The Night Manager

One afternoon Jonathan and Jumbo took the plane from Plymouth to Jersey and in the little port of St. Helier made a show of inspecting a twenty-five-foot yacht that was moored on the far side of the harbour. Their journey, like their joint appearance at the Snug, was intended for display. In the evening. Jumbo flew back alone.

The yacht they inspected was called Ariadne, and according to her log she had arrived from Roscoff two weeks earlier, sailed by a Frenchman named Lebray. Before Roscoff she was in Biarritz and, before that, open seas. Jonathan spent two days fitting her out, provisioning her and preparing the chartwork.

On the third day he took her to sea to get the feel of her and boxed the compass for himself while he was about it, for at sea as on land he trusted no one's work but his own. At first light on the fourth day he set sail. The area forecast was good, and for fifteen hours he cruised nicely at four knots, reaching for Falmouth on a southwesterly. But by evening the wind had turned blustery and by midnight it had freshened to a six or seven, throwing a big ground swell that had the Ariadne pitching.

Jonathan reduced sail and ran before the weather for the safety of Plymouth. As he passed the Eddystone Lighthouse the wind veered westerly and fell, so he changed course to Falmouth once more and beat west, hugging the shore and short-tacking to avoid the heavy weather. By the time he reached harbour he had been sailing hard for two nights without sleep. Sometimes the sounds of the storm deafened him. Sometimes he heard no weather at all and wondered if he was dead.

The beam sea and the close-hauling had rolled him about like a boulder; his body creaked and his head rang hollow with the solitude of the sea. But throughout the journey he thought of nothing he afterwards remembered. Or nothing but his own survival, Sophie was right. He had a future.

"You been somewhere nice, then?" Marilyn asked him, staring at the fire. She had taken off her cardigan. She wore a sleeveless blouse, buttoned down the back.

"Just a trip upcountry."

He realised with dread that she had been waiting for him all day. Another painting stood on the chimney-piece, very like the first. She had brought him fruit, and freesias for the vase.

"Well, thank you," he said politely. "That's super of you. Thanks."

"You want me, then, Jack Linden?"

She had lifted her hands to the back of her neck and unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. She took a step to him and smiled. She began weeping, and he didn't know what to do. He put his arm round her and led her to her van and left her there to weep till she was ready to drive home.

* * *

That night, an almost metaphysical sense of his uncleanliness descended over Jonathan. In his extreme solitude, he decided that the fake murder he was about to commit was an externalisation of the real murders he had already committed in Ireland and the murder he had committed against Sophie; and that the ordeal that awaited him was a mere foretaste of a lifetime of penance.

For the days that remained to him, a passionate fondness for the Lanyon took possession of his heart and he rejoiced in every fresh example of the cliff's perfection: the seabirds wherever they put themselves, always in the right place, the hawks lying on the wind, the setting sun melting into black cloud, the fleets of small boats clustered over the shoals below, while the gulls above made a shoal of their own. And when darkness came, there were the boats again, a tiny city in the middle of the sea. With each last hour, this urge to be assumed into the landscape ― hidden in it, buried in it ― became almost unbearable.

A storm got up. Lighting a candle in the kitchen, he stared past it into the swirling night, while the wind crackled in the window frames and made the slate roof chatter like an Uzi. In the early morning, when the storm dropped, he ventured outdoors to wander over last night's battlefield ― then, Lawrence-like, leapt helmetless onto his motorbike, drove up to one of the old hill forts and scanned the coastline till he made out some landmark that pointed to the Lanyon. That is my home. The cliff has accepted me. I will live here forever. I will be clean.

But his vows were in vain. The soldier in him was already polishing his boots for the long march toward the worst man in the world.

* * *

It was during these final days of Jonathan's tenure of the cottage that Pete Pengelly and his brother. Jacob, made the mistake of going lamping at the Lanyon.