by Graham Smith
What I see when I look back is the last thing I’m expecting.
31
Cameron has a submachine gun in his hands. There’s a yell from the other boat that is drowned out by the deafening chatter as Cameron opens fire.
All four men dive for cover but there aren’t many places for them to hide.
Splinters of wood and fibreglass fly from the motorboat, as Cameron empties the entire clip at them. I don’t see any of the rounds strike flesh, but that doesn’t mean much. The sea breeze carries wisps of smoke past me and I get the unfamiliar smell of cordite.
There’s another short burst of noise from the submachine gun as Cameron empties a second clip at the motorboat and its occupants, although as far as I can judge, he still hasn’t managed to hit any of the men. There’s no attempt to return the gunfire, perhaps they know they’re out-gunned. Or maybe, just maybe, they have no intention of pulling their triggers.
The person trying to control the motorboat is spinning the wheel – as am I, on the yacht – and within a few seconds we’ve pointed our sterns at each other. I push the throttles as far forward as they’ll go.
Another option is that they have orders to deliver Cameron to his employer, so he can either witness or carry out whatever punishment he deems appropriate for Cameron’s deceit.
After a minute or so, the motorboat turns and hangs a couple of hundred yards behind us.
I count four men standing at the back of the motorboat, and reason that Cameron’s ability to surprise is far superior to his aim. The guys in the motorboat have wisely decided that surveillance is the most prudent course for them.
Cameron producing the submachine gun has raised more questions in my mind. On the one hand he repelled the boarders and possibly saved all our lives; on the other, the father I’ve known for less than four hours has turned out to be a gun-toting thief who’s mixed up in organised crime.
It does, however, explain why he didn’t break any speed limits on our way to the harbour. Had he been stopped, and the submachine gun found in the trunk of his car, his plan would have surely failed.
‘Here, you take the wheel.’ I wave the nearest crewman forward. He looks nervous, but I smile at him. ‘Don’t worry. They won’t come back anytime soon.’
He swallows the bull I’m feeding him and takes control of the boat. ‘Where are we going?’
‘South,’ Cameron’s voice booms from the rear of the bridge. ‘Stay far enough out to sea to keep the coast out of sight. Our fuel tanks are full. They’ll run out long before we do.’
I’d marvel at his confidence were I not dumbfounded by his behaviour.
I walk over to him. ‘It’s time we talked, you and me. I’d like to know what’s really going on, where we’re headed and why a sixty-year-old man is auditioning for the next Rambo movie.’
32
Cameron is sitting on a chair in the rear deck area. His legs are crossed and there is a relaxed quality to his posture.
Like so many things about him, it’s a lie. There’s a tremor in his hands and the submachine gun rests on the table beside two spare clips.
‘Well?’ I glare at him for a moment and continue speaking. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or will I just turn the wheel and head for shore?’
He gives a knowing smile that doesn’t so much as threaten to touch his eyes. He’s faker than a five-buck Rolex and can’t be trusted on any level.
I decline the bottle of beer he tries to hand me. ‘Talk.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ There’s a smugness to his voice. He holds all the cards and he knows it. I need him way more than he needs me, and it’s obvious he’s going to milk the situation like it’s a prize cow.
‘This yacht. Who does it belong to?’
‘A company I own. It’s all legal and above board.’ He shrugs. ‘I just got someone else to pay for it, that’s all.’
‘Who?’
He shakes his head. ‘That doesn’t concern you. All you need to know, is the bozos in that boat,’ he uses the submachine gun to point at the motorboat, ‘represent the person whose money bought this boat.’
‘Would I be right in saying that the person whose money bought this boat may be a tad displeased with you using their money?’
‘I think it’s fair to say that he’d be displeased to death.’ A nonchalant shrug. ‘My death of course.’ Another shrug. ‘And the death of anyone who’s with me.’
His lack of concern is pissing me off, and intriguing me. Like a grandmaster playing chess against an amateur, he’s many steps ahead of me.
I need to fight him at his level, not mine. I lean against the rail and stare at the motorboat while I think things over.
When I turn to face Cameron, he’s looking at me with curiosity, trying to assess what I’ve figured out.
I gesture at the motorboat. ‘You’re not worried about those guys, which tells me you have a plan. The fact you had a gun indicates forward planning. Your gun being bigger and better than theirs, means you had foreknowledge of your opponents.’
He gives a nod to validate what I’m saying, and rolls his hand for me to continue.
I watch the motorboat for a minute, but I don’t really see it, as I’m composing my thoughts.
‘The boat that’s following us doesn’t worry you. I’ll credit you with enough brains to know they’ll be calling for reinforcements. That could be anything from a boat with a sniper on board to a helicopter. Yet you’re still looking calm. This tells me you have a plan to deal with whatever, or whoever comes our way.’
Another nod. ‘What time is it, Jake?’
I take a look at my watch. ‘Twenty after seven.’
Cameron doesn’t speak. He just raises an eyebrow and waits for me to work things out for myself.
I give my watch another glance and cast my gaze around. When I notice there is less light on three sides of us, I realise his plan. He intends to wait until dark and use its cover to escape from our pursuers.
