The Hanging Shed

by Gordon, Ferris,

  I toyed with the idea of driving the Riley full tilt at the house, maybe aiming to put the front through the downstairs lounge window. But the walls looked solid and I’d likely end up sailing through the windscreen and smearing myself on the white walls like a giant dead fly. It was definitely plan A, the sea. Or was that what I was supposed to think?

  I turned the car around and headed back into Kildonan. I parked about a hundred yards from the hut. I armed myself as before: revolver in my waistband, knife tucked down my sock and shotgun held pointing down inside my jacket. It wasn’t hidden but only obvious if you got up close. There was no one around to examine me. I dropped down on to the sand and walked to the hut. I kept it between me and the village as I walked over to the first boat. I made short work of the padlock and slid the chain out on to the sand. I walked round to the outboard motor and looked in the tank. Empty. I walked along all four, all empty. Damnation.

  I propped the Dickson in the first boat and trudged back to the hut. Same padlock type and just as simple to open. I stepped into the dark interior and waited for my eyes to adjust. On a shelf was a ball of fishing twine, finest catgut: could be useful. I pocketed it. There in the corner was a pair of cans. I opened them and savoured the sharp stink of petrol. I lifted one and turned to go out when a shadow fell across the floor, a giant shadow.

  ‘A bit of night fishing, is it?’ asked the man, about my age, big red beard and corduroys, as if he’d left his fiddle somewhere.

  I placed the can back down. ‘Are you the owner?’ I felt for my revolver.

  ‘Of the boats, the hut, the can in your hand? All three.’

  ‘Look, this is an emergency. I can pay you.’

  ‘An emergency fishing trip? Caught sight of a big one out there, have you?’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry, pal, but I don’t have time for the sarcastic chit-chat. Fun though it is. There’s a woman’s life at stake and I need a boat.’ I pulled my gun out my belt and levelled it at him.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he said, looking down at the muzzle and calmly holding his hands up.

  ‘Oh, put them down for God’s sake.’ I stuffed the gun back in my belt, disgusted at my antics.

  ‘Is there really a woman in bother?’

  ‘If she’s alive, she’s in bother.’

  He stared into my eyes. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He picked up the can and headed towards the first boat. He saw the long lethal shape of the Dickson resting on the stern and raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Shark hunting,’ I said.

  ‘Would they be Irish sharks by any chance?’

  ‘The white house, round the bay? With the yacht?’

  ‘The Lorne. She’s a ketch. By Dickies of Tarbert. A pretty craft. Too good for that scum.’

  ‘Is that what it is? Two masts? Taller at the front?’ My brain struggled for the right words.

  ‘You’re not a sailor, then.’

  ‘Tried it once. I prefer ferries. Will anyone be on board or do they all stay in the house?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to get away.’

  He nodded. ‘Here.’ He put the can down and knelt in the sand. He began drawing. ‘It’s simple. Main mast is for’ard, mizzen is aft. She’s gaff rigged, fore and aft.’ He sketched square-shaped sails whose top edge was suspended from a wooden spar instead of tied directly to the masts. ‘Makes it easier to handle. You get more sail up for less mast. There’s also a jib.’ He drew a triangle without spars, that ran from the top of the main mast to the bow. ‘You can sail her fine on a mizzen and a jib. When it’s moored they just drop the sails onto their booms and lightly reef them. Quicker to the off.’

  The vocabulary started to come back to me. ‘Steering?’

  ‘Tiller. Helmsman stands thigh deep in a cockpit between the stern and the mizzen mast, under the boom.’

  ‘Cabins?’

  ‘I’ve not been on board but she’ll have six or eight bunks and a galley. Access from two hatches.’

  ‘A handy boat for a round trip to Ireland?’

  He nodded. ‘Are you just yourself?’

  ‘Me and Dickson here.’

  He sized me up. ‘Army?’

  ‘2nd Seaforths. 51st Highland Division.’

  A grin split the red beard in two. His hand came out. ‘The Highway Decorators. One of Tom Rennie’s boys. Me too. Black Watch. Tobruk?’

