by Duncan Kyle
He gestured angrily at me to sit down again. I pretended I didn't understand, fixing an idiot look of puzzlement on my face and looking at him with my head to one side like an inquiring dog. But it was a gesture to sit that he made, not a threat to fire. Significant?
My God, but I prayed it was significant. I made myself stretch, as though to loosen tired muscles, then bent and rubbed at my calves, giving him a rueful half-grin. Hell climbing up the island isn't it? He was still making that sit-down gesture. If I'd obeyed it before, why wasn't I obeying it now? I straightened, shrugging my shoulders, hugging myself, doing the isn't-it-cold act, stamping my feet to emphasize the point. He scowled at me and gestured more furiously with the rifle. I pretended I suddenly understood, pointed at the ground, gave him another inquiring look. He nodded vigorously and I began to lower myself, bending my knees, letting my body bend, until almost at the point of sitting I'd got myself down nearly into the on-your-marks position. He was five feet away. Six perhaps. Two good strides while he made his decision to kill me or not. There wasn't time to pause and ponder. I hurled myself forward, low and rising in the tackle taught to me and practised endlessly long ago and far away on greener grass than this. Get his legs! Two hard stamps with my feet, driving up from the crouch, aiming the shoulder for the thigh. What if he'd played Rugby in Rumania or somewhere and could sidestep like Gerald Davies? Crunch! Hard into the thigh with my shoulder, arms round his legs, feet driving on. No shot, and he was over backwards and we were crashing down together. I swarmed over him like six All-Black forwards and behaved much the same way, all knees and elbows, gouging and thumping. An explosion of energy I'd never have believed I could raise. Side of the hand up under his nose and a highly rewarding shout of pain, thumb to the eyeball, knee to the groin. Gotcha! He tried to fight me, but too late. It was over. I chopped at his exposed throat and he whimpered and gagged and when the second chop landed he stopped moving.
I rose, grunting, and stared down at him. He wasn't shamming. He was badly hurt, possibly even dead. And I wasn't going to waste time finding out which. Where was Anderson's bird-watching hide? If he'd been here . . . but no, he hadn't been here, couldn't have been. All the same, John Sellers, find it, and look. I found it and looked. It was empty. A couple of notebooks, ropes, cameras, binoculars, two sleeping bags, spirit stove and Thermos, a few provisions, a torch. I took the torch, switched it on and headed back towards the. ropeway.
The torch seemed to give out an uncanny amount of light, much of it in directions in which it wasn't pointing. Turning, I saw that the seaward edge of the Holm top was silhouetted in a blast of light from below. I crossed quickly towards the edge, went flat on my stomach, crawled to the edge and looked cautiously over. Instantly, the light halfblinded me. Dazzled, I lay still, waiting for the light-burn to fade from the retinas of my eyes. It seemed to take an age of rubbing before I could see at all. But when some vision had returned, I played it differently, watching the beam as it moved, choosing the moment when it swung away a little on the sea's movement to raise my head. And what I saw brought bile into my throat, even though
it wasn't entirely unexpected; I'd half-known what I'd see on the dark water far below. But the confirmation of it sent a spasm through my. insides. A Russian fishing boat rode the sea down there, and there were men on the decks, staring up as the beam illuminated the edge of that frightening cliff. Worse, one of them was pointing and seemed to be shouting.
I ducked back quickly and hurried across the top of the Holm towards the cradle. There was no time now for hesitation; I must get into it and get going!
Climbing in, settling my feet carefully in the rear corners, I stared up along the thick nylon rope. The angle looked awesome; twenty-five degrees, even thirty! I found I had to keep my weight off centre to let the rope pass my body, and that alone made the cradle lurch alarmingly to one side.
I grabbed the rope and pulled. Nothing. No movement at all! What the hell was holding me back. A scraping sound gave me the answer. My own weight grounded the rear of the cradle. I'd have to move to the front, lean out over the gorge to shift the balance. Two awkward, fearful steps, with the cradle swaying alarmingly and I was at the front, reaching out to grab the line two feet beyond the front eyehole. And now, for the first time I could see down into the abyss, into the narrow gap where the sea, compressed between cliffs, boiled white among the black fangs of fallen rock. Right. Pull! The effort needed was enormous. The cradle slid forward a few inches, desperately slowly. And vs I changed grip, it slid straight back again. One hand didn't seem to be enough to hold the combined weight of the cradle and myself. Pull again! Try harder! Try a long pull and a quick grab. One foot gained, and hands burning from the bite of the twisting rope strands into my skin. Haul and grab, haul and grab! I'd never make it this way, not in a million years. What if .. . I pulled again, forced my body hard against the rope and very nearly turned the thing over. But it held! Again, then. Two feet gained that time, not one. But precarious as hell. Again. And again. Every time I braced my body against the rope, the cradle tried to roll' over and hurl me into the cauldron below. The rope also burned into the skin of my ribs, turning every woollen strand in my sweater into a little scraping blade. But I moved. I was out of the shadow of the cleft. My back and arms already ached fiercely. Even fit and rested I'd never have believed I could do it, let alone in the condition I was in. The rope stretched away in front of me to the fearful face of that grey, sheer cliff. I pulled, braced my body, pulled again. My ribs felt as though they were being scoured. The little pricking agonies of strain began to appear in my thighs, my neck, my back. Pull, pull, pull! Less than two feet gained each time, and shortening. But the distance still to go was lessening, too. Another effort! Pull the bloody thing! Christ! Suddenly I was nearly rolled over. The cradle pivoted upward and for a dreadful moment I was suspended almost horizontally over empty space, staring down in open-mouthed horror at the greedy, foaming water. I lost three feet and about ten years of my life getting back into equilibrium, and began again to fight my way upward.
