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going to be. Would Tom like a drink before he closed the shop?
No. Absolute sobriety, forever. Tom remembered, in a weird flash, laying down that law for
himself before leaving the house on a wet morning five days ago. Before the road, the mist,
blazing headlights rearing up at him. He had not expected such challenge to come so soon.
This was how it would be, to love a man like Flynn. A man who leapt into the storm, who
would never be grounded or tamed. Never be safe& How fucking sweet it would be, to knock
back a treble, buy the bottle, find his way home somehow and leave the night to take care of
itself. No one would be any less dead or alive in the morning for his contribution.
Nevertheless he turned and walked away. As soon as he closed the pub door, the gale hit
him, pushing him unresisting out into the deserted street. He heard a key turn in the lock be-
hind him. He was soaked to the skin inside thirty seconds. As he stood swaying, trying not to
drop to his knees on the tarmac, he heard the thud of rotor blades. He looked up. Briefly the
night was lit by the flying-whale shape of a Sea King, a darkness on darkness, picked out by
the red and green flicker of her running lights. Rescue or tactical? Tom couldn t tell. The
sound of the spinning blades merged into the wind and was gone.
He turned, disoriented, at another engine s roar. Earthbound, this one, accompanied by a
pair of flickering, unreliable headlights. Tom began to move towards the kerb, wondering if he
would be quick enough. Each step now felt like dragging lead weights upstairs. He wondered
who had run him off the Lanyon road. Why the driver hadn t stopped, and if, as now seemed
likely, he was coming back to have another go.
Tyres squealed on the wet road. Blinking, shading his eyes from the uncertain glare, Tom
saw a battered Ford van pull up next to him. The door swung open and Victor Travers
scrambled out.  Thomas bloody Penrose, he greeted him, grinning.  Thank God for that. Doc
Findlay wanted to call out air-sea rescue, but they re all busy, so you got me. What the devil
are you doing here?
Tom didn t resist Victor s large and comprehensive grasp on him. The passenger seat of
the Ford felt like a welcoming mattress. If he closed his eyes&  How& How did you know
where to find me?
 Didn t. This road s just on my beat. Your other friends and neighbours are out cross-
quartering the rest of the countryside. Come on, let s get you back.
 Wait a second, Vic. Tom hesitated, distracted. Did he have friends and neighbours? Of
the sort, anyway, who would turn out after midnight in a storm to find him?  Please. Don t drag
me back to the hospital. Call Mike and tell him I m safe, to call off the search, but& 
Victor eyed him. It occurred to Tom that his friend could be forgiven for jumping to a con-
clusion, finding him like this just after closing outside the only pub in a five-mile radius. But all
Vic said was,  What s the matter? I know all the choppers are out tonight. You worried about
Flynn?
Tom flinched. Victor had been there when David Reay had died, but the difference in rank
between them, and the fact that no one was meant to know, had prevented him from offering
Tom a single word of comfort. Not military etiquette. Tom knew, to his shame, that he was still
trammelled by some of it now. To hear Victor name Flynn as someone he might care about
was hard.
 Look, Victor said harshly.  We re civilians now. And it s the twenty-first century even in
Cornwall. That lad sat by your bed round the clock, Tom. If you re not bloody worried about
him, you should be.
A day of revelations. Tom sat listening to the storm rock the van. He could not work out if
he had woken up into a new world or had unexpectedly learned to see the real nature of the
old one. Friends and neighbours scouring the country for him. Mike Findlay s expression
when he opened the door to find him awake. Victor, whom Tom had always thought of as the
essence of British soldiery, blunt and tough, straight as a die, watching him now in a painful
mix of annoyance and compassion.
 Yeah, he said, voice helplessly cracking on the word.  I am. But what do I do with it, Vic?
He s out there, and I m here. Grounded. What do I do?
Victor sighed.  You promise me you re not gonna drop down dead on me if I don t take
you back to Doc Findlay? After a moment Tom nodded, meaning it as far as he could.  All
right. The lifeboat s out. Florrie s making tea for the wives and other halves. Come down to
Porth Bay with me. They ll show you what you do.
The RNLI station in Porth was brightly lit up, a brave neon box in the wild night. As Victor
helped him out of the van on the harbourside, Tom saw that the waves were crashing almost
to the top of the lifeboat s vacant launch ramp.  How long has she been out?
 Nearly three hours now. We ve lost radio contact with them. And there s nobody to back
them up tonight.
No. Tom could see that it was not easy. He knew almost all of the dozen or so people
gathered in the station office by sight, at least, or as patients. He hadn t permitted himself
anything else. Most of them looked tired, a few pale and sick, as if the three hours had been
very long. They looked up as he and Victor entered. A few smiles of recognition, surprise.
One or two nodded and greeted him by name. Florence Travers, busy with a tea urn in the
corner, looked up and broke into a wide grin.  Tom! Thank God you re on your feet again.
Vic put a hand to his back.  You okay?
 Yes. Just about.
 Good. Florrie, he s come to make himself useful.
She nodded, gave him a look of unsentimental understanding.  That s right. Better than
sitting at home, isn t it?
So Tom helped serve tea to the wives and other halves. What struck him apart from his
sense of utter unreality, handing over plastic cups, asking who wanted sugar, while the gale
screamed so hard outside that the little concrete building seemed to rock was that he was
not the only man in the gathering. One of the others was a father, granted, widowed Bill
Hughes whose only son was one of the lifeboat volunteers, but he could not account for
Christopher Poldue, who as far as Tom had known lived a bachelor life in the flat above his
antiques shop. Poldue was a standoffish type but, then, to all appearances, so was he.
When next he limped past the plastic chair where Poldue was sitting, he paused.  It s
Christopher, isn t it? The other man nodded, and he cautiously sat beside him.  Got some- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]