I look at the sky and see a thick cloud cover; the kind of clouds that threaten rain and hide moonlight. Both welcome qualities.
‘So, once we’ve gotten away from these guys, what’s your plan?’
A smug look appears on his face. ‘I sell the boat. We do what needs to be done for your brother, and we go our separate ways.’
‘You make it sound simple.’ I tap my toes on the deck. ‘I’ve no idea what this yacht is worth, but I’ll be surprised if it’s less than a few million. Who has the money to buy such a thing with cash?’
‘Everything in life is simple provided you do the necessary planning. I know of twenty boat dealers who would be able to buy this boat without having to check that their account has the necessary funds. Especially if I make the price appealing. I paid seven for it; I’ll take five and a half.’
Something about Cameron has changed. He’s stopped showing his usual signs of deceit. I figure he’s now trying to impress me with his cleverness, and his newfound wealth.
Money has never held much sway for me and, while I appreciate intelligence, unless Cameron can find a cure for cancer, end worldwide famine, and put an end to all wars, he’s never going to be my favourite person.
‘It’s time.’ Cameron stands and heads for the stairway towards the bridge.
It’s his way of telling me our conversation is over and, in a way, I’m glad – despite still having unanswered questions. I have some thinking to do, and I want to find Taylor and make sure she’s okay.
33
For the first time since boarding the yacht, I notice its plushness. Every surface is polished to a glimmering sheen and there is little that doesn’t suggest extravagant opulence. Cameron said he had paid seven million bucks for it second-hand, but it’s a fair bet it was worth twice that brand new.
When I find Taylor, she’s huddled between two cream leather sofas. She hears my voice and lifts her head.
‘God, Jake. I heard the gunfire and I was so scared. I thought you�
�d get shot and the man with the gun would come for me.’
I bite down on a flippant remark before it passes my lips. The rush of adrenaline I felt when it kicked off has left me keyed up, but I can tell Taylor needs reassurance rather than wisecracks.
‘Don’t worry. Cameron has a plan and it’s a good one.’
While my words may be factually correct, I can’t help feeling that Cameron has overlooked something, or will be caught out by a counter to one of his strategies.
Taylor hugs me and nestles her head against my chest. The gesture is for reassurance, not romance, so I keep my breathing level and hope that if she can feel or hear my heartbeat, it’s now back to somewhere near its usual rhythm.
I’ve left the cabin door open ready to react should I need to. When nothing happens but the disappearing of the coast, Taylor and I watch as dusk turns to night and the sky darkens towards black.
There are a few slow drops of rain that become heavier and thicker until they form a proper downpour.
Despite knowing I’ll get a soaking, I venture outside for a quick look around. Cameron is hunched beside the guy by the wheel and he’s urging him to go faster.
I’m not sure this is the best idea: not only are the waves increasing in size, we’re also running without any lights in near zero visibility. This has disaster written all over it.
I keep my reservations to myself. It may not be the safest way to travel but the Atlantic Ocean is a big place, and the odds of us colliding with another vessel are slim.
The presence of what looks like some kind of radar on the yacht’s bridge is reassuring; as is the fact that, no matter how hard I peer into the rain-drenched gloom behind the stern, I cannot see even the merest sign of the motorboat.
My fears subsiding, I retreat to the cabin and re-join Taylor. Her face is more relaxed although I can tell she’s still walking the tightrope between composure and emotional collapse.
‘Jake?’
‘Yes?’ I return the serious look she’s giving me.
‘Did you mean what you said last night? I know they say a drunk man speaks the truth, but I also know that you need to come to things in your own time.’
I rack my brains and try to recall the conversations we had. I remember her railing on me for getting drunk and for fighting; I also have memories of us sitting side-by-side on the bed, me talking to her as I clasped her hands in mine.
It’s no good. I can’t remember what she’s talking about, which leaves me with two options. Number one is to lie, and number two is to admit that I was so out of it I can’t remember what I said.
I try to think of a third option but I strike a blank. Option one has to be out as I am not a liar and I don’t know what I said to her. In my befuddled state I could have said anything from “we’re finished” to “will you marry me”. Telling Taylor I meant what I said isn’t something I can do until I know what I said.
She gives one of her gentle smiles. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
I shake my head.
Her smile broadens and lights her eyes. This is why I love her: she’s so forgiving, wonderful, and most of all, she gets who I am and allows me to be me.
This realisation brings a memory with it. Last night, for the first time in my life, I looked into a girl’s eyes and told her that I love her.
Granted, the moment should have come after a romantic moonlit walk, over dessert in a swish restaurant, or perhaps when we’re goofing around enjoying each other’s company. Not when I’m only halfway coherent and stinking of whisky.
My eyes fall to the floor in shame, but Taylor is better than that. She lifts my chin. ‘I can see you remember now.’ She smiles. ‘For the record, I love you too.’
‘I’m sorry, Taylor.’ I look into her eyes. ‘You deserved for me to say it sober, but it’s true. I do love you.’
The kiss she gives me is long and deep; it suggests more than forgiveness to me. I feel a stirring in my loins as Taylor presses her body against mine. I’ve heard about the effect that exposure to danger can have on some women, but this is the first time I’ve experienced it.
