The German Numbers Woman (57 page)

Blood wetted his shoulders, but what could not be seen was easy to ignore. The rhythmically pulsing pain was pushed to one side. People walked on fire. Wounds possessed their built-in anodyne. A beleaguered animal weakened from loss of blood. To avoid losing consciousness he listened to a horse clopping down a village street by a public house, saw a Land Army woman riding as if having somewhere to go, the golden brush of the mare's tail swinging at the trot. A collie dog followed, respecting the hooves. Hard to say why such a scene, but he scrubbed it when the pain went. The mind chucked up queer memories. A rope was loose somewhere.

Waistcoat was no crack shot, but the blow-by had been closer than he thought. A man was easy to miss in the dark. Coastguards, customs and police had been put on the
qui vive
. He hadn't been afraid to do it, that's all he knew, wanting no regrets. Training was everything, and though the drilling and instilling of moral fibre into the system happened so many years ago, the strength came through from it more than ever as he pressed a hand to the pain, and tried to recall in detail what had happened after the cannon shell hit the Lancaster.

All he saw were flowers on cigarette cards collected as a boy, celandine and ragwort, thistles and biting stonecrop in every colour of the spectrum, water lilies in harmony with the light he was beginning to see.

The swing of the boat wiped the soothing pictures clear, rolling him to the far side of the deck, his wound scraping against wood. He crushed back a groan, and aligned with fore and aft as the boat turned, gripped the rail to stay upright and look out to sea: no other boat but their own, steady on its track, a surge and chop of water before the new course stabilised.

Pain brought a light into half focus, showing him the darkness and a curling phosphorescence plainer because of the soft hiss. Inside or out, he couldn't be sure but, wanting to tear at the skin and prove it one way or the other, unclamped his free hand to search the deck carefully, knowing it was better to move than box himself into a fortress anybody could pull him out of. Rubbing the wound to clear away blood made yellowy orange lights to dance, a weird picture which, like others of the mind's eye, he wanted to live with.

Cleaver steadied the wheel at the surge of power, and Richard wondered how long before they stalled through lack of fuel. No subterfuge would save them, when the last drop spluttered into the engine. He took the wheel, hiding his fear. The night was too good for them, enough moon coming up to outline the boat like a metal cutout in an amusement arcade. ‘Visibility at least twenty-five miles,' Cleaver said. ‘But at this rate we'll lose 'em.'

Better to be halfway up river and ready to unload. Richard thought they should have gone straight in and taken a chance. Luck had always been theirs, and fortune favours the brave – as his father, a Meccano man of screws and flimsy girders, had too often said, the old bastard sometimes adding that ‘speed was of the essence'. But Cleaver had tested chance once too often, and lost his Master's ticket. As for Howard, he should have waited till they were on shore, and gone to the nearest box where, for a few coins, he could have phoned whoever he thought would listen to his blind man's babbling. Someone could have dealt with him even before he finished dialling.

‘Do you know how many millions this is going to cost us?' Waistcoat said, as if at the moment it was more important to save his precious cargo than get at Howard. ‘It's not all mine. If we lose it they'll get me as well.'

‘I'd rather lose a billion than go inside again. I'll have your guts for garters if we go up the spout. Your number will be well and truly up.' Cleaver turned, put himself face to face. ‘It's the luck of the draw, so shut your scabby box.' Cork Light was coming up to' starboard, meaning they were still less than three miles from shore. ‘Wait till we're in the clear. The blind man won't get away from
me.'

‘Two boats coming up,' Cannister called out. ‘They're boxing us in left and right.'

‘When they're closer, alter course dead north. We'll get behind. I'll tell you what to do after that.'

Richard knew that all conviction had gone, especially from Cleaver, who would do more than anyone to save himself. As for the rest of us, we might just as well shut ourselves in the state room for a few last drinks. ‘Here's to you! It was good while it lasted – happy days! We'll celebrate again when we get out! Oh yes, don't worry, lads, it might not be as long as you think.' No one had yet found the heart to throw the cargo into the water. ‘Take over,' he told Cleaver. ‘I need some air.'

‘You can run like a rat, but they won't get me.'

