by Irene Carr
Out on deck he followed Forthrop down the ladder into the boat. Heavy laden, it lay low in the water now, with only a couple of inches of freeboard. The cargo, lashed down under a tarpaulin, took up most of the boat forward of the engine housing. Parnaby started the engine, cast off from the ladder and Forthrop steered the boat out into the stream.
Forthrop told Parnaby, ‘Nielsen will do it. He sails in twenty-four hours from now and he’s got another load for us tomorrow night. We’ll bring the little bitch out and he’ll make sure he is the only one aboard – even the Mate will be ashore. He’ll hide her below, and when he’s halfway back across the North Sea –’ He jerked his thumb, indicating the water sucking and gurgling at the sides of the boat. ‘That big Dane can manage her with one hand.’
The boat ran in to lie alongside the wharf and the shed, then Parnaby climbed ashore and made it fast to bollards on the wharf. He unloaded the cargo, into the shed while Forthrop kept watch from the seat of the Humber. When Parnaby stumbled Forthrop cursed him: ‘You drunken fool! You know the drink goes to your head. Leave it alone!’
Parnaby answered, ‘Go to hell!’ but only in a whisper, and when he was inside the shed and out of Forthrop’s hearing.
When the boat was empty Forthrop took a sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to Parnaby. ‘We’ve got buyers for that lot. Get it out but bring it from the back, the oldest stuff.’
Parnaby nodded and obeyed, staggered back and forth from the shed to the Humber with sides of bacon and casks of butter, set them down in the back of the car. Finally he spread a rug over them, then handed the shopping list back to Forthrop and reported, ‘All there.’
Forthrop nodded his satisfaction. ‘I’ve got customers waiting for them to be delivered tomorrow.’ Then he grinned, showing big teeth. ‘And then we’ve got the big Dane waiting for his delivery.’
Parnaby swung the starting handle, the engine fired and he climbed in. Forthrop drove out of the dockyard, waving to the watchman on the gate.
Twenty-four hours later, Chrissie called, ‘I’m going over to the Bells. I’ll be back in an hour or two. Keep an eye on things, please.’
Arkley answered, ‘Righto, Miss Carter.’ He had expected the instruction because this visit to the Bells was routine. But Chrissie thought as she went on her way that the visits would cease shortly when Lance Morgan moved south. She passed a few people on the bridge but once she had crossed that, and turned off Bridge Street on to the long downhill road that led to the sea, she found it deserted. This was a Tuesday night, the men had spent their money and there was a bitterly cold wind off the sea carrying a spit of rain; all conspired to keep people in by their firesides. The road was dark, with little islands of pale light shed by the gas lamps, and here and there the black mouths of alleys. But Chrissie was not deterred; she had walked this route hundreds of times over the years.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Forthrop’s voice was low but harsh with anger. He sat in the driving seat of the Humber, hidden in the darkness of an alley.
Parnaby, who had just come in from the street beyond, muttered, ‘I had a couple o’ pints.’
Forthrop stepped down from the Humber to sniff at Parnaby’s breath. ‘And a few shorts! I can smell the rum. You should have been here ten minutes ago. I told you, she walks round to the Bells every Tuesday night about this time.’
‘Well, I’m here now.’ But Parnaby had not come willingly. He had needed the Dutch courage.
‘A good job for you that you are.’ Forthrop’s voice was still barely above a whisper but Parnaby flinched. ‘Because if you let me down, I’ll settle with you.’
Parnaby was silenced. He was caught between two fires: his dread of the hangman’s noose as a consequence of what Forthrop intended this night, and his fear of Forthrop’s vengeance if he failed.
‘Hello, Mr Ballantyne! I didn’t know you were home.’ Arkley, passing through the foyer of the Railway Hotel, checked in his limping stride.
Jack, in uniform and cap in hand, glanced through the open door of Chrissie’s office and found it empty. He grinned at Arkley and explained, ‘My ship put into Hartlepool tonight – just for a few hours, she’s sailing in the morning – and I thought I’d jump on a train and look in. Is Miss Carter about?’
‘Went out about ten minutes back.’ Then Arkley added, ‘She’s gone over to the Bells.’