My strength was going, though. My arms and hands were beginning to exhibit the slight numbness of muscles becoming starved of blood. Each pull required fiercer efforts, greater concentration.. How on earth had anyone done this trip with a sheep in the cradle!
How far to go? I glanced back, then stared up the rope. More than halfway, but more than halfway to exhaustion, too. I knew if once the cradle slipped back down the rope, I was beaten. If just once my grip failed, I'd be whipped back down to the Holm with a force beyond my power to hold.
The something caught my eye off to the right. The searchlight beam was moving! The fishing vessel must be easing forward towards the north end of the Holm. Once it got there, I'd be caught in the light! I pulled and pulled again. Each heave seemed to drain more energy, as though somebody had turned on a tap to draw my strength away and each wrenching effort squirted its quota into the void below. Twelve feet to go. Ten. Eight. Light all around me, but
not the full beam. Not yet. Six – and I was caught, almost blinded again, held in the centre of the light beam. Four, and something buzzed by me and an almost simultaneous crack hit my ears. The cradle jerked as a second bullet actually struck. One more heave!
Not enough. Wood splintered just behind me. Heave! And suddenly I was over' the lip, shielded by the cliff itself, holding on to the rope and clambering awkwardly over the raised front of the cradle. With a sudden zipping sound the cradle whipped away under its own weight, back down the heavy rope. I heard shots but didn't wait to look. I began to stumble instead up the short steep slope ahead of me. I must somehow reach Catriona and get off the island. But Catriona was a mile and a half away. I groaned at the thought end tried to will myself forward with promises to my weary body that if I could just get to the top, it was all downhill. I fell, forced myself up and fell again, scrambled for grips with my skinned and aching hands, dug my toes into the slope, struggled, fell and struggled some more.
Slowly I dragged myself to my feet and set off down the slope. The slight euphoria had gone. I swayed as I stumbled on but no longer drunkenly. This was pure physical weariness, slack muscles wavering and giving, no longer under real control. Yet my mind was clear. I had no difficulty in concentrating, no difficulty in picking out the next place for each foot to fall. The difficulty lay in placing the foot there accurately. My legs were like jelly, and I was only lurching forward, yet I was covering ground, and quite quickly, too. And after a while a little control came back. Perhaps it was because each step was no longer hard labour and I'd stopped gasping for every breath. There was cool air in my lungs, oxygen flowing into me. My feet began to land where I intended them to land and I found I was in altogether better balance.
I didn't look round. Wherever Marasov's fishing boat might be, I wouldn't be able to see it because it would be hidden beneath the cliffs, and I didn't dare to look anywhere but at the next few feet of ground ahead. I fell again, several times, but never as painfully as the first time, and by now the sheer hard urgency of the need to get away focused my mind on the other need, the need to roll up again and hurry on. I was astonished by the resilience of my own body. With each passing minute it was allowing control to return to my mind. My ribs ached from the rope, my hands were badly chafed and very sore, my feet were developing blisters in Lincoln's awkward, lumbering boots. But I was getting there. Would I be there in time? Damn it, I must be there in time! I needed every second I could gain and quite coldly and consciously I allowed gravity more play; let my body go forward faster. I stumbled again, and was up, almost exhilarated by the speed, and hurrying down that long slope.
Then, quite suddenly, the headlong plunge had ended and I was running uphill again, climbing the little saddle that lay between me and the beach at Nesti Voe. For a few yards my momentum carried me forward, but then I was slowed to a walk and the weariness began to creep again among my muscles and tendons. God, I'd only to go over the fifty-foot contour line, and after that it was downhill again ! I must keep going. I breasted the top of the slope, staggered forward a few yards, and let go again, flogging my weary body on.
From where I was the moonlight lit the beaches. Catriona was still there, and afloat not aground. Thank God for that! And then I saw something else, something that momentarily stopped me in my tracks.
For a few seconds I could see the other beach, too. And another boat lay there, a little Shetland model, the dark thread of her mooring line curving to the beach!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
So Anderson was on Noss!
Oh, God!
Where the hell was he? Why hadn't I seen him on my way down the slope? But I knew why – I hadn't been looking at anything but the way down. He'd have seen me, probably. Or would he? Maybe he'd been on lower ground, working his way round the southern cliffs while I came down the great central slope.