She pushes me onto a couch, walks to the door and locks it, a hungry expression in her eyes.
34
Banging on the cabin door wakes me. After a quick check to make sure Taylor’s decent, I unlock the door to be confronted by Cameron. If the set to his jaw is anything to go by, he’s not in the best of moods.
His eyes flicker around the cabin and he gives a snort. ‘So, while we spend all night out there, you’re in here getting laid.’
I square up to him and meet his gaze with enough ferocity to see his anger and raise him a psychotic rage.
‘You are the one who decided to rip off a criminal gang. You are the one who stands to walk away with more than five million dollars. You are also the one who’s lied to, manipulated and used every other person on board this yacht. Forgive me if I don’t work myself to death on your behalf.’
Cameron moves forward until our noses are less than an inch apart. There’s no way I’m going to back away, but there aren’t many people I’d allow to invade my personal space like this. If I didn’t need him to save my brother’s life, and if I didn’t respect the fact he is my father, despite not respecting him as a man, I’d make him bloody and horizontal.
‘I don’t give a rat’s ass what you have to say. I need you topside. There’s work to be done and the sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get back to dry land. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
I hate the fact that he’s not only making sense, but that he’s cottoned on to my biggest fear: drowning.
I can swim, but it’s not what anyone would call graceful or balletic. Like a kid in water-wings, I make a lot of effort, and splash a great deal of water, without making any significant forward motion. Only once in my life have I been out of my depth in water and I still have nightmares about it.
I pull on my life preserver and head out to see what he wants done. A look at the morning sun tells me we’re now heading north rather than south. It’s a simple deception that might or might not work.
Both crewmen are on deck, along with an array of packages and a selection of tools, and the sun has burned away last night’s rainclouds.
Cameron passes me a cordless drill with a screwdriver bit, and a few of the packages. ‘Go and change these. Toss the old ones overboard.’
Each of the brown paper-wrapped packages bears a shipboard location, handwritten in thick black ink.
I go to the bridge and unwrap the first one. It’s a nameplate, the same size as the one screwed to the central console.
Less than five minutes later, Lady Ursula has become Dunsettlin. Well, on the bridge at least.
As I work my way around the boat, replacing nameplates, I have to fight not to smile at Cameron’s choice of name. Dunsettlin is the kitsch name that people give to houses back in Scotland. Dunroamin was a popular one for those who’d tired of frequent relocating.
It also shows his inner humour. In his own way, he’s flipping the bird at the people he’s ripping off. Socking it to them with a dry joke at how he’s no longer prepared to settle for the scraps they toss his way.
I’d let myself smile were it not for the fact I share his humour and, therefore, I recognise that I’m more like him than I want to be.
As I make my way around the yacht, I see that Cameron is directing the crewmen as they complete another task.
Both crewmen are in a life-raft and they’re working at the stern of the yacht as it bobs on the waves.
Cameron passes the men a couple of spray paint canisters, and I hear the hiss of escaping paint a moment later. A large cardboard tube is wedged between Cameron’s feet, and I presume it’s a premade sticker to replace the now painted-over Lady Ursula.
The people Cameron has stolen from will be on the lookout for Lady Ursula being sold. By changing the name, Cameron has at least bought some time to get away from anyone who may be pursuing him. Who knows, h
e may never be traced.
It takes me an hour to locate and replace all the nameplates. When I’m finished, I join Taylor on the rear deck and watch as the crewmen complete their task at the yacht’s stern.
35
It’s early afternoon when we sight land. I have no idea where we are until one of the crewmen shows me a map and points to our destination.
Cameron’s plan appears to be working as there is no sign of any pursuit. He looks more relaxed after grabbing a few hours’ sleep in the stateroom. His demeanour is one of confidence and there’s a certain smugness about his face.
His phone has been pressed to his ear throughout the day and, although I’ve never heard what he’s said, his expression has always suggested that the calls were important.
He joins Taylor and me on the rear deck and offers us a bottle of beer. I refuse mine, but Taylor takes one and rolls it across her forehead before taking a sip.
‘I’ve got someone meeting us at a marina. He’s interested in buying the boat.’
I don’t answer him. I’ll be glad to get my feet back on terra firma, but something is nagging me; there’s something going on and I can’t yet identify what it is or who’s behind it. All I know is that I’m not happy with the setup.
For me, Osterville, on the peninsula that forms Cape Cod, is too near New York for comfort. Had we travelled down the coast to Florida, I would have been more confident that our docking would be a safe affair.
To my mind, trying to sell the boat only a few hours’ drive from NYC is foolish. Yes, there’s a lot to be said for double bluffs, and doing what your opponent least expects, but there’s also the fact that he used to work for the people he’s stolen from, therefore they’ll know what a tricky, contrary person he is. They’ll expect him to do the unexpected and will ensure that his unpredictability plays into their hands.
The yacht putters its way through an opening between two headlands and into a calm bay. We continue past various yachts, sailboats and other boats, before a stilling of the engine signals that the yacht is preparing to dock.
