The Tightrope Men

Thirty-Six

All was silent.

Denison lay on the floor and looked at McCready who said, ‘I think that was a pistol shot; it sounded different. I hope it was.’

‘For God’s sake, why?’

McCready was grim. ‘Just pray they don’t start shooting at this hut with those bloody rifles. They’re NATO issue and they pack a hell of a wallop. In Northern Ireland the army found they were shooting through houses — through one wall and out the other.’

Denison turned his head. ‘Are you all right, Lyn?’

She was flat on the floor by her bunk: ‘I... I think so.’ Her voice was tremulous.

‘I’m not,’ said Harding. ‘I think I was hit. My arm is numb.’

Diana crossed the hut at a low run and flopped down beside Harding. ‘Your face is bleeding.’

‘I think that was the flying glass,’ he said. ‘It’s my arm that’s worrying me. Can you have a look at it?’

‘Christ!’ said McCready savagely. ‘One lousy bullet and he has to get in the way. What do you think now, Denison? Still think it’s not time to leave?’

‘I haven’t heard anything more.’ Denison crawled over to the window and cautiously raised himself. ‘The mist is much thicker. Can’t see a damned thing.’

‘Get down from there,’ snapped McCready. Denison pulled down his head but stayed in a crouch below the window. ‘How’s Harding?’

Harding answered. ‘The bone is broken,’ he said. ‘Can someone get my black box? It’s in my pack.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Lyn.

McCready crawled over to Harding and inspected his arm. Diana had torn away the shirt sleeve to get at the wound, a small puncture. Harding’s arm was a curious shape; it seemed to have developed an extra joint. ‘It was a pistol shot,’ said McCready. ‘If you’d have been hit by one of those rifle bullets at that range you’d have no arm left.’

Again came the sound of automatic fire but from a greater distance. It sounded like a noisy sewing machine and was interspersed with other single shots. It stopped as quickly as it had begun.

‘Sounds like a battle,’ said McCready. ‘What do you think, Denison?’

‘I think it’s time to leave,’ said Denison. ‘We’ve had one bullet in here — we might get more. You and I will go down to the punt; Diana and Lyn can help Harding along as soon as we’ve made sure it’s safe. We leave the packs and travel light. Bring a compass, if you have one.’

‘I’ve got one in my pocket.’ McCready looked down at Harding and saw he had filled a syringe and was injecting himself in the arm. ‘How are you, Doctor?’

‘That will keep it quiet,’ said Harding, taking out the needle. ‘If someone can slap a bandage around it.’

‘I can do better than that,’ said Diana. ‘I can make splints.’

‘Good,’ said Harding. ‘I have a broken arm — not a broken leg. I can walk and I’ll be ready to move in five minutes. Did you say something about going by punt?’

‘Denison’s idea.’

‘Then why don’t we take the gun?’

‘Haul that bloody great...!’ McCready stopped and glanced at Denison. ‘What about it?’

Denison thought of two pounds of birdshot. ‘Might give someone a fright.’

‘Tie that tighter,’ said Harding to Lyn. ‘Then bring me those cartridges from the table.’ He raised his head. ‘If you are going scouting we’ll have the gun loaded when you get back.’

‘All right,’ said McCready. ‘Let’s go.’ All the frustration had dropped from him now that he had something to do. ‘When we go out of the door we go flat on our bellies.’

He opened the door and wreaths of mist drifted into the hut. When he put his head around the corner of the door at floor level he found the visibility to be ten to fifteen yards, shifting in density as the mist drifted in from the marsh. He wriggled out and waited until Denison joined him, then put his mouth to Denison’s ear and whispered, ‘We separate but keep in sight of each other — ten yards should do it. We go one at a time in ten yard runs.’

At Denison’s nod he went forward, then dropped to the ground ten yards ahead and, after a moment, waved Denison on. Denison angled away until he was parallel with McCready; he lay and stared into the mist but could see nothing. McCready went ahead again and dropped and then Denison followed, and so on until Denison put his hand wrist-deep in cold water. They were at the edge of the marsh.