  I smiled. ‘You were on our left flank. Christ, it was hot.’

  ‘Hotter in France.’

  ‘The first time or the second?’

  He looked at me quizzically. ‘Just the once. We were 9th Highland. Territorials. Rebadged as the new 51st in time for Africa. Sicily then France. You?’

  I sighed. ‘ Deux fois. BEF in ‘40. Then Africa, Sicily and back to bloody France.’

  ‘St Valery? I thought you all went on a nice German holiday? You escaped with Rennie?’

  ‘A few of us didn’t fancy the tour guides. A crofter from Lewis taught me how to sail a fishing boat we pinched from the French. Three days of rope burns and a headache. I thought he was talking Gaelic all the time. It was just fancy boating terms. It’s why I prefer big boats with engines and a canteen.’

  He looked me up and down. ‘Christ.’ Then very deliberately, he saluted. ‘Wait here.’

  He went back to his hut. He came tottering back with another outboard motor, a much bigger version than any of the ones clamped to the boats. It took him five minutes to replace one with the other and to fill the tank.

  ‘You should get ten maybe eleven knots from this yin. It might help.’

  He placed another can of fuel inside the boat, and we began to drag the boat down the sand and into the shallow water. He held it steady while I clambered on board. He stood with waves lapping against his hips while I settled myself. He explained how to start the motor, priming the carb and using the throttle. I held the top of the motor, gripped the handle of the cord and tugged. The engine coughed, spluttered; I opened the throttle a little more and it fired up and moved into pop pop mode.

  ‘What’s your name, friend?’

  ‘Eric. Eric McLeod.’

  ‘Brodie. Douglas Brodie.’ We shook hands. ‘Well, Eric the Red, I’m truly grateful. If I don’t come back, or it gets damaged, well…’

  ‘Never mind the boat. Find that lady of yours. I’d come with you, for the laughs. But I’ve the wife and bairn now,’ he said wistfully.

  I turned round to face the open sea, twisted the throttle cum steering handle and revved away from the shore. Dusk was settling across the water and the waves grew choppier as I headed out past the point. A northerly was picking up from the shore and I began to worry about getting swamped when I turned side on to it.

  Far off, at the point of the next bay, I could see the distant house and boat. I took a wide arc out towards the Ayrshire mainland and buzzed and splashed my way for half an hour. I tried the boat at full pelt to see how fast it could go. Quick enough for me to get drenched and on the verge of capsizing as the wind buffeted me from the shore.

  I settled down to a steady 3 or 4 knots, butting into the waves. When I was opposite the house a good three or four hundred yards out, I turned about and started heading landward. I sat lower in the boat, relying on the gathering dark and the grey swollen sea to make me invisible. I just hoped the bad guys were all pointing their guns at the road.

  FORTY-SIX

  I dropped speed until the engine was down to a low-key throb. But it still sounded as loud as an ice-cream van on a Sunday without the pleasurable anticipation. Finally I had the bulk of the jetty between me and the house. The Lorne was bigger than I’d thought from afar, perhaps a 50-footer. The jetty was about forty feet long so that the ketch stuck out well beyond the end. Hefty wooden pillars propped up each side of the jetty and stood a good three feet proud above the deck. Halfway along the deck stood a wooden locker about six feet long, three wide and high.

  As
each swell rolled through, the ketch swung from side to side and the halyards flapped and clanked. I cut the motor and nudged against the pier, and sat there clinging to the wood for a long minute to make sure no gangster with a grievance was about to blow my head off.

  I tethered the boat to a pillar on the opposite side to the Lorne. I scrambled to my feet, praying none of my weapons would end up as buried treasure in the murky waters below. Slowly I raised my head above the deck of the jetty. I could see into the back room of the house about thirty yards away. There was a big bay window with wonderful sea views, or in this case, wonderful me views. Lights were already on and I could see one figure standing up talking to someone else, sitting down. He turned and talked to someone else. I think I recognised the curly-haired guy I’d shot in the foot. I hoped it still hurt.

