The Action Read online

  His hands at her waist pushing down: her hands at his echoing the action. Her face at the junction of his neck and shoulder, her leg thrown over his loins. His hands low on her back moving down. Her skin like satin fire under his fingertips.

  “Yes! Oh yes,” she whispered. Convulsively he bucked her over until their positions were reversed upon the massive springy mattress of the turf.

  They did not wake Gant when his time came to keep watch. They made love until dawn.

  Then they dressed.

  Then they slept.

  “You didn’t wake me,” said Gant to Stone.

  “No,” said Stone. Gant knew then but said nothing. It was late morning. Stone had just woken. They were alone. “I thought it would help morale if we built a watch fire up on the cliff top where Slobowski and Bates were, and kept watch there. In case of rescue,” said Gant. “We built it this morning while you were asleep.”

  “You should have woken me.”

  “No need. There wasn’t all that much to build a fire with anyway and none of it was heavy.”

  “No.”

  “Rebecca and Mrs Gash are up there now. I thought it would help morale.”

  “I’m sure it will.” Stone got up and went to the pool. He began to sluice his face. Gant stood by his shoulder. “You and Rebecca, are you serious?”

  “Serious enough.” Stone’s tone of voice asked what business was it of Gant’s, anyway?

  “I’ve always thought of myself as being in loco parentis with regard to Rebecca.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “I won’t hurt her.”

  “No.” There was a dead fall to Gant’s voice. And they let the subject rest.

  After a while Gant went off to check on the women by the watch fire. Stone remained by the pool, deep in thought. Then he roused himself, climbed to his feet, looked around the glade and went through the bushes to the place where Miss Buhl had disappeared. Here he stood for a moment and then he moved purposefully up the slope towards the head of the waterfall. As the slope steepened he began to leave tracks in the soft earth. On this side the bushes thickened, and there was a path, so vague as to be invisible to anyone who was not following it with a good degree of certainty. Yet someone had been this way, and more than once.

  Stone followed this as the slope eased off until the bushes suddenly gave onto a small clearing. There was a small cliff on Stone’s left, a little over 10 ft high. Above and beyond it the ground began to hump up steeply in the final climb towards the cliffs. At the foot of the cliff a pool reached across the little clearing, narrowed in a funnel of rock and tumbled away into the waterfall which 20 ft below would give birth to the pool beside which stood their camp.

  Stone glanced around the clearing, he looked up the bush-covered cliff and then stepped carefully into the small pool. The water came up to his knees. He waded forward until he reached the place where the water came out of the rock. At the very foot of the cliff there was a small cavern perhaps 4 ft high. Stone got out his silver cigarette-lighter, lit it, turned the gas up until the flame was as high as it would go, and ducked into the little cavern.

  At first he could see nothing and was aware only of the sudden cold. When his eyes grew more used to the darkness, however, Stone saw that he was in a narrow, low-ceilinged passage which seemed to lead back into the heart of the hill. There was a slight movement of air, and the current against his legs was surprisingly strong. Shading the flame of his cigarette-lighter with his left hand, he bent his head and stooped his shoulders well clear of the roof of the tunnel and followed it on in as silently as he could. The flame in his hand danced in a slight silent draught, making the black, glistening walls dance and heave around him like monstrous waves breaking over his head.

  The stream grew deeper, its cold surface creeping up his thighs and past his waist. When the water had risen until it was under his arms, Stone put his lighter out for fear he might slip, drop it and lose it. He put it in his shirt pocket, closed and safe even under water, and waded on with hardly a pause.

  Suddenly something struck him on the head with unexpected, devastating force. He threw himself backwards, rolling with the blow, hands outstretched and hooked, feeling for his adversary, feet kicking in the water as he tried to regain his balance. His shoes twisted and skidded on the stream bed, but after a moment he managed to heave his head out of the water and he stood silently waiting for a sound from his attacker. Nothing.

  He opened his mouth to its fullest extent, gulping in great silent draughts of air, preparing his body for the exertion of the next attack. Nothing. Stone moved his feet inch by inch and his body without sound through the water, circling upstream, arms outspread, fingers grasping only the cold dark. Still nothing.