He lay there, turning his head from side to side, trying to penetrate the pearly mist, his ears strained for the slightest sound. When he looked up he could see the tops of the stiff reeds, and all he could hear was a rustling as the lightest of airs brushed through them. From the marsh came the occasional call of a bird.

McCready edged up next to him. ‘Where’s the punt?’

‘To the left — a hundred yards.’

They went slowly and separately, McCready leading because of his experience. At last he stopped and when Denison drew up with him he saw the loom of the boathouse through the mist. McCready put his lips next to Denison’s ear. ‘There could be someone in there. I’ll take it from the other side. Give me exactly four minutes then close in from this side.’ He wriggled away and was lost to sight.

Denison lay there watching the sweep second hand on his watch. Four minutes seemed a hell of a long time. At exactly two minutes there was a renewed burst of firing which made him start; it seemed to come from the direction of the hut but he could not be sure. He found he was sweating despite the cool clamminess of the mist.

At four minutes he went forward carefully and looked into the dimness under the roof of the boathouse. He saw no one until a movement on the other side made his stomach roll over until he realized it was McCready. ‘All safe,’ said McCready.

‘We’d better take the punt out and ran it up on to the beach,’ said Denison in a low voice. He waded into the water, trying not to splash, and floated out the punt. Between them they ran it up on to the shingle which crunched loudly. ‘For Christ’s sake, be quiet!’ whispered McCready. ‘Did you hear that last lot of shooting?’

‘I thought it came from behind me.’

‘I thought it came from the marsh,’ said McCready. ‘You can’t tell with mist, though. It distorts sounds. Let’s go back and get the others.’

They made it back to the hut uneventfully. McCready closed the door and said, ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone out there — not towards the marsh, anyway. That idea of yours might be a good one.’

‘I wouldn’t go in any other direction,’ said Denison briefly. ‘Ready to move, Lyn?’

Her face was pale but her chin came up in the resolute gesture he had come to know. ‘I’m ready.’

‘McCready and I will go first. You follow and help Harding if he needs it. We won’t be going too fast if we’re carrying the gun.’

‘It’s loaded — but quite safe,’ said Harding. His face was drawn. ‘It can’t be fired until it’s cocked and a detonator cap put on the nipple.’

‘We’d better know what we’re going to do,’ said McCready. ‘Are you sure this gun will shoot, Doctor? I don’t want us to be lumbered with a load of old iron.’

‘It’ll shoot,’ said Harding. ‘I tested the powder and it burns well; and I tested a detonator while they were shooting out there.’

Denison did not know what sound a detonator would make but that might account for his impression that a shot had come from the direction of the hut. He said, ‘I think we ought to play safe until we get well into the marsh. Harding ought to go in the punt from the beginning because of his wound — and you, too, George, in case there’s shooting. The girls and I will tag on behind.’

McCready nodded, but Harding said, ‘I want Denison in the punt with me.’

McCready stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘Put it down to crankiness or, maybe, loss of blood,’ said Harding. ‘But that’s the way I want it. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.’

McCready looked blankly at Denison. ‘What do you say?’

‘All right with me. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he gets.’

‘Good,’ said Harding. ‘Come over here.’ He took Denison to where the gun lay. ‘It’s all ready for going on to the punt. There’ll be no difficulty in fixing it — it just drops into place and I have the breech ropes all ready to reeve through the eye-bolts.’ He paused. ‘There are two important items to remember when you shoot one of these things.’

‘Go on.’

‘First; keep your head well back when you pull the trigger. There’ll be a blowback from the touch-hole which could make a nasty burn on your face. Secondly; you’ll be lying flat on your belly when you shoot, and you’ve got a limited amount of lateral aim by shifting the butt — there’s enough play in the breech ropes to allow for that. But just before you pull the trigger raise your knees from the bottom of the punt. That’s important.’

‘Why?’

