Charlie let Josie sleep and took her a waking mug of tea in long after nine o'clock, finding her awake. She looked a bit of a state, sleep had been stranger to her, but tears were more than a friend. She sniffled, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand and gave him a wan smile that never touched her red rimmed eyes. "Drink this," he said, "It won't make you feel any better, but it’ll put back some of the fluids lost during the night."
She laughed in spite of herself. "If anyone else had said that I would probably have bitten their head off," she said as she took the mug and sat up in bed, tucking the duvet under her arms, "but thanks, you use humour a lot don't you."
Charlie sat on the edge of the bed. "Yes, I do and I won't patronise you by saying I understand how you feel, because it would be complete bullshit, I'm not a woman and you are definitely not a man..."
"There you go again, that humour."
"I have had my share of heartache, I've got a history, you don't get to my age, or even a hell of a lot younger, without baggage. The crunch is what you do with that baggage, you can lug it along, or you can pack it away, it'll still be there, but you can mark it not wanted on voyage. You are at the scary point, everything is going mad and you don't know which way to go. Like all of us, you have only your own experience and what you have directly seen of others to go on and that doesn't always help, does it. The trouble with observed experience, its biggest failing is that you don't know what's happening deep down for anybody except yourself. Humour is my strongest weapon; frankly it's the only one I've got. It shifts the perspective, distorts it slightly and if the recipient is OK with it then I'll carry on?"
She reached out and pulled him closer, until he was close enough to kiss. "I wish I had an uncle like you." She kissed him.
"Go on, get on with you, don't go sentimental on me. Breakfast in ten and I want a clean plate. Now drink your tea and get dressed." He said and left her to it. Josie eased herself back on to the pillow and sipped the tea. It condensed to a leap of faith, to acknowledge what she felt and let that guide her actions. "That's as maybe," she said, throwing the duvet aside and swinging her feet to the floor, "but that won't get the pigs in." There was work to be done. Her underwear was crumpled and the straps of her brassiere had left marks on her shoulders. She reached for her denims and dragged them on, realising that she had been wearing the same clothes for the last two days and shrugged, there would be plenty of time for dressing up to the nines when all this was over. Breakfast was on the table when she appeared in the kitchen and Charlie was pleased to see she cleared her plate, downing tea and toast to follow. The change in her was remarkable; the night’s sleep had lifted her spirits and recharged her batteries. So he didn't complain when she eased him away from the sink and insisted on doing the washing up, listening intently as he outlined the plan for the day. The re-supply of Westering Home and later the trip back out to a Tobermory rendezvous with Mara. When she had dried her hands and sat down he handed a shopping list to Josie. She added a few suggestions of her own.
The coil of rope slowly transformed into an instrument of torture, but Bracknell resisted the urge to break cover. The boat stayed silent, what noise there was to be heard was muffled and distant, the engines of other vessels, from the high whine of outboards to the deep bone vibrating note of the ferry as it steamed across the bay and threw in the bow thrusters, the tingling in his sternum reaching an uncomfortable pitch in the final moments before she touched the jetty and the engine went quiet. Once again he checked the luminous dial of his watch, each time it seemed dimmer, as though the passage of time in the dark space was directly draining the luminescence from the figures on the dial. The restriction of his movement was far more than he had at first imagined and he struggled to keep the cramps at bay, getting used to the first twinge, that shadow of a twitch in the muscle which came an instant before the main spasm, giving him enough warning to steady himself and stifle the automatic exclamation. Minutes ticked by like hours and the hours themselves seemed interminable, eventually exhaustion took its toll and he tumbled into a fitful, restless sleep. To be woken by every change in the way the boat moved and each distinct sound that penetrated the planked deck. The temperature in the hole became unbearable as the sun climbed to its zenith and began the long slide towards dusk and Bracknell took the chance, after listening carefully to the sounds around him and comfortably certain that none of the noises he could hear had its origin on the boat and eased up the hatch cover to allow a whisper of wind into the confined space. The cooler breath eased his discomfort and he rested more, but time still dragged and it was with an empowering sense of relief when he realised that the new noises were closer than any others. Voices and the bump and scrape of rubber against timber were alongside and he listened intently, as he closed the last fraction of an inch before the hatch was shut, two voices, one male and one female and coming aboard. His watch had counted away the hours from the darkness of the early morning through the afternoon and now the remaining time would be easier to endure and under the cover of the noises around him he opened his bag and emptied it on to the rope beside him, he made his preparations and settled down for the evening. He allowed himself to relax, the dye was cast and he awaited the trigger which would set off his next move, the most obvious was the opening of the hatch and he cradled like a baby a short stubby weapon, cut down and adapted from a shotgun. The barrels were shortened and the stock replaced with a pistol grip, his hand rested on the grip, a gentle, caressing hold. Two options remained ahead of him, destruction or redemption.
