The
fisherman knelt down and reached over the side of the boat again to
dip his hand into the water. He stayed there for a moment, letting
the cold ocean take the fire out of the burn.
"Suzy
... What did I say about it being a good day? That sod nearly burnt
away my finger ... But what the hell could snag the line and yank it
down like that? Mmm ... Might be submarine trouble again. Last year
old Bob ended up with a periscope through his keel. If the bloody
Navy want to-"
Blackwood
stopped and stared down at his hand in disbelief. It was below the
surface of the water; he could see nothing, but-
"That's
odd. You know, old girl, it feels as if someone's holding my-Christ!"
It
had him.
He
tried to pull back his hand.
He
couldn't-something held it there beneath the water. For all the world
it felt as though another hand were gripping his. Strong fingers
around his fingers ... Shark? Conger eel? It had to be-
Get
it out of there! Get it out!
Blackwood
wrenched backward until his back muscles creaked.
He
couldn't shift it.
He
strained harder. He could see nothing, but now the water swirled and
boiled under the boat like big fish in a feeding frenzy.
"Let
go ... Let go ..."
The
pull on his hand increased. The boat began to tip sideways. She was
going to capsize.
Blackwood
shifted his balance so he could pull harder, his mind spinning like
fury.
Something
was trying to drag him overboard... . Something wanted him in the
water. ... Something ...
"Let
go!"
But
the hand only tightened around his. Then pulled harder.
Now
his face was nearly in the water that threshed and bubbled to foam.
He
felt the boat tipping; now he was lying at an angle so steep his
blood ran from his legs to his head. The lobsters slid from the
catch-box back into the ocean.
His
face was an inch from the churning sea that splashed his head and
neck.
"Get
off... Get off ... Getoff!"
He
panted and choked as the sea splashed into his mouth. Any second now.
Any
second now Suzy would roll over and he'd be trapped beneath her.
Alone with her and whatever was in the water, unseen, pulling him
down.
He
didn't see it come. But suddenly he felt a blow to his face; followed
instantly by a pain that pierced his right eye.
"Christ!"
The
water churned white. The heavy catch-box rolled over his back and
into the sea.
Why
could he no longer see out of his right eye? He blinked to try to
clear it. Why did it hurt? Why-
He
was still blinking when the second blow came. This time to his left
eye. Again came the piercing pain as if something sharp had been
driven into the eyeball.
Now
the foaming white had gone. There was only a throbbing dark, blotched
with red.
With
a mighty pull, the fisherman freed his hand. With the release the
boat slapped back level onto the water.
And
then it was still-and silent. The ferocious threshing of the ocean
had stopped.
Henry
Blackwood shakily pulled himself up onto the bench seat that ran
across the middle of the boat.
He
lifted his fingers to his face and felt his eyes.
"Blind
... I'm blind, old girl. ..." His voice was a dry whisper. "How
are we going to get home, girl?"
He
sat there for a full three minutes, whispering over and over, "Who's
done this to us, girl? Who's done this to us?"
Then
he felt the boat dip beneath him.
He
tilted his head to one side, listening. A low splash, then the sound
of water dripping on water.
The
boat dipped down.
Someone's
pulling us down ...
No
... No. Someone is climbing into the boat.
He
did not move. He did not speak. He did not show any sign that he had
heard anything at all.
He
just used all his thirty years' experience as a fisherman to sense
what was happening-and where.
At
the prow, someone was pulling themself onto his boat. On to his Suzy.
Slowly
he let his hand fall to his side.
The
oar. His fingers tightened around the timber shaft.
Still
pretending he'd noticed nothing, he waited until the time was right.
Then
in an explosive moment he was on his feet, picking up the heavy oar
and swinging it in a tremendous arc; the oar buzzed through the air.
It
hit something wet. Something not hard nor completely soft. Something
that felt like-
"A
man. A sodding man ... I got him, Suzy." Blackwood heard the
satisfying splash of the man falling back into the water, no doubt
with a mess of broken ribs to nurse on his homeward journey.
It
happened again. The tilting of the boat as another climbed on. The
fisherman swung the oar again, hitting the man. Again the splash.
"If
only I could see the bastards. I'd bust their bleeding skulls."
He panted and swung again. The oar cracked against flesh. And yet
there were no cries of pain even though the blows were hard enough to
snap bones.
"Who
are they, Suzy? Why are they doing this to us?"
Drug
smugglers. That's it, he told himself. Foreign boats were coming in
at night and leaving the drugs in his lobster pots. The next day
divers would swim out from the beach, pick up the drugs, and within
hours they would be en route to poison the kids in the cities.
