The Hanging Shed

FORTY-SEVEN

Sam was on her back, her hands tied behind her, and her feet roped. Her legs were tucked up to her chest because of the narrowness of the cockpit. She looked groggy, but at least her eyes were open. Her mouth was gagged and her head lolled as the yacht moved. I lowered my gun.

‘That’s right, Brodie. You’ll play my tune now, so you will. Come after me and she’s dead.’

‘You can’t hide, Slattery,’ I shouted. ‘I tracked wee Dermot down and he’s gone to hell!’

‘You’re a fucking liar, Brodie! Nobody fucks with Dermot Slattery.’

‘Well the worms are fucking him now, Gerrit! The worms at Planner Farm.’

I saw his face change, saw his gun arm come up and I dived to the deck as he fired once, twice, in fury. I got off a shot but missed. He swung the tiller across and the boat turned smoothly and accelerated into the dark. Beyond him and to his left, a light flashed. He was steering west of the Pladda light and south east on a line that would take him back to Ireland.

I watched him go until I was sure he could no longer see me, then I ran to the side of the jetty and dropped into my boat. I landed with a crash and nearly capsized. I stowed my shotgun, steadied myself and got the engine going. Then I headed out into the sea, throttle full open. Slattery was going to kill her whether I came after her or not. If he hadn’t already done so. She would simply be ballast that went overboard. I wondered how soon he’d try to get the mainsail up and how easily he could handle it. With all canvas up he’d leave me for dead.

I aimed for my last sighting of the sail to the west of Pladda’s sporadic flash but for long minutes could see nothing. I squinted along the wave tops. There! In the brief flash something waving. I adjusted my bearings and headed after her. The crisp breeze was still nicely behind the ketch. He could stay comfortably on this line running downwind until he made landfall on Ireland, perhaps trying for Belfast and what he saw as safety in the city. By my reckoning, he would be making 6 or 7 knots to my 10 or 11. Unless the wind picked up even more. Or he got his mainsail up. Or I ran out of fuel.

The clouds shifted and the moonlight ran across the heaving water like mercury. We were well past Pladda. The Lorne was in plain view. She was still running on mizzen and foresail. I pressed on, hoping my engine noise wouldn’t be heard above the splash of his bow wave and the wind through his rigging. I made steady inroads on the gap. Two hundred, then one hundred. I could see Slattery clearly, standing with his back to me, both hands pushing the tiller to keep the ketch on course. I wasn’t sure, but I think I saw the glint of Sam’s pale flesh and white blouse. I looked longingly at the Dixon lying in the bottom but realised I hadn’t reloaded. I needed one hand to steer. I drew my pistol.

I was within twenty yards when he heard me. He turned and looped cord round the tiller to lash it in place. I fired the big Webley. It kicked and crashed but missed him. I fired again but the boat was too unsteady. He pulled his own gun out of his belt. He bent over and dragged at the body lying at his feet. There was resistance. He yanked Sam to her feet by her bound hands making her face contort with pain as her arms were wrenched up behind her. He stood with Sam as a shield and held the pistol to her head. She looked as if she would slump to the deck. He used his left arm to hold her close to him. He shouted something at me but it was blown away by the wind. Then he tore down the gag round her mouth and said something in her ear. She tried to shout, but I heard nothing. She tried again. All I heard was ‘Back’, then ‘Go back, Brodie’. I saw him grin and he waved his gun in front of her face.

I was close enough now to see her expression. I expected terror. Instead it was pure undiluted anger. I saw her hunch a little as if to gather herself. Then her blond head struck like a mamba. Her fine white teeth sunk into his wrist and, in surprised reflex, Slattery dropped the gun. He flung her from him and she fell out of the shallow cockpit to sprawl helplessly on the deck. I twisted the throttle and felt the boat leap forward like a seal.

Slattery was scrabbling for his gun when the ketch lurched. He’d been sloppy lashing the tiller. With no counterforce, the rudder swung back and the ketch rounded up with a jolt. It staggered through 90 degrees and threw Slattery across the deck and into the gunnels. He lost his grip on the line controlling the boom and the freed sail flapped uselessly in the wind. With its speed slowed to a near stop I crashed into the hull, just managing to turn the boat side on as I did. I dropped my pistol, grabbed the little anchor and rope in the bows and tangled it round the taut rigging lines. I cut the engine, drew my knife and leaped on the deck of the wallowing Lorne.