The tender bumped and scraped down the hull of Westering Home and Charlie reached for a railing stanchion, slipping the painter around it and using the bight to slow the boat's progress. Josie reached out and grabbed another stanchion, holding the tender while Charlie tied it off. He gave her backside a shove and she slid under the rail, sprawling on the deck before she picked herself up. He handed the stores up after her and she stacked them beside the rear cabin roof. The job took a couple of minutes and he shifted the tender to the stern and hooked it up ready for the davit to lift it clear of the water. He stowed the tender while Josie packed the boxes in the forward cabin. Her previous two days on board had been productive and she had picked up a fair amount of knowledge on how to conduct herself around the boat and had no trouble when he put the boat very slow ahead and asked her to retrieve the mooring. They had both slipped buoyancy vests on when they boarded the tender and she had unzipped hers until only the waistband held it together, it was undeniably more comfortable that way. Charlie had to admit it emphasised her shape and roguishly wished that he was a good few years younger. There was a lucky fellah out there somewhere and he prayed that he had the nerve and it would hold when the time came. He thought he knew what had happened in the bedroom after he had left her with the tea that morning. "Go for it girl." He said.
Josie turned, her arm around the aft mast, in what passed for a friendly embrace. "Did you say something Charlie?" She asked.
"No, just giving the old girl some encouragement." He lied and eased the bow around to take them out of the bay. He saw them round the tip of Kerrara under power and when they reached open water he supervised her as she hauled up the mainsail and he cut the engine. Westering Home settled on to her course, heeling slightly to the wind and went for Tobermory. Charlie cranked the prop shaft into its tunnel under the hull and she seemed to glide more smoothly. A picture of careless abandon they shared the space of the cockpit, Josie taking the wheel and conning the ketch as Charlie watched.
In his little hide-away, Bracknell felt the boat heel and heard the engine shut down, the ensuing quiet was soporific and he struggled to stay awake. He rummaged through his bag, found the small glass bottle he needed and tipped the tablets into his hand, he popped one into his mouth and waited for it to take effect. The supplier had said they would pick him up and keep him running for about twenty four hours, but then he would come down with a bang, for roughly the same amount of time. Twenty four ho
urs should be long enough; all he had to do was complete the job.
