All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye

by Christopher Brookmyre

  He felt movement, a sudden buffeting as the water shifted him like helpless flotsam. He struck out with his arms but felt no air. Panic threatened. He had to still it. Until he was oriented, he shouldn’t be trying to move, as his efforts might well only be driving him deeper under.

  His breath was tightening in his chest. He could hold on a little longer, but it seemed harder as long as there was no relief in sight. Then he realised he had a solution. He placed his hands around his mouth, one on top, one below, and let slip some air. Bubbles burst against the fingers and palm of his right hand. He estimated he was at about forty-five degrees from upright. He kicked out and hauled his arms through the water, then broke the surface with a gasp of relief.

  His open mouth was instantly filled with water as a wave slapped against him, knocking him backwards. Another followed it, bumping him against the hull. The wind had picked up a little as evening fell, something else he’d noticed but failed to consciously acknowledge. He wasn’t exactly being tossed in twenty-foot breakers, but it wasn’t a millpond either. He’d imagined treading water, gently and quietly bobbing his way around the boat, one hand on the hull for guidance and support, but that was never how it was going to be, just something he’d fed his mind to get it to cooperate. This was the open sea, at night, miles from land. Just because it was the Med didn’t mean it was the same as diving off the back of a pedalo in Puerto del Carmen.

  Still, his body was getting used to the temperature; not liking it much, but over the shock and able to operate. He kicked off against the hull, swimming away from the boat at first so that the next wave didn’t just slam him into it again. It was incredibly hard going, a real effort just to stay above the surface in this chop, and that he made it to the stern was far more to do with good fortune that the waves were pushing him that way. The hardest stretch, therefore, was negotiating across the current to reach the short ladder leading up to the lower transom deck. It felt at times like that dream where he was running but getting nowhere, but eventually he did manage to get an arm around the first rung, and just hung there for a while, recovering, the drag against his dangling legs telling him how easily he might have been swept away for good.

  He looked up towards the deck of the main bridge. He could see the glow of lights, but no bodies. Gunfire and screams sounded out from above. Bruce was freeing the hostages. Any second now, the roof of Nakatomi Plaza was going to blow, and his dad was about to announce he was away to the toilet.

  Ross hauled himself on to the lower transom deck and unlashed the dinghy, which was rested on its side against the bulkhead. He untied all of the ropes and then secured one of them to a brass cleat. He didn’t know any knots, but figured a tight figure-of-eight looping ought to do the trick. Just in case it didn’t, he kept hold of one end as he eased the dinghy to the edge, letting its own weight tip it aright on to the surface of the water. The waves tugged it immediately, but the mooring line held. He lifted the two short oars and chucked them on board. Ross looked up again. Still no sign of movement. His dad ought to be appearing on the main bridge deck any minute, glancing down enough to confirm that they were good to go. Just as well it was an exciting movie, as it would provide a plausible explanation for why he might look pallidly anxious, knowing his wee boy was intending to take a header into the briny deep.

  Ross crouched close to the starboard bow. Opposite him were the jet skis, the most immediate means of pursuit once they were discovered to have gone. He scuttled across to them, staying low, and took hold of the one nearest the edge of the platform, intending to drag it over the side. As soon as he pulled at it, the other two leaned across in concert. He looked closer and saw that they were chained together and padlocked at the back. Shite. Still, it meant it would take the guards all the more time to get going. If he and Dad could make some headway in the meantime, it would be enough. They could kill the engine and drift in the darkness, wait until the sounds of the jet skis were long silenced before revving up again.

  Ross heard footsteps on the boards, above and to his right. He looked up and saw his dad. They exchanged a thumbs-up. Ross climbed into the dinghy. Timing was everything now. He untied the mooring and made his way to the rear bench, hand on the engine, feeling the dinghy float free of its master vessel. He became aware his teeth were chattering and that he was shivering. It reminded him to pull out the bag from across his arse-cheeks. There was no time to change into the dry T-shirt, so he stashed the bag under his seat for now, before lifting the oars and sliding them into the cradles on either side. He then began quietly paddling towards the port bow, where Dad would be taking position on the lowest of the open decks. Somewhere above, Bruce Willis was down to two bullets but laughing.

