Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (46 page)

Hate came at me again, slashing the knife in sweeping arcs. The blood from the damaged eyebrow had filled his eye and with his other eye closed by the huge swelling where the pebble had struck, he was blind. He was slashing out at nonexistent shadows. And when he slashed the blade wildly again and it came sweeping round, I carried on the knife’s momentum and forced the cold steel blade into the side of his neck. I rammed the blade home for good measure, up to the hilt with a quick, hard shove.

I pulled away from the ensuing gush of blood spewing from the neck wound, a slight splattering of Hate’s blood peppering the front of my jacket. I stepped back and watched him die slowly. He made strange gurgling sounds as he attempted to reach for the knife embedded in his neck, making a desperate attempt to dislodge the blade which now prevented him from twisting his head round. Even then Hate wasn’t finished. He fumbled into his pocket and began extracting a handgun. I rushed him, leaping into the air, angling my body and executed a solid sidekick into the middle of his chest which sent him peddling backwards and over the parapet rails.

For some unknown reason I made an instinctive attempt to grab his legs as he fell, but he’d gone over too quickly, only inches from my grasp. He dropped onto the rocks below, his screams smothered by the roar of the waves and the screeching sea birds as his falling body disturbed them.

I ran over to Shamus and released him from his bonds. I told him off. “I can’t leave you alone for one minute-eh-Shamus?

Shamus’s head lowered in shame. “I’m sorry, Shacks sir.”

“Look it’s not you fault, Shamus. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“They took me by surprise, they did, Shacks sir.”

“They’re experts at that, Shamus.”

“I tried to fight them off, I did. There were just too many.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Shamus. I don’t have many true friends but you’re high on my list.”

Shamus smiled. “That I’ll always be, Shacks sir.”

Shamus stopped smiling suddenly and looked pass me and I saw what had concerned him. Love had somehow scrambled back onto the bridge further along and was now legging it towards the fog station. I hadn’t finished with him yet. I went after him.

By the time I’d reached the whitewashed building, Love was nowhere to be seen. I kept my wits about me because he couldn’t have ventured far, not unless he had the skill and nerve of a high board diver and had ignored stupidity and decided his escape was perpendicular over the cliff edge. I soon changed my theory when I heard the crack of wood breaking. Cautiously I circled the fog station, eyes and ears in tune with each other. I heard the faintest sound of shuffled feet and I knew he was close. I made a sudden jerk forward and retracted even faster as the piece of fence post tried to whack me across the head but instead crashed into the side of the building, splinters of wood flying in all direction.

I saw enough of his arms to swiftly grab him by the wrists, spin him side on and kick him in his midriff which propelled him backwards so fast that his back peddling feet couldn’t keep up with the momentum of his body and he eventually landed on his arse in a heap at the side of the safety fencing.

Love scrambled to his feet and scampered over the fencing with nowhere to go, only the cliff’s edge. I chased after him, closing off his escape route back through another part of the fence. His only route now was in retreat and back towards the cliffs. He realized his dilemma, stopped and turned round to face me. When I got closer to him, he made an instinctive grab for me, grasping a handful of my jacket. I had visions of him attempting to pull me over the side with him so I concentrated on gaining a good foothold before I smashed my fist into the bridge of his nose and heard bone crack. His body seemed to shudder and he lost his footing and slipped down the rock, his feet dangling over the edge, holding on for what life he didn’t deserve.

“Help…help me, Speed. I’m slipping.”

“Fuck off you murdering bastard!

“You can’t let me die. It’s immoral. It’s murder!”

“No, it’s revenge.”

“Please…I don’t want to die.”

Frigging hell, I was so mad with his diabolical plea that I reached down, grabbed both his jacket sleeves and yanked him back to relative safety, well sufficient safety that still left him precariously balanced on edge by the tip of his toes while I held onto him. He didn’t struggle much knowing that a mere inch separated his return down the cliff face and certain death on the rocks below.

“Right you frigging parasite, let’s be having the name of your paymaster?”

“Pull me back first! Then I’ll talk.”

“You’re in no position to negotiate terms. I’d start babbling now if I were you.”

“Go to Hell!”