Josie ticked off the markers as Charlie pointed them out. The slipways for the small ferry at Lochaline and Fishnish, the islet of Dearg Sgeir with its small light and the village of Salen on the shore, the ruins of the castle at Aros Main and the red can marking the grave of the Hispania. They were running well for Calve Island when Charlie dropped the sail, lowered the prop shaft and restarted the engine ready to take her into the bay under power. The evening was drawing through dusk towards darkness as they rounded the island and he spotted the Mara anchored in the bay. He gave the wheel to Josie and eased the throttles back until Westering Home coasted across the smooth water leaving barely a ripple in her wake and walked forward to sort out the lines. Josie recognised Steel and Langhers on the stern, relaxed, but still half dressed in dry-suits, rolled down to the waist and the arms hanging loose and gave them a wave. They waved back and Charlie raised a hand before he bent to open the hatch and had it clear of the coaming when the blast shattered the air and he felt himself thrown backwards, the feeling gone from his right arm. He tumbled and dropped on to his face, the force of the charge twisting him as he fell. Josie stood in shocked silence for second then threw the helm over hard as the dark figure rose from the hatch beyond Charlie; she dragged the throttles into reverse and, leaving the wheel, dived into the cabin. Praying she could get her hands on the Browning before Bracknell could reach the cockpit. Frantically she tore open her rucksack and grabbed the pistol, now where was the bloody magazine. She cocked the hammer with her thumb and prayed that there was actually one in the breech, then she had the magazine in her hand and in a smooth sweep slid it into the butt. With just enough light to see a shape dimly through the small port hole in the cabin just above deck level she fired at the glass. The bullet shattered the port and blew Bracknell's ankle bone to smithereens. He howled with pain and dropped to the deck, thrusting the shotgun through the opening and fired. The concussion in the confined space was deafening and the blast of pellets ricocheted around the walls. Josie staggered; her arms and thighs peppered with shot and the buoyancy vest shredded. Her face was not unscathed. Charlie was unconscious, blood draining from his shoulder into the scuppers. Bracknell dragged himself to the cockpit and kicked the cabin door shut, jamming it with the boat hook and reaching for the throttle, he spun the wheel and shoved the throttles hard forward; the propeller bit into the water and pushed the ketch forward, her bow aimed at the Mara. Westering Home smashed into the starboard side of the Mara, breaking through the bulwark and scattering the diving equipment across the deck. Mara rolled with the impact and Westering Home lifted her hull out of the water and it was too much for the old girl, her keel hogged and shattered, breaking her back and splitting her timbers. The caulking opened up as the woodwork parted.
At the sound of the first shot Langhers dashed for the cabin, waking Jones as he crashed through the door and grabbed the Brownings from his bunk and checked the magazines. He was back out of the door a second before the two vessels hit and lobbed a pistol to Steel, the impact was a moment before the gun left his hand and he staggered, his aim completely out and watched helplessly as the pistol turned slowly in the air beyond Steel's reach and tumbled into the water. He squared himself to fire and raised the remaining Browning, sighting on the figure at the helm, his challenge met by a blast from the shotgun, but the collision threw Bracknell's aim too and the charge went high and wide. Bracknell dragged the throttles into reverse and the two vessels pulled apart, cracks plainly visible in the hull of the ketch. She began to settle immediately taking in water and Langhers went for his shot, taking Bracknell cleanly through the chest, he slumped into the cockpit and the boat shipped water at an alarming speed. Bracknell had dropped across the door to the cabin and Steel could hear the frantic hammering and shouts of Josie as she tried to break out. Westering Home was already down by the bow, mortally wounded as she began to settle. Steel struggled into his suit and yelled at Langhers to zip him up, then grabbed an aqualung and mask from the chaos around him. The deck was awash as he clipped on the harness and grabbed a knife. He pulled the mask on and dived for the sinking ship. Westering Home was going down, sliding smoothly under the waters of the bay. Time was vital, he had no idea how much air would remain in the cabin, if any, when the water began to pour through the shattered porthole as the cabin roof disappeared, leaving the rigging and bare poles visible. Steel caught the rope rail on the port side as it went under and hung on. The bay was less than twenty five metres deep here and he began to claw his way along the rail, the cold water around his head numbing his skull and seeming to squeeze his brain. The salt water found its way into the newly healed skin and began to sting, his mask flooded as he rammed his left arm above his