by Smilodon
“No fucking evidence!”
His scream was high and joyous but his right hand was fumbling with the latch of a shoulder holster.
A black shadow flashed over the dirty ochre of the sand. Magic hurled himself into the water, jumping to breast the breaking waves. Fowler’s triumphant look vanished in a flash. He crouched, pistol extended in both hands, and fired. He got off three shots before I hit him. Angela told me afterwards that they saw me take off in mid run and launch myself at him. He must have been turning back towards me because my head smashed into his nose and I heard and felt it break. We crashed to the ground. Fury of a type I have never experienced must have lent me wings. I was incandescent with rage. The bastard was shooting at my dog! I lost it completely. I was howling like a soul in torment as I leapt on him. I smashed my fists into his face. I bit, gouged, kicked and thrashed. I didn’t hear the crack of the revolver or feel the wind of the bullet that blasted past my face. I didn’t feel the pain of the resulting powder-burn nor was I aware of the skin on my knuckles splitting. I just kept pounding him until Niall arrived to pull me off his senseless body.
“Christ!” Niall said, “remind me never to upset you, Martin. You’ve damn near killed him.”
My vision swam back into focus and I looked down at Fowler. His face was not recognisable as that of a human being. Blood oozed from his shattered nose and from a number of cuts around his eyes and mouth. I had driven his front teeth through his upper lip and bitten off the top of his right ear. He was breathing harshly through the open mess that had been his mouth. I spun away from him, sickened by what I’d done and vomited onto the sand.
Suddenly I remembered Magic and stood, gazing frantically out to sea and bellowing his name. I could see no sign of him. Angela and her father arrived, panting heavily. Angela had run back to call Swann and her father, typically had run to get a weapon. He stood there now, a heavy black automatic trained unwaveringly on Fowler who had started to groan and twitch as consciousness returned.
“There!” said Angela, ”there he is!”
I followed her pointing finger and could just make out a small black dot in the confused sea. He was about a hundred yards out and being swept further by the tide.
Some instinct must have told him that he couldn’t fight the current. He was swimming parallel to the shore. The tide pushed him further out to sea but he kept going.
“Oh my God, I’ve lost him,” I groaned.
“No!” Angela said. “He’s trying to get out of the current. If he can get to the shelter of the spit, the tide will be less without the water from the river. I’ve seen the little fishing boats do it lots of times.”
We watched in agony as Magic fought the roiling water. He swam on strongly though still receding further from the beach. It must have taken him ten minutes or more to claw his way out of the current and a further twenty to creep towards the spit where we stood, yelling encouragement. I could see the yellow roll clamped in his teeth and I knew he was going to make it now. I laughed with relief.
“Good Dog!” I called to him. “Good Boy! Come on Magic!” Then I laughed again. “You know, when he gets that roll ashore he’s just going to chew it up. He never got the hang of retrieving.”
The others stared at me. Magic staggered as a wave caught him and then he tumbled over as it broke over his head. Angela gasped. A soggy black shape reappeared in the foam and then he his paws touched bottom and he was struggling out of the backwash. His flanks were heaving with effort and he looked, if you’ll excuse the expression, dog-tired.
He came across the sand at a shambling trot, dropped the oilskin roll at my feet and subsided onto the sand. He was panting and his pink tongue lolled out of one side of his grinning mouth. He didn’t even have the energy to shake himself. A bright red furrow ran across the deep black of his back where one of Fowler’s bullets had scored him. I flung myself down beside him and hugged him. Trotsky decided to rejoin the party at that moment. He walked up jauntily, sniffed at the still-prostrate Fowler, raised one aristocratic back leg and pissed all over him. He wandered over to where Magic and I were crouched on the sand and began to lick Magic’s injured back with gentle delicacy. Magic gave him a look that seemed to say ‘thanks, mate.’
We walked back to the cottage. Liam and Niall half carried, half dragged Fowler between them. They had secured his hands behind him with his own handcuffs. He didn’t look in any state to try anything. Angela sat me at the kitchen table and bathed my burned face and injured hands. I winced as he pulled a splinter of tooth out of my right knuckles. My hands had started to swell and the skin was rapidly turning the colour of an aubergine where it wasn’t just raw flesh. I’ll never make a boxer. The whump-whump of helicopter blades announced the arrival of Swann. I left it to Liam to explain. I was in that state of post-adrenalin torpor. I could hardly keep my eyes open. Swann took possession of the oilskin roll. He knelt down beside Magic, who was as knackered as I was. Magic opened one bleary eye and managed the faintest twitch of his tail. “Good boy,” said Swann. He made his farewells and left after extracting a promise from us all to attend him at New Scotland Yard the following afternoon.
I yawned loudly. “I guess it really is over this time,” I said.
“Yes,” said Liam. “At least is for us. I have the feeling Swann’s work is just beginning.”
Epilogue
Last night, Angela and I made love for the first time in our new home. I managed to sell the mews house in Kensington within a week of it going on the market. That stirred us up a bit and we found this place. It’s not all that big but it is pretty and the acre and a half of gardens is perfect for the dogs. Just down the road is Battle, where William the Conqueror beat Harold Godwineson in 1066. The coast is a mile or two further on. A small lake bounds our house on the northern side and as I write this, a local builder is restoring a low stone outbuilding. It will make a very fine studio.
Commander Swann was, as predicted by Liam, very busy indeed in the weeks that followed and the papers have been full of revelations about the depth of the plot. At our own request, our names didn’t appear anywhere. Only the colonel, identified simply as a member of the Estonian Security Service working under deep cover, got a mention. Swann decided to take no action against Niall, Liam and Bill for their illegal actions and the last I heard from the twins, they had just got a government security contract. Bill has recovered from his wounds and has joined Liam and Niall full-time. Liam has just about forgiven Niall for getting pissed and falling asleep.
Two days ago, before we moved out of London, Angela and I took Magic and Trotsky for a last walk in Kensington Gardens. We were wandering along towards the Round Pond when I heard someone calling my name.
“Martin! I say, Martin Booth!”
It was Steph. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a very expensive piece of Italian engineering. We strolled over. Angela’s arm was firmly gripping mine and she leant into me slightly. I could almost feel her hackles rising. Steph smiled sweetly up at us. The man beside her could have been a male model. He gazed at us disinterestedly.
“Hello, Steph,” I said. I gave my feelings a quick once over. Nothing.
“A little bird tells me you’re getting married, Martin, can this be true?”
“It is.”
“And is this the lucky lady? Do introduce us, darling.”
“Steph, meet Angela; Angela, Steph.”
“And how did you two love-birds meet? Somewhere boring, I expect?”
“Oh yes,” said Angela. “It was very boring; walking the dogs.”
“I see you still you still have those smelly animals, Martin.”
I grinned. “We couldn’t want for better,” I said.
Steph sniffed. “Each to his own. ’Bye, darling, must rush.”
Trotsky ambled up, sniffed at the Ferrari and pointedly pissed on the front wheel. I let him finish before pulling him away. Angela and I walked off laughing, the shout of outrage ringing in our ears.
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