Well,
they'd cocked up. Blackwood had caught them. He would break their
bodies with his bare hands if he had to. He didn't even feel the pain
from his punctured eyes now-pumped with adrenalin and anger, he was
ready for the fight.
They
were coming fast now. The boat dipped at the stern, then on the bow,
then the port side. He saw them in his mind's eye, divers in
wet-suits, hoisting themselves onto Suzy-catch him when his back was
turned then slip a knife through his ribs.
But
the stupid bastards had picked the wrong man.
With
the Viking blood of his ancestors singing through his veins, the
fisherman swung the oar like a warrior's sword, hacking and chopping
the men off his beloved boat and back into the water.
"Come
on ... Come on! Get a taste of this!"
Crack!
The
oar cracked against a head.
Then
another. And another.
For
five minutes he batted them off the boat.
Then
suddenly they were gone.
Blackwood
stood in the center of the boat, feet apart, and listened.
Beneath
his feet a stirring, then a light tap.
That
was followed by a series of hard blows that sent tingling shocks up
through the man's legs.
Something
moved around his ankles.
Bastards.
They'd
knocked holes in Suzy's planking. Water swirled up around his knees.
Roaring,
like a lion raging at the death of its mate, he fought as the boat
settled lower in the water. He struck at the unseen men as they used
their body weight to pull his boat down into the sea.
He
wouldn't leave his Suzy. Not ever.
Ferociously
he fought on. Even when the ocean closed over his head and instead of
air in his lungs there was only water.
Chris
pulled out the drawer in the side of the caravan's sofa and began
rooting through the already swiftly accumulating junk.
"Ruth
... Have you seen the shells?"
She
walked in from the bathroom, hurriedly brushing her hair.
"What
shells? Have you seen the car keys?"
"On
the hook by the door ... Those seashells David found on the beach
last week."
"Forget
the shells, love. We're going to be busy enough today as it is. Do
you think this skirt goes with the t-shirt?"
"Perfect.
I deliberately put them somewhere safe."
Chris
scratched the bridge of his nose as he squatted over the drawer.
"Remember, I told you about-"
"About
how strange they were." Ruth sighed. "That you could see
faces drawn on them. I know, I remember. Where's that money for the
groceries? And I'll need some coins for the phone. Have you got ...
Christ ..."
"What's
the matter?"
"The
bloody goldfish has gone and died on us."
"Jesus.
That's just what we need." He slid the drawer shut. "Where's
David?"
"He's
playing outside."
"Good.
I'll flush it down the toilet. You hide the bowl."
"Reason
for Clark Kent's disappearance?"
He
kissed her on the forehead. "You'll think of something."
The
goldfish lay on the surface of the water. Its body arched so the tail
pointed down toward the little plastic pirate ship.
"Hurry
up, Chris. I've got to phone the architect at half-past."
"I
was just finding the best way to-"
"Dad!"
cried David urgently. "They're here!"
Chris
quickly turned his back on the deceased Clark Kent, using his body to
shield it from his son. David leaned in through the door at the far
end of the caravan.
"What's
the matter, darling?" asked Ruth artificially.
"The
lorries are coming. Shall I tell them where to go?"
"No,
Dad will tell them. Stand somewhere safe to watch." She turned
back to Chris. "Do it later. I'll lock the door. Now you two
look after one another. Bye."
Two
lorries carrying steel skips came swaying through the gateway into
the courtyard. One disconcertingly carried the command PISS OFF in
yellow aerosol.
David
ran forward to clutch Chris's hand to watch as Chris pointed out
where the skips should go.
It
had begun.
All
the rubble, old timbers, Army boots, boxes, broken furniture that lay
heaped throughout the building had to be wheelbarrowed out to the
skips. The trucks would be back in four hours to take the loaded
skips away then return with two more. He would have to work fast. The
tides would dictate his schedules. At high tide the causeway would be
covered by ocean. Then nothing, on wheels anyway, could come in or
out.
While
David played with his cars in the courtyard, Chris began. He chose
the nearest room to the main entrance and began to empty it of old
bedsteads, then a mountain of old Army boots.
For
two hours he worked furiously, losing all track of time.
He
was startled to see Ruth appear. She wore old jeans and a t-shirt
bearing a picture of a black cat and the word PURR ... FECT.
"What
are you doing?" he demanded.
"Helping
you."
"You
can't, Ruth. This is-"
"Man's
work? We're doing this together. I do what you do."
He
looked across at his wife and not for the first time in the last few
days he found himself loving her in a way that was new and deeper
than ever before. What wouldn't she selflessly sacrifice for him?
They
worked together, clearing the next room in half an hour. The dust
made Chris's throat paper-dry, and when he sneezed it left a black
splotch in his handkerchief.
The
next room held all the old internal doors. Drabgreen painted things
that had warped over the years.