huddled down by the side of the deckhouse.
After a while I stood up shakily. It was done. And I must go and talk to some of the crew. Not to Paula, not yet. But I must give Mark's plan a chance to work. I turned to leave.
The knife had gone from the deck.
I stood for a moment riveted, a flood of thoughts pouring into my mind. Then I swung round to look at the deck where Mark had been lying. There was still no knife, and now that I came to think of it, very little blood.
In two strides I was at the rail, looking aft, my thoughts erupting as the volcano had done. The motor launch which had been running in tow was gone, and the painter dangled loosely over the stern. Across the water I thought I could see a ' tiny dancing speck, but I couldn't be sure of that, or of anything.
Slowly I walked aft and hauled in the painter. The end of it had been cut across, newly-severed and just beginning to fray.
There was fuel in the launch and iron rations, for it had always had the function of a lifeboat. There were fishing lines, blankets, flares, a first aid kit. There was everything needed for survival.
I stood at the railing, alone as I'd asked to be, and bade my brother a final, ironic farewell. And yes, I wished him luck.