  Then, as suddenly as before, an agonising blow to his left ear. He rolled away from it again but this time he did not lose his balance. He swung round at once and moved in, his arms full outstretched in the utter blackness. After a few steps his hands encountered a solid rock wall. They followed it down to just a few inches above the water. It blocked the tunnel completely.

  Stone smiled: so this was his mysterious, silent attacker.

  Moving in the dark and colliding with it, he had automatically assumed he was being struck.

  Stone bent his knees until his nose was just above the surface and then proceeded carefully forward. The roof of the tunnel remained a few inches above his head, invisible but pressing down in the dark like a multitude of hands all trying to force him under the water to drown. Using hands and arms outstretched like a tightrope walker to steady himself he moved slowly forward trying to control the claustrophobia which bore down upon him with the phantom hands and the invisible roof, until suddenly his right foot slipped and the water grasped his throat, cascading down his nose. His hands, waving wildly above the surface of the water grasped only the air. It was a second before Stone realized that the rock roof was no longer just above his head. He regained his footing and stood up choking and gasping for breath, no longer caring how much noise he made.

  When he had steadied himself, Stone stood still and looked around. As his eyes probed the darkness, vague shapes began to form: light and shadow, far and near. Pointed towers, dark icicles of rock; perfect here and there but mostly broken and rotten. Stalactites and stalacmites. They looked like the teeth of some huge sea-monster. Stone knew what Jonah must have felt like and he shivered.

  It was a moment before it occurred to him that if he could see then there must be light coming from somewhere. Enough light to give a certain amount of brightness right throughout what seemed to be an enormous cave. He began to look around first, therefore, for the source of this light. It was in the roof, high above him. So high that Stone suddenly realized that the whole hill at the cliff-end of the1 island must be hollow.

  He pressed on, certain that any noise he made would be covered by the incessant tinkling hubbub of water in the great cave. He made for the side of the pool and sat on the cold, slippery floor to regain his breath and get his bearings. Assuming he had been following a straight line along the stream, he was now some little way behind the cliff from which the stream issued. And from the look of it, the cliffs would be far off on his right. He walked across the huge cathedral-like cave, staggered by the simple size of it.

  How large it was Stone could not have begun to estimate. It was certainly more than 100 ft high. It seemed to have a floor area of more than a square mile. He knew something about caves in limestone country all over the world which had grown to incredible size, but this was far larger than any he had heard of. He could not see the walls, only the forest of stalacmites and stalactites like a jumbled set of columns all around. The floor was running with water.

  Much of it was plain rock, flat and slick, but there were areas of pebbles, stones and even a few boulders. It sloped slightly towards the pool so that all the water from the walls ran down and collected there. He walked on, half expecting to
come to a gallery of still more massive proportions immediately behind the cliffs, but instead the ceiling swooped down to meet the floor far back from where he judged the shoreline to be. He walked the line of this wall until he came to the mouth of another tunnel.

  This tunnel was dry, but utterly dark. Over the sound of the cascading water, however, he heard distant screams echoing up the throat of the rock. Store began to follow the dry tunnel, groping like a blind man. The screams grew louder with each step he took and he began to hurry. A foul smell suddenly burned in the back of his throat. He began almost to run. Another, smaller, tunnel entrance on his right echoed with the screams. He stumbled on, gripped by the terrible agony of the sound.

  Such was his concern that he made a mistake - he rounded a tight bend without thinking and was struck blind by the light. He put his hand up over his streaming eyes and stood rooted. The screaming was solid around him. It beat in his quaking mind. The acrid smell tore at his lungs as the water had done. He leaned against the nearest wall and forced his eyes open.

  Miss Buhl sat naked on the ground, her mouth impossibly wide open. Beyond her only the scimitar edge of black rock and the echoing sky. He took a step forward. A rock fell, clattering, he swung round into a crouch. Bates, his face a rictus of hate and fear. Stone stepped back.

