Well, you see, that’s where we are – except for the one incident I referred to at the beginning of the story.
The whole point is, is that significant, or isn’t it?
If I’m right, the whole of Celia’s life led up to and came to its climax in that one minute.
It happened when I was saying goodbye to her on the boat.
She was dead sleepy. I’d wakened her up and made her dress. I wanted to get her away from the island quickly.
She was like a tired child – obedient and very sweet and completely bemused.
I thought – I may be wrong – but I thought that the danger was over …
And then, suddenly, as I was saying goodbye, she seemed to wake up. She, as it were, saw me for the first time.
She said: ‘I don’t know your name even …’
I said: ‘It doesn’t matter – you wouldn’t know it. I used to be a fairly well-known portrait painter.’
‘Aren’t you now?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘something happened to me in the war.’
‘What?’
‘This …’
And I pushed forward my stump where the hand ought to have been.
The bell rang and I had to run …
So I’ve only got my impression …
But that impression is very clear.
Horror – and then relief …
Relief’s a poor word – it was more than that – Deliverance expresses it better.
It was the Gun Man again, you see – her symbol for fear …
The Gun Man had pursued her all these years …
And now, at last, she had met him face to face …
And he was just an ordinary human being.
Me …
That’s how I see it.
It is my fixed belief that Celia went back into the world to begin a new life …
She went back at thirty-nine – to grow up …
And she left her story and her fear – with me …
I don’t know where she went. I don’t even know her name. I’ve called her Celia because that name seems to suit her. I could find out, I suppose, by questioning hotels. But I can’t do that … I suppose I shall never see her again …