The Hanging Shed

FORTY-FIVE

I drove slowly into the tiny village of Kildonan, letting my anger cool, trying to find that still calm centre I needed before action. It was illusive. I felt the mounting pressure in my head that presaged headaches and despair, as though my life force was draining away, leaving me bereft. O’Brien’s forced confessions had depressed me more than I expected. Was nothing untainted? I thought I could trust him when I first met him. It seemed like I’d lost my ability to judge folk. I wasn’t too surprised about his revelations about Cassidy. But their relationship…

I was getting more naive as I get older, not less. I thought I’d seen and heard the worse of mankind in the eyes and from the mouths of the SS officers I’d interrogated. I’d seen their handiwork in the camps near Bremen and put it all down to an aberration of the Hitler inspired Reich. That he’d been a messiah to the minority: the loonies and fanatics, the psychopaths and criminals, the inhabitants of the seventh and eighth circles of hell. That while the rest of the nation had been asleep in the back seat the fiends had grabbed the wheel and driven Germany over the Rheinfalls. I truly hadn’t expected evil to be a commonplace. That I’d find it here in the soft hills and sandy shores of my own country.

*

I stopped the car, rolled down the window and lit a fag. The views drew the eye. Away to the east was the mainland of Ayrshire. To the south, about half a mile out in the bay, was a small wedge of an island. A lighthouse jutted phallically from its midpoint. Far out to the south east sat Ailsa Craig, the peripatetic lump of granite. Beyond that but out of sight, lay Ireland.

Kildonan itself was a scattering of white houses and a fine beach. It would be a pretty place to spend a few days; a bit of fishing perhaps, paddling, and reading a good book in a deckchair on the sliver of fine sand. Was it a good place to die? As good as any. The odds were probably worse here than Lisnaskea. And I’d given up on finding Sam alive. I was weary of it all, sickened by endemic wickedness, careless of life. I was ready to trade it for taking Gerrit Slattery with me.

So, did Kildonan have what I needed today? It was early in the year and they might not have geared up for tourists. There was a hut on the beach and in front of it, lying tipped in the sand, were four wooden boats each with a two-stroke engine strapped to its stern. I drove forward and drew up opposite the hut. The boats would take three or four people each for a spot of light fishing. A chain linked each of them through a ring on their prow. The chain was tethered to boats one and four by padlocks. A sign offered them for sale by the hour for 9d or, for the day, 2/6d. Fishing gear could be hired separately. Trips to the island of Pladda could be arranged with tours of the lighthouse. There was no sign of the boat owner. It was nearly six o’clock. Perhaps two more hours before sunset.

The village was quiet, teatime quiet. I drove on and out, looking for a turn-off about a mile outside. The coast dipped in and out at this point. Past the bay of Kildonan the land cut back in and the road followed it. To my right a second bay opened up, much smaller than Kildonan. On the promontory partly obscured by trees was a white house, a two-storey job with windows all round. A jetty extended into the sea. A good-sized yacht stood alongside rocking gently in the waves. It was two masted, with the mainmast forward. The sails seemed to be lying folded along the booms. The hull had a simple beauty of line that suggested effortless speed. No bulking cabin cluttered the deck. In the driveway leading to the house stood a car. Its distinctive sloping rear suggested a Standard Twelve. There was no sign of activity.

It was all still, until I saw a figure walk past a downstairs window. If my sums were right, Gerrit Slattery would have three of the remaining gang members with him. And one of them would still be nursing a hole in his foot. But that wouldn’t stop him from firing a gun at me. I had to assume they were armed at least as well as Dermot’s team. I checked the line of fire in front of the house from the driveway leading up to it. No cover, simple to defend, permitting good triangulation of fire on attackers. My old unit had a term for it: Victoria Cross Posthumous – VCP. It would be VCP level of futility to make a full frontal. It wasn’t that I was scared to die this day; it would just be such a waste to go without having a fair crack at Slattery.

I toyed with the idea of driving the Riley full tilt at the house, maybe aiming to put the front through the downstairs lounge window. But the walls looked solid and I’d likely end up sailing through the windscreen and smearing myself on the white walls like a giant dead fly. It was definitely plan A, the sea. Or was that what I was supposed to think?

I turned the car around and headed back into Kildonan. I parked about a hundred yards from the hut. I armed myself as before: revolver in my waistband, knife tucked down my sock and shotgun held pointing down inside my jacket. It wasn’t hidden but only obvious if you got up close. There was no one around to examine me. I dropped down on to the sand and walked to the hut. I kept it between me and the village as I walked over to the first boat. I made short work of the padlock and slid the chain out on to the sand. I walked round to the outboard motor and looked in the tank. Empty. I walked along all four, all empty. Damnation.

I propped the Dickson in the first boat and trudged back to the hut. Same padlock type and just as simple to open. I stepped into the dark interior and waited for my eyes to adjust. On a shelf was a ball of fishing twine, finest catgut: could be useful. I pocketed it. There in the corner was a pair of cans. I opened them and savoured the sharp stink of petrol. I lifted one and turned to go out when a shadow fell across the floor, a giant shadow.

‘A bit of night fishing, is it?’ asked the man, about my age, big red beard and corduroys, as if he’d left his fiddle somewhere.

I placed the can back down. ‘Are you the owner?’ I felt for my revolver.

