Across the centre of the Inlet, moving like swamp gas above the swift current, a low haze drifted seaward, momentarily blotting out the shape of the Porcupine’s hull but leaving her funnel and masts disembodied against the far shore. Trewin lifted himself to his feet and peered at his watch. He had intended to tell Phelps to use his semaphore flags to call up the gunboat, but the haze made that temporarily impossible. Above and around him he could hear the growing twitter of birds and the drowsy murmur of countless insects. Otherwise it was very still, and he felt his eyes drawn back to the hut as its shape re-formed in the hardening light. The radio had mercifully fallen silent, and he tried not to think of the two mutilated corpses behind the closed door. He looked across the small clearing where Hammond sat unmoving on an upended crate, his revolver cradled on his lap. He was hollow-eyed and pale, and the least sound from the dense scrub made him jerk as if he had been touched. Phelps was further down the slope facing the sea, his bright ginger hair making a patch of colour above the swirling water at the foot of the hill.
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