The Hanging Shed

FORTY-SIX

I dropped speed until the engine was down to a low-key throb. But it still sounded as loud as an ice-cream van on a Sunday without the pleasurable anticipation. Finally I had the bulk of the jetty between me and the house. The Lorne was bigger than I’d thought from afar, perhaps a 50-footer. The jetty was about forty feet long so that the ketch stuck out well beyond the end. Hefty wooden pillars propped up each side of the jetty and stood a good three feet proud above the deck. Halfway along the deck stood a wooden locker about six feet long, three wide and high.

As each swell rolled through, the ketch swung from side to side and the halyards flapped and clanked. I cut the motor and nudged against the pier, and sat there clinging to the wood for a long minute to make sure no gangster with a grievance was about to blow my head off.

I tethered the boat to a pillar on the opposite side to the Lorne. I scrambled to my feet, praying none of my weapons would end up as buried treasure in the murky waters below. Slowly I raised my head above the deck of the jetty. I could see into the back room of the house about thirty yards away. There was a big bay window with wonderful sea views, or in this case, wonderful me views. Lights were already on and I could see one figure standing up talking to someone else, sitting down. He turned and talked to someone else. I think I recognised the curly-haired guy I’d shot in the foot. I hoped it still hurt.

I climbed back down to my boat and lifted the can out. I placed it on the deck and then laid my shotgun, knife and revolver alongside it. I carefully climbed up and on to the jetty and crab-crawled along it. Then I made my preparations.

The fire caught quickly and roared into the air above the wooden locker. The flames themselves were enough to attract the attention of the house. But just in case, I’d left the can with its cap tightly screwed on, on top of the locker. I watched, tucked down behind the last pillar as the flames enveloped the can. I started to fret. If the fire ate through the wooden lid too fast, the can would drop through and just lie there. I looked up at the house. Three figures were at the window gesticulating. Then they vanished. From a side door, two came running, or rather one was running, the other hopping. The third figure stood in the door watching.

The two coming fast towards me had handguns. They should have had buckets of water. The faster of the two sprinted on to the deck and crashed on his face like a felled tree. His gun spun away from his hand. Behind him, Hopalong did a more leisurely but nevertheless acrobatic tumble and came to rest nursing his shoulder and head. Neither had seen the tightly drawn fishing line stretched across the first two pillars. The downed men were about three feet from the roaring flames.

They were both struggling to their feet when the can exploded. I ducked behind my pillar as the shrapnel flew. Bits of red-hot tin sliced the air and peppered their faces and bodies. Globules of burning petrol and oil stuck to their bodies and roasted their flesh. They screamed like girls, fell over and rolled, trying to snuff out their flaming skin and clothes. Finally, in desperation, one after the other, they leaped into the sea. A second or two later they were screaming again as the salt water licked at their wounds. I looked over the side and raised my shotgun to put them out of their pain but lowered it again. They were no longer active participants in this game. I’d keep my powder dry for Slattery.

I peered through the wall of flame but couldn’t see Gerrit. I made my move. Revolver in my belt, knife down my sock, Dickson to my shoulder, I charged through the wave of heat. I heard my hair singe and smelt it burning. As I passed through the fire, knowing I’d be silhouetted against the flames, I dived to the left and ducked behind the jetty’s pillar nearest the house. I peered out from behind it. There was no sign of anyone. If I were Slattery I’d be heading for the car; cautiously, mind, not being sure if there was a frontal assault as well. I had to get round the front and cut him off.

I got to my feet and ran to the left and up towards the house. I got to the side and ran forward again. The car was about ten feet away from the front door. I dived forward and hit the grass, rolling and rolling till I was on the car’s flank, protected from the house. I drew my knife and stabbed the tyres, one after the other. The car settled on its rims. It wasn’t going anywhere, at least not in a hurry. I sized up the house. Two large windows at the front on either side of the main door. I decided to go in through the front to keep Slattery pinned with his back to the water. I lifted the shotgun and took aim. The blast echoed loud and long, followed by the smashing and tinkling of glass as the right-hand window exploded.

I dashed forward and up to the window sill. I moved to the side and, protected by the window frame, looked into the room. Nothing. I cleared the shards of glass from the frame and climbed up and through. I dropped into the room and stood waiting. Quiet. I moved forward in the darkness, got to the door on the right-hand side and threw it open. I was in the hall. There was the second room door opposite me, and down the corridor a door into what I assumed was the big back room where I’d first seen them. There was a staircase up on my left. Again I stopped and listened. All I could hear was the sound of distant crackling as the fire burned itself out.

I decided to clear the ground floor first, and then start on the upper floor. I pressed forward. Then I realised that the stairs not only led up, they went down. After a run of five or six downward steps was a door. It was gaping open. Light came from the cellar. I inched my way down, step by step. Was this a trap? Was Slattery waiting for me in the cellar, gun aimed? Or was he above me, waiting to slam the door on me?

I put half my body round the corner of the door frame and could see into the cellar. It was about fifteen feet square. And to prove it was a Slattery residence a single grubby mattress lay on the floor next to some cords. Suddenly I knew what was happening. I leaped back up the stairs and into the hall. Without hesitating I hit the closed door with my shoulder and stumbled through. The room was empty and the side door was open. Out in the fluttering light from the last embers of the fire I could see the masts of the ketch. Instead of bare poles, a jib fluttered from the mainmast and its mizzen sail was nearly fully raised and already filling. The bow was edging away from the jetty and with the steady off-shore breeze it would soon pick up pace and vanish into the night.

I ran madly out into the back yard and on to the jetty. He had already cast free. The mizzen sail was firmly in place. The yacht was already a full length away and gathering speed. Facing back, with his left hand on the tiller, Gerrit Slattery grinned at me in malice. He held a pistol in his right hand but it wasn’t aimed at me.

I raised my shotgun to blast his wicked head off, when he shouted: ‘Fire, and she’s dead, Brodie.’

I stepped forward and saw where his gun pointed. Sam was lying curled at his feet in the cramped cockpit.