Bitter Water (42 page)

‘What’s your plan, Drummond? Or were you going to try a full frontal assault again?’ It was no time for sarcasm but I couldn’t resist.

‘I’m just a junior officer,
Major
Brodie. You went to Staff College. What do you suggest?’

‘Does this thing still work?’ I thumped the wood planks of the truck. ‘Do you need to turn a handle?’

He looked at me. ‘You’re not running away now, are you?’

‘No, I’m bloody not. If I got in the cab would I get the engine running or do you need to wind the bugger up?’

‘It’s fine. One of the boys is – was – a mechanic. Sweet as a pea.’

‘OK, here’s what we do.’

We lifted Drummond’s men down from the truck and laid them gently on the ground. Sam took up position behind the truck holding a Dixon in white knuckles. I took the other Dixon in my left hand and the Webley in my right. I turned to Drummond. ‘Ready?’

He nodded.

‘Go!’

Drummond and I – armed to the teeth – darted round both sides of the truck, me to the left, him to the right. Both doors hung open and gave us some cover, but as we dived into the cab, I heard a bang and the windscreen exploded. Pellets smashed into my passenger side door. Then both Drummond and I were lying heaving on the bench seat. Drummond began fiddling with the gears and pedals. He tried the key. The truck gave a rumble and stopped. He pulled out the choke.

‘Don’t flood it!’ I hissed.

He shot me a glance and tried again. It coughed and spluttered and stopped. He waited an endless few seconds. He tried again. The engine fired and coughed, died, then picked up again. Drummond got his foot on the accelerator and the engine roared. The whole cabin shook with the vibrations. We looked at each other from our horizontal positions. Ahead of us were the castle steps, a wide flight of about a dozen broad treads, then a flat terrace up to the huge wood portals. It was a ridiculous double gamble. First that the truck would be able to bounce up the steps without simply smashing into them and breaking its front axle. Second that we’d still have enough momentum to crash through the doors. If they were six inches thick and barred, the three-foot length of truck bonnet would end up in our laps.

‘Let’s go!’ I shouted.

I sat up, pistol in hand and started firing at the broken window. Drummond popped up, flung the truck into gear, revved it up to a scream, eased the clutch out until it was straining, then let the brake off. We shot forward, Drummond wrenching the wheel round to line up straight at the steps. I got three shots off without a return of fire, then we were hitting the first step with a bang. The nose came up and we were pounding and bouncing up the flight. We hit the top and the nose dropped. I heard the chassis grind on the top step and then we were flying at the door.

‘You bastaaaards!’ Drummond shrieked as we hit. The long bonnet hit the doors smack in the centre. They sundered in a spray of wood and metal. The big doors were flung back, flailing on their hinges, and we crashed into the hall of the castle. The noise was deafening and I was flung against the dashboard, losing my pistol in the process. Drummond slammed on the brakes and we skidded across the tiled floor, sweeping aside a magnificent wooden table and its fine porcelain bowl of autumn flowers.

We stopped and the engine stalled. For a long moment we sat there as silence settled around us. Then a shotgun blast raked Drummond’s door.

‘This side, man. Out this side!’ I shouted. I rummaged at my feet, got my Webley, grabbed my Dixon and flung the door open. As I slid out, Drummond was lurching across the seat. I grabbed his arm – it was like grabbing a piston – and drew him across. His face was running red, whether from the collision with the door or the gunshot. ‘You’re hit!’

‘I’m fine.’ He wiped the blood off with his sleeve. His face was lacerated down one side, like a rare steak.

Keeping the big wheel in front of me I knelt and peered under the truck. Already a pool of oil was forming. I was in time to see figures scampering away through a far door. I jumped up on the running board and got a shot off. Too late. Sam came charging through the doorway and ran over to us. Her face was flushed.

‘The housekeeper’s going to be gie upset. Did you run them over?’

‘They went that away.’ I pointed at the doorway on the far side of the hall.

‘It goes down to the kitchens. There’s a maze of corridors down there.’

‘Damn.’ It felt like Caen all over again. An enemy in retreat but fighting dirty and making us pay for every inch. Clearing broken buildings sprinkled with booby traps. Stepping round corners expecting an ambush at every turn. I turned to Drummond. He wasn’t there. Next thing, I saw him running towards the doorway where Maxwell had gone.

