Send a Gunboat (1960) Read Online Free PDF Page B

movement of air from the fan to caress his heaving chest.
    Perhaps it might have turned out differently if he had done as she wanted. Left the navy, and settled down in one of her father’s paint factories. He laughed mirthlessly. How simple and naïve he must have seemed to her, just someone ‘interesting’ to show off at those endless parties in London.
    He had never given up hope and never lost the nagging feeling of desire when he was near her, and he had wanted to surprise her by flying home from the Mediterranean, to tell her that when the frigate was paid off, he
would
leave the navy and try to live up to her wishes. He had surprised her well enough. He trembled, and the throbbing grew louder in his skull. If he lived for ever, he would never forget, or clean from his mind, the picture of her sitting up naked in bed, her lips parted with terror and hate. The man had been whimpering about ‘not making a scene’ and about all their reputations. He had still been whimpering when Rolfe had beaten him senseless on the bedroom floor. He had run blindly from the flat. He was still running.
    He drank deeply, feeling the cloak of dizziness closing round him.
    The man had been rather a pathetic creature really, and his short, pale legs had kicked helplessly when Rolfe had dragged him from the bed. He stared dully at the photograph, hearing her screaming after him, using words of such undreamed of baseness, that he had never been able to think of her without remembering her cruel and frightened insults.
    He closed his eyes, raising the glass to his lips. He had never suspected, never even imagined such a thing possible of her. He swore loudly, but with slow, clear intonation, as if repeating a religious script. What a fool I am, he thought weakly.
    He stood up suddenly, swaying against the table.
    “Dear Sylvia,” he mumbled. “Dear, sweet, lovely Sylvia!” He retched, and felt the sweat cold on his chest. Then, taking the picture in his free hand, he studied her face, as if for the first time. That damned smile, and those little, exciting gestures. Shewas always conscious of every swing and movement of her tantalizing body. And yet, and yet, he groped vainly for a sign, she must have loved him once. As he wrinkled his eyes in concentrated study, he knew he was only fooling himself, as he always had, where she was concerned. He smiled crookedly. “A thoroughly delectable tart! That’s what you are, Mrs. Rolfe!” He chuckled stupidly, and as he raised his glass, he saw her face framed in the amber liquid which helped him to fight her memory.
    A sudden drunken realization flooded over him, “You’ve caused all this!” His powerful voice rose to a frenzied shout. “You bloody bitch! You’ve got your divorce now. I hope you’re happy,” he fumbled for words, “with your newest ‘interesting’ person!” He reeled across the cabin, cannoning into the piled clothes and cases, which he sent flying with a wave of his arm, heedless of the whisky which slopped from the glass.
    “You bloody bitch!” His head swam, and he felt he wanted to have her there in the cabin with him, so that he could tell her to her face, and then beat her to death. He knew, even in the throes of drunken fury, that he would have thrown himself at her feet, and pleaded for forgiveness.
    “Forgive
me
?” He answered himself wildly. “What the hell did
I
do!”
    With a savage thrust, he hurled the picture through an open scuttle, heedless of the tinkle of glass, as it dropped to the bottom of the dock.
    With a moan he grabbed the bottle, and staggered through to his sleeping cabin. Once on the bed, he tilted the bottle to his mouth, some of the spirit running over his chin and neck, the rest choking him, and making him fight for breath.
    He slumped back heavily, his arm, as it hung over the side of the bunk, still gripping the empty glass.
    * * * * *
    Lieutenant Fallow stood moodily in the corner of the wardroom, his heavy face dark with his