by D C Alden
In the crew galley he’d made a large pot of coffee and listened to the radio as the Sunflower cruised quietly under engine power along the silent channel of the Hamble River and out into Southampton Water. He felt the chop of the deeper sea as the bow turned south and the twin Cummins engines increased power. After a while, a shadow loomed in the gangway, one of Mac’s team.
‘Skipper says it’s alright to come up on deck.’
‘Great. Thanks.’
Bryce went to his cabin and tugged his cold weather coat on, pulling a woollen hat down over his ears. He made his way up the staircase and paused before hitting the open air, pulling the hat a little lower over his forehead. He’d been careful so far, why change now? Then he stepped out on deck.
The sun had risen, climbing above the gently sloping ground to the east. In the morning light, under a deep blue sky, the Oyster 125 was even more impressive. He crossed the teak decking and climbed the steps to the fly bridge, where he found Mac seated behind the large stainless steel wheel of the vessel. The wind whipped off the surface of the water, but the fly bridge’s angled canopy deflected the worst of it. The elevated view was magnificent, staring straight down the keel of the boat as it knifed through the green waters. The land fell away on either side, the refineries and docks giving way to lowlying fields and wooded hills. He was gripped with a sense of freedom he’d never felt before, the nightmare of Alton Grange temporarily banished, his pursuers ignorant, frustrated. Bryce took a deep lungful of salt-tinged air and exhaled noisily.
‘Marvellous,’ he smiled.
Mac pointed to the deep leather pilot’s seat next to his. ‘Take a pew.’ He was hatless, dressed in a red sailing jacket and trousers, a turtleneck sweater and rubber boots on his feet. With his dark stubble and wraparound sunglasses, he looked every inch the yacht master he was. Bryce slid into the chair next to him, his eyes drawn to the sophisticated array of instruments spread across the open cockpit.
‘Sailing’s come a long way since I first got my feet wet.’
Mac laughed, keeping a wary eye on the shipping lanes ahead. ‘She’s something, all right. The owner’s a Yank, a heavyweight Wall Street financier. He’s got a place in Miami you wouldn’t believe. He’s putting us up for a few days while he gets familiar with her.’
‘Lucky you,’ Bryce replied, his eyes roaming the digital readouts and 3D displays. ‘What’s the traffic like?’
‘Reasonably light.’ Mac tapped one of the inbuilt colour screens. ‘We’ve got two large freighters steaming up from the south towards East Solent, but we’ll pass well ahead of them. Here.’ Bryce took the offered binoculars. He scanned the water, spotting a huge white cruise ship with a yellow funnel steaming down the channel ahead of them.
‘Cold start to their holiday,’ Bryce remarked, pointing to the distant ship.
Mac shook his head. ‘P&O transport. The passengers are émigrés, headed south. Australia and New Zealand.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Don’t you watch the news? That’s all P&O do these days.’
Bryce refocused the binoculars until the huge vessel filled the lens. He could see people crowding around the deck rails, men, women, children, braving the cold weather in their coats and scarves, ribbons of coloured streamers trailing from the superstructure, rippling in the wind.
‘Can’t say I blame them,’ Mac said, ‘especially after everything you’ve told me.’
Bryce lowered the binoculars. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it won’t be as bad as I fear.’
Mac turned the wheel a few degrees to starboard. His hand rested on the engines’ power levers, teasing a little more from the plant below decks. ‘Yes it will. You don’t have to be a genius to read the writing on the wall. Things have changed, since the bombs, and especially since Cairo. There’s an atmosphere on the streets, a lot of tension, especially in the big cities with all those refugee camps springing up in public parks. Every week there’s a demonstration of one sort or another in London. There’s a rumour the army is gearing up for civil unrest.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I’ve still got mates in uniform. Military stores around the country are filling up with riot shields and tear gas.’ Mac pointed to the ship as it drew ahead of them, the water churned to white foam in its wake. ‘A lot of people are getting nervous about the future. I reckon those ships will get busier and busier.’
Two families in our village have already gone...
‘God help us.’ Bryce lifted the binoculars to his eyes again, watching the tiny figures packed around the railings, the small boats scampering in the giant vessel’s wake, the deep bass of the ship’s horn as it boomed across the cold waters.
