High Water (1959) (28 page)

At eye level, he saw the sleek, shiny curve of
Seafox
’s hull, her shape strengthening at every stroke of his arms, and he almost floundered under with his excitement.

The white hull felt good under his wet palms, and he eased his way along the side, to the bobbing dinghy moored under her stern. For a moment longer he waited, listening. There were a few hurrying footsteps along the wall but they soon passed, leaving only the gurgle of water under the boat.

He heaved himself over the gunwale of the little boat, his limbs suddenly heavy, and his teeth chattering.

The tide had swung the dinghy round at right angles, so he was able to climb aboard the yacht, keeping the coach roof, and part of the wheelhouse, between him and the wall. His sodden deck shoes squelched noisily along the deck, and he wondered why he had not discarded those along with his other clothes. He shivered slightly as the fog moved eerily round his wet, naked body.

The next instant he had the wheelhouse door open and he was standing on the smooth deck, in a widening pool of water. His heart was pounding wildly, with relief or excitement, he couldn’t say, but as he stood listening intently, the sight of the gleaming wheel and binnacle, and the other familiar objects about him, made a lump form in his throat.

His boat, where all the trouble had started. He found it difficult to believe that outside the comfort and feeling of security it gave him the rest of his world had smashed, and he was, even now, being hunted.

He moved swiftly about the darkened interior, his actions ordered and compelled by the need for haste and care. As he passed a scuttle, or wheelhouse window, he ducked down, after taking a quick glance at the top of the wall, to make sure no one was taking an interest which might prove dangerous.

He pulled on a clean pair of drill trousers and a shirt, feeling the material rub and cling to his damp limbs. He had neglected to dry himself, and had paused only long enough to run a comb through his matted hair, wincing as it touched his bruised head.

All the while he was filled with the wild driving force of urgency. The desperate need to get out of the harbour before the fog lifted was more than a wild scheme. It was an overpowering obsession.

If only he could just press the starter buttons to his two powerful diesels he would take his chances on the fog. He knew that at their first roar some curious onlooker, or prowling policeman, would give the alarm. He cursed himself repeatedly for not remembering to question the fisherman more about the yacht Lang was using. It might be fast or slow, old or new. One thing: he was firmly convinced that it was not much bigger than
Seafox
. The moorings indicated by the vague sweep of the fisherman’s arms were not deep enough for large craft. A really big yacht would entail additional crew too, and it was unlikely that Lang would want to involve others at this stage, nor would he use a fool like Cooper unless it was absolutely necessary.

He padded on deck again, unwinding a coil of thin, nylon tow-line, which, although very light to handle, was as tough as an ordinary rope many times its size. This was to be the tow to end all tows, he thought grimly.

With a quick jerk, he made one end fast to the yacht’s capstan and carried the rest back to the stern, paying it out over the boat’s side as he went. With a careful heave he dropped the remainder into the dinghy, and climbed down after it. Working fast he secured it to the stern of the dinghy, and cast off the painter holding the little boat to its parent ship.

With his heart in his mouth he scrambled back aboard the yacht, crouching low until he was sure that he was still unobserved, then with a few rapid tugs he slipped both the mooring ropes holding the yacht to the harbour wall. He paused, appalled at the apparent noise he was making. In the distance a dog barked, and quite near a man’s loud laugh bellowed unnaturally through the fog. Nothing else happened. With his legs braced, Vivian pushed away from the mooring posts with all the strength of his arms and shoulders, and obediently
Seafox
drifted out on to the black water.

Vivian ran aft and jumped into the dinghy, which had floated free on its long line. With powerful strokes on the stubby little oars, Vivian pulled round ahead of the yacht, watching the nylon rise, dripping and slack, until it slowly took the strain of the tow. The line tautened and Vivian lay back on the oars, his eye measuring the distance between the two craft. The sharp, raked stem of the yacht seemed to tower over him, and but for the tiny ripple at the water-line, it was as if they were both motionless and suspended in space. He gritted his teeth and pulled harder, feeling the jerk of the line protesting against its load.
Seafox
yawed from side to side, but he was making her move, and now that he had started there was no turning back, even if he had wanted to.

