Tapestry of Fear (4 page)

“
Jose! Jose!
”

The pale white of his face bobbed through the swirling water, one arm reaching outwards. I leaned forward, slipping on the treacherous rocks, stretching my arm out to his. Gasping and panting I dragged him up beside me, then, shivering and sick, strained my eyes to see what was happening on the beach. The speedboat was rocking at anchor a short way from the shore, the enormous lights stabbing down onto the pale sand. Dark figures were running up onto the turf towards the road. Of Luis and Miss Daventry there was no sign.

“We can't stay here.” Jose gasped harshly. His face was contorted with pain and the soaking bandages were dark with blood. He began to feel his way along the rocks and I clambered after him, each yard an agony of suspense. The distant figures on the beach were fanning out now, combing the beach, approaching the cliffs.

“We'll walk straight into them!” I whispered urgently.

He shook his head, saying savagely: “We can't stay here, one sweep of their lights and we're done for. We have to reach the headland where there is some cover.”

“What cover?” I whispered back, but he didn't bother to answer me. I slithered down a slope of shingle and he whipped round, hissing: “
For God's sake, be quiet!
”

The shouts of the police were nearer now, their bobbing torches sweeping in smooth arcs, there were only minutes left before they reached the rocks.…

“It's no use,” Jose panted. “Into the water.”

He gripped my wrist, pulling me downwards, slipping into the water without a splash. The rocks loomed above us as we cowered against them, the waves creaming around our heads and shoulders as we clung to the slippery surface. Jose scooped up a handful of wet shingle rubbing it over his face and neck so that only his eyes showed white in the darkness. I followed suit, the menacing footsteps drawing nearer.

The stab of the torchlight shone down yards away from us and I gulped air, thrusting myself below water, sinking down beneath the waves, holding myself under as long as I could, forcing myself to stay beneath the surface of the sea. With bursting lungs I had to turn upwards, up through the deep water to the foam flecked surface and whatever awaited me there.…

He had his back to me, the dazzling light scoring the jagged cliffs. I took a strangled gasp of air and dived deeply, pushing myself away.…

The sea above me was transformed into a myriad of sparkling bubbles as the torchlight pierced down on the water, and I knew he was waiting for me. My ears drummed and my chest was bursting and then it was too late. I felt my flailing hand grasped and a massive shadow above pulled me relentlessly towards the surface. The splashing foam stung my eyes as I struggled, gasping and sobbing for air, trying to find a handhold for my free hand, to wrench myself away from him. The rock slipped beneath my grasp, grazing my hand, searing my arm as I was dragged like a twisting fish from the depths of the ocean. The light burst about me, the air filling my lungs and a voice said harshly: “
I've got you. Now I've got you!
”

I lay slackly on the wet rocks, gulping great lungfuls of air as Jose cursed steadily under his breath. The night was dark again, the pinpricks of light receding.

“I… thought… you were the police.” I gasped at last.

“God help us,” he panted exasperatedly. “They've gone. Look.”

I looked and saw men wading out to the rocking speedboat.

“Miss Daventry and Luis?” I asked, starting to tremble as the cold wind bit into my damp flesh and the horror of the situation became increasingly clearer.

“I don't know,” he said flatly. “I didn't see them after that first rifle shot.”

“What do we do now?” I asked, teeth chattering.

“We get back to the cottage and then we find out what has happened to Luis. As he spoke he grasped my wrist, and surprisingly gentle, hauled me to my feet. I stumbled against him and the warm, sticky blood clung to my chest.

“Your shoulder! It's bleeding!”

“Yes,” he said, already picking his way over the pitted rocks. “ It is. Now follow me.” Silently we climbed over the slippery rocks towards the curve of the beach. The moon floated opaquely out from behind its curtain of cloud as we reached the firm sand and from there to the turf and the point where we had left the car the going was comparatively easy. The beach was churned by many footprints and the grass where the car had been parked was flattened and scored by tyre marks, the gorse bushes nearby trampled and torn from their roots.

Jose circled the tyre marks, then bent down, trying to follow them as they disappeared into the springy turf.

“Did they get away?” I asked fearfully.

