Offshore (40 page)

She was
tiring, sweat pouring from her as her corded arms strained. Her
shoulders burned and her back felt as if every muscle had torn
itself into ragged strips.

The
glazing might be able to withstand more than she could throw at it,
but the same could not be said for the outer frame. Its weakened
rivets, rusted by salt water erosion, were no match for the
blows.

The next
one saw them break loose from their fixings, one more and the whole
of the metal rectangle popped free of the wall, held in place only
by the wire grille outside.

She had
just enough strength left for one last swing. She had to make it
count.

Both
hands wrapped themselves around the swollen far end of the handle.
She sucked in a lung-full of air, and with a full throated roar
drove the hammer for all she was worth.

“
Aaaarrrrrggghhhhhh!”

Physics
triumphed. The mass of the head multiplied by the square of the
speed of swing at point of impact equalled the window shattering
into a thousand cubes of glass and the metal grill and all its
fastenings parting company with the wall, taking flight for a good
five feet, clattering to the deck below.

Panting
out thanks to the hammer for all its hard work, she kissed its
wooden stave and leaned it respectfully against the wall, before
using the bucket as a booster to scramble up and through the
window, dropping down onto the freezing wet deck.

Fighting
against the gale threatening to pick her up and toss her overboard,
she slapped her way across it in her bare feet to the nearest
bulkhead door.

Like the
figures on a traditional weather house, as she went in one door,
Eddie exited by another.

Chapter 48

The wind
hit him in the face like the back end of a shovel.

Clouds,
back lit with flashes of lightning loomed menacingly in air turned
electric, the negatively charged ions prickling the small hairs at
the back of Eddie’s neck.

A
monstrous blue white God-light arched across the sky, ripping it
open from horizon to the edge of space, turning night into day for
a fraction of a second, giving birth to other smaller weaker
flashes.

In the
windswept silence he counted. One Mississippi, two Mississippi,
three Mississippi.

The
first rumble reached him, faint but growing more intense as the
wave of sound hit. Stronger, louder, until its roar claimed
dominion, vibrating the very atoms of creation. Only seconds at its
peak, but enough to stop a heart in its beat.

The wave
rolled on, fading away to a low grumble like a hungry stomach, and
was gone.

Then began the sporadic
pit, pat, pot
of fat wet raindrops hitting the deck
plating.

The
pittering and pattering became frequent, taking on a more metallic
tone as the drops of clear rain water gave way to sharp white
pellets, striking the deck, rebounding, before giving it a second
strike.

In the
time it took Eddie to cross the drill deck to the shelter of the
tool store, a moderate shower of rain had turned into a full blown
storm of hail, marble sized white bullets pinging off every
surface, the sensation on his exposed skin one of being struck by
icy blades. His bright yellow hi-vis jacket provided little
protection against the onslaught.

A
particularly large piece struck him on the back of his head. His
fingers came away from the source of the stinging clarted in a thin
liquid. Blood diluted by melting hail.

He gave
it no more than a cursory thought. One more cut to his already
ravaged body wouldn’t make any difference. He struggled with the
slippery padlock, left on the hasp but not locked, finally able to
wrench the door open.

Out of
the orange deck lights and into almost pitch darkness, the open
doorway admitting barely enough light for him to pick out the
lengths of chain and coils of rope hanging on the wall, canvas tool
bags dangling from hooks, shelves with cans of paint, but no living
presence unless he counted the spiders.

Fingers
fumbled along the wall beside the doorway until they touched
against a rocker switch. He pressed it, and a single naked bulb
glowed into life, its light weak but sufficient. He let his vision
wipe the floor and walls, looking for any clue Lydia might have
been there.

Nothing.

A final
sweep before turning to leave, and out of the corner of his eye he
picked up an out of place gentle metallic glint on the floor, half
hidden by a pile of greasy sacking. He got down for a closer
look.

Lydia’s
Saint Christopher, its fine gold chain snapped an inch from the
clasp. He picked it up and let it lay in the palm of his hand,
slowly curling his fingers protectively over it.

A sudden
blast of frigid air made him look up. In the wall of the hut,
instead of light from the bulb reflecting back at him from the
glass of the window pane, there stood an empty space letting in the
wind and the rain. He stood on tiptoes to peer through the
void.

The
window frame and grille lay some distance away on the deck,
surrounded by glittering cubes of broken safety glass, and it
didn’t get there by itself.

Lydia
had
been here and escaped. She was alive, but where was she
now? He pushed open the door, staggered out onto the slippery wet
deck, and yelled into the sky. “LY-DI-YA!!” The cry got no further
than his lips, immediately snatched up and lost in the howl of the
wind.

Head
down, hunched against the gale, he made his way back to the silent
habitat. The lights might be on, but it was far from
welcoming.

Avoiding
the locker room and its gruesome inhabitant, chilled to the bone,
hair plastered to his head, dripping rainwater in his wake, he
started towards the stairs. At the first half turn landing he
paused, a twinge in his side doubling him over.

The
analgesia was wearing off, allowing the discomfort of his battering
to get the upper hand again, slowing him down. He took a moment to
get his breath.

Should
he risk taking the time detouring to sickbay to find more
painkillers? Somewhere in the silent distance a faint metallic
clatter rang out.

Someone
was in the galley! Lydia?

Up in
the kitchen, Euterich explored the cupboards and fridges, gathering
supplies with which to wine and dine his beloved before their night
of passion.

