Brute Force

66

'Pack up, we're moving.'

Lynn sprang to his feet as if a firework had gone off under his arse. The thought crossed my mind that he'd been sleeping while on stag, but that wasn't Lynn's style. He wasn't a skiver; he did his bit. Which made me think it was more likely he'd slipped into one of his daydreams – so deeply he never even heard me come back into the flat. Fuck knew where he went when he drifted off, but my guess was that it involved Hannibal, the Romans and, somewhere in amongst it all, his wife.

'What do you mean, pack up?'

'What does it sound like? Fatman is stuffing his face. He's hoovering it up. We don't have long. When he leaves the bar, I want us to be ready. So pack, go to confession and stand by.'

I told him what I knew: that the girl sounded American, possibly Canadian, and Fatman was a Brit. Then I asked if there had been any movement on the boat – some sign that there might be somebody else on board. Lynn grunted. Negative.

He was standing with his back to the window, eying me suspiciously as I fished under the bed for my day sack. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to swim aboard.' I twisted my head to talk to him. 'Kitchen knives?'

He pointed to a drawer on the far side of the stove.

My fingers brushed the edge of the day sack; I grabbed hold of it and pulled. It slid out from under the bed.

'Pack everything – and I mean everything – you're going to need: clothes, cash, passport – even though it's compromised. Bung it all in a plastic bag. Tie it up. Make it waterproof. And you can do the same for mine.' I chucked my day sack at him.

I picked myself up, ran into the kitchen and opened the drawer. I soon found what I was looking for: a couple of cooking knives – the two biggest ones – and shoved them down the back of my jeans.

'Do people carry weapons on those things – to ward off pirates, that kind of shit?'

'Depends.'

'On what?' I really didn't have time for Twenty Questions.

'He didn't look like the kind of chap who'd carry a gun.'

I wasn't so sure. In my experience, blokes like Fatman loved guns. Guns were almost as good as Viagra – they made them feel big and important. 'Tell me one more time, because this is the last time I'm going to hear it: can you drive that boat?'

Lynn finally hauled himself into action. He walked past me, heading for his bedroom. 'Yes, I can drive a Sunseeker. And yes, Nick, if it isn't full of fuel, I can take care of that too. How will I know when you've got control of the situation?'

'I'll signal you by torch, possibly flash some headlights – or whatever it is that boats have. Don't worry, when you see it, you'll know.' All he had to do then was lock up the apartment, make his way down to the shoreline and steer his little dinghy out to the Predator.

He disappeared into his room and I took my seat by the window. Ten minutes later, he reappeared and sat down again. We lapsed into silence.

After forty-five minutes, I clocked our unlikely couple as they made their way back along the dock towards the tender. Fatman was all over the girl like a wet dress.

Time to go. No ceremony. I simply told Lynn I'd see him on the Sunseeker.

Down by the harbour people were still strolling, talking, staring. I walked across the road, hopped over the wall and hit the shingle. I glanced back. Nobody seemed to have paid me any attention.

Moving between the boats, I approached the water's edge. The sea was calm. The hubbub from the cafés and bars drowned out the sound of the waves lapping against the shingle. I fixed the position of the Sunseeker, checked the knives were secure in my pocket and stepped into the ice-cold water.