by Peter Watson
It was easier said than done to stop, but Isobel managed to steer towards an overhanging tree which Michael could grab hold of. She didn’t switch off but put the engine into neutral and took the map from Michael as he held on to the tree trunk.
‘Find Woodsford on the map,’ he said excitedly. ‘Follow the river down from Dorchester . . . got it?’
She nodded.
‘Right. Now go back upstream. What is written next to the village name in gothic type?’
‘Woodsford Castle.’
‘Correct. Now, look at what is written on the other side of the river, opposite Woodsford Castle.’
‘Frome Mead?’
‘No, next to that.’
‘White Mead.’
‘Yes!’
‘So?’
‘Isobel! White Mead. White Meadow. Why is it called white meadow? Because white flowers used to bloom there. Because, when it was given its name, the white colour was notable. Why was it notable? Because it came from a rare tree, a foreign tree, a tree that no one else had.’
‘Why didn’t they call it Almond Mead?’
‘Maybe they did, some of the time. But it was White Mead that stuck. And the clincher is: where better to hide something than in a castle? This has to be the place.’
‘A minute ago, you were convinced it was Quarr.’
‘Isobel! It must be one of these two places. But my betting is on the castle now. Come on, let’s get back. There’s bound to be material on the castle in the local museum. We’re only four miles from Dorchester.’
Isobel handed him the map, put the engine into gear and Michael let go of the tree. The boat surged forward. After a few hundred yards, the river wound to the right. ‘White Mead should be just round this bend,’ said Michael. ‘Keep over as close to the bank as you can. Maybe there’s still a trace of almond somewhere.’
There were bushes sticking out from the bank now, rather than trees, and they had to proceed quite far around the bend before White Mead opened up in front of them. The mead was indeed flat and stretched back several hundred yards to where a forest started. There were, however, a few smaller trees clustered at one end of the meadow, and Michael was just about to ask whether Isobel thought they could be almonds when she cried out, in a half whisper, ‘Look! Another boat.’
It was true. A launch, much larger than the boat they were in, was drawn up by the bank.
Michael stared ahead. As he did so, a figure appeared, walking across the meadow towards the launch. It was a tall thin man with greying hair and, from Isobel’s earlier description and the photograph on the book jacket, Michael realised it could only be one person.
‘Grainger!’ whispered Isobel, voicing Michael’s thoughts. ‘Has he seen us?’
‘Not yet, but he soon will. There’s nowhere to hide in the middle of a river.’
‘Oh God! Now he’ll know we’ve caught up with him.’
‘It had to happen, sooner or later. He’s not finding this any easier than we are . . . It’s been three days since he was at Peverell Place . . . He may have been cruising the river ever since, looking for a likely spot.’
‘Do you think he’s found anything?’
‘He can’t have, if I’m right and the answer is at Woodsford Castle.’ Michael peered forward again. ‘He doesn’t look as though he’s carrying anything. It has to be the castle.’
‘It will take us nearly two hours to get to Dorchester and back again. If Grainger discounts the meadow, he might try the castle next – and we could be too late. Why don’t we put ashore now and go straight there? I know we wouldn’t have the car but it’s better than – he’s seen us!’
Michael peered across to the figure in the field. Grainger had stopped on the bank, in the act of untying the rope which tethered the launch. His face was stony and fierce.
By now the skiff was passing the launch. As it did so, another bridge, one used only for farm animals, came into view. Michael looked at his watch. It was nearly seven. ‘Make for the bridge,’ he said as softly as he could and still make himself heard above the engine noise. ‘We can get ashore and there’ll be a track of some sort leading to the main road. Easier than having to cross fields.’
The bridge was perhaps 500 yards away. Isobel opened the throttle as far as it would go and the engine pitch rose to a whine. The bow lifted as the propeller dug deeper into the river.
Michael looked back. ‘Stampede time,’ he breathed. ‘He’s following!’
It was true. Grainger had started his launch and had turned it to head back upstream. As Michael watched, he saw the bow of the launch lift, as Grainger also put his engines on to maximum power.