‘Thank you.’ Jack strode back to the station, found none of the few motor taxis but hailed one of the horse-drawn cabs and told the driver, ‘The Bells, off Howick Street.’
The cabman sniffed. ‘I know where the Bells is.’ He shook the reins as Jack climbed into the cab and the horse hauled it away.
Forthrop lifted a hand, listened. He and Parnaby heard the tap of heels on the pavement of the street. He whispered, ‘Somebody coming now!’ He reached into the car, lifted out a coil of rope and passed it to Parnaby. Then Forthrop edged forward to the corner and peered around it. A moment later he turned back to Parnaby and hissed, ‘It’s her!’
They waited, pressed back against the wall as the tap! tap! came closer. The girl passed the entrance to the alley, looking ahead of her. They could hear her humming softly. They crept out softly behind her retreating back and sprang.
Chrissie could not breathe as the hand was clapped over her mouth. An arm wrapped around hers, pinning them to her sides and she was dragged backwards into the alley. Other hands pinioned her legs now and she felt the rope being whipped around them and yanked tight. Then it was fastened around her arms, her hands knotted behind her. The muffling hand was withdrawn but only to ram a rag into her mouth instead. Another cloth tied around her head fastened the gag in place. It tasted of oil, turning her stomach.
She could see that there were two men. She recognised Forthrop and Parnaby as they lifted her between them and threw her on the floor in the back of the Humber. Forthrop snatched a rug from the rear seat and tossed it over her, hiding her. While they had gagged her to stop her crying out, they had not blindfolded her. Then she realised why: they knew she would not live to bear witness against them.
As the cab turned out of Bridge Street Jack glimpsed a slight figure on the dark and empty road ahead, passing through the pool of yellow light shed by a streetlamp. He leaned forward eagerly as he thought he recognised Chrissie – then as she passed out of the light he saw the two hulking shadows snatch her from the street and bundle her into the dark maw of an alley.
He yelled at the cabbie, ‘Stop!’. He shoved open the door, jumped down into the road and landed running.
The cabman, startled, gaped after him for a second and hauled on the reins. Then he bawled, ‘’Ere! You come back!’ Fearful for his fare he cracked the whip and the horse jerked into a canter. Jack ignored the shout, ran on and swung into the alley. He was just in time to see the black bulk of the Humber pulling away, one shadowy figure at the wheel, another in the rear. He sprinted but it ran away from him and he knew he could not catch it.
Then he became aware of the cab clattering up behind him. He stopped, panting, and as it came abreast of him he leapt up to shove his way on to the box beside the driver. The cabbie protested, ‘What the ’ell d’yer think yer doin’?’ But Jack tore the reins and whip from his grasp, shook the one and cracked the other. He shouted at the horse in rage and fear and it broke into a gallop.
Forthrop drove the Humber and Parnaby sat in the rear, his booted feet set on Chrissie’s body, holding it still on the floor. She breathed shallowly, quickly, through her nose that was pressed against the juddering floor of the car, smelling the petrol, leather, rubber and hot oil. She felt the car sway as Forthrop steered it around bends and guessed that they were heading downhill towards the river.
Jack negotiated the cab through the narrow back streets, the Humber gone from his sight round one bend after another, but he gambled it would be heading for the river, not turning back towards the town, the main streets and the lights. The cab swayed wildly, bounced on the cobbles and the sho
es of the horse struck sparks from them. Then they burst out of the alleys and on to a road again. Jack looked to his right, eyes searching frantically. He saw, far ahead, the square shadow and the fingers of faint light marking the Humber. He hauled the cab around in a tight turn, the wheels on one side leaping clear of the ground and the cabbie yelling in fright. Jack ignored him as the cab smashed down on to all four wheels again and he sent it rocking after the fleeing motor car.
Forthrop saw the nightwatchman standing by the open gates of the North Dock. He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket, found the shilling held ready there and flipped it to the man as he swung the car in at the gates without stopping. Behind him, Parnaby waved to the watchman as Forthrop had told him, and managed a sickly grin.
