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 They were no longer active participants in this game.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.