’s shoulder sending him crashing to the ground. He swung his boot back, mad with rage. “That’s quite enough,” snapped the stranger. Suddenly he had a gun.

  Nash’s mind was reeling in confusion. Three, maybe four, out of how many aboard Wanderer? And where was Alec Stone? Perhaps, he hoped, aware that it was a very faint hope, perhaps there were more boats, another island. But what was going on here? What on earth could have happened to reduce these people to this? And in just over a week. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if somebody explained to me. Mr Gant, would you mind?”

  “I told you,” said Gant. “This murdering…”

  “From the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

  “There’s no time. You don’t understand.”

  “Now!” Nash’s voice was like a whiplash.

  “OK,” said Gant wearily. He picked himself up. “There were twelve of us. Miss Dark, Mrs Gash, you Slobowski, Miss Buhl, Mr Spooner, Wells, Stone, O’Keefe, Bates, Laughton, Slattery and myself.”

  “Twelve where?” asked Nash.

  “In the lifeboat. The only lifeboat.”

  “But the rest of the crew, the Captain…?” Slobowski shook his head. Gant shrugged. Nash was utterly stunned. “All?” he whispered. “All except twelve?”

  “You ain’t heard nothing yet,” said Slobowski.

  It was almost dark now. “I’ll light a fire, shall I?” said Mrs Gash drifting off towards the camp. Nash put his gun away.

  “Rebecca,” said Gant.

  “Ain’t nothing we can do,” Slobowski consoled him, but all he received was a look of virulent hatred in reply.

  Mrs Gash, good as her word, was cooking some of the emergency supplies when they got to the camp.

  “Go on,” said Nash.

  “Spooner went first. He fell overboard on the lifeboat. O’Keefe went the same way. We think they must have been murdered somehow. Someone salted our water, nearly did for all of us but we saw the island. We’ve been here since the 19th. Slattery went first. Throat cut. Then Laughton and Wells were blown up in the boat. It was booby-trapped. Then Miss Buhl. She just vanished. We only ever found her clothes. Then Bates, he went over the edge of the cliff looking for birds’ eggs to eat. Then Stone yesterday. Just vanished. Then we saw him floating at the bottom of the cliffs. And Rebecca today. She just vanished too. We were looking for her when you arrived.”

  Nash looked at them with horror. Three lean, burned, unkempt animals, matter-of-factly telling him of this incredible mayhem. He didn’t know what to believe. Logic demanded that it had to be one of them, if they were telling the truth. Or two, or all. His head sp
un. They watched him, eyes bright in the firelight. Mad. Nine people. Alec Stone. Perhaps they had eaten them. He had read in the papers about something like that. But nine people! And Alec Stone.

  None of them ate the basic rations that Mrs Gash prepared, but she had found some coffee and they gulped it down with the added luxury of a little powdered milk. Then Eldridge Gant got up. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got to look for Rebecca. I have to. I can’t just sit here. I can’t!” The strong voice was dangerously near to cracking, as was the man. They all rose to their feet. “I think we’d better all stick together,” said Nash.

  “Are there any torches?” asked Slobowski.

  “I don’t know,” said Nash. They looked. They found three that worked.

  They started at the point of the island and worked their way up towards the cliffs. They started a little after 0900. By 1100 they were on the main hump of the slope above the waterfall. They were strung in a thin line within calling distance of each other. The birds were asleep. The sea and wind were quiet. Mrs Gash, in the middle of the line, heard it first.

  “What’s that?” she called. Gant ran towards her.

  “There!” she cried. “Again! It’s Rebecca.” They all arrived and stood gasping. A distant cry came, faint and strangely echoing.

  “It is Rebecca!” said Gant, wildly. “Where is it coming from?”

  “Down there?” Nash, hardly believing it, pointing his torch to the ground. Mrs Gash took a few eager steps forward, screamed and half vanished into a hidden hole. She started to slip almost immediately but Gant caught her wrists and pulled her out. Rebecca’s screams were suddenly louder.

  “Rebecca!” screamed Gant. “Can you hear?”

