Free Murdo's War by Alan Temperley

he said.
    The Norwegian who was going to act as guard at the cave stepped forward. He had removed a long parka, and now it was revealed that he had changed into the uniform of a British naval sub-lieutenant. A white scarf hung about his neck and he carried a navy-blue duffle coat over one arm. With his dark beard and erect, easy bearing, he looked every inch the young officer.
    ‘We’ll pick you up at the far jetty,’ Henry Smith said.
    Hector looked coldly at the uniform. Distaste welled up in him.
    ‘Does he have to wear that?’ he said.
    ‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Henry Smith answered. ‘Just in case someone strays down to the cave.’
    ‘I told you, nobody will.’
    ‘You can’t be that sure.’
    ‘What if it’s the police?’
    ‘He has documents,’ Henry Smith replied smoothly.
    ‘Where did you get that uniform?’ Hector said to the young Norwegian.
    Knut shook his head.
    ‘What does it matter where he got it?’ Henry Smith broke in impatiently. ‘He stole it! The captain who brought them over had a spare one! It doesn’t matter! I told you, everything’s arranged – it’s all been worked out.’
    Again there was silence. Two of the men on the jetty shifted their feet against the cold.
    ‘Well, I don’t like it,’ Hector said.
    Murdo pulled a hard end of rope straight. ‘What boat was it,’ he asked, ‘you came over on?’ The question had been in his mind all evening.
    Henry Smith smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. Murdo looked down again and toyed with the end of rope.
    ‘Well, if he’s coming anyway, he might as well get in now,’ Hector said at last. ‘Four’s the same as three. Maybe keep us a bit lower in the water when we go through.’
    Knut, who had listened in silence, swung his rucksack and bed-roll to Murdo and climbed into the boat.
    ‘Move for’ard a bit,’ Hector said. ‘We’ll have to use the oars.’ The two passengers shifted towards Murdo in the bows.
    ‘All right, then,’ Hector said. ‘Let’s away. Throw down the ropes will you.’
    In a moment they were gliding through the channel, crouching as the ragged roof slipped past their heads. A little way along the bow struck a particularly low fang of rock and the boat jarred to a halt with a little splintering crack, which swung them sideways so that the stern struck as well.
    Hector handed Knut a box of matches. ‘Here, give us a bit of light.’
    It was eerie in the dim orange light of the match; the black water slurping on the barnacled rocks, the jutting roof so close above the gunwale of the boat.
    Two minutes later they were chugging beneath the towering crags that curved like pincers about the narrow entrance of the bay. The shadowy group of men on the rocks waved as they drew past. Then Hector pushed the throttle wide and the engine note picked up. The little boat surged forward, heading once more for the open sea.
    The journey back seemed shorter than the trip out. Soon Island Roan had sunk to a dark shadow against the glittering sea behind them. They seemed perpetually to be heading into the darkness. The wind had shifted slightly and now blew straight into their faces from the north-east, from the snowfields of northern Europe. It was witheringly cold. With the added weight of cargo the boat swung less. Unaccustomed to such a load, Murdo felt her driving through the waves rather than riding lightly above them, as she had done on the way out. But the Lobster Boy made good speed, and almost before he was ready for it Strathy Point was looming up ahead, the blinded lighthouse squat above the cliffs. Well clear of the sucking rocks he rounded it to starboard. Twenty minutes later the thin white line of the beach was rising to meet them.
    The flooding tide was nearly to the stacks. They landed the boxes on the upper beach, and while Hector took his boat round to the anchorage, Murdo and the two men carried them up to the cave. The sand was very trampled, a broad path from the sea’s