  CRACK!. A bullet smashed against the wall by his head. He ducked and began to run, back into the dark tunnel: blind again. He blundered off rough stone walls, hurting his hands using even the pain as a more useful guide as his dark-blinded eyes. Suddenly there was a vacancy beside him on his left: the other tunnel. He swerved and took it at a run. The walls crashed against him, tearing the shirt from his shoulders. The roof slapped him again. He rolled forward, clutching his damp head, wet now with blood. Onto his feet, plunging on. The screams were gaining volume once more, but they were not as loud as the footsteps and the grunting animalistic breathing close, too close, behind.

  Suddenly the light slapped him in the face again. He opened his eyes and slewed to a halt. He was on a ledge outside a cave in the cliff-face. It was a hundred feet down to the deep green sea and nowhere else to go. Stone swung round. Out of the darkness behind him passed a hard edge of shadow and into the blazing sunlight came a hand holding a gun. That was all. The gun was a big black Colt .45 automatic. The hand was red and black. There was skin hanging from it. Stone stepped back. Again. He gasped in a deep breath and leaped with all his force.

  As Stone went over the edge the big Colt .45 spoke several times in rapid succession.

  “Do you think we ought to have some sort of a service?” asked Mrs Gash suddenly.

  “Mmmm?” asked Rebecca who had been day-dreaming.

  “A service. I do. It’s Sunday, you know. And I think we should thank the Lord we have been spared. Those of us who have. And ask that He look after the departed. And that He damn whoever is killing us all. Oh GOD.” She shuddered until her teeth began to chatter.

  They were keeping watch by Gant’s watch-fire on the high plateau above the cliffs. Mrs Gash’s eyes spilled tears. Her strength was returning, if not her strength of mind, and she wanted revenge. Not just for poor Letty Buhl but for all the confused mass of other victims. She shook her head fiercely. Her palm-frond hat fell off.

  Rebecca Dark looked out to sea, her thoughts still miles away. It was early afternoon and the sun was agonisingly hot. Mrs Gash retrieved her hat. Rebecca pulled hers farther down on her tender forehead. She knew from bitter experience how much at risk the high bridge of her nose could be. They were all burned and peeling. They were lucky there had been no serious sunstroke. Rebecca looked at Mrs Gash. She was driving a short stick into the ground time after time after time. Her face was a sickly pink where the pallor of her flesh worked at odds with the livid red of her sunburn. Her eyes were ringed with crimson and seemed to have sunk into their sockets. There were new lines hard down either side of her nose and mouth. She looked so very old. She was muttering to herself. Rebecca had never seen a nervous breakdown but she guessed Mrs Gash was on the verge of one. She shifted uneasily, trying to work out whether it was actually Sunday. Immediately Mrs Gash was looking at her with button-bright eyes. “I think a service would be nice,” wheedled the old lady.

  “But who would hold one?”

  “I could do it.”

  “Of course you could.” Rebecca reassured her.

  “And it is Sunday.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “So many dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s doing it? Do you know who’s doing it?” Mrs Gash asked.

  “No of course I don’t.”

  “I think it’s that Mr Gant.”

  “No!”

  “Or that Mr Stone.”

  “I don’t think it’s Mr Stone.”

  “Or Mr Wells.”

  “For Heaven’s sake! Mr Wells is DEAD!”

  “Well who then?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Rebecca said, “I don’t know. I don’t know!” They sat for a while in angry silence. Then Mrs Gash said, “I think we should have a service.”

  “Well have one then.”

  “You can’t have a service on your own.”

  “Then ask some of the others!” snapped Rebecca.

  “Yes. I could do that. I’ll ask that nice Mr Stone. He’s always so kind and gentlemanlike. And Mr Gant, I like him.”

  “We’ll ask everybody.”

  “That’ll be nice, Letty. Can I preach a sermon?”

  “If you like,” said Rebecca, patiently.

  “Or perhaps Mr Stone. I saw him at Stratford upon Avon in England, you know, he was acting in a play. I always think actors would make such good preachers. Except for their morals, of course. Like Burt Lancaster in that movie Elmer Gantry. Did you see that? I went to so many Meetings on the strength of that. But nothing ever came of it.” She lapsed into silence.

