Neither of the doors had locks, of course; if a house was burgled on this island, one would know that the culprit lived in the other house. Lucy rummaged in Tom's tool box and found a shiny, sharp-bladed axe. She stood on the stairs and began to hack away at the bannister.

The work made her arms ache, but in five minutes she had six short lengths of stout, seasoned oak. She found a hammer and some nails and fixed the oak bars across the front and back doors, three bars to each door, four nails to each bar. When it was done her wrists were in agony and the hammer felt as heavy as lead, but she was still not finished.

She got another handful of the shiny four-inch nails and went around to every window in the house, nailing them shut. She realised, with a sense of discovery, why men always put nails in their mouths: it was because you needed both hands for the work and if you put them in your pocket they stuck into your skin.

By the time she had finished it was dark. She left the lights off.

He could still get into the house, of course, but at least he could not get in quietly… He would have to break something and thereby alert her and then she would be ready with the guns.

She went upstairs, carrying both guns, to check on Jo. He was still asleep, wrapped in his blanket, on Tom's bed. Lucy struck a match to look at his face. The sleeping pill must have really knocked him out, but he was an average sort of colour, his temperature seemed normal, and he was breathing easily. "Just stay that way, little boy," Lucy whispered. The sudden access of tenderness left her feeling more savage toward Henry.

She restlessly patrolled the house, peering through the windows into the darkness, the dog following her everywhere. She took to carrying just one of the guns, leaving the other at the head of the stairs; but she hooked the axe into the belt of her trousers.

She remembered the radio, and tapped out her S.O.S. several more times. She had no idea whether anybody was listening, or even whether the radio was working. She knew no more Morse, so she could not broadcast anything else.

It occurred to her that Tom probably did not know Morse code. Surely he must have a book somewhere? If only she could tell someone what was happening here… She searched the house, using dozens of matches, feeling terrified every time she lit one within sight of a downstairs window. She found nothing.

All right, perhaps he did know Morse.

On the other hand, why should he need it? He only had to tell the mainland that there were enemy aircraft approaching, and there was no reason why that information shouldn't go over the air… what was the phrase David had used?… au clair.

She went back to the bedroom and looked again at the wireless set. To one side of the main cabinet, hidden from her previous cursory glance, was a microphone. If she could talk to them, they could talk to her.

The sound of another human voice-a normal, sane, mainland voice -suddenly seemed the most desirable prospect in the world.

She picked up the microphone and began to experiment with the switches. Bob growled softly.

She put the mike down and reached out her hand toward the dog in the darkness. "What is it, Bob?"

He growled again. She could feel his ears standing stiffly upright. She was terribly afraid; the confidence gained by confronting Henry with the gun, by learning how to reload, by barricading the door and nailing down the windows… all evaporated at one growl from an alert dog. "Downstairs," she whispered. "Quietly."

She held his collar and let him lead her down the stairs. In the darkness she felt for the bannister, forgetting she had chopped it up for her barricades, and she almost overbalanced. She regained her equilibrium and sucked at a splinter in her finger.

The dog hesitated in the hall, then growled more loudly and tugged her toward the kitchen. She picked him up and held his muzzle shut to silence him. Then she crept through the doorway.

She looked in the direction of the window, but there was nothing in front of her eyes other than the deep blackness.

She listened. The window creaked at first almost inaudibly, then louder. He was trying to get in. Bob rumbled threateningly, deep in his throat, but seemed to understand the sudden squeeze she gave his muzzle.

The night became quieter. Lucy realised the storm was easing, almost imperceptibly. Henry seemed to have given up on the kitchen window. She moved to the living room. She heard the same creak of old wood resisting pressure. Now Henry seemed more determined: there were three muffled bumps, as if he were tapping the window frame with the cushioned heel of his hand.

Lucy put the dog down and hefted the shotgun. It might almost have been imagination, but she could just make out the window as a square of grey in the blank darkness. If he got the window open, she would fire immediately.

There was a much harder bang. Bob lost control and gave a loud bark. She heard a scuffling noise outside. Then came the voice. "Lucy?"

She bit her lip.

"Lucy?"

He was using the voice he used in bed deep, soft, intimate.

"Lucy, can you hear me? Don't be afraid. I don't want to hurt you. Talk to me, please."

She had to fight the urge to pull both triggers there and then, just to silence that awful sound and destroy the memories it brought to her.

"Lucy, darling…" She thought she heard a muffled sob. "Lucy, he attacked me. I had to kill him… I killed for my country, you shouldn't hate me for that."

What in the world did that mean…? It sounded crazy. Could he be insane and have hidden it for two intimate days? Actually he had seemed saner than most people and yet he had already committed murder… though she had no idea of the circumstances… Stop it… She was softening up, which of course was exactly what he wanted. She had an idea. "Lucy, just speak to me…"

His voice faded as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Bob would surely warn her if Henry did anything more than talk. She fumbled in Tom's tool box and found a pair of pliers. She went to the kitchen window and with her fingertips located the heads of the three nails she had hammered there. Carefully, as quietly as possible, she drew them out. The job demanded all her strength.

When they were out she went back to the living room to listen. "… don't cause me trouble and I'll leave you alone…"

As silently as she could she lifted the kitchen window. She crept into the living room, picked up the dog and returned once again to the kitchen. "… hurt you, last thing in the world…"

She stroked the dog once or twice and murmured, "I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to, boy." Then she pushed him out of the window.

She closed it rapidly, found a nail, and hammered it in at a new spot with three sharp blows.

She dropped the hammer, picked up the gun, and ran into the front room to stand close to the window, pressing herself up against the wall. "… give you one last chance!"

There was a scampering sound, from Bob, followed by a terrible, terrifying bark Lucy had never before heard from a sheepdog; then a scuffling sound and the noise of a man falling. She could hear Henry's breathing, gasping, grunting; then another flurry of Bob's scampering, a shout of pain, a curse in a foreign language, another terrible bark.

The noises now became muffled and more distant, then suddenly ended. Lucy waited, pressed against the wall next to the window, straining to hear. She wanted to go and check Jo, wanted to try the radio again, wanted to cough; but she did not dare to move. Bloody visions of what Bob might have done to Henry passed in and out of her mind, and she badly wanted to hear the dog snuffling at the door.

She looked at the window… then realised she was looking at the window; she could see, and not just a square patch of faintly lighter grey, but the wooden crosspiece of the frame. It was still night, but only just, and she knew if she looked outside the sky would be faintly diffused with a just-perceptible light instead of being impenetrably black. Dawn would come at any minute, she would be able to see the furniture in the room, and Henry would no longer be able to surprise her in the darkness.