the next wave bore down, a monster of breaking foam. He saw it coming, slammed down the hatch of the life raft and held on for dear life as the sea tossed his flimsy craft like a beach ball in surf.
We’ll come back for you as soon as we can.
When the cyclone was over?
The wave passed and he dared open the hatch a little. The chopper was higher, but Jake and his rescuer were still swinging.
‘Stay safe, brother,’ he whispered. ‘Stay safe until I see you again.’
A cyclone was heading straight for him. Until I see you again... What a bitter joke.
* * *
This was no mere storm. This was a cyclone, and in a cyclone there could surely be few worse places to be than on Hideaway Island.
Hideaway Island was tiny, a dot on the outer edge of the Bay of Islands off New Zealand’s north coast. Two of Mary’s friends, a surgeon and his lawyer wife, had bought it for a song years ago. They’d built a hut in the centre of the island and bought a serviceable boat to ferry themselves back and forth to the mainland. They’d decided it was paradise.
But Henry and Barbara now had impressive professional lives and three children. They hardly ever made it out here. It’d been on the market for a year, but with the global financial crisis no one was buying.
Right now, Henry and Barbara were in New York, but before they’d left, Henry had tossed Mary the keys to the hut and boat.
‘You might use some solitude until this fuss dies down,’ Henry told her with rough kindness. ‘Could you check on the place while we’re away? Stay if you like; we’d be grateful. It might be what you need.’
It was what she needed. Henry was one of the few who didn’t blame her. Hideaway had seemed a reasonable place to run.
Until today. Heinz, her terrier-size, fifty-seven-or-more-variety dog, was looking at her as if he was worried, and his worry was justified. The wind was escalating by the minute. Outside the trees were bending and groaning with its force, and the roughly built hut felt distinctly unstable.
‘We could end up in Texas,’ Mary muttered, shaking her useless radio. Had a transmission tower fallen in the wind? Her phone was dead and there was no radio reception.
At six this morning the radio had said Cyclone Lila was five hundred miles off the coast, veering north-east instead of in its predicted northern trajectory. There was concern for a major international yacht race, but there’d been no hint that it might turn south and hit the Bay of Islands. Residents of New Zealand’s north had merely been advised that the outside edges could cause heavy winds.
‘Tie down outside furniture,’ the broadcast had said. ‘Don’t park under trees.’
That was a normal storm warning—nothing to worry about. Mary had thought briefly of taking the boat and heading for the mainland, but the wind was rising and the usually placid sea around the islands was rough. It’d be safer to sit it out.
Or it had seemed safer, until about an hour ago.
Another gust slammed into the hut. A sheet of iron ripped from the roof and sleet swept inside.
The foundations creaked and the pictures on the wall swayed.
Uh-oh.
‘I think we might head for the cave,’ she told Heinz uneasily. ‘You want a walk?’
The little terrier-cum-beagle-cum-a-lot-of-other-things cocked his head and looked even more worried. Right now a walk didn’t appeal even to Heinz.
But the cave was appealing. Mary and Heinz had explored it a couple of days ago. It was wide and deep, set in the cliffs above the only beach where swimming was possible. Best of all, it faced west. It’d protect them from the worst of the gale.
Now that the roof was open, there didn’t seem to be a choice. She had to go, and go now before it got worse. But what to take? The cave was only two or three hundred yards away. There was a flattish track and she had a trolley, the one Barbara and Henry used to lug supplies from boat to hut.
The boat. There was a sickening thought. The tiny natural harbour on the east of the island should protect the boat in all but the worst conditions—but these were the worst conditions.
She had no communications. No boat. She was on her own.
So what else was new? She’d been on her own now for as long as she could remember. Like it or not, she’d learned to depend entirely on herself, and she could do it now.
Concentrate on practicalities.
She grabbed plastic garbage bags and started stuffing things inside. Provisions, dog food, firestarters, kindling, bedding. Her manuscript. That was a joke, but she was taking it anyway.
Water containers. What else? What would Barbara and Henry want her to save?
Barbara’s patchwork quilt? The lovely cushions embroidered by Barbara’s grandmother? They went into plastic bags, too.
Another sheet of roofing iron went flying. The cottage was now totally open to the weather.
She had to stop. This was starting to be seriously scary and she had to pull the trolley.
‘Why couldn’t you be a sled dog?’ she demanded of Heinz as she hauled open the door and faced the weather. ‘You could help me pull.’
In answer, Heinz stared up at the wildly swaying trees, jumped onto the trolley and wriggled down among the plastic bags.
He was terrified. So was Mary, but she made herself pause. She made herself think. What else might be important?
‘First-aid kit,’ she muttered, and headed back into the already soaking cottage to find her medical bag. As a district nurse she still had it with her, and she’d brought it to the island just in case.
In case of splinters. In case of colds in the head. Not in case of cyclones.
She could hear branches splintering from the trees. There was no time for more.
And then the rest of the roof peeled off, with a shriek of tin against tin.
‘Go,’ she muttered, and started pulling. Heavy didn’t begin to describe it. Sleet was stinging her eyes, her face, every part of her.
What to discard? Everything but essentials? Nothing Barbara and Henry cherished?
‘Don’t be a wuss,’ she told herself. ‘They entrusted you with their island. The least you can do is save their stuff. The path’s reasonably flat. Come on, muscles, pull.’
She tugged and the trolley moved.
‘I can do this,’ she said through gritted teeth, and put her head down into the wind and pulled.
* * *
The life raft was in freefall. Ben was falling over and over. It felt like one of those crazy fairground rides, only he’d forgotten