  “Yes-es-es,” echoed Rebecca’s voice. “Help! Oh help!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Cave-ave-ave.” Faint, but quite clear.

  “Did you fall in? Rebecca did you fall?”

  “No. Waterfall…fall…all…”

  “What?” yelled Gant.

  “Pool above the wat...” Silence. They screamed her name but there was no reply. So they ran as fast as they could down to the pool above the waterfall.

  By torchlight, the cave behind the pool above the waterfall was quite small. The roof of the tunnel came down abruptly almost to the surface of the water giving it a claustrophobic air when lit, which it lacked in the dark. Gant waded forward to the tunnel entrance, flashlight and gun at the ready.

  Nash said, “Just a moment,” and Gant paused. “You’ve got spare bullets? In case you need to reload quickly?” Gant nodded and patted his waterproof belt. As he did so, Slobowski ducked into the tunnel and Mrs Gash followed immediately before anyone could stop her. Gant followed. Nash brought up the rear.

  Slobowski came up suddenly into the main cave. He stood up breathing quietly. The tunnel had been surprisingly short. The water erupted beside him: Mrs Gash heaved herself upright. Gant and Nash arrived almost simultaneously, both well armed.

  “Do all Lloyds’ men carry guns, Mr Andrews?” whispered Gant. Nash’s teeth glinted in the gloom. He made no reply.

  Then several things happened at once: Mrs Gash sneezed loudly; a bright, dazzling torch-beam cut across the cave catching Slobowski frozen with surprise; there was a flat report and a spurt of flame by the torch; and Slobowski gave an explosive grunt, spinning off his feet to slap into the water. Even before the spray fell, two more shots kicked up the water beside his body. The others were heading for shore and cover as fast as they could.

  The light moved restlessly, searching for them. It found Mrs Gash. Again the flat report, echoing; as though a giant had clapped his hands. Gant caught Mrs Gash as she stumbled and at last thought to squeeze off a shot of his own in reply. It cracked angrily off a rock. The beam wavered.

  Nash also shot at the torch. He was helping the wounded Slobowski to the other side of the pool and it was only a quick, inaccurate shot but the torch nevertheless went out. Darkness closed in, and, beneath the maddening fell-like tintinnabulation of the running water, silence.

  “You all right?” whispered Nash to Slobowski.

  “Arm,” he whispered back. “Think it’s broke.” “Bleeding?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “ANDREWS?” Gant’s voice, echoing from everywhere. “Yes?” answered Nash, his voice echoing also, giving away no target.”

  “How’s Slobowski?”

  “Fine. Mrs Gash?”

  “Fine,” answered Gant’s disembodied voice. Nash smiled. With any luck this free and cheerful communication would be doing the enemy’s morale no good at all. But then Gant’s voice came again, its timbre slightly changed, its intonation, as though the actor had become slightly drunk.

  “Andrews?” It called. Nash thought, Don’t make too much of a good thing - but he answered, “Yes?”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  What? Nash’s hair rose. His flesh prickled.

  “Kill you .. . you ... oo ... oooo.” And it wasn’t Gant at all. Christ! Talk about turning the tables. He rubbed a shaking hand down a sweat-slicked face. Their adversary had suddenly gained the superhuman power of lunacy in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in the middle of Hitchcock’s Psycho or Carpenter’s Halloween.

  The mad are always so much more powerful than the sane.

  CRACK! A shot away to the right. Gant answered, his gun giving away his position.

  “Gant!” yelled Nash. “Don’t fire back like that. He can move quicker than you can with Mrs Gash.”

  “Clever, clever, Mr Andrews.” The voice was no longer an imitation of Gant’s. It was high, singsong, utterly insane. Nash’s hair stirred again. “Let’s see you get out of this one then.” The light stabbed on. Nash’s arms snapped up immediately without thought, ready to destroy this thing as he would a spider, centipede or scorpion.

  “No!” Gant’s voice cut through his revulsion. Gant’s torch stabbed on momentarily, revealing something. A shot from the murderer sent dust smoking into its beam and then it was gone. Nash stared with glare-blinded eyes at the after image of what Gant’s torch had revealed.