He stood, clasping his shoulder, staring at the ground. “ I don't know.” he said at last. “ The car was certainly driven off in a hurry, but it could have been the police.”

“Or could it have been Miss Daventry …” I said, filled with desperate hope. “They could be at the cottage now … waiting for us.”

He winced, holding his shoulder, and in the moonlight I could see that the wet bandage, black with blood. Abruptly he turned, striding towards the road with a terse, “ Come on.”

I ran after him, the grass making our progress silent. When we reached the empty road he crossed it, skirting the thin line of trees that separated it from the open fields, and then dropping stealthily among the vines. Beyond us in the darkness loomed the dim shapes of hills and woods, and somewhere, miles distant, were the mountains and the cottage. My heart was beating light and fast as I padded after him, my ears straining for the sound of cars on the nearby road, dreading once more to see the menacing beams of light in the still darkness. A small animal brushed past my feet, startling me into a cry. Jose's hand tightened painfully and I tried to remember that I was supposed to be helping
him.
Our roles seemed to have reversed themselves. I was feeling more and more like excess baggage and wondered how he would take the suggestion that I should return to Miguelou. But it was no good. If I did that I would be tormented by visions of him collapsing on the bare hillside and bleeding to death. An encumbrance I might be, but at least I was fit and would be able to help him when the going got rough. His strength was amazing. Despite the loss of blood and the pain he was in, he moved swiftly through the fields, making straight for the sides of the hill and the belt of pines. Soon we were in the inky depths of the trees and the wind dropped. Our rapid walking had whipped some warmth back into my body, but I still had only my underslip on and both of us were barefoot. The pine-needles dug into the soles of my feet, pricking and stinging. Then we found a narrow pathway and gratefully exchanged the tortures of the pine-needles for that of soft, dry sand.

When the woods petered out the path continued, winding like a pale snake up into the hills. We trudged on, heedless of the physical discomfort, heedless of everything but the necessity of reaching the haven of the cottage once more. The path grew steeper and I toiled beside him, wanting to know how his shoulder felt, dreading to ask. His breathing was hoarse and raw and his footsteps hesitant and stumbling. His hand clasped mine, guiding me on, then he pitched forwards, tripping over a gnarled tree root. He looked indescribably weary as he struggled to his feet, saying brusquely: “Come on. It isn't far now.”

“Your shoulder,” I said. “Let me see.…”

He swung away from me. “The blood is drying.”

In the pale moonlight it looked freshly damp and the fear I had been fighting flickered into life.

“Come on,” he said again, his voice little more than a thick whisper. “ We can't give up now.”

“Jose.…” I put a hand out to him and he grasped it, pulling me along beside him.

The breeze soughed through the branches of the trees below us, ladening the air with the pungent scent of the pines. Exhausted, I limped on, my feet hurting, my body cold, mind numbed.

The way seemed endless, time after time, I slipped and fell so that my slip was torn and filthy, my hands and knees grazed and bleeding, Jose was staggering now, eyes half closed. The night sky was lightening, the first chinks of the dawn appearing in the east, when he paused, pointing unsteadily.

“There, do you see?”

Ghostlike in the first pale rays of the rising sun, the mountain soared, misty and nebulous. He stumbled on and I trailed after him … down into the valley … skirting a cottage with hens and geese waiting for their morning feed … then up into a forest of cork oaks, no longer seeing anything clearly, my whole strength and effort being in putting one foot in front of the other … in keeping upright.

The sun came through the trees in patches of pale gold, but gave little warmth. I found it impossible to stop shivering as my slip clung clammily to my body and in ice-cold misery I trudged on, walking across more fields on a sandy path, then deep in the heart of the woods again. The cattle were up in the hills and we could hear the faint sound of their bells as we floundered on, hands grasped together, heaving weighted legs over ditches and through scrub and tangled thickets.

Swaying exhaustedly, Jose pointed. A hundred yards away across the hillside, was the ribbon of track and beyond it, safe and inviolate, huddling beneath the sweep of the mountain, the cottage.