As he went along the deck Richard glanced at the boats bearing down, streaks of white light more powerful than any their clogging vessel could produce. All he had to do now was keep Waistcoat away from Howard. A promise was a promise, and though Laura might not thank him for it, Howard's girlfriend doubtlessly would.

THIRTY-FIVE

The spin of the boat pulled her out of her dream: hard to remember the point, didn't suppose there had been one: Howard and Carla among palm trees on an esplanade, white boxy houses scattered up a hill, black clouds coming together, a fur-covered round table ringed with bottles, no one willing to drink. All very awkward, right? The landscape was painful to let go of, but it vanished utterly, and going back to search for it would take the rest of the night.

She stood naked to throw a jersey over her chest, pulled on knickers and slacks, tied her shoelaces. Got to see the fun on shore, would coax Howard from his radio to a pew by the rail, and after the unloading they'd pack their bits and pieces, shake goodbye hands at everybody, and make for the nearest bus or train. However long and dark the road they could stop any time for a kiss and cuddle, and think what to do on their first day of freedom.

The boat swung again, no straight run so what last minute change of plan had flooded the skipper's brain? St Vitus' Dance wasn't in it. Banging her shoulder against the bunk, she rubbed at the ache. Howard must be at his perch by the stern, as if watching all past life go by. What else could a blind man do? There'd be no more of that once they were on
terra firma
.

Shouts and more than the usual cursing from the bridge told that their arrangements had gone wrong. The boat was sheering away from the coast. She flashed her pocket torch at the deck, keeping the beam low. ‘So here's my lover-boy!'

He whispered. ‘Put it out.'

‘The light? How did you know?'

Couldn't unravel the microdot to explain the impossible. ‘I'm the
Flying Dutchman
, and you're the German Numbers Woman.'

‘Oh yes, thank you very much, but what's that supposed to mean?'

The shadow drifted. ‘A fantasy. A little joke.'

‘You saw something. Hey, are you all right?'

‘Yes, I'm in trouble, and I don't want you in on it.'

‘I'm mystified. You can't stop me, though. Where you go, I go.'

‘Better not. The chief's gone berserk. He's out to kill me. But let's not talk. Somebody'll hear us.'

She knelt, fingers along his cheek before a kiss. ‘I don't care. Only stop messing about. Your face is wet.' She pressed the torch button, crying: ‘I don't believe this. Who did it? Oh, I shouldn't have gone to sleep, but how could I know?'

‘It's nothing. We're changing course again. North, by the feel of it. They won't get away.'

‘You must have banged into something, but it's not like you.'

‘I got into a fight with the chief. I alerted the coastguards. I'll vouch for you when they come. He caught me sending morse.'

Everything was in her tone, from thinking him the world's fool, to supposing that what he had done was beyond explanation. ‘Oh, why? What the hell for?'

‘It was the reason I did the trip.' Yes it was and no it wasn't. The truth was impossible to go into, a built-in yes and no to all questions, a cloud of wasps best to avoid. ‘I really came to meet you.'

‘I just don't understand.' She held him. ‘You've got me flummoxed. Has everyone gone crazy? You're not blind after all. What
is
this?'

‘I can't say.' A break in the barrier of darkness came from one angle and then another, a shade here and a form there, her shadow for one thing, yet silhouetting by the moment, which had to be mostly in the mind, because why now? ‘Bits of my sight are breaking in. I didn't lie about it.'

‘He's down there somewhere,' Waistcoat said. ‘But he won't be for long. Root him out.'

‘Not me.' Scuddilaw walked away. ‘Do your dirty work yourself.'

He couldn't see more than anyone else on the blacked-out boat, but Howard smelled aftershave, whisky, and the rancid vegetation of a cigar, saw a flash of him as Judy moved in front.

‘Get out of the way, you tart. He's mine.'

‘Leave him alone.' She ran forward, but was thrown back. ‘I don't care what he's done.'

‘He's sold us down the river, you stupid bitch.' Braced against the rail, he was uncertain where to set his aim, a double murder not in the scale of things. ‘Fuck off out of the way, or you go with him.'

