Offshore (35 page)

He could
make out nothing with any certainty in the weak diffused glow from
the wall light over the couch behind the modesty screen, the only
source of light in the room.

Was that
movement? A shadow? Or his eyes playing tricks? He had to see more
clearly, had to be sure. He pushed the door open and poked his head
through the gap, snatching the briefest of glimpses before
withdrawing again.

Nothing
patently visible; no sound either, apart from the humming of the
fridge, only the remnants of that noxious odour still hanging in
the air.

He slid
noiselessly into the room, eyes fixed on the pleated fabric panel
as he tiptoed his way across the floor. The curtain moved again,
the slightest billowing.

Heart
pounding, a film of nervous sweat on his brow, Eddie snatched at
the fabric and hesitated.

What if
she was there, laid out on the couch with her throat cut, gutted
like Craig, the glistening ribbon of her bowels draped about her
like so much Christmas tinsel?

Could
his already twanging nerves take it, or would it break him
completely?

You’ve got to look!

He threw
back the cloth, arm raised ready to strike at whoever was hiding
behind it.

The
couch was empty. A waft of warm air from the heater moved the
fabric of the curtain in a gentle undulating wave, and Eddie
swore.

Chapter 40

Euterich
heard Eddie coming before he was through the bulkhead door, easily
making out the distinctive rhythmic clatter of running boots
against the deck plates.

He
cursed under his breath. He’d planned on Capstan giving him at
least an hour before he realised his mistake. He could have done
the deed with Lydia two or three times over in that time, and been
on his way to wait out the time somewhere until either they caught
him and killed him, or he got away.

He had
no preference. Once he had planted his seed in Lydia he would take
whatever fate threw at him. But Capstan and his imminent arrival
had stolen the time he needed. He had to get at least some of it
back.

Euterich
bound the still dopey Lydia’s hands and mouth with strips of silver
duct tape taken from her general purpose store, all the while
keeping a keen ear out for the approaching Capstan. Close
now.

Only one
flight of stairs and one more corridor away. With only seconds to
spare, he bundled his captive into the dark recess beside the
filing cabinet, took up the heavy based lamp from the worktop, put
out the main lights and pressed himself against the wall behind the
door, ready to spring his surprise.

The
running steps slowed to a walk, then stopped. The door eased open a
touch. Fell closed.

Opened
again, and this time Eddie Capstan sidled through it, eyes front,
focused on the modesty screen shifting in the waft of air from the
wall heater.

Euterich
watched silently as Eddie made a grab for the fabric and paused,
eyes screwed closed. When he pulled back the curtain, saw the empty
space beyond and the swearing started, Euterich made his
move.

Chapter 41

If Eddie
had chanced to look behind him he would have seen the maniacal mask
of Lawrence Brewer advancing on him, wielding the lamp base like a
club.

As it
was, all he felt was a sickening thud as something hard and cold
collided with the back of his head, showing him stars as it
poleaxed him.

His
knees buckled and he dropped to the floor, cracking his chin on the
edge of the couch on the way down, clacking his jaw hard closed,
biting his tongue and loosening one of his teeth.

He had
no time to recover before the floor bucked beneath him, a series of
savage kicks lifting and rolling him, each blow forcing from him a
stifled grunt.

Pain
stabbed his back and his ribs, and when Brewer’s boot connected
with his scarred stomach, liquid fire exploded in him.

One more
strike from the boot’s toe, full in the face, burst his lip and
filled his mouth with blood. He slumped to the tiles, gasping,
coughing, spitting blood, pain radiating throughout his entire
body.

Brewer
then grabbed the back of his collar, pulling the fabric tight
across his throat, choking him, hoisting and dragging him like a
mop across the floor, slamming his head into the robust metal leg
of Lydia’s desk, before dropping him to the floor, stunned and
helpless and as limp as a wet rag.

In an
act of pure spite, Brewer then stamped on the fingers of Eddie’s
right hand, crushing and grinding them with the heel of his boot,
splitting the nails and cracking the small bones.

Eddie
made not a sound, but lay perfectly still with his left cheek and
eye squashed against the tiles, blood leaking from his mouth,
hardly daring to breathe, letting dimness creep in at the edge of
his consciousness. He wanted it to come, to flow over him, to take
the pain away, yet could not allow it.

Don’t pass out. You can’t pass out. You’ve got to find
Lydia
.

With
gargantuan effort he focused his vision, and there she was, stuffed
in the gap between the filing cabinet and the wall where Brewer had
hidden her in the dark, hands bound at the wrist with silver duct
tape, another strip across her mouth.

For a
split second their eyes met, his barely focused, hers saucer large
and glassy above her gag.

A shadow
then passed between them, and she was gone.

A dull thud followed by a harsh
ziiiippppp.

“
I’m afraid your dear departed boyfriend won’t be bothering
us any more, my sweet,” Brewer’s voice floated over to him. “He’s
gone to a better place. It’s just you and me now. It’s going to be
so sweet. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Green
cotton overalls fell in a heap on the floor, and through the
deafening roar in Eddie’s ears came the sound of Lydia’s T-shirt
being sheared open from hem to neck-band as if it were nothing more
than rice paper, and with it came a surge of adrenaline and
determination, infusing him with a second wind.

His body
felt as if it were made of marshmallow, and it took every ounce of
effort to get as far as his knees, blood and saliva dribbling from
his mouth and running down his chin.

“
Hoy! Brewer!”

Euterich/Brewer wheeled from admiring the confused groggy
Lydia in her fresh blue brassiere and panties, a fleeting
astonishment on his face as he beheld the supposed dead man
scrambling disjointedly to his feet and lurching towards him, his
damaged hand hanging limp and disfigured by his side, his other
pressed flat against his side, supporting battered ribs which
allowed him no more than a choking wheeze.