  Yippee-kiyay, motherfucker.

  Dad’s head appeared as soon as Ross rounded the stern. He was waiting and, Ross hoped, preparing himself for what was next. Ross pulled in the oars and reached for the starter-cord. He looked up and saw his dad vault over the grab-rails, a circular life belt clutched to his chest, snatched moments before from the port bulkhead. It made a hell of a splash, but wasn’t as noisy as the outboard engine, which screamed into life first time, Ross hauling at the cord with all the strength his anger and desperation could summon. He let out the throttle, a little too much at first, which caused the boat to leap forward, the prow rising unnervingly and obscuring his view of where Dad was gasping in cryo-shock above the waves. A flick of the wrist brought the speed under control, and he was able to bring it to as near a stop as possible next to where Dad was kicking and thrashing. Ross resisted the temptation to look up as he leaned over to help haul his dad over the side and aboard the dinghy. It took an agonisingly long time, mainly because Dad had forgotten – or ignored – Ross’s advice about stripping his trousers and sweater off before making his leap. He eventually slumped aboard in an ungainly heap, causing Ross to fall backwards also as the dinghy rocked violently in compensation for having been tipped to one side. As they both sprawled on the floor he noticed that his dad was still shod in his trademark Hush Puppies.

  ‘You didn’t take your fuckin’ shoes off?’

  ‘These cost me nearly fifty quid.’

  ‘Jesus fuck.’

  Ross clambered back on to his seat, this time compelled to look up. He saw three of their guards staring back down, two from the lower deck, one other above them. Orders were being shouted. He knew they couldn’t shoot him because he was worth too much alive, which explained why they weren’t reaching for their guns. Less explicable was that they didn’t seem to be in a pronounced state of urgency about their pursuit, which confirmed his impression of calm and highly confident professionalism. Still, he and Dad were off the boat and had a head start into the darkness. Game on. He flicked his wrist and let the throttle out in a controlled acceleration. As he did so, the moon began to emerge from cloud cover, easing his natural reluctance to give it maximum thrust as he headed into blackness. He took this to be a good omen until two things happened. The first was that he remembered how the increased visibility would be more of an aid to the pursuers than to the fugitives. The second was that the engine began spluttering as a brief prelude to cutting out altogether.

  The boat continued to drift silently forward, moonlight reflecting on the waves around them. Ross felt a growing dread, an awareness that this wasn’t turning on an unlucky quirk of fate. He looked briefly to the oars but knew it was hopeless. The reason the dinghy wasn’t chained and padlocked like the jet skis was that they had kept the petrol tank all but empty, just enough in it to prime the engine so it didn’t get choked when they did fuel up. It was a precaution against precisely this kind of escape attempt, and that’s why they weren’t scrabbling around with any great haste when they saw what was in progress.

  From not so far away, he heard the sound of jet skis as a searchbeam began swooping across the waves from the fly-bridge of the yacht.

  * * *

  They were towed back between two of the jet skis, lines run through a fibregla
ss loop on the front of the dinghy. Upon reaching the yacht, they were hauled aboard, dripping and shivering, by Guillaume and Stefan, while a third, Gilbert, paced behind on the transom, his ear to a mobile, presumably reporting this business back to the main man on shore. The hierarchy of the crew had not made itself apparent thus far, through lack of occasion, but now it was obvious he was the ranking officer. He said nothing to the others, but made his intentions known with looks and nods as he listened to whatever was being said on the phone.

  ‘Deux?’ he said into the cellular. ‘Trois? Deux. Oui. Okay.’