Forthrop drove down to his boat where it lay by the empty wharf. There he braked, switched off the engine and extinguished the lights. Then he and Parnaby dragged Chrissie out from under the rug. Parnaby held her ankles while Forthrop gripped her under her arms. He could feel her body under his hands, looked down into her face and saw the fear there, laughed at her.
They carried her down the steps and laid her in the bottom of the boat between the sternsheets and the engine housing. Forthrop sat in the sternsheets and took the tiller while Parnaby started the engine. The boat edged out into the stream. Chrissie could see Forthrop’s eyes glinting in the night as he watched her.
Jack urged the horse on, standing and shouting, cracking the whip. For a split second he recalled Chrissie standing on her cart and wielding her whip in his defence; now he had to save her. He shouted again and the horse sensed his fear and stretched out in a faster gallop.
They clattered down the long road leading to the sea, passing the gates of Ballantyne’s yard. Then Jack saw the lights of the car fade and die. For a moment he thought it had turned off into a side street, then he realised it had dipped down on the steep incline leading to the North Dock. He cracked the whip over the horse again. It was already giving of its best but managed a faster pace as it started on the downhill run to the dock gates.
There was no sign of the car, no blink of its lights, but the nightwatchman appeared in the gateway, pale blur of a face above dark silhouette of a body, hand raised. Then he jumped for his life as the snorting, foam-flecked horse bore down on him.
The cab missed him by inches, clipped a gate with one spinning wheel and bounced off. It heeled over as Jack heaved on the reins, trying to avoid a stack of pit-props brought from Scandinavia. He failed, the cab slid broadside into the pile and both wheels on that side splintered and collapsed. The cab halted, horse and cabbie both trembling.
Jack held his breath, listening, eyes striving to pierce the gloom. He was conscious of the pitch-pine smell of the props, the sweaty tang of the horse. He could not see the motor car but thought he heard the beat of an engine. He jumped down from the box and ran towards the sound, came out on a wharf and found the car. He pelted up to it, skidded to a halt and peered inside, breath rasping thunderous in his ears. Then he realised he had lost his race. The car was empty.
Chrissie tried not to look at Forthrop as she tugged and twisted at the rope binding her wrists. It was too thick and stiff to knot tightly around her small wrists. A thinner cord would have served Forthrop’s purpose better. As it was, Chrissie could feel it slackening and she was working one hand free.
But Forthrop said, voice thick, ‘Stop the engine and come back here.’
Parnaby knocked out the clutch and picked his way past Chrissie, balancing against the rocking of the boat. He dropped down into the sternsheets beside Forthrop and asked, agitated, ‘What’s the matter? What have we stopped for?’ They were still in sight of the wharf.
Forthrop said, ‘We’re going to have a bit of fun before we hand her over to the Dane.’ He stepped forward and stooped over Chrissie, untied the rope around her legs and threw her skirts up over her face. She kicked out frantically and Forthrop stood back but only grinned. The wildly flailing legs and the white flesh above the stockings only excited him further.
Then Chrissie wrenched one hand free, tore away the gag and pushed down the muffling skirts. She shrieked, ‘Help! Help! Help!’
The screams echoed across the dark and silent river. Forthrop swore, stooped swiftly to try to slam a hand on the girl’s mouth but her heel caught him in the face and he staggered back. Chrissie curled her legs under her, then with her back against the engine housing and despite the bouncing, rocking boat, she managed to shove herself on to her feet. All the time she was screaming, ‘Help! Help! Help!’
But now Forthrop threw himself on her. He took a savage kick on the shin and yelled for Parnaby, ‘Give me a hand here!’ He still lurched forward, grabbed Chrissie’s free hand in one of his and clamped his other over her mouth. She braced her legs against the engine housing and shoved. Forthrop staggered back but she went with him, the pair of them swaying wildly together as the boat rolled from side to side.
Parnaby was already coming to Forthrop’s aid and walked into him as he stepped back. Parnaby bounced off him, staggered sideways and automatically grabbed at Forthrop to save himself. Instead his weight only pulled the other two further off-balance. Their combined weight tipped the boat on its side and all three plunged into the river together in a tangle of arms and legs.