I sobbed with relief, weaving dizzily across the open countryside, my eyes fixed on the blue of the cottage door. Eternities later I leaned thankfully against the wall as Jose pushed open the door, then I pitched forward, the light wavering, the blackness pressing in on me. Jose crashed against the stout wooden table and I called weakly: “Miss Daventry, Miss Daventry.…”

There was no reply.

The echoing emptiness of the cottage seemed the final mockery. If Luis and Miss Daventry had been arrested by the police, then not only Jose's future looked black, mine did too. With difficulty I pushed the thought of Spanish jails to the back of my mind and wearily concentrated on making hot coffee. Jose was silent, immersed in thought, the bandages on his shoulder still wet with the dark stain of blood seeping through.

We drank the reviving coffee and then I braced myself for the task of removing the sodden dressing and re-bandaging his shoulder.

“Don't be nervous,” Jose said comfortingly. “It doesn't hurt.”

“I'm not nervous,” I said. If he could lie, so could I.

For a minute I thought he was smiling, then I pulled the last swab away and he sucked his breath in sharply. It looked raw and open and my stomach muscles tightened as I washed the dried blood away, sponging gently till the wound was clean. He flinched once, staring determinedly out through the window as I gingerly re-bound it. At last I leaned back on my heels saying hopefully: “It looks as if it is healing. How does it feel?”

“Bloody awful.”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” I said unhelpfully. “What do we do now?”

“We can't do anything till we have some rest.”

There was only one bed in the cottage. Jose heaved himself up from the table, reading my thoughts. “The bed is big enough for two. Perhaps you will feel better if you put some of Maria's clothes on.”

I nodded, knowing what a fright I looked, my underslip muddy and torn, my bare feet black and bleeding. Wearily I searched through Maria's clothes till I found a scarlet dress, that apart from being two sizes too big, was wearable. Jose had dragged himself into the other room and fallen onto the bed. Tired beyond belief, I washed myself as best I could and then tied a scarf round my waist to gather the dress in. It wasn't what the best dressed woman of the year was wearing but it would have to do. Hesitantly I walked into the bedroom. Jose was already asleep and he had been right, the bed
was
big enough for both of us. I gazed round the spartan room, there was nowhere else comfortable enough to sleep.

Cautiously I slipped into bed beside him. He stirred restlessly, flinging one arm across me. There was nothing I could do about it and I was too tired to care. His thick dark hair brushed my cheek and I closed my eyes, sinking down gratefully into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I awoke to the golden light of late afternoon, my body stiff and aching. There was no sign of Jose and no sound of movement in the rest of the cottage. Groggily I swung my legs off the bed, filled with sudden horror.

How could I have gone to sleep when, for all I knew Miss Daventry had been arrested by the police, or even shot and killed? Hastily I ran into the other room, searching for Jose. From the remains on the table he had eaten, and the coffee in the jug was fresh and hot. The sun streamed through the open doorway, the soft breeze blowing in the fallen petals from the flowers on the window ledges.

I stood there, scanning the hillside for any sign of him. Five minutes, I thought. Five minutes. If he isn't here by then, I'm going to start walking to Miguelou. Perhaps that was where Miss Daventry was now, safe and sound, sunning herself in the garden at the rear of the inn. I refused to contemplate any other possibilities. It was probable that Luis had been arrested, but if he had Miss Daventry would have talked her way out of the situation. She should have said he was a hitch-hiker she had given a lift to. Anything, just as long as it kept the police happy, after all, governments don't like arresting tourists, it's bad for trade. I should have gone back to Miguelou last night, not tramped over the hills, barefoot and cold with Jose. I wasn't wanted by the police. There was no reason why I couldn't return to Miguelou.

Thus reassured I went back into the cottage and poured myself a cup of coffee. When I had finished it I was going to begin the long walk to Miguelou, it did not matter if Jose came back or not. I had done my best to help and it wasn't my fault that I had failed. I had just about convinced myself when Jose's shadow fell across the floor.

The clothes he had on had belonged to one of Maria's sons. Maria's son had not been six foot tall and toughly built with broad shoulders and strong arms and he looked faintly ridiculous as he said tersely: “ We're leaving.”