As I forced myself to move again, my mind was racing. Marasov would land on Noss if he believed anybody was there. Maybe Anderson could hide successfully, climbing, perhaps, down some cliff chimney he knew. But his boat would be found, he'd be trapped there and sooner or later
they'd reach him. The fishing boat would circle the island, men ashore would search. Anderson would be finished. I wondered briefly why it had taken Anderson so long to reach Noss.
I reached Catriona, pulled the anchor clear of its rock, waded into the shallows, slung it aboard and climbed over the low stern. Then I bashed the starter, swore as the engine failed to fire, pushed it again and gave a whooshing grunt of relief as it spun and caught. Did the bloody thing always fail first time and go the second?
Now, astern! I flung the lever over and heard the water swishing under the propeller blades. The beach receded slowly as I backed Catriona off, waited, then flung the lever forward and brought her head round.
Where was the fishing boat? I stared over my shoulder and was appalled to see she was no more than a few hundred yards away, barging across the mouth of the little bay beyond the beach, her bow wave glistening. I'd already half-decided, in a rational, if selfsacrificial moment, that if I could make it follow me, Anderson's chances would improve. Now the option wasn't even open. It was roaring towards me at full speed, big and powerful, searchlight knifing into the night. I opened the throttle as wide as it would go and slowly Catriona began to pick up speed. So far as I could tell the island of Bressay, only two hundred yards away across the channel, was all cliffs. Not high cliffs, but they didn't need to be, high to stop me. I reached for the chart and ran my eyes feverishly down the Bressay coastline. Yes, there! A gap in the cliffs at a spot called Grut Wick. I must get there. How far? A mile, perhaps more. I'd never make it. There was only one way — I'd have to blast Catriona straight across the Noss channel and try to get ashore as she struck.
Glancing over my shoulder, I was horrified to see how close the Russian boat was now. She seemed to be tearing through the water. And she'd seen me, too. She wasn't slowing or turning to go into Nesti Voe; she was coming powerfully on, directly towards me. But Catriona, too, was picking up speed. Poor Catriona a!
Poor Lincoln, too, for that matter, with his boat smashed deliberately into cliffs and then probably sinking, certainly abandoned. Bressay loomed nearer. Only a few yards to go now, and I could see the waves washing on the half-submerged rocks that jutted forward from the base of the low cliff. I left the wheel and scrambled forward, ready to jump as she struck. A harsh grating noise, then she stopped with a brutal bank and I was half catapulted, half jumping down to the flat, water-covered, sloping rock below me, falling headlong into the icy water. I scrambled upright and began to climb, glancing over my shoulder. The Russian fishing vessel was only a couple of hundred yards away now, knifing forward. I hauled myself desperately upward, insanely grateful that the cliff sloped back, that the rock stratum had buckled under some tremendous pressure of long ago and afforded scrambling angles. In a few seconds I was up and clear of it, but my heart was thundering painfully with each step now, every beat hammering at my eardrums. My legs were latex cylinders, buckling in all kinds of directions at once. That last explosion of effort had done for me. My strength was gone. I stood shakily for a moment on the grass slope at the top of the cliff and looked up. Ahead of me the ground sloped high, five or six hundred feet of rearing hillside,, a steep track that I had no hope of climbing, led to an escape I would now never make.
I was beaten. I'd tried, but I was done. From behind the damned searchlight caught me and I waited for the bullets to smack into me. But no bullets came. Marasov must have decided to catch me alive. Well, he'd have no trouble. I made mysel
f stagger on a few steps more, but it was only a token, a gesture to myself that I hadn't given up. I'd keep trying until they actually caught me; until hands grabbed me and held me and I could stagger no more. The searchlight threw the slope into blinding relief ahead of me and in its great blaze I could see the long stripe of my own shadow, black against the hillside. A few more stumbling steps brought me on to a tiny plateau, and there it ended. I could go no more. The will remained, but not a morsel of
strength. I simply stood still in the searchlight beam, sagging, looking at the ground at my feet. I didn't even turn to watch Marasov's men come over the cliff, just stood there, waiting to hear the footsteps come towards me.
But that sound . . . it wasn't footsteps. An engine? The fishing boat, of course. But no, it couldn't be. This was a clattering sound, and came from above. The searchlight went out suddenly and I was blind in the night, listening still, wondering what the sound could be, but too spent even to lift my head. It grew louder, frighteningly loud, and I cupped my hands over my ears to keep it away. The, light came on again, but differently somehow, then I knew why it was different: it, too, came from above. I made myself look up and saw a huge helicopter quite close above my head, dropping slowly, and a man stood framed in its doorway, waving to me. What did he want? My soggy brain realized he wasn't waving, but beckoning. The wheels touched now, and the huge helicopter bounced gently on her suspension and I staggered towards the beckoning arm. I was grasped and bundled in through the doorway and suddenly there was a great roar as the floor lifted powerfully beneath me.
A voice said, 'You're such a clever bastard!' and I knew the voice, somehow, but I didn't understand why my eyelids were clamped closed. I couldn't open them and I didn't want to. Everything was sliding away.