‘Drummond! Wait!’

He didn’t.

FIFTY-SEVEN

T
he hall was a grand affair. Or had been, until we’d added a new centrepiece. We were parked in front of a great sweep of stairs. Above us ran a balcony. The walls were lined with flags and old claymores and heads of slaughtered stags. Portraits of former Maxwells in flamboyant robes and doubtful tartans frowned down at us for sullying their ancestral hall. We’d made a serious dent in the massive square table that had graced the hall and knocked it on to its side. It now sat across one corner: a nice ambush spot with a good sightline of the gaping front door.

‘There’s your spot, Sam. Shoot anything that looks like a villain.’

‘I hope it’s Moira,’ she said with grim certainty.

There came two shots from the direction taken by Drummond. I gave Sam my Dixon. This was going to be close-quarter work. I reloaded the Webley and left her to man the barrier. I ran round the truck towards the gunfire.

Sam had been right. The door led nowhere except to a stone stairwell going down. I began to spiral my way down. Near the bottom, I could see light. I keeked round the corner and saw Drummond kneeling ahead of me at a junction of two corridors. He fired again, then turned to see me coming towards him. His manic grin turned his bloodied face into a Halloween mask of Auld Nick.

I got to his side. I looked round the corner and was just in time to see the flash of a shotgun. The pellets screamed past me at waist height. They’d been expecting Drummond’s head. My quick look told me we were in a main corridor with cross-branches left and right. A dozen ambush spots. I told Drummond what we were about to do. He nodded. For a fleeting second I wondered how far I could trust this lunatic. The previous times I’d done this was with men I’d personally trained and knew I could rely on. But I also knew that we had to attack or we’d lose momentum.

I nodded at Drummond then I charged out from my cover. I hit the far wall and kept running along the right-hand side. Drummond stayed where he was but blasting down the left-hand side to keep the enemy’s heads down. The sound of his Webley was like thunder going off in the echoing space. I made it, gasping, to the next crossing and flung myself into cover. We had to keep going, keep attacking. I moved my Webley into my left hand and tried not to worry about the recoil.

‘Now!’ I leaned out and got off a couple of shots. No chance of hitting anyone but the noise and ricochets were enough to keep Maxwell pinned down. Drummond took his chance and ran forward, screaming his new battle cry – ‘
Bastards!
’ – while firing away. The passing shots ripped the air near my head and made me hope he’d been aiming at Maxwell. He slammed into the wall of the cross corridor opposite me. We stood, backs against the wall, panting and staring at each other. I fumbled two shells into my Webley. Drummond swapped guns.

‘Again?’ I called, conscious of shouting above the ringing in my ears.

He nodded and got to his knees, facing forward, ready to cover me. I steeled myself to make a break – when the lights went out.

‘Shit!’ I said. ‘Wait!’ I weighed up the situation. There was one dim light back at the stairwell. In front of us was pitch dark. If I ran forward I’d be perfectly silhouetted. But this side corridor had to lead somewhere. A faint light stole round a distant corner.

‘Drummond, this way,’ I hissed. There was a brief moment of quiet then a figure dashed across the open corridor. A gun went off up ahead and we heard the ricochet of a bullet whining past. Without another word I darted off down the side corridor. Drummond came panting at my back. We reached the corner and peered round. Ahead, the narrow walls opened up into a room. The kitchen? A light flickered and kept flickering. A fire? I began creeping forward, ready to dive at any moment.

We got to the end of the corridor. I could see into the big kitchen. A pot was boiling on the range. The fire underneath threw its glittering glare round the room leaving shadowy corners and hidden gullies. It seemed deserted but there were too many hiding places to be certain. Drummond came up alongside me and flattened himself against the right-hand wall. Together we stuck our heads round. All was quiet. On the far side a door gaped open. Had they fled through it? We edged forward, guns at the ready.

I saw or heard a movement to my right, behind Drummond. Too late. A huge wooden rack of plates was falling towards us. Drummond went down, buried under it. I took the collateral hit of great china dishes smashing and shattering over and around me in a crescendo of sound. I was knocked flying and lost my grip on my pistol.

