word for it that I won't broadcast the kidnapping.
You'll have to trust me that far. After what you did to me on Friday, you owe me that at
least. Then you and I will work this out on our own.'
What was he doing? She stared at him as if he were crazy, which, according to all the
evidence, he was. He could have made her take him back, but he hadn't. Instead he had
demanded the only other alternative, and, until he fixed whatever it was that he had done
to the helicopter, she hadn't any choice.
'Right,' she said, still staring at him. 'Fine. I'll go get the radio.'
Francis nodded, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. 'I knew you'd see it my way.'
Kirstie dragged the plastic-covered radio out from under the bush where she had stowed
it, absent-mindedly brushed the insects away and carried it back to the cabin. There she
sat and listened as Francis, by a series of relayed calls, managed to get a message to one
of his associate directors.
Kirstie curled her legs underneath her as she sat in the corner kitchen chair, watching
Francis as he leaned back in his own seat, his closed eyes tilted to the ceiling. He held
the mike to his mouth while rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand. There was
no way she could have guessed his relaxed, tired posture from his crisp voice, or the
quick relevance of his replies.
As she watched she realised, rather belatedly, that what she witnessed in Francis was a
character trait of long standing, one developed no doubt over years of hard work,
pressure, and being pushed to the limits of his endurance. He knew what to conserve and
when, and he knew just how to expend the energy with spare economy. Just enough, no
less and no more.
The explanation he gave over the radio was sketchy at best. It hinted at transportation
failure on a long-distance weekend trip and that he would be back by the end of the
week. When he had finished he adroitly put an end to the conversation in such a way
that he could not be asked any awkward questions, then he put the headphones down on
the kitchen table and looked up to meet her eyes.
'Surprised that I can actually keep my word about something?' he asked sarcastically.
For some reason he looked angry.
Kirstie sighed. The effort to understand what was going on was wearing her out.
'Francis,' she stated with ragged feeling, 'I should know better by now than to be
surprised at anything you do.'
With that she gathered up the radio and went outside to install it in the helicopter once
again. There wasn't any point in doing anything else. At least that was one rule that had
been established today.
The sun was sinking as evidence that they had somehow managed to argue away several
hours. Long shadows thrown by the pine trees crept across the grass, and already the
night-time symphony of grasshoppers and crickets had begun. Kirstie sprawled across
the pilot's seat and struggled to get the bolts at the back of the radio tightened while
trying to keep it pinned into its niche with one knee.
She felt it then without any reason. There was no sound, no overt warning, nothing
perhaps except for a displacement of air that could have been the wind, but it raised the
tiny hairs on the back of her neck so that she lifted her head and looked up at Francis.
She smelled coffee at the same time. His silhouette, black against the last blinding rays,
was motionless only a moment as she twisted where she half lay, half sprawled to stare
up at him. She winced away from the rose-gold solar knives when he set the cup down
on the rubber-matted floor and leaned over her.
'Here, let me hold that,' he said, taking the weight of the radio in one outspread hand so
that she could stretch her cramped leg. 'You should have told me you meant to do this
now; I would have come out to help.'
He had to lean in from the front passenger seat, and his taut-muscled arm, bare and
smelling of fresh-cut wood and sunshine, was a hair's breadth away from
You'll have to trust me that far. After what you did to me on Friday, you owe me that at
least. Then you and I will work this out on our own.'
What was he doing? She stared at him as if he were crazy, which, according to all the
evidence, he was. He could have made her take him back, but he hadn't. Instead he had
demanded the only other alternative, and, until he fixed whatever it was that he had done
to the helicopter, she hadn't any choice.
'Right,' she said, still staring at him. 'Fine. I'll go get the radio.'
Francis nodded, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. 'I knew you'd see it my way.'
Kirstie dragged the plastic-covered radio out from under the bush where she had stowed
it, absent-mindedly brushed the insects away and carried it back to the cabin. There she
sat and listened as Francis, by a series of relayed calls, managed to get a message to one
of his associate directors.
Kirstie curled her legs underneath her as she sat in the corner kitchen chair, watching
Francis as he leaned back in his own seat, his closed eyes tilted to the ceiling. He held
the mike to his mouth while rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand. There was
no way she could have guessed his relaxed, tired posture from his crisp voice, or the
quick relevance of his replies.
As she watched she realised, rather belatedly, that what she witnessed in Francis was a
character trait of long standing, one developed no doubt over years of hard work,
pressure, and being pushed to the limits of his endurance. He knew what to conserve and
when, and he knew just how to expend the energy with spare economy. Just enough, no
less and no more.
The explanation he gave over the radio was sketchy at best. It hinted at transportation
failure on a long-distance weekend trip and that he would be back by the end of the
week. When he had finished he adroitly put an end to the conversation in such a way
that he could not be asked any awkward questions, then he put the headphones down on
the kitchen table and looked up to meet her eyes.
'Surprised that I can actually keep my word about something?' he asked sarcastically.
For some reason he looked angry.
Kirstie sighed. The effort to understand what was going on was wearing her out.
'Francis,' she stated with ragged feeling, 'I should know better by now than to be
surprised at anything you do.'
With that she gathered up the radio and went outside to install it in the helicopter once
again. There wasn't any point in doing anything else. At least that was one rule that had
been established today.
The sun was sinking as evidence that they had somehow managed to argue away several
hours. Long shadows thrown by the pine trees crept across the grass, and already the
night-time symphony of grasshoppers and crickets had begun. Kirstie sprawled across
the pilot's seat and struggled to get the bolts at the back of the radio tightened while
trying to keep it pinned into its niche with one knee.
She felt it then without any reason. There was no sound, no overt warning, nothing
perhaps except for a displacement of air that could have been the wind, but it raised the
tiny hairs on the back of her neck so that she lifted her head and looked up at Francis.
She smelled coffee at the same time. His silhouette, black against the last blinding rays,
was motionless only a moment as she twisted where she half lay, half sprawled to stare
up at him. She winced away from the rose-gold solar knives when he set the cup down
on the rubber-matted floor and leaned over her.
'Here, let me hold that,' he said, taking the weight of the radio in one outspread hand so
that she could stretch her cramped leg. 'You should have told me you meant to do this
now; I would have come out to help.'
He had to lean in from the front passenger seat, and his taut-muscled arm, bare and
smelling of fresh-cut wood and sunshine, was a hair's breadth away from
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