  I climbed back down to my boat and lifted the can out. I placed it on the deck and then laid my shotgun, knife and revolver alongside it. I carefully climbed up and on to the jetty and crab-crawled along it. Then I made my preparations.

  The fire caught quickly and roared into the air above the wooden locker. The flames themselves were enough to attract the attention of the house. But just in case, I’d left the can with its cap tightly screwed on, on top of the locker. I watched, tucked down behind the last pillar as the flames enveloped the can. I started to fret. If the fire ate through the wooden lid too fast, the can would drop through and just lie there. I looked up at the house. Three figures were at the window gesticulating. Then they vanished. From a side door, two came running, or rather one was running, the other hopping. The third figure stood in the door watching.

  The two coming fast towards me had handguns. They should have had buckets of water. The faster of the two sprinted on to the deck and crashed on his face like a felled tree. His gun spun away from his hand. Behind him, Hopalong did a more leisurely but nevertheless acrobatic tumble and came to rest nursing his shoulder and head. Neither had seen the tightly drawn fishing line stretched across the first two pillars. The downed men were about three feet from the roaring flames.

  They were both struggling to their feet when the can exploded. I ducked behind my pillar as the shrapnel flew. Bits of red-hot tin sliced the air and peppered their faces and bodies. Globules of burning petrol and oil stuck to their bodies and roasted their flesh. They screamed like girls, fell over and rolled, trying to snuff out their flaming skin and clothes. Finally, in desperation, one after the other, they leaped into the sea. A second or two later they were screaming again as the salt water licked at their wounds. I looked over the side and raised my shotgun to put them out of their pain but lowered it again. They were no longer active participants in this game. I’d keep my powder dry for Slattery.

  I peered through the wall of flame but couldn’t see Gerrit. I made my move. Revolver in my belt, knife down my sock, Dickson to my shoulder, I charged through the wave of heat. I heard my hair singe and smelt it burning. As I passed through the fire, knowing I’d be silhouetted against the flames, I dived to the left and ducked behind the jetty’s pillar nearest the house. I peered out from behind it. There was no sign of anyone. If I were Slattery I’d be heading for the car; cautiously, mind, not being sure if there was a frontal assault as well. I had to get round the front and cut him off.

  I got to my feet and ran to the left and up towards the house. I got to the side and ran forward again. The car was about ten feet away from the front door. I dived forward and hit the grass, rolling and rolling till I was on the car’s flank, protected from the house. I drew my knife and stabbed the tyres, one after the other. The car settled on its rims. It wasn’t going anywhere, at least not in a hurry. I sized up the house. Two large windows at the front on either side of the main door. I decided to go in through the front to keep Slattery pinned with his back to the water. I lifted the shotgun and took aim. The blast echoed loud and long, followed by the smashing and tinkling of glass as the right-hand window exploded.

  I dashed forward and up to the window sill. I moved to the side and, protected by the window frame, looked into the room. Nothing. I cleared the shards of glass from the frame and climbed up and through. I dropped into the room and stood waiting. Quiet. I moved forward in the darkness, got to the door on the right-hand side and threw it open. I was in the hall. There was the second room door opposite me, and down the corridor a door into what I assumed was the big back room where I’d first seen them. There was a staircase up on my left. Again I stopped and listened. All I could hear was the sound of distant crackling as the fire burned itself out.

  I decided to clear the ground floor first, and then start on the upper floor. I pressed forward. Then I realised that the stairs not only led up, they went down. After a run of five or six downward steps was a door. It was gaping open. Light came from the cellar. I inched my way down, step by step. Was this a trap? Was Slattery waiting for me in the cellar, gun aimed? Or was he above me, waiting to slam the door on me?

  I put half my body round the corner of the door frame and could see into the cellar. It was about fifteen feet square. And to prove it was a Slattery residence a single grubby mattress lay on the floor next to some cords. Suddenly I knew what was happening. I leaped back up the stairs and into the hall. Without hesitating I hit the closed door with my shoulder and stumbled through. The room was empty and the side door was open. Out in the fluttering light from the last embers of the fire I could see the masts of the ketch. Instead of bare poles, a jib fluttered from the mainmast and its mizzen sail was nearly fully raised and already filling. The bow was edging away from the jetty and with the steady off-shore breeze it would soon pick up pace and vanish into the night.