Harding shook his head. ‘I don’t think you realize yet what sort of gun this is. If your knees are in contact with the punt when the recoil comes you’re likely to have a couple of shattered kneecaps. Watch it.’

‘God Almighty!’ said Denison. He looked at Harding curiously. ‘Why did you pick me instead of McCready?’

‘McCready knows too much about guns,’ said Harding. ‘He might fall into the error that he knows about this one. I want somebody who’ll do exactly as I say without contaminating it with what he thinks.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I don’t know whether we’re going to fire this gun — under the circumstances I hope not — but, believe me — when you pull that trigger you’ll probably be just as surprised as the man you’re shooting at.’

‘Let’s hope it never happens,’ said Denison. ‘How’s your arm?’

Harding looked down at the improvised sling. ‘It’ll be fine as long as the drug holds out. I’m leaving my kit but I have a syringe loaded with pain-killer in my pocket. Just one more thing. If we shoot in the marsh it’s going to be difficult to reload the gun. It will have to be done in shallow water with McCready at the front of the punt with a ramrod. I’ll have a word with him about that.’

He went to McCready and Denison bent to examine the gun. It was suddenly much more real, no longer looking like an old piece of iron piping but a weapon deadly of purpose. He straightened to find Lyn at his side. ‘An extra sweater,’ she said, holding it out. ‘It’s always cold on the water.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and took it from her. ‘It’ll be even colder in it. You shouldn’t have come, Lyn; this is no place for you. Will you promise me something?’

‘That depends.’

‘If we get into trouble out there — shooting, perhaps — promise to duck out of it. Get down among the reeds and out of sight. Don’t take any chances you don’t have to.’

She nodded towards Harding. ‘And what about him?’

‘Leave him to the professionals. They’ll look after him.’

‘If it weren’t for me he wouldn’t be here,’ she said sombrely. ‘And you’re a fine one to talk about not taking chances.’

He shrugged. ‘All right — but there is something you can do for me. Find a ball of string. Harding might know where there is some.’

McCready came over. ‘We’re ready to move. Help me with the gun.’ As they lifted it they heard several single shots. ‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ said McCready. ‘We’re not being shot at — so who is?’

Denison took the strain at the butt end of the gun. ‘Who cares? Let’s take advantage.’

It was better this second time despite the hampering weight of the gun; they had a better sense of direction and knew where to go. Within five minutes they were lowering the gun on to the foredeck of the punt; it slotted neatly into place and Harding, hovering over it, wordlessly indicated how to fit the breech ropes.

Denison uncoiled the thirty-foot length of string that Lyn had found. He gave one end to McCready. ‘Keep at the end of that,’ he whispered. ‘If you get into trouble tug and I’ll stop. Two tugs and I’ll back water.’

‘Bloody good idea.’

Denison tapped Harding on the shoulder. ‘Get in before we launch her.’ Harding obeyed and Denison and McCready pushed the punt forward until it was afloat. Again there was the crunch of shingle and they waited with held breath to see if they had attracted attention. Denison climbed aboard over the stern and settled behind the gun. He gave the other end of the string to Harding. ‘If you feel a tug let me know. Where are the paddles?’

‘On the bottom boards next to the gun butt.’

He scrabbled and found them, short-handled and broad-bladed. Before he put them into the water he stared ahead. He was lying prone with his eyes not more than a foot above the level of the water. Ahead of him, on the foredeck, stretched nine feet of gun. It looked less clumsy on the punt, more as if it belonged. The weapons system was complete.

‘Wait!’ whispered Harding. ‘Take this needle and push it down the touch-hole.’

Denison stretched out his hand and drew back the hammer. It clicked into place at full cock and he jabbed the needle into the hole in the nipple and felt it pierce the paper cartridge. He waggled it about to enlarge the hole which would allow the flame to reach the powder, and then passed it back to Harding who gave him a detonator cap. Harding whispered, ‘I’d keep that in your hand until you’re ready to shoot. It’s safer.’

He nodded and picked up the paddles and took a short, easy stroke as quickly as he could. The punt moved forward, more quickly than he had expected. Ripples ran backwards vee-shaped from the bow as the punt glided into the mist.