Several times his aching arms made him slacken his stroke, and the white, ghost-like shape of the yacht bore down on him, and it seemed an age before he had it under control again.

The fog bell was louder now and he pulled slightly away from it. One false move here and the yacht would scrape along the wall, or come to a full stop on the stone piles at the last curve of the harbour’s embrace.

His head and neck ached from constantly looking over his shoulder and back at the tow, without allowing the pace to slacken.

A faint, yellow glow appeared over his right shoulder, and for one frightful moment he thought it was the light of a ship, but in a flash he realized that it must be the harbourmaster’s office and signal station, right on the tip of the harbour. He watched it float by and vanish behind him. He was out. The heavier swell, which lifted the dinghy easily on its back, was enough to tell him that he was on the open sea.

He pulled on, not caring about the direction, his arms
tearing
free from their sockets, and hot knives stabbing at his spine. Eventually he realized he could go on no further. He would have to chance someone hearing him start the engines.

As the yacht glided to a halt, and lay wallowing uncomfortably, he made the dinghy fast to the stern again and climbed aboard. He could only faintly hear the fog bell, so he estimated he was quite some distance from the harbour. His brain worked surprisingly clearly, and he was able to concentrate on the business of moving the boat with a coolness that had often come to his assistance in the past.

With the tide ebbing, he was drifting further away from Ramsgate every minute, roughly north-east, he decided, towards the North Goodwin Lightship. With a bit of luck, he would be able to leave it a little longer before he got under way.

The boat rolled widely on the long Channel swell, making various loose articles rattle and bang, and he had to steady himself against the chart table. He stared around, feeling rather at a loss, and trying to push the nagging murmurs of futility out of his thoughts. Now that he had made good his escape, the aftermath of shock was making his next moves difficult to formulate, and even the effort of concentration seemed additionally hard.

He scrambled down into the engine-room, switching on the pilot light as he did so. Lifting the boards by the silent flywheel he groped downwards with his hand, his knuckles grazing against the ice-cool planks of the rounded hull. The remainder of the plates had gone. He cursed slowly and coldly. Lang must have had a good search of the boat after he had left, or, most probably, he had slipped across the harbour by dinghy, after Karen had unwittingly blurted out the secret.

Wearily he climbed back to the wheelhouse, slamming the hatch bitterly behind him. Peering out of the misted windows he felt additional qualms about the soundness of his plan to leave the harbour at all. Suppose the fog lifted suddenly. Any fast launch, or helicopter, would find him within minutes. The alarm might have already been started. He shrugged his shoulders at the hopelessness of his fears. Perhaps Lang wasn’t even on that particular yacht which had hurried out to sea. After all, many yachtsmen were stupid enough to disregard a fog warning, any life-boatman would tell you that. His eyes glinted suddenly, thinking of the ‘pansy-looking chap in a bow-tie’. It was more than a coincidence. It had to be the one. The question was, where had he gone?

Switching on the light of the chart table he spread the local chart over the lighted glass and studied it carefully, trying to estimate and mark his exact position.

He shivered, the fog had got into his lungs. There was still some whisky in the saloon and he poured a large glass, downing it in one gulp. He refilled the tumbler, and absently held it up to the cabin lamp, watching the warm, amber fluid, and feeling the neat spirit burning his throat.
Seafox
gave an even heavier roll than before, and a book thudded on to the carpet.

He bent to pick it up, raising his eyebrows when he found it to be his copy of the A.B.C. time-table. Straddling his legs against the boat’s slow wallows, he stood looking at it dazedly, remembering how he had looked up the fatal train which had taken him from Torquay to London. It was a century ago, and in a sudden, blind rage, he held the book up, looking for somewhere to throw it, as if by destroying it he could blot out the memories for ever.

As he did so, he noticed the edge of a match-stick wedged in between the pages. His natural curiosity acted upon his
temper,
like water on a fire, and putting down the glass, he flicked open the book, scanning the two pages with dulled interest.