For thirty tense seconds, Michael watched. Then he yelled, ‘He’s catching us! Christ, he’s much faster than we are.’ The bridge was still a couple of hundred yards away.
Isobel looked back over her shoulder, and shuddered at how close Grainger was all of a sudden. ‘I can’t go any faster,’ she cried. ‘The throttle is full open!’
‘Try for calmer water,’ said Michael, pointing to a stretch of smoother river in the middle of the flow.
Isobel nudged the tiller and the boat moved over.
It was a mistake, Grainger’s launch, moving up all the time, now slipped in between Isobel’s wake and the bank, making it impossible, as the bridge approached, for them to put ashore as they had planned.
‘We’re going away from the castle,’ shouted Michael. ‘Can you stop and turn?’
Grainger was drawing level. And he was edging closer.
Isobel throttled back. Immediately, the boat settled in the water and Grainger’s launch shot ahead. Quickly, Isobel thrust the engine into reverse. Their small boat might have been slower than the launch but it was much more manoeuvrable.
She took the boat’s stern close to the bank – it was high and lined with nettles just here – then threw it into forward gear again and steered back down the river.
‘See where the church is,’ cried Michael, pointing. ‘You can see the steeple. There’s a graveyard between it and the river. It’s flat and I saw a wooden landing. Let’s try to get ashore there.’
But Grainger had also turned by now and was again in pursuit. Worse, it was further to the churchyard than it had been to the bridge going upstream, so he had more time to catch them. This time Isobel made no attempt to alter course; she simply set the boat’s prow downstream and held it there, cutting as close to the bank as she dared when they came to the bend. With three hundred yards to go, Michael could see the landing but Grainger was only thirty yards behind them. At two hundred he was a boat’s length away.
The waters of the river gleamed in the afternoon sun. The wake from the two boats rocked the reeds by the banks, flushing out the moorhens which bobbed up and down in angry disarray.
There was a hundred yards of water between the skiff and a safe part of the bank. Grainger’s launch rocked in their wake.
They came to the final bend before the church landing. Isobel took the skiff very close to the bank, hoping Grainger, with a bigger boat, would have to take a wider course. The rattle of the engines bounced back off the bank, emphasising how close the two boats now were. The river straightened.
Then Grainger rammed them.
The first sensation Michael had was that they were being pushed faster through the water. But then Isobel was knocked forward and she fell into the well of the boat, rocking it wildly. The launch again rammed the engine and suddenly the whine died, fuel spilled everywhere, as the tank was burst and the feeder pipe snapped. The boat suddenly yawed to the left, away from Woodsford and the graveyard. The bitter tang of petrol filled the river and Michael noticed patches of it, purple and yellow, catch the sun on the surface of the water.
The launch, under full speed, rushed on past them but already Grainger was preparing to turn. Michael checked that Isobel was not seriously hurt, then reached for the oar which the youth had left in the boat for emergencies. He could at least steer with that. The ski
ff was so unstable, however, that it took Michael vital seconds to get the oar in position. By then, Grainger’s launch had turned and was now aimed upstream, coming straight towards them.
‘Where did he get that launch?’ gasped Isobel. ‘Do you think he has to give it back by eight o’clock, just as we do?’
Michael grinned grimly. He was now trying to use the oar to make contact with the bank, to steer them nearer so that they could scramble ashore. For some reason he noticed that he still had his cigar in his mouth. It hadn’t even gone out. But then the launch was upon them.
Grainger was clever. Since they no longer had any power, he approached them below full speed. Then, about twenty yards away, he accelerated so that the bow of his launch rose in the water. Finally, at the very last moment, he throttled back so that the launch not only rammed them but dropped down on to their skiff.