Denison had already determined to stay close to the banks of reeds. From the point of view of paddling the punt he would have been better in mid-channel but there he would be more exposed. Besides, he had the others to think of; they were wading and the water was more likely to be shallow by the reeds.

Harding whispered, ‘McCready gave me his compass. What’s the course?’

‘North-west,’ said Denison. ‘If we have to make any course changes try to make them north rather than west.’

‘Then steady as you go.’

It was an awkward position in which to paddle and he quickly developed aches, particularly at the back of his shoulders. And his breastbone ground against the bottom boards until he thought he was rubbing the skin off his chest. Whoever used the punt must have had a cushion there.

When he estimated they had travelled about two hundred yards he stopped and rested. From behind he could hear faint splashes and, when he looked back, he saw the faint figures of the other three. Beyond there was nothing but greyness. McCready came alongside, water up to his waist. ‘What have you stopped for?’

‘It’s bloody hard work. Unnatural position. I’ll be all right.’

From the land came a series of rapid shots, the stammer of an automatic rifle. McCready breathed, ‘They’re still at it. I’d like to know what...’

There was another shot, so shockingly close that McCready instinctively ducked and Denison flattened himself even closer to the bottom of the punt. There was a splashing noise to the left as though someone was running in shallow water; the sound receded and everything was quiet again.

McCready eased himself up. ‘That was right here in the marsh. Let’s move.’

Denison pushed off again quietly and the punt ghosted into the mist. He was aware that Harding had not said anything, so he turned his head. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Carry on,’ said Harding. ‘A bit more to the left.’

As they penetrated the marsh there were flaws in the mist — sudden thinnings and thickenings of the vapour apparently caused by a light air which stroked Denison’s cheek with a delicate touch. Visibility would be no more than five yards and then, ten seconds later, the mist would swirl aside so that he could see, perhaps, forty yards. He did not like it; it was unpredictable and could not be relied on.

Behind, McCready plodded thigh-deep in the water. The footing was treacherous — mostly rotting vegetation but with the occasional ankle-twisting stone or, sometimes, an unexpected hole. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw that Lyn, much shorter than he, had the water to her waist. He grinned at her and she smiled back at him weakly. Diana brought up the rear, turning her head constantly to look back.

They went on for fifteen minutes and then there was a choked cry from behind McCready. He looked back and saw that Lyn was neck-deep and already beginning to swim. Since he himself was in the water to his armpits this was not surprising so he gave two sharp tugs on the string. The punt ahead drifted back silently as Denison back-paddled gently, and came to a halt alongside McCready.

‘You’ll have to change course. We’re getting out of our depth.’

Denison nodded and silently pointed the way he intended to go, keeping close to the reeds and heading towards what seemed to be a promontory about fifty yards away. As the mist closed in again to blot it out he commenced paddling again.

Once more the gentle, vagrant wind parted the mist and Denison, peering forward along the barrel of the gun, saw a movement and dug both paddles into the water as quietly as he could. The punt slowed to a halt. Again the mist closed in but he waited, hoping that McCready would have the sense not to come forward again to find out what was wrong.

When he felt the slight air pressure on his cheek increase he was ready for the diminution of the mist and the suddenly increased visibility. There was a man standing on the promontory which was just a shingle bank outthrust into the channel. Another man was walking towards him, splashing through water, and they waved to each other.

Denison put forth his hand and slipped the detonator cap on the nipple below the hammer, and with his other hand wielded a paddle gently. The punt came around slowly and with it the gun barrel. As the primitive foresight drifted across the target he back-paddled one stroke to arrest the movement.

His finger was on the trigger but he was hesitant about firing. For all he knew these men were innocent Finns caught up in a fortuitous battle with those gun-happy, crazy Czechs. One of the men turned and there was a sharp cry and Denison knew the punt had been seen. The other man brought up his arm stiffly and he saw two brief flashes just as the mist began to close in again.