‘They’re saying farewell,’ Mac explained. ‘Won’t be many dry eyes on board tonight.’
Bryce watched the ship for a short while longer as it steamed south into the Solent. He lowered the binoculars and eased himself off the pilot’s chair. ‘I’m sorry I put you through all this.’
Mac kept his eyes on the water ahead, his hands making delicate adjustments to the steering wheel. ‘Truth is, you’ve done me a favour,’ he replied. ‘At least I know what’s going on now, politically I mean. I never took much notice before. The business came first, plus I wasn’t in the country much. Now I know, well... forewarned is forearmed, right?’
‘So they say. But they won’t stop looking. The danger’s still very real, Mac. And it’s still out there.’
Mac shrugged. ‘There’s not much else I can do. The family’s at my mum’s in Plymouth and I’ve got someone watching the business in Hamble. Cover story is I’m in Scotland to price a boat move and recce the coastline around Oban. I’m pretty confident our tracks have been covered.’
‘What about this vessel?’ Bryce asked, tapping the Perspex canopy. ‘Someone will notice it’s gone.’
‘This move has been planned for weeks,’ Mac explained. ‘We’ve just brought it forward a bit, that’s all. And the Sunflower is still registered with the manufacturers, and they take their client’s anonymity very seriously. I think we’ll be alright.’
He pointed off to starboard, past the sparkling lights and steaming towers of a large power station, where a circular stone castle stood guard over the entrance to Southampton Water. ‘That’s Calshot Spit. Things can get a little tricky here, so I need to pay attention. Once we round the point, we’re raising the main sail and I’ll need all hands on deck. Fancy a job?’ Bryce nodded, eager to put distance between himself and the shoreline. ‘Good. How about a round of coffees?’
‘No problem. I’ve got a pot on the go already.’ Bryce took orders from the rest of the crew, then headed back down to the galley. He filled a tray with five no-spill mugs, made some toast and brought the whole lot up to the wide aft deck. There was a curved bench seat there, sealed in thick plastic, and a table similarly covered and bolted to the deck. Bryce set the tray down and called the others. He took Mac’s mug up to him, plus a couple of slices of toast. Mac attacked the toast first.
‘Mmm, nice,’ he mumbled between mouthfuls, ‘sea air always gives me an appetite.’
‘Me too,’ Bryce admitted.
‘But you’re not eating. You alright?’
Bryce stared off to starboard, watching the long spit of land curving towards them, like a shingle finger beckoning them to shore. There was someone there, at the water’s edge, a boy with a fishing rod, wrapped up in a green jacket and a red and white football scarf. He lifted his head as the Sunflower drifted past, then raised his hand and waved. Bryce waved back.
‘Thanks to you, a lot better,’ he said. ‘I’m not match fit yet. The nights are difficult, and I’m still suffering a bit of memory loss, but I’m getting there.’
Mac polished off the last of the toast. ‘I’m not going to push you on this trip, you know that. If you need a break, if you don’t feel well, then let me know. We’ll cope. We’ve all done this journey a dozen times.’
‘I want to do my bi
t,’ Bryce insisted.
‘Safety first. Besides, my sea burial skills are a bit rusty and we don’t have a Bible on board.’
Bryce cracked a smile, but inside his stomach lurched. It was something he’d thought about during the troubled nights he’d just mentioned. What better way for Mac to rid himself of his problems than to toss him overboard, into the dark, cold graveyard of the Atlantic ocean? Bryce shivered, turning to watch the boy at the water’s edge, now a tiny figure in the distance. No, Mac wasn’t a murderer. He’d killed people, sure – he was an Afghan veteran, after all – but not in cold blood. He wasn’t the type, Bryce reassured himself. Try telling yourself that when you’re five hundred miles offshore, his inner voice taunted. Bryce shook his head to clear the thought. It was too late now, anyway.
Mac gulped the last of his coffee and handed the empty mug to Bryce. ‘Alright, let’s get prepped. Tell the lads to stand to. You can keep watch on the bow if that’s alright.’
‘Sure.’
‘Don’t forget your safety line.’