Except
there was no wine to be had, only bottles of non alcoholic beer,
and no food fancy enough to grace a table fit for a queen; no
lobster, or oysters, no strawberries, only some vacuum packed deli
meats, a dish of leftover macaroni cheese sporting a skin, and some
plastic wrapped low grade cheese, already going mouldy.

The
pantry yielded only cans and packets of tasteless processed muck.
His princess was worth more than that. There weren’t even any
candles for atmosphere.

Rummaging on a high shelf, he knocked against a half empty
tin of crackers. It fell to the hard floor, losing its lid and
spilling its contents, its hollow metallic
clang
reverberating around the empty
room.

It
wasn’t until the echo and his cursing dwindled that he heard
footsteps on the stairs.

Somebody
was coming up. But who?

Not
Lydia, she was safe and sound locked in the tool shed.

Not
Shaw, he wasn’t going anywhere without his head. Cameron? If he
survived his high dive at all it would be a miracle worthy of Jesus
himself. There was only one person it could be.

Sodding Capstan! He
was
still alive after all.

Euterich
checked the nail gun for readiness.

“
I’m going to finish you off once and for all you
persistent– Wait a minute, whoa, whoa whoa! This might not so bad
after all.”

This
could be a chance to salvage his battered relationship with Lydia.
The final act before the curtain came down, and all thanks to Eddie
Capstan, not that he would have any say in the matter.

Once
more, Euterich’s scheme changed.

Chapter 49

At the
sound from up the stairwell a fresh surge of adrenaline coursed
through Eddie, banishing the pain. He took the stairs two at a
time, burst through the doors to the hub, and stopped.

“
Think man. It might not be Lydia in there. It might be him.
Brewer. Be on your guard, or he’ll have your head too.”

He crept
through the lounge to the double doors to the mess, crouching below
the level of the glass panels. He pushed one of the doors until he
had a gap of an inch or so, until he could see through
it.

No
lights on in the mess room, but a faint blue glow spilled from the
kitchen area - the ultra violet antibacterial lamp.

Keeping
to the shadows he eased his way towards the open hatchway in the
servery which led to the kitchen.

The
freezer locker door stood ajar, a fine mist drifting from it as the
frigid air within met the relatively warm air in the kitchen,
beckoning him to investigate.

Should
he risk it? It might be a trap? He’d seen these sort of things on
TV – hapless have-a-go-hero creeps forward, opens the door, gets
pushed in, door slams closed behind him, locking him in and it’s
goodnight Vienna.

He
wasn’t that stupid.

But what
if Lydia was in there? He had to risk at least a glance.

He took
hold of the nearest solid object, a heavy steel spoon. Not exactly
a Samurai sword, but it was better than nothing.

Holding
his weapon in his outstretched hand, he inched forward, eyes peeled
for the slightest movement, ears keen for the smallest
sound.

He
teased the door further open with his foot until it tripped an
automatic switch and the overhead light came on, flooding the icy
store room with cold white light.

An
insulated crate used for storing meat had been dragged into the
centre of the small room, its lid left tantalisingly open, daring
him to look inside.

He
pondered the threat, until common sense triumphed over
curiosity.

“
No way,” he said, and pushed the freezer
door closed with a solid
thunk
, engaging the locking pin in the
handle.

“
No fooling you is there?”

He spun
round, spoon raised above his head.

A dark
shape detached itself from the darkened hole of the pantry and slid
into the cold blue light. Lawrence Brewer, nail gun in hand, his
skin bathed in an almost ethereal glow like a walking
ghost.

“
You are a hard man to kill, Mr Capstan,” he said, and
raised the gun and pointed it directly at Eddie’s head. “You must
have a guardian angel. If you want to have another go, I’m happy to
oblige. I’m getting to be a pretty good shot with this. It’s a
remarkably effective weapon in the right place.”

At once
Eddie knew what had been wrong with the skull of the body in the
welding hut – the small round hole piercing the temple, about the
diameter of the weapon being pointed at him right now.

“
Reynolds,” he said. “The hole in his head. You did it? With
that?”

“
Yes…and no. Yes, in that
Reynolds
is
dead, but not by this.” Euterich wafted the nail gun. “And
despite all the evidence, it wasn’t his body you found after the
fire.”

“
So whose was it?”

“
Jock McAllister.”

“
And Reynolds?”

“
Fish food I’m afraid. Long since. You were right to suspect
the body in the welding hut was not a suicide by the way. The
slashed wrists and the fire, they were all for show, a couple of
red herrings to throw you off the scent and give you something to
think about. Worked too, didn’t it? I heard you and Miss Ellis
talking about it during your cosy little night-time get-together. I
have exceptionally good hearing, although I didn’t quite catch the
next part. Care to share?”

“
No,” said Eddie. “What about the others? Did you kill them
too?”

“
Yes.”

“
Why? What did they ever do to you?”

“
I had no option. I needed them. Lonny Dick wouldn’t have
been my first choice, but when it came down to it, I was desperate
and didn’t really care who I took. It was him or me, and I chose
me. He didn’t know it at the time but his sacrifice saved
me.”

“
And why Matt? Why did you have to … mutilate him like
that?”

“
Just having a little fun. Surprised you didn’t it? I know
it did Cameron. He nearly pissed himself before he ran away like a
scared rabbit.”

“
Did you kill him too?”

“
Didn’t have to. He managed it all by himself.”

He made
a swan dive action with his free hand and whistled, ending with a
loud smacking of his lips.