Slattery was getting to his feet, blood running from a deep cut in his head. He looked concussed. He wiped the gore from his eyes and saw me stumbling towards him. At the periphery of my vision I could see Sam lying still against the lifelines. Slattery made another scan of the deck for his gun. Then he stooped and came up with a six-foot grappling pole. Its point was a combined spear and wicked hook, just the thing for landing a big fish or gutting a boarder. He swung at me and missed my ducking head by an inch. He held it like a lance and lunged at me. I sidestepped and tripped as he passed. I tumbled into the cockpit and broke my fall across the swinging thick bar of the tiller. I jerked back as the spiked pole drove past my chest and glanced off the tiller. I half fell, half jumped out onto the deck. I was winded and wondering if I’d cracked a rib.

Slattery stumbled round the tiller and flailed the pike at me. I took it across my arm and shoulder. I felt the pain and then numbness in my arm. This fight wasn’t going to last long. A man with a weapon always trumps a one-armed man. I danced away from the vicious flail trying to keep the cockpit between us. I did one full circle then fell back and back towards the stern. I kept moving my left arm to try to get some feeling back. Fire shot along it. Better that than no feelings at all. I was near the stern now, still retreating. Slattery was back to his annoying grin again, as though he could smell my blood. He kept jabbing at me, and was surely going to jab me all the way overboard. My mind blinked. We were fighting outside Caen. Flushing a German platoon out of a barn. Suddenly a frenzied Kraut broke cover ten feet from me and charged me with fixed bayonet, screaming like a lunatic. For the first time in this chase fear gripped my guts.

My training cut in. When in doubt, attack. I dived into a somersault and shot up under his weapon, almost into his face. I stabbed with my knife but he dropped the near end of his staff to block me. I went in close and tackled through him, my left shoulder screaming in pain. We both crashed to the deck and rolled around kicking and lashing at each other. He dropped the pole. It was no use in close quarters. He was like a thrashing maniac, all fists and knees and teeth. He got hold of my knife hand and beat it on a metal stanchion till I dropped it. I managed to twist round and kicked it out of the way. If I couldn’t have it neither could he.

We got on our knees then managed to stand upright on the pitching deck, glaring at each other and panting. The boom of the mizzen sail suddenly swung back on board and we both ducked. I ran at him and we locked arms like drunks holding each other up on a Saturday night. He was blinking blood out of his eyes. His small moustache was thick with it. I drew my head back and smashed it forward into his face. I felt his nose crunch. I shifted my grip to put him in a headlock. The boom came swinging back trailing its retaining line.

Instinctively I grabbed the line and looped it round his neck. I put a quick half hitch in it and yanked tight. I made a second half hitch for luck. The boat gave a lurch and I pushed Slattery and the boom. He stumbled on the gunnel and I gave the boom another shove. Slattery went over the side clutching at the boom. His feet dragged in the sea. His hands tore at the wooden spar to stop from falling. He made one frantic effort to hold himself up with one arm round the boom while he clawed at the rope round his neck.

A big wave broke over his chest. He lost his grip and was left dangling by the rope round his neck.

For a long moment he tore at the line in terror trying to loosen the wet knots. His weight and the rolling waves made it impossible. His feet thrashed in the water as though he was trying to run on it. His face turned to mine in horror. His mouth screamed but nothing came out. I stood panting and watching him hang by the neck until he was dead.

His body gave a last twitch or two then sagged. The ketch slowed and the boom dipped, trailing its human sea anchor. I ran forward and unhitched the foresail line so that jib flapped. The Lorne finally stopped and lay wallowing in the water. I came back and used the grappling iron to pull the boom close to the side. Slattery’s blotched face stared up at me, eyes bulging with accusation. I felt no remorse. I dragged the body half over the bulwarks and onto the deck face up, so that only his feet were being washed by the waves. I tugged the knots loose and made the line secure on a deck cleat but with plenty of give. I wasn’t ready to try and sail her until I worked out what I was doing. I felt sick and trembling.

Behind me, I heard a groan.