Читать книгу Draca - Geoffrey Gudgion - Страница 13

Jack woke with the kind of jolt that he ’ d have had if he ’ d let himself doze on patrol, resting up within an ambush position, and one of the sentries had woken him with a gentle touch and a wordless signal. Contact! For a moment he felt the adrenalin rush that comes before action, that familiar dry mouth in chill night air, but as his eyes probed the near-darkness he saw only the first stars over the harbour and the outline of Witt Point looming like a dark mass low against the water. His tension faded into mild loneliness as he remembered the names of the men he had thought were around him. ‘ Chalky ’ White, Donovan, Wolfe, ‘ Dusty ’ Miller …

But something had woken him, and he searched his memory for the sign. There ’ d been a noise, perhaps just the creak of the boat seat settling as the temperature dropped, and he stood, senses still tuned. Behind him, to the west , the sky was pale enough to outline the hills rising beyond the cottage. In front of him, the water shone faintly, showing the nearest islands dotting the harbour, patterns of darkness that merged into a black mass, like low cloud. A light mist forming over the water dissolved the shorelines in irregular patches. A stand of Scots pines covered the slope from the garden down to the water, and if Jack held his line of sight high in the trees he could let his peripheral vision scan the space beneath them.

He knew those trees. There was no reason why they should suddenly seem threatening. Their trunks stood clear against the mist below, their outlines and spacing irregular; the way a body of men might stand, watching, waiting. He began to understand why a deluded old man could think there was someone among them. A whole troop stood there, and any one of them could be a ghostly warrior. Two branches, lifting almost horizontally from a trunk, had been perfect for a childhood rope swing that had taken him far out and high where the land fell away. Look at me, Grandpa! Now they looked like two arms stretched in crucifixion.

But tonight there was movement between the trunks, a shadow among shadows. And again, between different trees. The shape was indistinct, and always at the edge of his sight, disappearing into the background dark when he looked directly at it. If he ’ d have been on patrol, Jack would have snapped on his night- vision goggles and crouched into cover, weapon ready. As it was, he grabbed Grandpa ’ s torch from the kitchen and threw a searchlight beam down the slope.

Nothing. The glare panned through the trees, making shadows dance, until the beam met the mist above the beach and was lost in a circle of opaque greyness. No people, no animals darting away, no eyes shining in the beam. Jack wondered whether to go down there. The torch was big enough to double as a club, if necessary, but he wasn ’ t fully fit. Not yet. If he fell over a tree root he could set himself back weeks. He snapped off the torch and waited, listening to the whisper of branches in the wind. The tide must have been out. He could smell seaweed from the mudflats rather than the sharper salt of open water. He waited until his eyes readjusted to the dark, and when he still saw nothing, he turned to go inside. The day had been hot, but this early in the season the night was chill, and he was only wearing a light fleece and jeans. He ’ d sleep in his old bed, in the little room at the back of the cottage.

Getting to sleep was usually easy, with a little liquid help. It was staying asleep that was the problem.