“
Get - away - from her - you - fucking animal.” Cough. Spit.
“Move away…’cos I’m going to - smash your fucking - head
in.”

Eddie
sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and lunged at Euterich,
who nimbly side-stepped him.

Unable
to stop his forward momentum Eddie crashed into the examination
table, striking his scarred belly on the hard edge, re-igniting a
fire which felled him onto all fours with a strangled outcry of
agony.

Euterich
stamped on his back, knocking him flat and driving the last of his
wind from him. “Is that so? And how, exactly, are you going to be
doing that from down there?”

He then
reached down and grabbed a handful of Eddie’s hair, hoiking his
head clear of the floor, and Eddie’s blurred vision fell upon the
face of rage incarnate.

“
Lydia is mine now,” Euterich rumbled. “And nobody,
especially a pathetic jumped up nobody like you, is going to take
her away from me.”

Eddie
tried to speak, to protest, to fight for Lydia, but the words would
not come.

“
Nothing to say, Mr Capstan? Just as well, because I’m not
listening. Goodnight Mr Capstan. Have a nice death.”

Eddie’s
scalp burned as Euterich’s fingers entwined themselves in his hair,
and when he slammed Eddie’s forehead against the tiles, although
his lights didn’t go all the way out, they dimmed considerably.
Eddie’s body curled itself into a protective foetal ball and lay
paralysed, howling silent surrender as Euterich scooped up the
bound and gagged Lydia and threw her over his shoulder like Santa
Claus toting his sack of Christmas goodies.

He
strode off with his prize, but not before he landed a final
ferocious kick to Eddie’s buttock, sending a bolt of electricity
through his leg and into his back.

Eddie
made no sound. He had nothing left to make it with.

Chapter 42

Lydia
and Euterich were gone, and Eddie knew not where.

He also
didn’t know how long he lay there on the floor, a throbbing,
bleeding, moaning ball. He felt sick and dizzy as he fought against
encroaching darkness, knowing if he gave into it, he would die,
choked on his own blood and vomit.

“
Get up, man! Shift yer arse and get UP!” Would his
shattered body appreciate the urgency and co-operate, or tell him
to go fuck himself?

He
suspected he knew the answer, but put it to the test
nonetheless.

Slowly,
tentatively, he uncurled himself from his protective shell, and
almost managed to get upright before a wave of pain and nausea rose
up and enveloped him.

The last
thing he remembered before darkness and silence descended was the
ominous buzzing in his ears and throwing up over Lydia’s nice clean
floor.

“
Guv, you there? Over.” A muffled voice, close by his left
ear, yet a million miles away.

“
Guv! This is Cameron. Respond. Over.”

The
fogginess began to clear, in its place, hurt and the acidic
metallic tastes of blood and vomit in Eddie’s mouth.

“
GUV! Respond!”

The
radio. Gingerly he sat up and spat out a viscous red gobbet of
blood and saliva onto the lino. He pressed the button on radio’s
casing. “Yeah.” It came out as no more than a hoarse
croak.

“
Thank God! I’ve been calling you for ages. Where are
you?”

“
Erm...” Where was he? “Thickbay,” he said, his tongue
feeling too large for his mouth.

“
You okay, Guv. You sound–”

“
No.” Cough. “I’m not.”

“
Fuck! Stay where you are. Don’t move! We’re on our
way!”

Eddie
had always planned for a useful life, working hard, paying his
taxes, being good to his mother, to be rewarded at the end with a
good death, at age 99 in his own bed, being serviced by a Thai
whore sandwich, a treble measure of 35 year old whisky in one hand,
a big fat cigar clamped between his teeth, his fuck you finger
extended to whom it may concern.

BEST SELLING AUTHOR GOES OUT IN STYLE -
the Press and Journal headline
would read.

It was
good to have plans, but it had been an ongoing struggle to get this
far.

Death
had already tried more than once to clasp him to His dark eternal
bosom – the stabbing on the dockside, a cardiac arrest on the
operating table, and now a savage beating at the hands of a maniac
- only for Life to step in at the last moment and give him another
chance.

What was he on now, his second?

No, his third. Might be my last one. Better make the most of
it. Do something useful…like killing Brewer and saving Lydia for a
start. All I have to do is get up off this bloody floor.

Making
the first move was the worst part. Everything hurt and his legs
didn’t want to support him. He swore at himself, cursing up a blue
streak as he ordered his body to obey.

Once on
his feet, the pain didn’t seem so bad - if he didn’t try to breathe
or blink. The kick to his side had cracked, maybe broken, a rib or
two, possibly ruptured something inside too. If he pissed blood in
the morning, he would know - if he lived that long.

Holding
onto whatever came to hand he staggered on wobbly legs to Lydia’s
back office, reeled through it to the small lavatory cum washroom
behind, ducking through the door, slamming and locking it behind
him.

It was
nothing more than a plywood screen on hinges, and not much
protection if Brewer decided to come back to finish him off. He
filled the basin with warm water and plunged his head into it,
blowing bubbles until he exhausted his lungs and needed to take a
breath.

He
pulled his face out of the water, leaving behind a bowl of diluted
scarlet, and inhaled knives.

Small,
puffed breaths eased the desire to cough somewhat.

Dabbing
gently at his battered face with a towel, he checked himself in the
mirror. He looked like he’d been run over by a ten ton
truck.

His left
eye was bloodshot and swollen almost shut, a blood blister had
formed over the split in his lower lip, and a steady dribble of
blood leaked from the right nostril of a nose a little bit
misaligned.