relief that he had been
strong and quick enough when the moment came.
Above all, there was no need to let scum like
that bring him down. He was determined to get into the Village.
That was his goal, and they weren’t going to stop him.
Yes. He found he had made the decision to
survive. Perhaps he had made it just now, or perhaps it had been
formed last night, when he had awoken in King’s shack, or when he
had decided to let his urine flow, or on the cliffs, when he had
successfully defended himself against murder. Perhaps the decision
had been reached in stages.
However it had happened, it had changed
entirely the way he perceived his plight. He saw now that state of
mind was just as important as finding the means of physical
subsistence, if not more so. Loneliness, guilt, fear: all these
weakened the will to survive. Even more corrosive was the stupidity
which had already cost him his knife.
As he retraced his path he wondered how many
more such body-blows there would be to his self-esteem. Even after
his experiences in prison, the Anthony John Routledge who had
landed here yesterday had been a man of insufferable conceit. He
was conceited still, so conceited that he was pluming himself with
the thought that he was beginning to come to terms with his fate.
There was no reason to suppose he was doing anything of the kind,
or that the violent fluctuations in his mental state would not
continue or get worse, plunging him yet deeper into derangement and
despair.
The idiocy with which he had behaved so far
appalled him. First, he had muffed the interview with Appleton. No
– even before that, he had wasted the time he had spent with King.
Then he had failed to make a proper reconnaissance of the Village.
After that he had literally allowed two outsiders to catch him
napping. Finally, and most shameful of all, he had lost the
knife.
Was this the same man who had held such a
high opinion of himself on the mainland, who had silently sneered
at and looked down on everyone else? What must he have been like at
home, with Louise? Or in the office? In his everyday dealings with
people in shops, on the telephone, everywhere?
The bracken was not menacing, or merciless,
or anything but a living organism doing its best to look after its
own interests. It had not taken his knife. He had, moron that he
was, simply gone and lost it, and now he was having to pay the
price.
6
To be entrusted with Peto’s binoculars was a
sign of high rank at Old Town. Obie, lying flat on his stomach,
Martinson on his left, Brookes on his right, was making the most of
it.
The binoculars had once belonged to a man
named Barratt; Peto had acquired them during the war with Franks.
They were small and squat, covered in green rubber. A red badge on
the front said Leitz in white script. They magnified by a
factor of eight, and even now, having circuitously arrived in
Peto’s hands, and after several subsequent years of hard use, they
were in perfect working order. More than once the binoculars had
saved Peto’s skin, or given him advantage over Houlihan or one of
the others who had been and gone.
Obie turned the focusing wheel and again
brought the lenses and prisms to bear on the rooms below the
gallery.
“Let’s have a go,” Brookes said.
“In a bit.”
Obie and his two companions had taken up a
position on the cliffs overlooking Angara Point and the lighthouse,
four hundred metres east of the light and about a hundred above it.
Seen from here, the upper part of the structure was set against the
sea, the rest against the brambles, turf and rocks of the cliffs.
The base of the lighthouse was about fifty metres above high water
mark. Beyond it, the rest of Angara Point extended, in a broken
group of outcrops and islands, another three hundred metres out to
sea.
Once pure white, the walls of the lighthouse
were now streaked and stained with rust from the twisted remnants
of the gallery, and blotched with scabrous patches where the
rendering had
strong and quick enough when the moment came.
Above all, there was no need to let scum like
that bring him down. He was determined to get into the Village.
That was his goal, and they weren’t going to stop him.
Yes. He found he had made the decision to
survive. Perhaps he had made it just now, or perhaps it had been
formed last night, when he had awoken in King’s shack, or when he
had decided to let his urine flow, or on the cliffs, when he had
successfully defended himself against murder. Perhaps the decision
had been reached in stages.
However it had happened, it had changed
entirely the way he perceived his plight. He saw now that state of
mind was just as important as finding the means of physical
subsistence, if not more so. Loneliness, guilt, fear: all these
weakened the will to survive. Even more corrosive was the stupidity
which had already cost him his knife.
As he retraced his path he wondered how many
more such body-blows there would be to his self-esteem. Even after
his experiences in prison, the Anthony John Routledge who had
landed here yesterday had been a man of insufferable conceit. He
was conceited still, so conceited that he was pluming himself with
the thought that he was beginning to come to terms with his fate.
There was no reason to suppose he was doing anything of the kind,
or that the violent fluctuations in his mental state would not
continue or get worse, plunging him yet deeper into derangement and
despair.
The idiocy with which he had behaved so far
appalled him. First, he had muffed the interview with Appleton. No
– even before that, he had wasted the time he had spent with King.
Then he had failed to make a proper reconnaissance of the Village.
After that he had literally allowed two outsiders to catch him
napping. Finally, and most shameful of all, he had lost the
knife.
Was this the same man who had held such a
high opinion of himself on the mainland, who had silently sneered
at and looked down on everyone else? What must he have been like at
home, with Louise? Or in the office? In his everyday dealings with
people in shops, on the telephone, everywhere?
The bracken was not menacing, or merciless,
or anything but a living organism doing its best to look after its
own interests. It had not taken his knife. He had, moron that he
was, simply gone and lost it, and now he was having to pay the
price.
6
To be entrusted with Peto’s binoculars was a
sign of high rank at Old Town. Obie, lying flat on his stomach,
Martinson on his left, Brookes on his right, was making the most of
it.
The binoculars had once belonged to a man
named Barratt; Peto had acquired them during the war with Franks.
They were small and squat, covered in green rubber. A red badge on
the front said Leitz in white script. They magnified by a
factor of eight, and even now, having circuitously arrived in
Peto’s hands, and after several subsequent years of hard use, they
were in perfect working order. More than once the binoculars had
saved Peto’s skin, or given him advantage over Houlihan or one of
the others who had been and gone.
Obie turned the focusing wheel and again
brought the lenses and prisms to bear on the rooms below the
gallery.
“Let’s have a go,” Brookes said.
“In a bit.”
Obie and his two companions had taken up a
position on the cliffs overlooking Angara Point and the lighthouse,
four hundred metres east of the light and about a hundred above it.
Seen from here, the upper part of the structure was set against the
sea, the rest against the brambles, turf and rocks of the cliffs.
The base of the lighthouse was about fifty metres above high water
mark. Beyond it, the rest of Angara Point extended, in a broken
group of outcrops and islands, another three hundred metres out to
sea.
Once pure white, the walls of the lighthouse
were now streaked and stained with rust from the twisted remnants
of the gallery, and blotched with scabrous patches where the
rendering had
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