I tumbled among the debris with shards cutting into my hands and knees. I couldn’t see my gun and expected any moment to get a bullet in my back. I tore myself up from amidst the welter of china and utensils and struggled to my feet. Next thing, I took a huge hammer blow to my shoulder and I went down again. Curly was flailing at me with a shotgun held by the barrel. I rolled before the next strike, wincing as the splintered porcelain and glass sliced my body. I rolled under the kitchen table and staggered to my feet on the far side.

In the glow of the firelight I could see Curly charging round the table towards me, his shotgun held high, still by the barrel, aiming to take my head off. He had to be out of ammo. I looked around and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. I flung a colander filled with steaming greens at his face. He staggered back and I saw the glint on the table. So did Curly. He roared and swung at me, but I moved before he connected. His stock smashed on the table and broke in two. He staggered back and I lunged forward holding the foot-long kitchen knife in my hand. Like a bayonet.

I drove upwards into his stomach and kept going. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped like a fish. I yanked the knife out, feeling his hot blood pulse down my arm. He sank to his knees holding his guts, then keeled over to lie moaning and gasping. Behind me, I heard Drummond cursing as he wrestled his way out from under the rack and the smashed china. There was no sign of Maxwell or his lover. Curly gave a final groan and lost his grip on life. Donne was wrong. This was one man’s death that didn’t diminish me.

We gathered our weapons and caught our breath. I rinsed my bloody hand in the sink and began reloading. Drummond took his turn at the tap and stuck his head under it. The water again flowed red down the plughole. He rubbed his hair dry with a dish towel and patted his lacerated face. The flesh was weeping and raw. His hands were shaking as the adrenalin ebbed away but his eyes were bright. I’d seen this look many times.

‘Is this what it was like, Brodie?’

I shrugged. ‘Sometimes. But without the pots and pans.’

Distant shots rang out. From a Dixon. I sprang to the door we’d come through and vaulted over the debris. I skidded down the corridors, heedless of running into Maxwell’s guns. I belted up the staircase and ran breathless into the hall.

‘Sam! Sam! Are you all right!’ I raced across the hall to where I’d left her. I leaned over the table. She was sitting calmly reloading her shotgun. She looked up at me.

‘I missed. Sorry.’

I grinned. ‘As long as Maxwell did too!’

Then we heard a car start up. Moira’s car. Sam jumped to her feet. I grabbed the spare Dixon and sprinted for the door. I got there just as the car shot off in a stir of dust. I lifted my shotgun and fired. I hit the boot. I fired again but it went high over the bouncing roof. The car was revving away from us as fast as it could go. But instead of heading down the drive away from me and back towards the forest, it shot on to the grass and set off across the open field. Towards the hangar.

I turned. Sam and Drummond were skidding across the floor to join me at the torn portals.

‘Where are they?’ he asked.

‘There!’ I pointed away across the field at the car, now halfway to the hangar. Sam was clutching her Dixon and inspecting Drummond appraisingly. His face was a mess again, his hair wild, but his eyes held a steadiness that hadn’t been present before. It was a pity about his lost years. I could have done something with this man.

‘They’re not getting away,’ he stated as a matter of fact, and started down the steps.

‘Come on.’ I grabbed Sam’s arm and began running after him towards the grass. Drummond paused as he passed the abandoned pile of weapons. He grabbed one of the Stens and kept running. I hoped it was the loaded one.

I was on his heels and, as I ran, I broke open the Dixon and let the spent shells spin away. I grappled in my pocket for cartridges. I slammed in the fresh shells and closed the breech. Far ahead, I saw the car halt and two figures jump out and head into the hangar. A few seconds later came the noise of a stuttering engine. It caught and we heard the propeller chatter up to speed. The nose of the plane emerged and then the rest of the fuselage. Painted red. A Cessna Airmaster. I’d seen them in a display at Prestwick before the war. I couldn’t tell what version it was but the engine noise suggested one of the more powerful. A trim little two-seater, it could fly at about 250 miles an hour with a range that would easily get them to France without refuelling. The perfect drug-smuggler’s machine. Maxwell was piloting and, alongside him, sat his white-faced lover.