Visitors by George Williams

Author:George Williams [Williams, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-19T22:00:00+00:00

17

One evening, during Ian’s last week on the base, a stranger appeared at the far end of the runway. The stranger casually made his way along the centre markings of the airstrip towards the buildings at the western end, from where Ian watched his gradual approach.

At first, Ian felt anxious about the advancing figure. From the outset of his stay, he’d been told that the island was uninhabited and that he would meet no one during his occupancy. So what had prompted a visit from this man? And if the man had a genuine reason for coming, why wasn’t Ian informed of it? At least one thing was clear – and this put his mind at rest - the man could not be a threat. If you intended to harm someone, you wouldn’t give them ten minutes’ notice. He slid the axe back under the driver’s seat.

The sun was low in the western sky. Over the hangar, a stack of white clouds had built up and filled out, like the sails of a tall ship turned to the wind. Catching the last of the sun’s rays, their sunward sides had taken on a pink blush.

The day had blazed with sunshine, and the tarmac of the airstrip had absorbed a great deal of heat. Now, in the cooling evening, the heat rose in waves from its surface, and the figure of the stranger swam and shimmered as it neared.

Ian was standing on the tractor outside the ancillary block, checking the diesel level in the tank behind the seat. Now that summer had set in, the evenings were longer, and he’d had to find yet more ways to fill the time. One thing he liked to do was to roam the base on the tractor. It was pointless, but it kept him occupied.

He had noticed the stranger the moment he’d appeared at the foot of the runway, and now that he was closer, Ian could make a more detailed appraisal of him.

He estimated the stranger to be about sixty years old. He was dressed in faded denim dungarees over a red and black lumberjack shirt. He wore long grey hair and a beard that reached down to his chest. At his side, he carried a brown canvas bag; the kind used by tradesmen in the 1800s. Ian thought he might have looked more at home on a logging camp in the Yukon or suchlike.

At length, the distance between them closed, and the stranger stopped perhaps ten feet away.

He looked Ian up and down, smiling, and then met his eyes. “Has anybody seen my frigate?” He asked.

Unsure how to respond to such an unusual question, Ian replied, “What colour is it?”

The man considered Ian for a moment, then laughed aloud and approached him with an outstretched hand. “You must be Ian.” He said.

Surprised, but not wishing to seem unwelcoming, Ian took the man’s hand and shook it.

“The name’s Tex.” The stranger said. “I assume you weren’t expecting me.”

Ian tried to place the man’s accent but could not.

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