Bryce returned the tray to the galley and made his way down to the front of the vessel, getting as close to the bow as possible. As the Sunflower drifted past the medieval fort and rounded the southern tip of the spit into deeper waters, he felt the wind strengthen as the boat turned to starboard and headed west. He lifted his sunglasses from around his neck and slipped them on. The sun was behind them now, its strong light dappling the water, making it difficult for Bryce to spot obstacles or debris floating in their path. He screwed his eyes tight, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scanned the sparkling water. Behind him he heard the main sail being lifted out of its protective jib, the electronic motors hoisting it to the top of the mast. It billowed once, twice, then the wind caught it and it snapped taught, taking the boat with it. Bryce held on as the vessel listed a little, then settled in the water. There was nothing quite like it, being on a boat at sea, powered only by the strength of the wind. He no longer felt the steady throb of the engines beneath his feet as wind and tide took over completely.
The land on either side drifted by, the patchwork fields and wooded hills of the Isle of Wight to port, the long, empty beaches and inlets of the Hampshire coast to starboard. Boats of various sizes dotted the waters around them: freighters heading for the shipping lanes, a flotilla of fishing boats, their nets and pots bundled on cramped aft decks, chugging towards their designated grounds. They were out of the ferry lanes and it was too early for the fast boats and pleasure craft. All in all, traffic was minimal and the Sunflower had the waters pretty much to herself.
Bryce sat on the deck, his legs dangling over the bow, his arms hooked over the rail guard. The water passed beneath him, the odd wave catching the boat and breaking over his waterproofs. It was both exhilarating and soothing at the same time, watching the sea slip by, the wind in his face, the taste of salt on his tongue. He was suddenly reminded of a moment, just before the bomb, when he’d returned to his office to pick up the Heathrow dossier. He vaguely recalled the promise he’d made to himself back then, to take some time off, hit the waters, recharge his batteries. Never in his wildest imagination did he ever think it would be under these circumstances.
Ahead, the land began to crowd the Solent from either side, funnelling the Sunflower through the fast moving gap of Hurst Spit. Bryce got to his feet, alert once again as the chalk cliffs and a large, red-bricked fort closed in to port, a solitary white lighthouse on the spit’s sandbanks to starboard. The waterway was clear and soon they were through the gap and the land fell away. He felt the boat turn a few degrees to port, the bow slicing through the sea on its new course. He heard the squeak of rubber boots on the deck behind him and saw Mac approaching, the wind whipping the collar of his waterproofs. Up on the fly bridge, one of the others handled the boat as the wind filled the giant sail above, driving the Sunflower westward.
‘Everything ok?’
‘Fine,’ Bryce replied, getting to his feet. They stood silently for a moment as the offshore winds began to make themselves felt and the boat picked up speed. ‘To tell the truth, I’m a little apprehensive.’
‘About the voyage?’
‘About afterwards. This isn’t going to end with me sailing off into the sunset.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Bryce shivered in the sharp wind, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. ‘By the time we get to the Azores I’ll be wanted for the murder of three people, and the evidence will be overwhelming. No-one will ever believe I’m innocent.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Stay out of sight, get my strength back. Make a plan. It’s going to be a long and uncertain road, Mac. God only knows where it will lead.’
They stood in silence for a few minutes, the wind gusting across the bow, the ripple of the sail above them. It was Bryce who finally spoke.
‘Tell me what happens, when we reach Tortola.’
The former marine braced his feet as the Sunflower rode a sudden swell. Bryce wasn’t so quick, snatching at a guideline as the bow bucked, then settled. Mac lent him a steadying hand. ‘You alright?’ Bryce nodded. ‘I know the Road Town marina well,’ Mac continued. ‘We’ll use the opportunity to resupply there before pushing on to Miami. Don’t worry though, getting you ashore will be easy. We’ll do it after dark, when the bars are busy. There’ll be lots of people around. The Immigration bods tend to stick to office hours and marina security is pretty laid back. Getting out onto the island won’t be a problem.’
‘Good,’ Bryce said. ‘All I need then is change for a phone call.’
Mac grinned. ‘I’ll stick it on the bill. This friend of yours, how do you think he’ll react when you show up on his doorstep?’