head and the water pressure squeezed the air from his suit. The direct feed to equalise the pressure floated uselessly alongside his right shoulder, but he clung grimly on, the folds of the suit finding his skin and pinching it, the pinch getting stronger as the pressure increased. His comfort was secondary to reaching Josie before the cabin flooded completely and she gave up her last lungful of air. The ketch struck the bottom with a crash and the shock almost broke Steel’s grip, but somehow, the pain made him hang on and he pulled himself along the deck. Bracknell's body had jammed in the doorway and he realised that Charlie had been lifted off by his buoyancy vest and had floated free. It was a matter of seconds, but seemed like an age in the slow motion life Steel was living as he dragged the corpse clear, pulled the boat hook away and prised the doors apart using the knife. The pressure inside was almost equal, as the doors gave way without much of a struggle and he plunged in, snagging his aqualung on the hatch, vital seconds ticked by as he freed himself and groped around for any sign of Josie. He found her tucked up in a corner, a small pocket of air had given her a few moments and he pulled the octopus rig from the pocket of his jacket, stuck his thumb on the purge button and worked the rubber mouthpiece between her numbed lips, the blast of air inflated her cheeks and she coughed and spluttered, as he let go with his thumb and she vomited water through the valve, the reflex inhalation drew clean filtered air into her lungs and she began to breathe heavily, Steel ran his fingers over her face, closing her eyes and wrapped his arms around her. Hypothermia was beginning take its toll and he needed to get her to the surface. Josie's breathing began to settle down and Steel eased her towards the door, the ketch was still settling, rolling on to her port side and the movement tumbled them around the cabin, stalling their departure, silt began to filter in through the door and the visibility disappeared. Wrapping one arm around her chest under her arms he felt his way out with the other and ages later found himself on deck. Steel hit the inflation button on his buoyancy compensator and heard the surge of air into the jacket. The pain in his head was becoming difficult to ignore and the suit squeeze tormented every inch of his body. He kicked off the wreck, keeping his thumb on the button until he felt the lift of the jacket take over. Josie was breathing steadily, her eyes screwed tightly shut against the sting of the salt water and the blood from her wounds drifted away in eerie green tendrils. The water was lightening around them as Steel watched their ascent, marking it against the bubbles which climbed from the depths alongside them. He was going too fast and he began to blow out, tugging gently at the dump valve on the buoyancy compensator. Josie was struggling, her breathing becoming less regular and he sensed she was starting to hold her breath as she fought the rising panic in her mind. Steel clenched the fist of his free hand and drove it hard into her stomach, his action rewarded by a burst of air from the valve, then she inhaled and he watched her closely. They passed through a sphere of green water and he saw the dappling of the waves on the surface above and tugged the dump on his buoyancy compensator again, harder this time, the closer to the surface the faster they would ascend unless he dumped the air. Bubbles streamed from his shoulder and the ascent slowed, enough for him to be happy to go for the surface and moments later they broke through into
the clear air of a bright evening glow, the sun lost over the hill beyond Tobermory, but still giving light to the world around them. Mara was damaged, but floating and Jones eased her towards Steel and Josie. Langhers had recovered Charlie and was carefully cutting away the shattered remains of his buoyancy vest to patch the hole in his shoulder. Steel cursed as a wave from a much smaller, faster craft splashed over his head and swamped Josie, who spat the demand valve from her mouth and cried aloud with the pain. Then the pair of them bumped against the tubes of an inflatable and eager hands were reaching down into the water.
Steel gave her a shove from behind as Harry, Jones' colleague and George Evans dragged her aboard. "She needs a hospital and bloody quick." yelled Steel as he struggled to fit the direct feed to his suit and squirt air inside to ease the bite of the material, especially around his crotch. The air hissed into the suit and he grabbed hold of the rope line on the inflatable. "Fucking hell," he gasped, as the pressure came off, "that smarts." George reached back over the side and took hold of the aqualung as Steel unfastened the harness and let the assembly fall away. He unhooked the direct feed and George dragged it inboard. He dragged Steel aboard after his kit and dumped him in the bottom of the boat. Steel smiled, forcing his face into the resemblance of a grin and passed out, falling over so his head rested on Josie's lap, who, barely conscious herself reached out and touched his face, before she too slipped away to insensibility.
*****
Chapter Twenty Four
Iceline Page 25
