The Hanging Shed

by Gordon, Ferris,

  I was close enough now to see her expression. I expected terror. Instead it was pure undiluted anger. I saw her hunch a little as if to gather herself. Then her blond head struck like a mamba. Her fine white teeth sunk into his wrist and, in surprised reflex, Slattery dropped the gun. He flung her from him and she fell out of the shallow cockpit to sprawl helplessly on the deck. I twisted the throttle and felt the boat leap forward like a seal.

  Slattery was scrabbling for his gun when the ketch lurched. He’d been sloppy lashing the tiller. With no counterforce, the rudder swung back and the ketch rounded up with a jolt. It staggered through 90 degrees and threw Slattery across the deck and into the gunnels. He lost his grip on the line controlling the boom and the freed sail flapped uselessly in the wind. With its speed slowed to a near stop I crashed into the hull, just managing to turn the boat side on as I did. I dropped my pistol, grabbed the little anchor and rope in the bows and tangled it round the taut rigging lines. I cut the engine, drew my knife and leaped on the deck of the wallowing Lorne.

  Slattery was getting to his feet, blood running from a deep cut in his head. He looked concussed. He wiped the gore from his eyes and saw me stumbling towards him. At the periphery of my vision I could see Sam lying still against the lifelines. Slattery made another scan of the deck for his gun. Then he stooped and came up with a six-foot grappling pole. Its point was a combined spear and wicked hook, just the thing for landing a big fish or gutting a boarder. He swung at me and missed my ducking head by an inch. He held it like a lance and lunged at me. I sidestepped and tripped as he passed. I tumbled into the cockpit and broke my fall across the swinging thick bar of the tiller. I jerked back as the spiked pole drove past my chest and glanced off the tiller. I half fell, half jumped out onto the deck. I was winded and wondering if I’d cracked a rib.

  Slattery stumbled round the tiller and flailed the pike at me. I took it across my arm and shoulder. I felt the pain and then numbness in my arm. This fight wasn’t going to last long. A man with a weapon always trumps a one-armed man. I danced away from the vicious flail trying to keep the cockpit between us. I did one full circle then fell back and back towards the stern. I kept moving my left arm to try to get some feeling back. Fire shot along it. Better that than no feelings at all. I was near the stern now, still retreating. Slattery was back to his annoying grin again, as though he could smell my blood. He kept jabbing at me, and was surely going to jab me all the way overboard. My mind blinked. We were fighting outside Caen. Flushing a German platoon out of a barn. Suddenly a frenzied Kraut broke cover ten feet from me and charged me with fixed bayonet, screaming like a lunatic. For the first time in this chase fear gripped my guts.

  My training cut in. When in doubt, attack. I dived into a somersault and shot up under his weapon, almost into his face. I stabbed with my knife but he dropped the near end of his staff to block me. I went in close and tackled through him, my left shoulder screaming in pain. We both crashed to the deck and rolled around kicking and lashing at each other. He dropped the pole. It was no use in close quarters. He was like a thrashing maniac, all fists and knees and teeth. He got hold of my knife hand and beat it on a metal stanchion till I dropped it. I managed to twist round and kicked it out of the way. If I couldn’t have it neither could he.

  We got on our knees then managed to stand upright on the pitching deck, glaring at each other and panting. The boom of the mizzen sail suddenly swung back on board and we both ducked. I ran at him and we locked arms like drunks holding each other up on a Saturday night. He was blinking blood out of his eyes. His small moustache was thick with it. I drew my head back and smashed it forward into his face. I felt his nose crunch. I shifted my grip to put him in a headlock. The boom came swinging back trailing its retaining line.

  Instinctively I grabbed the line and looped it round his neck. I put a quick half hitch in it and yanked tight. I made a second half hitch for luck. The boat gave a lurch and I pushed Slattery and the boom. He stumbled on the gunnel and I gave the boom another shove. Slattery went over the side clutching at the boom. His feet dragged in the sea. His hands tore at the wooden spar to stop from falling. He made one frantic effort to hold himself up with one arm round the boom while he clawed at the rope round his neck.

  A big wave broke over his chest. He lost his grip and was left dangling by the rope round his neck.

  For a long moment he tore at the line in terror trying to loosen the wet knots. His weight and the rolling waves made it impossible. His feet thrashed in the water as though he was trying to run on it. His face turned to mine in horror. His mouth screamed but nothing came out. I stood panting and watching him hang by the neck until he was dead.