  They were escorted back to the saloon bridge, to the lounge area where the plasma was now austerely blank. On the bar-top, there stood the vodka bottle Ross was pretending to drink from, as well as the water bottle he was really quaffing and the glass central to this subterfuge. Gilbert clocked Ross noticing it and nodded at him, then briefly fanned out a sheaf of computer print-outs in one hand. Ross didn’t get a close look, but saw enough to recognise that they were low-res infrared images, bodyheat picking out a single figure in white against indistinct grey: him in his cabin, breaking the window.

  Gilbert nodded again.

  He was letting them know they’d only got as far as they did because he’d allowed them to, merely to demonstrate how futile their actions were. The bottle was left out to indicate just how early the alarm had been raised, underlining all the points at which the guards could have intervened, but the kicker was that ultimately they knew they didn’t have to.

  ‘Sit,’ Gilbert ordered.

  A folding chair was placed behind Ross, while his dad was allowed to take his familiar place on one of the sofas.

  ‘You were warned, were you not?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘You can’t shoot a man for trying,’ Ross said. He wanted it to sound winning and amiable, but it just came out tremulous and nervously hoarse.

  ‘No, we can’t shoot you at all, Mr Fleming. That’s why we need other sanctions to guarantee your discipline.’

  Gilbert blinked, his gaze switching from Ross to the guard nearest Dad, the stocky and expressionless Guillaume. He reached down, took Dad’s left hand and hauled back his index finger until it broke at the knuckle. Dad’s screams cut the night sky but failed to obliterate the sound of the snap resonating in Ross’s head. He went to stand up, but immediately felt hands on his shoulders. They were firm but not violent, underlining the message: they weren’t going to hurt him, which, no doubt intentionally, worsened the pain he felt over Dad.

  Dad was squirming on the sofa, his body racked with agony but unable to cradle and protect his injury because Guillaume still had an irresistible grip on his wrist. That was when Ross remembered Gilbert on the phone. Deux? Trois? Deux.

  Guillaume reached down again and this time snapped the middle finger. Again Dad’s howls tore into the night.

  ‘Okay,’ Gilbert said, and they were soon left alone, he and the other guards withdrawing quietly and calmly like extras from a stage. Ross had expected to be hauled away to some grotty hold and locked in, but perhaps Gilbert wanted to stress that further measures of restraint were redundant. They were already as securely imprisoned as it was possible to be.

  Ross helped his dad back to his cabin, where he fed him some Ibuprofen; not exactly diamorphine, but still better than nothing. He helped him get his wet clothes off, a torture in itself around that mangled hand, then wrapped the fingers together in a makeshift splint rendered from torn hand-towels and a comb. All the time, Ross was apologising, trying to hold the tears back but failing utterly.

  He knew that as bad as he felt, as helpless and as guilty, it would be nothing compared to what his dad was enduring over and above the physical pain: humiliated and impotent in front of his son. That in itself made Ross feel even worse about his role in bringing it about, and pretty soon the two of them were just sniffing and weeping on the cabin floor, in the throes of the most profound misery they’d ever known.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Dad,’ he kept saying, his throat swelling and choking the words.

  ‘It’s me should be sorry,’ was the repeated return volley, the rally going on for a few minutes until they gave up the stalemate and Ross did the most constructive thing he could imagine under the circumstances, which was boil the kettle.

  They said nothing for a while, just drinking the warm tea, glazed-eyed and welcome of the heat it brought. Then after about half a mug, Dad broke the silence.

  ‘I really am sorry, son.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not start again, Dad.’

  ‘Naw, seriously. It was me that …’ he shifted uneasily, wincing, but Ross couldn’t tell if this was prompted by his fingers or what Ross realised he was about to mention. ‘Connelly,’ he confirmed, his shame at this disastrous misjudgement etched heavily upon his features. ‘I’m so sorry, son.’

  ‘Just leave it, Dad. It’s not you that’s to blame. You’re not responsible for the actions of a prick like that.’