  Suddenly there was a distant sound immediately drowned by the screaming of disturbed birds.

  “What was that?” asked Rebecca. Mrs Gash hadn’t heard; didn’t hear Rebecca asking. The birds settled down. Silence returned.

  Almost immediately Gant came up, out of breath. “Have you seen Alec Stone?” he asked.

  “Alec? No,” said Rebecca, puzzled.

  “He’s gone.”

  Rebecca sat, utterly stunned by the news. Mrs Gash had risen and wandered to the cliff edge. “Oh look,” she said. “There’s somebody out for a swim.”

  “What!” yelled Gant. He dashed over beside her, with Rebecca close behind. Far below, there was a figure in the sea. They could just make out the fact that it was wearing a white shirt and black trousers. It was not swimming: it was sinking.

  “Alec!” screamed Rebecca. “Alec!”

  But Alec Stone had gone.

  At breakfast next day the food gave out. Gant, who had spent all night watching over Rebecca, looked dully at the empty tin and drifted into a deep sleep. Mrs Gash wandered away to make sand castles.

  Just after four, Rebecca woke up. She had collapsed upon seeing Stone’s body in the water and had been unconscious for 24 hours. At this moment she was almost as helpless as Mrs Gash. She stared dully at the sky. There was no recognition in her eyes as they dwelt briefly on the sleeping figure of Eldridge Gant. She got up and went silently towards the makeshift latrine.

  Stone’s footprints led up towards the head of the waterfall. She did not recognize them, but she followed them to the pool by the small cliff. She waded into the pool because she felt dirty and she looked into the cave because she wondered where the water was coming from. She went inside because her curiosity was aroused and once inside, like a child, she had to explore farther.

  Outside, Gant found her gone. He woke Slobowski and they began to look for her, calling out her name. Even in the tunnel Rebecca heard them and a strange terror washed over her. She had rejected Stone’s death and the sound of their voices threatened to reawaken the pain. She froze like a frightened animal and the
n she ran away. She ran into the tunnel until the low roof stopped her then, in her blind panic, she gulped in a breath and dived underwater. Because the water deadened the painful voices she stayed under for as long as she could. The fear of drowning was a distant thing and she swam and swam.

  When she stood up, the cave was like an abbey around her pulling the vague, august curves of its walls up above the random columns to the tiny point of light. She stood in the water until her teeth began to chatter and then she waded ashore. The pool was roughly saucer shaped and only a few feet deep at its deepest point by the tunnel so Rebecca had no difficulty in reaching the slippery shore. She stood on the chill rock bank and crossed her arms over her breast until her hands took her shoulders. She was still shivering. Her teeth were still chattering. She bit her tongue.

  “Damn!” she said. DAMN DAMN DAMN Damn damn . .. amn...am... echoed the cave. She looked around in the uncertain light. It was enormous. She began to move through it. Like a whisper among the restless overwhelming tinkle of running water, came the sound of distant screaming. It grew louder. The cave was like some lower gallery in Hell. She sat down beside a stalagmite and closed her eyes, leaning back as though it were a tree.

  The hand came out of nowhere and clamped around her mouth. She screamed but there was no sound. A finger bulged between her teeth and she bit down as hard as she could. There was a low, animal sound. She bit again. The hand tore away. She lurched into a half crouch and ran like a sprinter off her marks. There were footsteps behind her.

  Then there was a passage in front of her. She ran into its utter darkness, cannoning off walls, bruising knees, thighs and shoulders but never falling. The screams washed over her. An acrid stench. She came round a tight curve and was bludgeoned to her knees by the light.

  Her head filled with the screaming of birds, and something else. Her eyes searched the hard blue sky among the circling dots and brief flapping cruciforms of the gulls until…! A steady cross, black and far away.

  A cross that roared instead of screaming, that flew level instead of soaring, that did not flap its wings. Suddenly it glinted in the sky like a jewel and the sky went out like a light.