  His body gave a last twitch or two then sagged. The ketch slowed and the boom dipped, trailing its human sea anchor. I ran forward and unhitched the foresail line so that jib flapped. The Lorne finally stopped and lay wallowing in the water. I came back and used the grappling iron to pull the boom close to the side. Slattery’s blotched face stared up at me, eyes bulging with accusation. I felt no remorse. I dragged the body half over the bulwarks and onto the deck face up, so that only his feet were being washed by the waves. I tugged the knots loose and made the line secure on a deck cleat but with plenty of give. I wasn’t ready to try and sail her until I worked out what I was doing. I felt sick and trembling.

  Behind me, I heard a groan.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I broke open a hatch and with the last of my strength carried Sam down the steps into the cabin area. I laid her on a bunk, cut off her bonds and wrapped a blanket round her shaking body. I rubbed at her hands and feet to get the circulation going. Her face was bruised along one side and her limbs were battered from her fall. Her eyes stayed closed and she lay quietly moaning as though in a bad dream.

  I looked around and found cigarettes and a bottle of scotch. I raised her head and let her suck a mouthful or two from the bottle. She choked but swallowed and her breathing grew stronger. I took a couple of gargles myself and never recalled Whyte amp; Mackay tasting so good. I wrapped a blanket round my own shoulders and sat on the facing bunk. My hands were shaking like palsy as I tried to light up. I coughed and spluttered and took another mouthful and another drag. The nausea was passing, leaving me numb. I had no sense of triumph, no sense of anything. It was over. I listened to the slap of waves on the hull and felt the ketch wallow and drift, rudderless and directionless. It didn’t take much of an insight to see the parallels.

  I stirred myself. My arm and shoulder were killing me, but at least I could use them. First, I had to do something about the sails. As I’d explained to Eric the Red, my last seafaring adventure involved pinching a 15 foot dinghy from a French fisherman to escape a POW camp. I often wondered how the rest of the 51st had got on as they were marched off to Germany. Those who made it would have been brought home by now. I hadn’t dared try to get in touch. I didn’t know what to say. I was confused at feeling guilty at escaping. It wasn’t as if I had five easy years. So why should front line service seem a better result than idling away in a POW camp?

  Private Donald MacLennan, sometime crofter, fisherman and poacher, who later bought it on the beach at Normandy, taught me the rudiments of sailing in those three endless days after St Valery. My challenge now was to transfer the dimly recalled skills to something three times the size and with two masts instead of one. I wasn’t about to try to raise the mainsail. I’d follow Slattery’s lead and stick to the mizzen and foresail. I clambered back on deck and looked around me. A flash of light broke the dark. Unless it was some other lighthouse, that was Pladda to the north. I could see where we’d come from. The wind was still blowing from the north, but not as strong. I decided to keep it simple and run for a while before the wind. If I wanted to head back to Arran I’d need to have my head clear to cope with the tacking. Slattery’s body lay flat on its back as if he was star gazing. His head lolled with the waves. I’d deal with him shortly.

  I stepped down into the cockpit a
nd grabbed the tiller. It came alive in my hand. I pushed it round until the flapping mizzen sail filled. The ketch began to slip and pitch through the waves. The thrill of it coursed through me. I lashed the tiller properly to keep on the southerly course and hauled in the mizzen boom. The sail tightened and the ketch heeled a little. I laced the line round a cleat and fumbled along the deck to find the foresail line. I hauled it in and let the sail billow and catch. We were off! The Lorne may only have been doing 6 or 7 knots but it felt like twenty poised above the great dark sea. I tinkered with the tiller until I was happy about her trim and direction and turned my attention to Eric’s little motor boat. I untangled its hastily wrapped anchor and rope and let the boat slip down the side until it lay directly behind the ketch. I made it secure and let it ride like a tender behind us. I was duty bound to return it to Eric the Red and buy him a very large Scotch. We had to compare notes about the Highway Decorators, discuss where Rommel went wrong in the Western Desert, and exaggerate the hard slog across France to the Rhine. In truth it sounded like a two bottle session.

  I turned to Gerrit Slattery. His strangled corpse would require a fair amount of explanation if I moored at Arran or the mainland. I could just dump him over the side like his pals had with me. But there was the chance of his body washing up on Barassie Beach and frightening the kids; not to mention getting the attention of the police. I went down into the cabin. Sam was lying looking sick but at least her eyes were open. She tried a smile. It didn’t work.

  ‘Just rest. It’s all right. Slattery’s gone.’

  She nodded and closed her eyes.

  I rummaged around the cabin and found a heavy metal tool box and a coil of rope. Perfect. I flung the rope over my good shoulder and dragged the box on deck. I cut off a good slice of line and tied one end to the handle of the box and the other round Slattery’s waist. Water gurgled from his mouth as though he wanted a last few words. I didn’t mind if he did a Lazarus on me. I’d enjoy having to kill him all over again.