“That’s exactly where you’re going unless you talk.”

He snorted a defiant laugh. “Killing me constitutes cold-blooded murder.”

“So put me on trial. It’ll be worth it.”

“Your conscience won’t allow you to kill me.”

“Who’s your paymaster? The Housekeeper?”

“If I tell you, what happens to me afterwards?”

I haven’t decided.”

“I work for McClusky.”

“McClusky’s dead!”

“I can’t help that!”

“You kill people for money, Love. You don’t work for nothing and with McClusky terminated you’d have disappeared and returned to that stench pit you call home. So you swivelling piece of shit, who’s paying you?”

The stubborn bastard shook his head defiantly.

I shoved him back causing particles of rock to tinkle down the rock face. “I’m not the one dangling so close to the edge using only my toe nails to hang on.”

“If I fall you’ll never know!”

“Is the bastard aboard the
Flying Fish
?”

“Pull me back and I’ll tell you.” Love was gambling I’d agree.

I rattled him again, spittle flying as I raged, “Talk, you piece of diarrhoea! You’ve nothing to lose, only your life.”

“That’s just it, Speed. If I talk, I die anyway. It’s that sort of situation. And you’re just English scum who has no idea how to murder someone simply!”

“You mean there’s a particular skill in killing an old defenceless farmer by drowning him in cow shit. Or perhaps killing a kind faced photographer in London, and burning him to a cinder. They were my friends you messed up.”

“You can’t prove a fucking thing!”

“Can’t I? Your killing days are over and you’re going to rot in a prison cell.”

“You think so, Speed?” I didn’t appreciate his cocky attitude one bit. “My appearance in an English court will be as brief as the time it takes me to explain that I’m a simple foreign tourist being bullied by a mad Englishman; that’s you, Speed!”

He had a point. But his defining statement had me thinking about similarities relating to it; that I’d heard it before somewhere, but I couldn’t remember where. But I’d no intention of letting him wriggle his way from the truth. “You frigging slimy leech! You murdered my friends, all right! And you’ll stand trial, no problem!”

“You’ll need witnesses to back your accusations. No, metal detector man, you’re the murderer. I witnessed what you did to Hate. It’s you that’s heading for Hell!”

“Is that a fact? Well I can’t have that now can I.”

I looked him straight in the eyes. He wasn’t going to talk in a month of Sundays. He was no use to me. I pushed him over the edge, his hands frantically clawing fresh air as he fell backwards, his deathly screams absorbed by the high pitched squawking from spooked seagulls he’d managed to scare as his body bounced against the rock face on the way down. I leaned over the edge to confirm his fate. His body was bent backwards over a large chunk of jagged rock, his back broken. He was probably still breathing but not for much longer.

I actually felt cheated that he had escaped without a trial but I certainly didn’t have any regrets that he had died by my hands. The deaths of Tommy Bickermass and Lens Lazerow had been avenged. But I still had one more important engagement to attend to before I’d finished what I started. I had to flush out the person responsible for ordering the killing of innocent people. I had to find the ‘Housekeeper’.

I turned round when I heard running feet approaching. It was Shamus, closely followed by another man who I assumed to be the operator of the fog station. Both were panting heavily after their sprint and both were now suffering the consequences of their efforts

The man recovered first, and said, “What was that dreadful scream?” He asked in a panic.

“Good god!” I said dramatically. “Did you see what’s just happened? It was unbelievable! It seems there has been a terrible accident.”

The man peered gingerly over the precipice, concern distorting his face before horror took over when he saw the disjointed body far below. “There’s somebody down there!”

“I was walking along,” I explained, “admiring the view when…I saw this figure standing close to the edge…well I think he jumped! I did try to save him, but he was just too determined to kill himself.”

Shamus watched me with astonishment. He knew differently.

“I’d better inform the coastguard,” the man said, as if the situation occurred on a regular basis.

“I’ll leave that in your capable hands, my good man. Come along, Shamus, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

We hurried from the scene as fast as we could and back onto the walkway.

“Hang on!” the man called out. “You’ll need to wait to give a statement.”

We pretended we hadn’t heard him and our brisk walk converged into a run.