  A tall black column of rock, running with water and glistening like a slug’s back. Against it, a girl, arms up, tied at wrist, waist and ankle as a shield. She was gagged. Was she really naked?

  They were in a triangle, the gunman, Gant and Nash. They’d never get behind him: he could use a torch but they could not. Nash lifted his head. Brightness and a shot. He ducked back amid a shower of rock fragments. Christ! That was close. Stalemate, thought Nash.

  Mexican standoff, thought Gant. He raised his head. The beam of the murderer’s torch was worrying the far side of the cave. Was Andrews all right? Mrs Gash stirred and groaned. The light swung back to them. Gant ducked automatically. There was no shot. Silence and the running of water down the cover walls. What now?

  “Gant!” It was the high, mad voice of the human, totally unlike any voice Gant knew. “Gant, I’m tired of playing this game. Stand up now.” Stand up? Christ! “STAND UP OR I SHOOT THE GIRL.” The girl…Gant looked up. Light on Rebecca. The gun low on her belly. Very low and digging in. Her head shaking wildly. “If I pull the trigger now it’ll blow her guts out. She’ll still be alive GANT!”

  “All right! ALL RIGHT!”

  “And the others.”

  Gant began to get up. Andrews away on the right, climbing to his feet, beaten.

  “Throw the guns in the water.” Splash. Splash.

  “Step forward. Hands high.” Gant moved forward, slowly. The light licked at him then swung away towards Andrews. There was a shot. Andrews staggered back and began to topple. The light flashed back onto Gant. He closed his eyes and stopped. No Broadway. No London. No Long Day’s Journey into Night that he regretted most of all. He stood still and took a deep breath. CRACK! CRACK!

  Two shots. Darkness. He threw himself to the ground, rolling. He stopped and lay on his back, opening his eyes slowly. There was no pain. He moved. It washed over h
im - a great joy: he was alive and unharmed. How could this be?

  CRACK! A cone of flame dead ahead. Behind the gunman?

  BEHIND THE GUMMAN!

  There were footsteps. A confused scuffle. Where was his torch? A scream. Hoarse and masculine from the shadows ahead. Andrews’ torch blazed, wavered, searched. Found two vague shapes wrestling in the shadows. Gant made for Rebecca at a dead run. He fumbled across the dark cave stumbling and hitting his shins. The two men wrestled away to the right. Andrews’ torch didn’t show much. He made it to Rebecca. She was tied with rope. Gagged with her own shirt. The knots were slippery and wet. He took the gag out first. “Are you all right?”

  “...es...’’He wrestled with the well-tied and recalcitrant knots, tearing his fingernails. But they were loosening. Her hands came free at last. She groaned as she lowered her stiff arms. The knot at her waist was easier. Then her ankles and she was free. He supported her back down the cave. Andrews’ torch beam began to slide away. Then it wavered for a moment, and fell. Darkness. A clatter from where the men wrestled. The abrupt slap of a blow. One of them fell. A rattle of stones. Running footsteps - running away. Silence.

  Then the gunman’s torch blazed on. Gant threw Rebecca behind a rock and dived after her. There was no shot: only slow, purposeful footsteps. The light fastened on this rock, making a halo round its edge, intensifying as the torch drew near like sunrise behind a mountain. Then suddenly it was on them. Gant threw a protective arm across Rebecca like the hero of a melodrama. He felt silly: it was all he could think of to do as he looked into the heart of the light.

  “Are you O.K.?” asked Alec Stone from behind the brightness of the torch.

  It was too much for Rebecca. She began to scream. Gant shook her but it did no good. His own mind was reeling: Stone. Stone back from the dead. “How?” he began.

  “No time now,” Stone took Rebecca’s rigid form and folded it over his broad shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Then he was off towards Mrs Gash, the gunman’s torch carefully lighting his way. Mrs Gash had been shot in the leg. There was a small wound in her thigh welling blood sluggishly: almost like tar in the torchlight. “You’d better help her,” said Stone. Gant tried to wake her up.