The grating sound of cracking wood was louder than Michael expected. Splinters flew everywhere, and cold, cold water began to fill the boat. The force of the collision threw Michael and Isobel outwards, back into the centre of the stream and away from the launch. Michael gasped as the cold, raw water closed around him. His nostrils filled with river and the rank odour of sedge and petrol swamped him. He surfaced and gasped for air. Jesus, the water was cold! And it was June. He was a good swimmer – in a pool – and waited a moment before trying to strike out. He didn’t know how strong the current would be. He watched himself being swept downstream and immediately decided that the water flow was much too swift to fight.
Now he looked about for Isobel. He saw her head, her hair plastered to her skull. She was a few yards upstream but further from the bank. ‘Don’t fight the current!’ he yelled. ‘Swim with it and try to get over to the other bank – look out!’
Grainger had turned the launch and was coming back downstream again. He was about fifty yards away.
Michael struck out for the far bank. He tried to get himself downstream of Isobel so that eventually the current would bring her to him.
Grainger must have sensed that Michael was the stronger swimmer, for no sooner had Michael taken a few strokes than he saw that the launch was making for Isobel. Worse, he could now see that Grainger had something in his hand. A pole. No! It looked like a boat-hook.
Isobel was helpless. From her movements it was clear that, though she could swim, she was not really at home in the water. Grainger would be able to spear her as easily as a leaf on a lawn. He was by now only thirty yards away and moving fast. There was no hope that Michael could get to her first and, even if he could, what would he do?
Michael could also see that Isobel was tiring – their clothes made movement difficult. Frantically he looked about him. There was nothing he could throw at Grainger, nothing he could use as a missile. There were pieces of wood from the splintered skiff floating nearby but they were all too big to throw far. Now Grainger was only twenty yards from Isobel! The boat-hook in his hand looked vicious, an eighteen-inch stiletto at the end of a ten-foot wooden shaft. A curl, a hard metal twist, jutted out halfway down the spike. It transformed the spear into a barb. As Michael watched, the hook glinted in the sunlight.
Suddenly, to his right Michael saw the square piece of wood that had covered the compartment in the prow of the skiff, the compartment where the extra fuel and ropes were stored to keep them from getting too wet. The square must have been dislodged when Grainger’s launch had rammed them. It was bright blue and floated a little downstream from Michael in the middle of the river. He took three swift strokes and grabbed at it.
‘Isobel!’ he called. As she turned to him, Michael gave a huge kick with his legs under water, forcing the top of his body above the waterline. As he rose he threw the square of wood towards Isobel. He spun it flat, just as, when he was a boy, he had thrown stones on the surface of the sea, skimming them along the top. The square of wood hit the water about five yards short of Isobel but skidded on, settling where, without a second thought, she grabbed it.
She didn’t need telling what to do. But would she have time? Grainger was now no more than ten yards away. With one arm he was steering the launch straight for Isobel, intending to crush her as well as spear her.
Isobel took the square of wood with both hands and held on. Grainger was now five yards away. He lifted the boat-hook.
Just as the prow of the launch seemed as if it would sweep over Isobel, she did as Michael had done moments before. She kicked with her legs. Her body surged sideways and the launch missed her – but only just and, as he swept by, Grainger, in the stern, stabbed down at her with the boat-hook. The movement of the launch added to Grainger’s own strength and the hook flashed down faster than a guillotine. Isobel twisted in the water. After the effort of kicking herself out of the launch’s path, she was more exhausted than ever and lay virtually horizontal in the river, presenting a large, unmissable target.
From where Michael was it seemed that Grainger had aimed at Isobel’s heart, though it might have been her neck. At the last second, however, she managed to lift the square of wood which Michael had thrown. She held it above her, a square blue shield about an inch thick.
There was no time to spare. The black, gunmetal spike slammed into the wood.
The sound, a thud mixed with a loud crack as the wood split from the force of Grainger’s thrust, shot back across the river towards Michael. It was sickening in its intensity.
Michael didn’t wait to see what Grainger would do next. He struck out directly for Isobel, fighting the current. She had a similar thought and was swimming towards him. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘There!’ He pointed towards a part of the bank where a tree leaned out over the river. ‘There!’
Grainger was slowing again, but the current had taken him further downstream and he would now have to come back against the flow.
