Free Moriarty Returns a Letter by Michael Robertson Page B

because they were passing the town of Croydon—which, unlike Canvey Island, still had an active oil and gas refinery; the gas vents were alive with fire, glowing bright orange as he cruised past.
    He stayed on the south side of the river long enough to dodge the oil tankers heading out from Croydon; then he turned the rudder and motored at a sharp angle to the north side, to Canary Creek.
    He reached Smallgains Marina well before dawn. That was good. He was glad to be there before anyone else was getting ready to shove out that morning.
    He dropped anchor and tied the boat up.
    Then he wrapped the woman more securely in the gray blanket; he pulled a wool cap down over her head, almost completely obscuring her face. He told her and himself that it was to keep the cold out, which was true, but it wasn’t the only reason.
    Then he picked her up and half-walked, half-carried her nearly a mile to his little wood-frame house, near the industrial section of Canvey Island Harbor.
    His arms were aching as he carried her inside. He set her down in the only cushioned chair, the one he used himself for watching the telly.
    She was fully conscious now, and out of danger, and as he settled her in he talked to her—much as he had begun to talk to himself in recent years when at home—describing his actions as he did them.
    “There,” he said. “This will keep you warm. And now I’ll fry us up some nice bacon; you’d like that, wouldn’t you? And we’ll have stewed tomatoes, and beans, and toast. And orange juice, if there is any. Ahh. Yes. There is.”
    She didn’t say anything in response. But he proceeded to do just as he had said, cooking up a large breakfast and putting it before her on a little folding table, all the while prattling on about who he was, and how he had come to live there all his life, and a little but not very much about his ex-wife.
    She appeared to be listening, or at least paying attention—her green eyes followed his every move.
    She did not speak a word. But when he put the breakfast in front of her, she dug into it ravenously.
    As she did, he went into the bedroom. That was more or less instinctive, but once in there he realized it was because he had to figure something out.
    There was only one bedroom. And there was only one bed in it. It was a full-size bed, not a queen, not even a double; it was only as much of a bed as had made sense for him, living alone.
    He suddenly realized that he dared not put her in it. He wasn’t sure why, given that this should only be for a few hours or so. But even so, his chest tightened, as though he had created a great dilemma for himself.
    And then he thought of the small folding cot, the spare one for the boat, that he kept in the storage room next to the kitchen. He went there—her eyes following him again, as she looked up from the stewed tomatoes and beans—and he found the cot, mercifully.
    He pushed the telly into the corner and managed to make just enough room to put the narrow cot against the wall.
    And then, a short time later, he set her down on it.
    She was asleep almost instantly.
    Cheeverton went back into the kitchen, ate what remained of the bacon and toast for himself, and tried to think things through.
    Once more he thought about calling the Thames patrol. Again he decided not to. If he called now, he would have to explain why he hadn’t just called right away when he found her earlier. He supposed he could claim that his radio was out of order. Still, it would get complicated.
    He was now harboring a wanted woman. A fugitive. He was almost sure of it.
    But perhaps she hadn’t really done any of the things she was wanted for. From just looking at her, it was quite difficult to imagine that she had done them.
    Cheeverton didn’t ring the Thames patrol. Perhaps he would do so later. Not now. He would sleep on it. There was no harm waiting until morning, and so he did.
    And the next morning, when she woke, she began to speak. This was good,