Paralysis stopped her running, wanted to but didn't know how. ‘If you touch him, I'll kill
you
,' was all she could say. Waistcoat wrenched her arm. She cried out at the pain and kicked back – all right to hurt such a man – to gain time. Two shots splattered the air, a brilliant pyrotechnic clearance for his purpose, but under fire Howard saw his chance, as if the old aircrew energy had taken root again – tinsel and confetti though he supposed it might be.

He reached for her hand, pulled her forcefully along the deck. Dimly uprising steps seemed made out of knitted wool, solid enough on climbing, and at the top she said: ‘Two boats are heading this way. Do you see them?'

‘The lights? Yes, I can.'

‘Half a mile off. Less, maybe.'

‘So we'll be all right.' Lamps in the blackout were doubted for a moment, then he couldn't deny they were real, two distinct top points of a V, a sight putting him in the spirit of what seemed to have been inexplicably given back. ‘Let's have your torch.'

He buttoned out morse at the starboard boat, a steady and unmistakable SOS, the artful dots and dashes wonderfully sharp. Before dowsing the light he saw the cap and white face, a handgun circling the air. Fingers screwed into the injured eye brought clarity out of the moonlight. Waistcoat, taller than he had imagined, glanced at the boats, crying in a tone of hysterical despair: ‘See what you've done? The fucking boats have got us.'

Judy ran in front, but Howard elbowed her away. The Luger was steady in Richard's hand: ‘Leave him alone, Chief.'

‘You can't frighten me with your replica.'

‘It's real enough. So step aside.'

She pulled Howard into the darkness, as if the lights of the incoming boats had switched off, or never been there. The flash of the first shot wiped out interior scenes of ragged robin, clover pinkish among the green, hound's tongue, snake's head, deadly nightshade and blood-red poppies. Light was opening, but the flowers went. He grasped at her, all he could do. Another shot, though not for him, and the returned sight wavered as he fell into her arms, ice of water after a long time covering, as if they were going down together, the skin of consciousness bursting under anaesthetic.

‘No!' she screamed. ‘Love you!'

Richard's reflex had been a wasted effort. He leaned over the rail, a stab in the ribs threatening to bring up vomit. Nothing to do but watch the boats closing, lights again showing the slumped body of a fool who couldn't be saved, his own victim in the stupid game he had played. He pointed to Waistcoat's body. ‘Get that over the side.'

‘Why did you have to kill him?' Cannister said. ‘Wasn't one enough? I take no more orders on this boat. And put that shooter away. You can't frighten me.'

His will went into meltdown at Judy's wailing. ‘He's my boyfriend, don't you know?' She would yammer even more when the customs men came on board, babble till somebody (and it might well be me) smacked her in the chops to bring her right mind back. ‘He's the one who put you wise,' she would inform them. ‘He told me all about it. We planned it together but they shot him instead of me. Look though, he's still breathing.' Easy to know her thoughts, as she leaned against the rail to send a prayer over the water.

Not needing a weapon anymore he threw his Luger overboard, the first and last time he'd fired it. Let them drag the sea if they want evidence. Putting his shoe against Waistcoat's body he rolled it over and, taking the weight with both hands, let the bag of rubbish rest a moment, then heard its satisfying plunge into the water. The fishes would swim in loathing from it.

Blood smeared his shirt. Should have kept the carcass on board, but it was too late to make good. Always too late to make good. It would be scummed up on some holiday beach, already rotting so that a little boy building a sandcastle runs horrified to daddy, and daddy goes pale at the creaming snot of the water hitting the sandcastle's towers to bring them low, Waistcoat's dull eyes at the battlements he finally failed to climb.

Searchlights from the cutters – a crowded wheelhouse bristling with aerials – pinpointed the boat. His binoculars were a pair of the best eight-by-thirty Barr and Stroud, given by the old man before Richard set off for his first job at sea. ‘They used to make range-finders as well, Barr and Stroud did, for the Royal Navy. This pair's been with me on all my voyages, but now I'm handing them on to you, so take good care of them.' Tears streaked his left cheek, recalling the death of his wife who hadn't lived to see this solemn moment with their son – otherwise as if the whole fucking merchant marine was stood to attention and looking on.