Michael reached the tree first. Some of its branches hung down almost to water level but they were too thin to take a person’s weight. The more sturdy trunk, however, was three or four feet above the waterline, out of reach. As Isobel approached, Michael gave another kick and his body rose in the water. His shoulders and arms lifted free. His clothes, wet and heavy, clung to him, hampering his movements. His hands reached the trunk but couldn’t hold on, they were so wet and cold. He slipped back and the river closed over his head. The stench of algae and petrol again filled his nostrils.
As he surfaced, coughing and sneezing, he looked downstream and saw Grainger beginning to move towards them again, no more than fifty yards away. Michael realised with horror that Grainger had not turned his boat this time. He was reversing upstream! The boat was hardly slower in reverse, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Grainger was coming for them screw first! The propeller could cut their legs to bits below water. Michael looked at the tree above him. He had to get up there. Grainger would get one of them this time.
Michael struggled in the water, kicking with his legs as he shrugged off his jacket. He curled his knees up to his chest and yanked off his shoes. They floated away though he barely noticed. He looked up at the tree again. He took a deep breath. Grainger was thirty yards downstream. Michael kicked. His body lifted and this time his hands closed over the top of the trunk. For a moment his body hung there, his skin showing through his dripping shirt, and his trousers clammy against his legs. Grainger was twenty yards away.
Michael heaved and pulled his legs out of the water and shoved his right knee over the trunk. Through his trousers, its bark burned his flesh. He pushed his knee further, until he could hook his foot over the other side. Then, using that, he levered his body horizontally along the tree. Grainger was barely fifteen yards from Isobel.
Michael reached down. Isobel’s hands were wet and cold and her grip was not strong. Michael jerked her up, let go and, as she fell back, grabbed under her armpits. As he took her full weight he gasped. He thought his own arms would be dragged from their sockets. Water, cold heavy water, poured off Isobel, though her sodden clothes squelched with still more
river. Ropes of sedge clung to her hair, her shirt, her belt. Ten yards away the propeller from Grainger’s launch was churning the water a foaming white.
Michael pulled. And pulled. Isobel’s body rose a few inches out of the water. He yanked again. She rose higher. The twisting propeller was five yards away. ‘Hold the tree with your arms!’ he yelled. She did as she was told. Michael grabbed her legs and pulled them clear of the water and on to the trunk. They both gasped for air, shivering and sobbing as their clammy clothes stuck to them, making every movement, even breathing, uncomfortable.
Below them a change in sound signalled that Grainger had shifted gear. The launch slid back into midstream and then, turning, moved ever faster as it caught the main flow of the river and surged with it downstream towards Wool and Wareham. Having missed Isobel a second time, Grainger was getting out.
For a moment Michael and Isobel lay shivering on the tree, getting their breath. Then, slowly, with Michael leading the way, they inched backwards to the more certain safety of the river bank.
Michael backed gingerly off the tree. Here the bank was covered with nettles. He looked about him. Were there any witnesses to the dreadful attack they had just endured? He could see no one. It was a perfect English evening. The countryside was serene, a landscape of lies in itself. He picked wet weed out of his hair, broke off a heavy branch from the tree and used it to sweep a path through the nettles to the flat meadow beyond. Then he went back for Isobel. She had edged herself to the foot of the tree trunk but she now leaned against it, sobbing. Her hands, her lips, her shoulders were all shaking.
‘Michael . . .’ she gasped, ‘Michael . . . he tried to kill me. If that hook had . . . oh!’ A sound, purely involuntary, escaped from her throat as she relived the moment and a shock reaction set in. She shook and cried inconsolably.
Michael put his arms around her. He plucked the wet sedge from her hair and her shirt. He peeled some of it from where it clung to her neck and cheeks. For a long while, he said nothing. He just gripped her tightly and felt her shaking inside his arms. Then, very softly, he said: ‘Isobel, it will pass. You are in shock. Perfectly normal. It will pass. Don’t forget, we’re alive. Grainger lost this round. We beat the bugger.’