  I ran madly out into the back yard and on to the jetty. He had already cast free. The mizzen sail was firmly in place. The yacht was already a full length away and gathering speed. Facing back, with his left hand on the tiller, Gerrit Slattery grinned at me in malice. He held a pistol in his right hand but it wasn’t aimed at me.

  I raised my shotgun to blast his wicked head off, when he shouted: ‘Fire, and she’s dead, Brodie.’

  I stepped forward and saw where his gun pointed. Sam was lying curled at his feet in the cramped cockpit.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Sam was on her back, her hands tied behind her, and her feet roped. Her legs were tucked up to her chest because of the narrowness of the cockpit. She looked groggy, but at least her eyes were open. Her mouth was gagged and her head lolled as the yacht moved. I lowered my gun.

  ‘That’s right, Brodie. You’ll play my tune now, so you will. Come after me and she’s dead.’

  ‘You can’t hide, Slattery,’ I shouted. ‘I tracked wee Dermot down and he’s gone to hell!’

  ‘You’re a fucking liar, Brodie! Nobody fucks with Dermot Slattery.’

  ‘Well the worms are fucking him now, Gerrit! The worms at Planner Farm.’

  I saw his face change, saw his gun arm come up and I dived to the deck as he fired once, twice, in fury. I got off a shot but missed. He swung the tiller across and the boat turned smoothly and accelerated into the dark. Beyond him and to his left, a light flashed. He was steering west of the Pladda light and south east on a line that would take him back to Ireland.

  I watched him go until I was sure he could no longer see me, then I ran to the side of the jetty and dropped into my boat. I landed with a crash and nearly capsized. I stowed my shotgun, steadied myself and got the engine going. Then I headed out into the sea, throttle full open. Slattery was going to kill her whether I came after her or not. If he hadn’t already done so. She would simply be ballast that went overboard. I wondered how soon he’d try to get the mainsail up and how easily he could handle it. With all canvas up he’d leave me for dead.

  I aimed for my last sighting of the sail to the west of Pladda’s sporadic flash but for long minutes could see nothing. I squinted along the wave tops. There! In the brief flash something waving. I adjusted my bearings and headed after her. The crisp breeze was still nicely behind
the ketch. He could stay comfortably on this line running downwind until he made landfall on Ireland, perhaps trying for Belfast and what he saw as safety in the city. By my reckoning, he would be making 6 or 7 knots to my 10 or 11. Unless the wind picked up even more. Or he got his mainsail up. Or I ran out of fuel.

  The clouds shifted and the moonlight ran across the heaving water like mercury. We were well past Pladda. The Lorne was in plain view. She was still running on mizzen and foresail. I pressed on, hoping my engine noise wouldn’t be heard above the splash of his bow wave and the wind through his rigging. I made steady inroads on the gap. Two hundred, then one hundred. I could see Slattery clearly, standing with his back to me, both hands pushing the tiller to keep the ketch on course. I wasn’t sure, but I think I saw the glint of Sam’s pale flesh and white blouse. I looked longingly at the Dixon lying in the bottom but realised I hadn’t reloaded. I needed one hand to steer. I drew my pistol.

  I was within twenty yards when he heard me. He turned and looped cord round the tiller to lash it in place. I fired the big Webley. It kicked and crashed but missed him. I fired again but the boat was too unsteady. He pulled his own gun out of his belt. He bent over and dragged at the body lying at his feet. There was resistance. He yanked Sam to her feet by her bound hands making her face contort with pain as her arms were wrenched up behind her. He stood with Sam as a shield and held the pistol to her head. She looked as if she would slump to the deck. He used his left arm to hold her close to him. He shouted something at me but it was blown away by the wind. Then he tore down the gag round her mouth and said something in her ear. She tried to shout, but I heard nothing. She tried again. All I heard was ‘Back’, then ‘Go back, Brodie’. I saw him grin and he waved his gun in front of her face.