‘Of the boats, the hut, the can in your hand? All three.’

‘Look, this is an emergency. I can pay you.’

‘An emergency fishing trip? Caught sight of a big one out there, have you?’

‘Look, I’m really sorry, pal, but I don’t have time for the sarcastic chit-chat. Fun though it is. There’s a woman’s life at stake and I need a boat.’ I pulled my gun out my belt and levelled it at him.

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he said, looking down at the muzzle and calmly holding his hands up.

‘Oh, put them down for God’s sake.’ I stuffed the gun back in my belt, disgusted at my antics.

‘Is there really a woman in bother?’

‘If she’s alive, she’s in bother.’

He stared into my eyes. ‘Can I help?’

‘Sure.’

He picked up the can and headed towards the first boat. He saw the long lethal shape of the Dickson resting on the stern and raised his eyebrows at me.

‘Shark hunting,’ I said.

‘Would they be Irish sharks by any chance?’

‘The white house, round the bay? With the yacht?’

‘The Lorne. She’s a ketch. By Dickies of Tarbert. A pretty craft. Too good for that scum.’

‘Is that what it is? Two masts? Taller at the front?’ My brain struggled for the right words.

‘You’re not a sailor, then.’

‘Tried it once. I prefer ferries. Will anyone be on board or do they all stay in the house?’

‘Depends.’

‘I don’t want anyone to get away.’

He nodded. ‘Here.’ He put the can down and knelt in the sand. He began drawing. ‘It’s simple. Main mast is for’ard, mizzen is aft. She’s gaff rigged, fore and aft.’ He sketched square-shaped sails whose top edge was suspended from a wooden spar instead of tied directly to the masts. ‘Makes it easier to handle. You get more sail up for less mast. There’s also a jib.’ He drew a triangle without spars, that ran from the top of the main mast to the bow. ‘You can sail her fine on a mizzen and a jib. When it’s moored they just drop the sails onto their booms and lightly reef them. Quicker to the off.’

The vocabulary started to come back to me. ‘Steering?’

‘Tiller. Helmsman stands thigh deep in a cockpit between the stern and the mizzen mast, under the boom.’

‘Cabins?’

‘I’ve not been on board but she’ll have six or eight bunks and a galley. Access from two hatches.’

‘A handy boat for a round trip to Ireland?’

He nodded. ‘Are you just yourself?’

‘Me and Dickson here.’

He sized me up. ‘Army?’

‘2nd Seaforths. 51st Highland Division.’

A grin split the red beard in two. His hand came out. ‘The Highway Decorators. One of Tom Rennie’s boys. Me too. Black Watch. Tobruk?’

I smiled. ‘You were on our left flank. Christ, it was hot.’

‘Hotter in France.’

‘The first time or the second?’

He looked at me quizzically. ‘Just the once. We were 9th Highland. Territorials. Rebadged as the new 51st in time for Africa. Sicily then France. You?’

I sighed. ‘ Deux fois. BEF in ‘40. Then Africa, Sicily and back to bloody France.’

‘St Valery? I thought you all went on a nice German holiday? You escaped with Rennie?’

‘A few of us didn’t fancy the tour guides. A crofter from Lewis taught me how to sail a fishing boat we pinched from the French. Three days of rope burns and a headache. I thought he was talking Gaelic all the time. It was just fancy boating terms. It’s why I prefer big boats with engines and a canteen.’

He looked me up and down. ‘Christ.’ Then very deliberately, he saluted. ‘Wait here.’

He went back to his hut. He came tottering back with another outboard motor, a much bigger version than any of the ones clamped to the boats. It took him five minutes to replace one with the other and to fill the tank.

‘You should get ten maybe eleven knots from this yin. It might help.’

He placed another can of fuel inside the boat, and we began to drag the boat down the sand and into the shallow water. He held it steady while I clambered on board. He stood with waves lapping against his hips while I settled myself. He explained how to start the motor, priming the carb and using the throttle. I held the top of the motor, gripped the handle of the cord and tugged. The engine coughed, spluttered; I opened the throttle a little more and it fired up and moved into pop pop mode.

‘What’s your name, friend?’

‘Eric. Eric McLeod.’

‘Brodie. Douglas Brodie.’ We shook hands. ‘Well, Eric the Red, I’m truly grateful. If I don’t come back, or it gets damaged, well…’

‘Never mind the boat. Find that lady of yours. I’d come with you, for the laughs. But I’ve the wife and bairn now,’ he said wistfully.

I turned round to face the open sea, twisted the throttle cum steering handle and revved away from the shore. Dusk was settling across the water and the waves grew choppier as I headed out past the point. A northerly was picking up from the shore and I began to worry about getting swamped when I turned side on to it.

Far off, at the point of the next bay, I could see the distant house and boat. I took a wide arc out towards the Ayrshire mainland and buzzed and splashed my way for half an hour. I tried the boat at full pelt to see how fast it could go. Quick enough for me to get drenched and on the verge of capsizing as the wind buffeted me from the shore.

I settled down to a steady 3 or 4 knots, butting into the waves. When I was opposite the house a good three or four hundred yards out, I turned about and started heading landward. I sat lower in the boat, relying on the gathering dark and the grey swollen sea to make me invisible. I just hoped the bad guys were all pointing their guns at the road.