As Forthrop fell he was suddenly intensely aware, in one camera blink of perception, of his surroundings. The boat was slipping away through the black water behind him and in the distance cranes and wharfs lined the banks of the river. He realised he was not far from the place where his wife had perished. Then as the water closed over his head he shoved the girl away from him and left her to drown.
Chrissie tried to swim – her lessons with Bessie all those years ago bore fruit – but she was hampered by her clothes and the arm still caught up in the rope behind her. She trod water and paddled with her one free hand but kept sinking, surfacing for only occasional snatched breaths. She knew she was losing the fight for her life. Then hands seized her and she no longer had the strength to fight them, too. She let them lift her and rose into the air, took a great whooping breath and stared into the face of Jack Ballantyne.
He gasped, ‘Lie still! I’ve got you!’ And he towed her on her back to the boat and shoved her in over the stern with a hand on her behind. He panted, ‘Start yelling again!’ Then he struck out once more, heading back to where the water was churned into foam.
Forthrop had been shocked but was not afraid – at first. He had rid himself of the girl and was a strong swimmer, at home in the water. But Parnaby was not, could not swim a stroke and was possessed by blind terror now. As Forthrop rose to the surface Parnaby came with him and clung to his back. Forthrop tried to shout, ‘Let go, you fool!’ but the hands around his neck choked off the cry and then they were sinking together.
He shut his mouth and tore at the hands while still kicking to take himself up again. His fingers prised the others apart but they left his throat only to clamp on his shoulders. He tried to turn to strike out at Parnaby but Parnaby turned with him. He realised he was living a nightmare memory, as if the clock had turned back six years. However, that time he had fought to hold his struggling wife under the water while the watchers thought he was bent on rescue.
In panic now, he lashed out behind him but the pressure of the water robbed the blows of their force and he only pushed at the other man’s thrashing legs. His lungs were bursting for air, his struggles growing feebler while Parnaby seemed still to have a maniac strength. Forthrop reached up inside the legs then, found the bulge of testicles at their top with his clawing hands, grabbed and twisted. The other hands fell away from him at last, he was free and struck out for the surface.
He broke out into the air, opened his mouth to draw in great breaths of it but Parnaby’s groping arms caught at his legs and yanked him under. Instead of air, water rushed into his mouth and he sank again. The two bodies turned lazily. Parnaby, far gone and dying, lost his grip on Forthrop, but as he fell
away his foot, still kicking as he tried to climb on nothing more substantaial than water, slammed into Forthrop’s face, smashing lips and teeth. Forthrop knew one more agony added to his suffering. Then he saw a kaleidoscope of pictures of his life and finally the face of his wife smiling at him. That faded as he died.
The last kick took Parnaby drifting to the surface. He was barely conscious, just holding on to life, but Jack Ballantyne came on him then. Jack knew about drowning men, grabbed him by the back of his jacket and towed him to the boat. Before he reached it there was help at hand. The crew of a tugboat on its way downriver had heard Chrissie shouting for help as he had asked her. Now the tug’s big paddle-wheels stopped threshing and she drifted to a halt alongside as the way came off her. The men aboard her climbed over the bulwark, stood on the six-inch-wide rubbing strake that ran down her side and clung there with one hand to haul Chrissie and Parnaby on to her deck.
Jack stayed in the water and asked, ‘Were there any more?’
Chrissie, wet hair tangled across her face, called, ‘One. Another man.’
Jack swam back to the spot where he had found Parnaby, as near as he could judge it, and dived again, and again, until the tugboat’s skipper, holding his craft on station against the current with her paddle-wheels turning slowly, leaned out of his wheelhouse and bellowed, ‘You might as well give it up, lad! He’ll be out atween the piers by now!’
Jack Ballantyne did not know this river as well as did the tugboat captain, but he recognised the truth of the skipper’s shout and swam slowly back to the tug.
He and Chrissie wound up below in the cabin of the tug that smelt of coal smoke, tar and tobacco. They sat swathed in blankets and sipping at mugs of hot tea laced with rum. Parnaby was held prisoner in the crew’s quarters.