Bryce considered that for a moment. It had been a while since he’d spoken to his long-term benefactor, even before the bomb, but Bryce had little doubt that Oliver Massey would provide his old friend sanctuary. ‘I’ve known him for almost thirty years. I’ve a feeling he’ll be pretty pleased to see me.’
Mac nodded. ‘Well, you’ll get a decent tan while you’re there. The Islands are lovely this time of year. A good place to recuperate, recharge your batteries.’
Bryce watched the coastline fall away, the foamy wake of the Sunflower spreading out across the waters behind them. ‘It’s not just physical, Mac. I’ve got blood on my hands.’
‘You did what you had to do,’ Mac reminded him. ‘Look, the important thing is that you’ve disappeared, dropped off the grid. You know how hard that is to achieve in this day and age? You’re the one with the tactical advantage now. Focus on that.’
It was true, Bryce had vanished like an early morning mist, yet he had to keep praying the trail to Hamble would stay cold, that Tariq’s wolves would continue going around in circles, following one false trail after another. He had a sudden mental image of Tariq himself, livid with frustration as each avenue of investigation reached another dead end. But it wouldn’t end there, oh no. He knew Tariq too well, his determination, his ruthlessness. How he would love to see his face when he hears the news that Gabriel Bryce is alive and well. That would be something.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Mac added, ‘they certainly won’t be looking for you in Tortola. Right now we’ve got the wind behind us and an empty ocean ahead.’ The westerly breezes seemed to pick up just then, filling the sail above them and urging the boat towards the distant horizon. ‘Come on,’ Mac smiled, clapping a hand on Bryce’s shoulder, ‘let’s get aft. There’s work to be done.’
As they headed back along the deck, Bryce suddenly turned around. ‘The letter, did you manage to post it?’
‘One of the lads did it late last night,’ Mac confirmed. ‘Dropped it in a box in Guildford.’
Bryce nodded, relieved. ‘Thanks, Mac. It means a lot.’
‘No probs. Who is she, anyway? A relative?’
A smile played across Bryce’s face as he watched the coastline of England drift by, the boat carving steadily we
stwards through the deeper waters of the channel. ‘Ella? Just a friend. A very good friend.’
Overhead, a flight of black-tipped gulls dipped and screeched, their wings beating effortlessly as they escorted the Sunflower out towards the open sea.
Epilogue
Danny brushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside, shielding his eyes against the low sun. He took a moment to stretch his aching limbs, then headed off between the rows of white canvas tents that stretched across the flat, sunbaked desert.
He walked slowly, conserving his energy in the oppressive heat. The surrounding terrain was featureless in all directions, except for a thin ridge of hills to the south-west. Beyond those hills were the mines where most of his fellow detainees worked. Danny had yet to see them and he thanked God for that particular blessing. Out there, across the arid desert, thousands of prisoners worked night and day, hacking away at rock faces deep underground, filling carts full of mineral deposits and transporting them to the surface in dilapidated, creaking cargo lifts. It was dangerous work and many had died. Danny had no intention of joining them, preferring his current employment to anything the mine offered.
The workings of the mine, and its recent victims, were regular topics of discussion amongst the prisoners around the evening cooking fires: the nature of the accidents, the injuries sustained, which seams were the most dangerous. They talked of ways to improve their chances of survival, until exhaustion overcame them and they stumbled back to their tents for a few hours of rest. Others slept where they lay, wrapped in thin blankets beside the fires. Often, one or two remained under the covers, even after the sun had risen, the lethal combination of workload and disease finally taking its toll. That was where Danny came in. The dead were his living.
They were the lucky ones, many said. Their spirits had been released and were free to roam the desert, to travel on the winds, to leave this place far behind – wherever this place was. The southern Egyptian desert, probably near the old Sudanese border, his friend Malik had said. Malik knew a bit about birds and once he’d seen some sort of lark that only existed in this part of the world. That was good enough for Danny. Malik was a clever bloke, educated. Well, maybe not so clever. In a previous life he’d been a surgeon, the Imam who’d died under his knife one of Cairo’s more important scholars and a Sharia judge. One hundred lashes, followed by ten years of hard labour was cruel punishment, but not nearly as bad as forty years without parole, without visitation rights, where the comforts guaranteed by European penal laws were patently ignored. Here there were no prospects, no hope. That’s what Danny had to endure.