  I propped the box against the low rail, ready to be pitched over. I got under Slattery’s shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position alongside the box. His backside was still on the deck and his legs dangled over the side. With a great heave I lifted him up so that he was sitting on the bulwarks for a brief moment. A final push and he was over the side in a clumsy dive. His body dragged and bumped along the side tethered to the box. I could feel the effect on the Lorne. I quickly got under the box, balanced it on the edge and shoved it over. It hit the surface with a splash, filled with water, and sank like, well, a metal box. Body and box were lost to sight in a heartbeat.

  I rummaged around the deck until I found Slattery’s gun and my own knife. I stowed them safely on the second bunk in the cabin along with my guns.

  I inspected Sam. She was awake and had a little more light in her face.

  ‘Douglas Brodie, can I just say thanks, for the moment? I’m too… too…’

  ‘Shattered, battered, hammered? Not to mention chloroformed. You’ve been through it, lassie. It was a brave thing biting that bastard’s hand. You saved my life.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. I saved your life, indeed. Pass me the bottle, Brodie.’

  ‘Why don’t you lie down. We can talk later.’

  A spasm ran across her poor white face. ‘Is he…? Is Slattery…?’

  ‘He’s gone, Sam. I put a spanner – or two – in his works. He won’t be back.’

  ‘His brother?’

  ‘Dead. Car accident.’

  ‘You know Gerrit did those awful things? To the wee boys?’

  ‘Yes. I found his den out by Dumbarton.’

  ‘He said it was the priest’s fault. Father Cassidy. He was there – at the Nazareth House where the boys were sent. He…’

  ‘Whisht, I know, I know. It’s no excuse for anything. But I’ve seen it before; damaged people damaging other people. Bullied kids in peacetime becoming camp guards in wartime. Dermot spent the rest of his days looking after his wee, abused brother. I don’t know where the start of all this was. But I imagine it was why Dermot killed his father. And the ripples have been swamping innocent people for years.’

  She nodded and pulled the blanket tighter round her. Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell her. But then she’d coped with worse, surely, these last few days.

  ‘There’s one other thing, Sam. Your mum and dad. When I talked about ripples…’

  ‘I know. He couldn’t resist telling me. He threw them overboard in the middle of the loch and just waited till they couldn’t swim any more. Drowning people seems to be their specialty. How could anyone do that!’ The tears were blinding her again, and I wished I’d made Slattery – both of them – suffer longer.

  ‘There’s also Allardyce…’ I began.

  ‘He’ll swing for this, so help me! He just stood there, inside his room, and Slattery came up behind me, and stuck a hankie over my mouth, and it was foul, and I don’t remember…’ She punched the mattress again and again.

  ‘Sam, Sam. He’s dead. After he knocked you out, Slattery killed Allardyce in the hotel.’

  She shook her head, and her eyes widened as her brain went into overload. She started to shake again. I held her tightly and stroked her hands and arms until she calmed. I made her lie down. I pulled another blanket over her from the second bunk. She lay staring up at the bulkhead for a while as I held her hand. At last she closed her eyes. She was asleep in moments. We could talk it through properly when she woke. If we needed to. I stared at her face as it relaxed and took on its familiar gentle contours. I wondered how I’d ever thought her plain. Or why age had anything to do with beauty. I pushed back the errant blond curl that fell across her forehead. She twitched but then settled and was already far from me.

  I let the Lorne run for a while enjoying the speed and getting the feel of her. At last I pushed on the tiller and swung her round. I reset the sails and put her head north east, back towards the Ayrshire coast. I could see Arran’s dark bulk cluttering the sky-sea horizon ahead and to my left. The boat rocked gently as it parted the waves. The sound of the bow cleaving and slapping the furrows soothed the restive core of me. I could feel the knotted anger drifting away like sand in a timer. For the first time in weeks, I was no longer in pursuit of anything or anyone. And no one was pursuing me. Was this what hope felt like? It would do for a while.

  The sail above my head and the foresail rippled as I headed closer to the wind and I felt the boat prance like a live animal under me, ready to dart and sprint. It would take us a while to get back, much longer than the outward journey, tacking against the wind all the way. I wondered if I could get the mainsail up? I didn’t have the compass bearings for Kildonan but could follow the flicker of the Pladda light.

  A tempting thought scampered across my mind. I remembered long ago, in the hot slouch of an English lesson, listening to our teacher intoning the rhythm and imagery of Tennyson:… for my purpose holds

  To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

  Of all the western stars, until I die.

  I smiled standing at my tiller. I brought her round on a deep tack, heading west, knowing that if I spun her another few degrees we would sweep past the Mull of Kintyre and out into the wide open Atlantic. The next stop would be America. I felt the wind tugging me round, urging me towards the open sea. And I wondered how many chances a man gets to take off into the westering sun in a fine yacht, with a pretty wee blonde?

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