Shamus, between gasps of breaths, said “Oh, God be praised, yer’re alright, Shacks sir. I gather yer did the swine?

“What an unfortunate shame he went over the edge.”

“Would that be his own choice or did he slip over your foot, Shacks sir?”

“Accidents do happen!” I said.

“Indeed they do, Shacks sir. Indeed they do.”

We ’d probably made it halfway across the concrete bridge when something zinged and whipped off a chunk of the concrete railing an inch in front of me. I dropped to the floor dragging Shamus along with me and we stayed flat while I peered around.

“Where the frigging hell did those shots come from?”

“I’ve no idea, Shacks sir. I started falling when yer did.”

There was the faintest of splutters as another barrage of gun fire chipped the concrete in a dozen places only a few feet from our position. That was when I suspected the sniper didn’t have a clear view of our position, so I began to crawl along the bridge on my stomach, scuffing the toes of my walking boots as I pushed. Shamus followed closely.

As we crawled I said over my shoulder, “I think this bridge is going to need a lick of paint after this fiasco.”

I heard Shamus groan with my untimely observation and he followed that with a mumbled complaint. “You’re absolutely bonkers, Shacks sir. We’re being shot at and you’re thinking about painting the bridge!”

“I’m a perfectionist, Shamus.”

We had made it to the gateway with no injuries and with no more gunshots. I listened intently before the shrill cry from circling seagulls broke the silence. In the far distance I heard the faint sound of a car engine starting, which quickly disappeared from earshot.

“I think our sniper’s done a runner.”

“How can you tell?”

I rose to my feet fearlessly to prove my point and I didn’t get shot.

“Has that convinced you? Let’s go, Shamus.”

Shamus dragged himself to his feet and rubbed the grey bristles on his chin. “The gunman gave up rather too easily, don’t you think, Shacks sir?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, but I’ve no time to ponder on fragments of puzzlement. I’ve a master criminal to apprehend.”

It was moments like this when I realized I wasn’t getting any younger. My body ached everywhere. My joints creaked and cracked. My elbows and knees had all the evidence of severe abrasions. I was definitely beginning to feel the pressure and pace of the pursuit and regretting every moment that passed.

I recovered Love’s gun from the floor and tucked it away inside my jacket. My steps quickened as we headed back to the car park in a rush

Shamus, puffing heavily, said, “Those two villains back there weren’t alone when they broke into me house.”

“Did you recognize any of the others?”

“Two of them were crewmen; foreigners by the sound of their voices. The third chap with them-well his voice was different from the others.”

We kept up a swift pace as we talked, not even a glance at each other because I was too preoccupied watching for more surprises because I didn’t think we’d escaped our problems just yet.

I said, “I’d say you’d had a visit from our friends from the
Flying Fish
.”

“I’d say that too, Shacks sir.”

“What was different about the third person?”

Shamus blew out hard. “O he was a big man. English, sounded a bit toffee nosed by the way he talked. I didn’t see his face but he was the one dishing out the orders.”

“Is there anything specific you can tell me about this Englishman?”

“Yes, Shacks, sir, he’d size ten boots kicking me in the face!”

“Did you recognize the pattern on the soles of his shoes, Shamus?”

“Yer be pulling me leg, Shacks sir?”

“That I am, Shamus.”

When we’d reached the Roadster one of the saloons had gone. It was then I had an apparition for disaster. I quickly grabbed Shamus’s arm as he was about to open the Roadster’s passenger car door and pulled him back.

Shamus was spooked by my action. “What is it, Shacks sir?”

“You were probably right about the sniper giving in too early, Shamus. I’d take cover behind the other car if I was you. I’ve a very bad feeling we’re walking into a trap.”

Shamus didn’t argue. He trusted my instincts after what we’ve been through together. When he was safely behind the other car I went down on my hands and knees and conducted a finger search underneath the Roadster.

I found the device I suspected had been planted there attached to the under-body of the Roadster on the passenger side. I gave the device a coat of looking at. It was oblong, roughly four inch by two inch long with two short wires linked to a pencil thin second device tucked into the bevel of the car door. I frown upon people who treat my Roadster with such tasteless disrespect.