Free White Light by Mark O'Flynn Page A

witnesses with telephoto lenses.
    â€˜What am I going to do? I’ll get cystitis if I hang on any longer.’
    The sound of the waves far below is an agony.
    â€˜You’ll just have to hide behind me.’
    â€˜Oh, my Gawd.’
    There is nothing else for it. I slowly ease my way behind Hector so we are sitting, well—squatting, back to back. I would give a lot for a palm tree right now. Hector is a slight man so there is not a lot of him to hide behind. He spreads wide the wings of his jacket like a cormorant. I make adjustments to my dress and nether garments and the relief is immediate and profound.
    Hector calls out: ‘Island of Pissing in the Wind.’
    I jab my elbow backwards and make satisfying contact with his kidneys.
    â€˜Ouch.’
    The edge is just there. So easy. The blue lake, yesterday, had been tempting.
    At that moment, we hear the chest thumping whap whap whap of a helicopter approaching from the Peterborough direction.
    â€˜Better hurry up, old girl. Here comes the cavalry.’
    â€˜I am hurrying.’
    I pray, please don’t let them have a TV crew. I smooth my dress down. Hector folds his wings. I guess the Antarctic gale is not quite as windy as I thought because the helicopter, with a sightseeing logo painted on the side, descends towards us. We have to shuffle away from the centre of the island to give it room. This is terrifying because the cliffs seem much steeper than they did when I first looked at them. Precipitous, I think is the word.
    The helicopter does dance about in the wind a bit, but finally it touches down on the mossy rock. A search and rescue fellow, or maybe it is a fireman, jumps out and beckons us towards him. The tornado from the rotor blades plays havoc with my dress and my hair. I fear it will get caught in the propeller thingy and have me off, like a loaded Hills Hoist in a cyclone. It is a fair jump from the mossy rock up to the helicopter. I hang in the doorway. Hector and the fireman each get a shoulder underneath my ballast and heave. I tumble, head first up and into the chopper, sprawling all over the floor. Then Hector is there beside me, clinging to my arm and the pilot turns to us with a grin and a thumbs up.
    It is hard to believe how short that helicopter flight is. How short and how joyless. I wonder if I could tip Hector out the open door, blaming the blustery conditions, but he already has a seat belt on. In a very brief interlude he learns that the reason the pilot took so long was that he was out surfing. My hair has barely settled by the time we touch down on the other side. The mainland. Civilisation. I am still deeply flushed at the indignity of my rescue. There is an ambulance and the fellow gives us both the once over. They place blankets about our shoulders and ask a few questions but there is not much to say, really, about being stuck on a limestone rock for a few hours with nothing on it but a seagull. Hector makes a joke about returning from exile, about eating moss. People are more interested in photographing the collapsed bridge. That is, its absence. Pretty soon they let us go, and I am more than happy to fade into the general background of the afternoon where the idea of the front page is nothing but a bad dream.
    We wander, light-headedly, over to the campervan. When the doors close, the snug fit encloses us like an embrace. It is very quiet. The wind muffled. We both breathe softly together. Another tourist coach arrives and spews out a load of happy photographers. The sea has returned to its normal colour. The approaching dusk is painting the Twelve Apostles a rusty orange. Endless rhythm of the waves.
    â€˜Only a little hurt pride, eh, Caroline?’
    â€˜Only.’
    â€˜Something to tell the grandkids.’
    I grunt. The isthmus between us. I am sure my hair must look a fright. Eventually, Hector reaches into the back of the van and hoists the picnic basket onto his lap. He opens it. He hands me a tin