That did it — no innocent Finn would shoot on sight. He squeezed the trigger, only remembering at the last moment to pull back his head and jerk up his knees from the bottom boards.

There was a pause of a single heart beat and then the gun went off. Flame flared from the touch-hole under the hammer and dazzled him but not so much that he could not see the monstrous flame that bloomed from the muzzle of the gun. Orange and yellow with white at its heart, it shot out twelve feet ahead of the punt, blinding him, and was accompanied by a deep-throated booom. The punt shivered and jerked back violently in the water and the bottom boards leaped convulsively under him. Then it was gone and a cloud of black smoke lazily ascended and there was the acrid stink of burnt powder in the air.

Although deafened by the concussion he thought he heard a shriek from ahead. Retinal images danced before his eyes as he tried to penetrate the suddenly dense mist and he could see nothing. An automatic rifle hammered from behind and suddenly the water ahead fountained in spurts right across the channel as someone traversed in a blind burst. There was a whipping sound overhead and bits of reed dropped on to his face as he looked up.

The rifle fire stopped.

After a moment Harding said weakly, ‘What about reloading?’

‘How long?’

‘Five minutes.’

‘Christ, no!’ Denison burst into activity. ‘We’ve got to move and bloody fast.’ He brought up his legs and sat on his haunches so as to give the paddles a better grip in the water. This was no time to hang around and dead silence was not as important as getting clear. He jabbed the paddles into the water and made the punt move. As he skirted the promontory he kept a careful watch, not wanting to run aground, and still less wanting to meet whoever had been there.

The violence of that single shot was seared into him. What, in God’s name, could it have been like at the receiving end? He looked sideways but there was only the drifting mist, and all he could hear was the quickened splashing of the others as they increased their pace to his speed.

He paddled until he was thoroughly weary, occasionally changing course as the channel wound among marshy islands or as Harding dictated from the compass. After half an hour at top speed he was exhausted and stopped with his shoulders bowed and paddles trailing in the water. His breath rasped in his throat and his chest felt sore.

Harding touched him on the shoulder. ‘Rest,’ he said. ‘You’ve done enough.’

McCready came up, half wading and half swimming. ‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘You set a pace.’

Denison grinned weakly. ‘It was that last rifle burst. A bit too much for me. All I wanted to do was to get away.’

McCready held on to the side of the punt and surveyed the gun. ‘When this thing went off I was sure the barrel had burst. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘How far have we come?’ asked Denison.

Harding used his good hand to fish in the bottom of the punt. He came up with the map, soggy and running with water, and gave it to Denison who unfolded it. He pointed over Denison’s shoulder. ‘I think we’ve just crossed that wide bit of water.’

‘It was deep as well as wide,’ said McCready. ‘We had to swim.’

‘That’s much more than half-way,’ said Denison. ‘Dry land not far ahead.’

Diana and Lyn splashed up along the reeds in the shallower water. They were soaked and bedraggled. Denison pushed with a paddle and eased the punt towards them. ‘You all right?’ he asked quietly.

Diana nodded wearily and Lyn said, ‘How much more of this?’

‘Not far,’ said Denison. ‘You can travel the rest of the way in the punt.’

McCready nodded. ‘I think we’ve got clear. I haven’t heard any shooting for quite a while.’

Harding was still doing something at the bottom of the punt. ‘I’m afraid we’re in trouble,’ he said. ‘I thought this water was the accumulated drips from the paddles, but I think we have a leak. The punt is sinking.’

‘Oh, hell!’ said McCready.

‘My fault,’ said Harding unhappily. ‘I think I overloaded the gun. The strain on the punt was too much.’

Denison blew out his breath. McCready could have been right; the barrel could have burst. He said, ‘It seems you’ll have to walk the rest of the way, Doctor. Do you think you can make it?’

‘I’ll be all right when I’ve given myself another injection.’

‘We’ll jam the boat into the reeds,’ said McCready. ‘And then get going. I think the mist is lifting and I want to be out of this swamp by then.’