For Death Comes Softly Read Free Page A

would die. The only question was when.

Two
    The shout came just when I had totally accepted that it was all over. A faint call above the roar of the sea.
    I peered into the darkness. I could just make out a gleam which could surely only be the lights of a boat. Yet for a moment or two I still wasn’t quite sure if I was indulging in wishful thinking, if my imagination was playing tricks on me. Then I heard an engine. I remembered the torch dangling loosely from its strap around my wrist, which I had switched off in order to conserve its batteries for as long as possible. Somehow I found the strength to grasp it, switch it on, and wave it frantically. I tried to shout but my voice came only in gasps, and in any case, whoever was aboard that noisy sounding boat would never be able to hear.
    They spotted me. At the time it seemed like a miracle, but later I realised that they were half expecting me to be on the Pencil. They had come looking for me.
    The beam of my torch, still quite powerful thanks to my energy-conservation efforts, picked up the approaching bow of an inflatable – quite possibly the one which had dumped me there in the first place – nosing its way through the hazardous array of rocks. The boat came alongside the Pencil, unable to tie up anywhere now even temporarily as the ledge was four or five feet under water, and seconds later strong arms reached up for me and pulled me downwards.
    I collapsed into a kind of human cradle, a tangle of limbs. The faces were just a hazy shadow. I had no idea even how many people were aboard the small boat, let alone who they were, and neither did I care. I had, however, a vague impression that young Jason did not seem to be among them, although, in reality, I was only half-conscious.
    â€˜It’s all right, you are safe now,’ said a soothing male voice.
    They knew about survival, it seemed. They wrapped me in tin foil and then blankets and something hot, sweet and liquid was pressed to my lips. I remember gulping it gratefully, feeling warming reviving fluid cursing through my system. Yet I was only barely aware of what was going on. I did know that I was safe. I knew that the ordeal was over. And that was enough. The next few hours were indistinct. At some stage I realised vaguely that I was back on dry land, the motion of the sea no longer rocking me, and that there were other new voices speaking and a certain bustle going on around me.
    Strong arms carried me again. There was the sound of another engine, the island Land Rover perhaps. I was almost oblivious. I had no recollection of where I was taken or of being stripped of my sodden clothes and put to bed, although later it became apparent that is what had happened. Ultimately I became aware only of deep warmth and comfort and of the overpowering need for sleep.
    Eventually I woke. I was lying on the softest mattress I had ever experienced, wrapped in white sheets so crisp they crackled when I moved, upon a bed which seemed to be about the same size as most people’s houses. Gradually I took in a room of extremely grand proportions with huge towering windows. My first impression was of a glorious abundance of light again. And my second of a handsome Charles Dance lookalike sitting by my bedside peering at me anxiously.
    The sunshine streaming through the windows was blinding. I blinked furiously. When I had more or less accustomed my eyes to the glare, Charles Dance was still there, leaning forward now and looking relieved.
    â€˜Thank God,’ he said. ‘We choppered the doctor over in the night and he reckoned all you needed was warmth and rest. But none of us were entirely sure . . .’
    â€˜I don’t remember a doctor . . .’ I mumbled blearily. My head felt as if it belonged to somebody else.
    â€˜You wouldn’t,’ replied the vision. ‘You were suffering from shock and exposure. You were pretty much out for the count.’
    He smiled. It is