  ‘Nah, you don’t know the half of it, Ross,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I knew what he was. I don’t know how I managed to fool myself … I let him trample all over your mother before, and now …’

  ‘Mum? How?’

  ‘Her taxi job. Remember I told you she gave it up. Well, ach … The truth was he bought over the firm and he muscled her out because she wouldn’t run drugs. And I let him do it because I thought she was well off out of it, characters like that running around. But he saw me for a mug back then, and so when I came calling …’

  ‘She was better off out of it,’ Ross assured him, aghast at what his mum might have been caught up in. ‘Christ, what if there’d been a turf war, or if she had delivered a package and the polis got involved? God knows what kind of mess she could have ended up in.’

  ‘I know, I know that. But to her it was a betrayal. I never stuck up for her. In fact, she saw it as me siding with him, and I don’t think she’s forgiven me. She definitely won’t now. But I was just trying to do what I could to protect her. Your mother, she needs me to look out for her. Especially these days.’

  ‘Why especially these days?’ Ross asked, unable to remember any time his mother gave the impression of needing anyone to hold her hand.

  ‘Well, you maybe wouldnae be aware, not being around much. I’m not having a go,’ he assured. ‘Just saying. But the two of us …’

  ‘You’re not exactly love’s young dream. I’d noticed. Even from afar.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is. Nothing’s changed as far as I can see, but your mother, well … she seems a wee bit lost. This taxi business being a case in point. You’ve got to ask what a woman’s doing, taking up something like that at her stage in life.’

  ‘You make it sound like she’s a pensioner, Dad. She’s in her mid-forties.’

  Dad shifted his balance, about to transfer the empty mug to his right hand to put it on a table but arresting the movement and gingerly getting to his feet instead. He put it down next to the kettle as he spoke, still grimacing every so often as the pain continued to pulse.

  ‘Aye, but you know what I’m saying,’ he continued. ‘She’s a grandmother, for goodness’ sake. A mid-life crisis, I said it was, and I was only half joking. She doesn’t know what to be doing with herself.’

  Dad sat down again, very gently, as though every movement or impact could give his fingers a nasty jolt. He looked across with an expression of apprehension and determination, and Ross could tell there was some soul-searching in progress. He steeled himself to charitably receive something he suspected he wouldn’t like.

  ‘Now, I know you don’t think much of the Church, but you’re young, too young to understand when you really need it.’

  Ross let this go, but only because he thought his dad was talking about himself. He was wrong.

  ‘See, your mother … I always hoped she’d come around, and this is why.’ Come around. Dad couldn’t bring himself to say it, maybe because he knew how ridiculous it would sound if it was spelled out. ‘She does
n’t see where she fits in, she’s lost sight of the point of her life. If she’d come around, her life would make more sense.’

  Ross swallowed a last mouthful of tea, bitter and a bit nasty from going cool. He hoped it provided adequate cover for his expression. His guilt and general anguish reined him in, but he was pissed off, figuring his dad was playing the situation more than a little, banking on not getting the usual both barrels in response. He’d never have dared come out with this kind of shite under normal circumstances, and broken fingers or no, he wasn’t getting away with it.

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t fit in,’ Ross suggested quietly.

  ‘What do you mean? We’ve been married more than a quarter-century,’ Dad responded, his vehemence proof that he knew exactly what Ross meant.

  ‘I mean maybe you’re not the same people you were more than a quarter-century ago. When I’m home I don’t hear you talk much. In fact you seldom give the impression that you even like each other.’

  ‘Ach, rubbish. It’s not flowers and chocolates all the time, but what marriage is? Especially after all this time. But I love her, Ross, I always have.’

  Ross bit his lip, though he knew he was going to say it anyway. He felt like a thousand kinds of shit already, so it wouldn’t make much difference to heap on a little bit more. It might seem callous, but he’d been watching his dad build these delusions around himself his whole life, based on fallacies, undefined terms and unchallenged assertions. And now here he was, doing it again, using Ross’s guilt to stave off the truth.