A tremor of excitement sent a cold chill up his back. Against the town name of Margate was a line of pencilled figures, and as he held the book up to the light, his hands shaking, he noted that they appeared to be a collection of train times. Trains from Margate to London. He banged the book down, sending the glass shattering across the cabin. Of course! What could be simpler? Lang must have sat here, idly checking the train times, whilst waiting for Vivian to get on his way with the plates. He slapped his forehead with an open fist. He had sailed for Margate in his boat, just to make it far enough from Ramsgate not to attract attention. Then up to town, a quick switch to the anxious employer, doing his best to help the police!

He ran back to the chart, his mind racing hard. He’d be there by now, but he’d have had to anchor a good way out in this weather. It was unlikely that he’d risk rowing ashore either, he thought, remembering his own nightmare in Ramsgate.

He stopped dead, his thumb poised over the starter buttons, the breath stilled in his throat. Karen! How easy it would be to get rid of her on the trip round the North Foreland.

Deliberately he pressed the buttons, and one by one the engines roared to life, the shattering rumble settling down to a steady, confident beat. He hardly noticed them as he eased the gear levers ahead, his mind was coldly steady again, his heart filled with consuming hatred.

He spun the varnished spokes in his hands, feeling the yacht cant over and settle on her new course, the bows climbing over each roller, and cutting a white wake through the oily water. He checked the course, and
watched
the swaying compass card, as it danced in its small pool of light.

‘Come on, old girl!’ he breathed, between his set lips. ‘Don’t let me down now!’

With a steady pressure, he eased the twin throttles wide open, a thing he would never think of doing under normal circumstances, until the whole boat shook and trembled as she leapt through the invisible sea. The needles on the revolution counters crept higher and higher, as the screws bit deeper and deeper, thrusting the sharp stem forward with almost savage force.

IT WAS A
weird experience. A blank wall of fog surrounding the boat, and the bows only just visible from the wheel, as she hurtled into what appeared to be a solid mass, which clawed and clutched at the hull as if to slow her passage.

He switched on the Automatic Pilot, and having satisfied himself that it was behaving correctly, he started his other preparations. If another ship was coming straight for him, he’d never see it, and above the scream of the engines no fog-horn could warn him in time.

He tipped the First Aid box impatiently on to the side seat, giving a grunt of satisfaction as the long automatic pistol fell glinting evilly on to the cushions. With an ease which he had forgotten he possessed, he pulled back the slide, his eyes expressionless, as the little bullet slid forward into the breech.

You’ll be sorry you gave me this, Felix!

He stuck the weapon in the top of his waistband, only pausing to consider the depths to which he had been brought. Next, he found another sort of pistol, his Very Light gun, which was always near to hand in case of real emergencies. He slit open the packet of flares, and inserted one of the fat, red cartridges into the pistol’s wide breech, and clipped it shut.

If I’m in a position to call for help, I’ll need it fast! he mused.

He took a look around the boat, realizing that it might well be his last. Then, again by the wheel, he settled down to watch the boat’s progress.

The fog showed no signs of thinning, and he ducked involuntarily as a large, grey cloud reared over the stem. He glanced at the luminous clock on the dashboard. About another ten minutes before he altered course towards the west, a course which should take him well clear of the treacherous Foreland and in towards Margate. Provided his calculations were correct, as he told himself repeatedly, while he studied the thin, pencilled lines on the chart.

Treading carefully on the spray-washed planks, he climbed up on to the forward deck, tasting the salt on his lips, and feeling the clammy moisture clinging to his face and hair. Rising and falling to the powerful thrust of the boat, he steadied himself against the guard rail, listening intently. The thunder of the engines was deadened up on the sloping deck, and he noted with satisfaction the throaty blare of a distant fog-horn. He counted the intervals. North Foreland lighthouse, he observed.

It was easy to lose all sense of time and direction. He stood right up in the bows of the yacht, his legs taking each plunge with ease, while the bow wave hissed and sparkled beneath him. It was as if he was flying through the air, skimming over the surface, like an avenging sea-bird. He wiped his streaming face, his eyes and ears playing him tricks, which he knew well enough to ignore, but his mind wandered in vague fantasies that could not be so easily cast aside.