Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (45 page)

“I kept on running! Back to the boat and back to the mainland. I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared I deliberately disappeared for a month, waiting for news of the accident. Week after week I heard nothing. I came out of hiding expecting to suffer the consequences of my actions but all I got was Molly McCracken pestering me; asking if I’d seen Jimmy. Months went by, still nothing. Months became years, still no word and Molly McCracken’s pestering finally turned me into a drunken wreck ever since.”

“Why didn’t you just tell somebody? Told a few lies. Jimmy and his mates had gone to the O’Driscoll’s fort on Clear Island and they hadn’t returned. A search party would have been formed and you would never have been suspected; simple ethics aided by a few white lies. There were no witnesses to say otherwise.”

“That’s easy to say when yer’re not scared shitless. In the forties people were edgy, untrustworthy. Implication in a crime of robbery and murder wouldn’t go down very well with the Irish Guards whether the target was the enemy or not. And with Jimmy involved with the IRA, well that definitely sealed my mouth. I wasn’t going to spend the next twenty years stuck in the decay of an Irish prison. No thank you! Kept the blabbing tightly shut, and went about my business trying to be as normal as possible.”

“That’s everything?”

He nodded. “Now will yer leave me alone to finish the rest of me horrible life in peace?”

“It’s what I promised.”

“Yer won’t tell Millie I ran away and didn’t stop to try and rescue her father?”

“No point upsetting her more than she probably is now,” I said. “One more question, Willie. Why didn’t you go back for the gold boxes in the tunnel, it’s obviously still buried there under the debris? Six or seven boxes would have been worth the trouble to excavate.”

Willie shivered. “Not likely! Perhaps yer haven’t heard of the O’Driscoll curse. Back in the thirties people died mysteriously on Clear Island in the vicinity of the ruined fort. I suspected the curse had struck again. I’d rather die in poverty than challenge the curse of O’Driscoll’s. I’ve never been back to the island since. The cursed cargo can stop there and so can the other stuff.”

It would be much later when I was to understand Willie’s slip of the tongue, as we were supposedly talking about gold, yet he’d mentioned
the other stuff
which in my opinion, at the time, was a reference to another piece of cargo. At that moment I was only interested in the current information Willie had told me so far. I finished my Guinness and rose from my chair to make my exit, then checked my stride when I remembered something important that I’d forgot to ask him.

“Ever heard of St Brendon?”

“He’s one of Ireland’s saints. So?”

“Was Jimmy a church going man?”

“Nah! Not Jimmy. We repaired a few before the WW2 started. Why?”

“I’m curious. Can you remember which ones you repaired?”

Willie was shaking his head even though he was still thinking. “Dare say I don’t…the churches were scattered…I can’t be sure.”

I left Willie alone to reflect on the great times he must have had with Jimmy ‘the mad-man’ McCracken.

*

I left Cork and drove back to see Deveron at his hotel, only he’d done a disappearing act and so too had Shayna. No message, no jack shit! I headed back to Baltimore as fast as the Roadster could move without crashing because my spine was tingling with the sense of danger, but I couldn’t put my finger on whether it was my problem or someone else’s. I pressed the accelerator to the floor and pushed the Roadster hard, burning fuel and rubber at an alarming rate.

I’d almost reached the turn-off for Baltimore when the in-car mobile rang. I pressed the appropriate button for two way contact. I knew the mobile number that highlighted on my screen to be Shamus’s mobile, but the voice didn’t match the owner’s.

My, “yes,” was an understandably cautious.

“Listen carefully, Speed. We’ve an interfering friend of yours who isn’t happy to be in our company. In fact he’s finding the experience rather painful.”

I was baffled at first as to who the mystery man’s voice belonged to, made more difficult to hear the voice because of the heavy roaring sound in the background from where the caller was calling from. To hear the voice again, I said, “I don’t have friends.”

“If you hurry, Speed, you may save your sailor com panion from a drop to his death. Be at the fog station at Mizen Head. No police, just you, alone. I wouldn’t hang about, the tides ebbing and a body smashes nastily on rocks.”

The caller disconnected and my mobile went dead. The voice; the smirking tone, I was positive it belonged to Damien Love. I panicked when I realized who Love and Hate had with them. The frigging bastards had Shamus! I hadn’t a moment to waste.

I raced the Roadster over to Shamus’s home at Collen to make sure it wasn’t a trick. I brought the Roadster to a shuddering halt outside his house and got out to check. There was no need for me to knock on the front door because it had been kicked from its hinges and lay at a forty five degree angle all splintered and battered. I shouted through to Shamus but received no reply. I went inside and looked round. The place had been trashed and Shamus was nowhere to be seen. They had him all right!

I was back in the Roadster, crunching through the gears, driving ferociously towards Mizen Head without a contingency plan to fall back on. I assumed that once I presented myself at the proposed rendezvous, the first bullet would hit me before I got close enough to plea for Shamus’s life to be spared. That is, if Love and Hate had allowed him to live that long. My guts churned inside as I struggled to keep the Roadster from crashing as I negotiated tight bends and narrow country roads, heading towards my destiny with death ringing in my ears. I was also unarmed and vulnerable.

During the drive I fleetingly noticed a sign post bearing the name of a place which had recently sprung to mind, but I soon forgot the names meaning as I thought of what frightful state I would find Shamus suffering.

My approached to Mizen Head car-park was with understandable apprehension. There were two other saloon cars parked. Both were empty of either a driver or passenger. I looked around before getting out, closing the car door quietly and making sure the Roadster was locked while still keeping a vigilante watch. I didn’t want to be caught out with a nasty surprise that Love and Hate were renowned for, and I wasn’t.

Love had said to meet them at the fog station and that was a good ten minutes walking distance. I set off along the pathway towards the station. If Love and Hate weren’t aware of my arrival I should imagine they would know now with the screeching seagulls circling above me announcing my presence.

Mizen Head was a place that appealed to danger. The terrain alone was an accident prone victim’s nightmare and those who stepped beyond the pathways were asking for trouble. I put in a good pace, not quite a run but almost as well as one before I was forced to slow and stop. In the distance I saw Love and Hate. I couldn’t really miss the two ugly bastards. They were waiting for me on the white arched concrete bridge that extended over the gorge leading to the Mizen Head fog station. The cowards were using Shamus as a protective shield and by the positioning of Shamus’s hands behind his back I assumed that his wrists had been bound tightly with a strong restraint.

I wondered what my next move should be considering I hadn’t forged a plan of action. I glanced down at the ground which gave me an idea. From between my feet I stooped and picked up two smooth flat stones and put one in each hand, sucked in a deep breath to steady my nerves and headed down the pathway towards them.

Love and Hate were alert as I approached. They probably had me in sight before I saw them. I’d limited options and I should have really informed the Garda of the situation and left the hostage negotiations to them. But I’d good reason to think that Love would have dropped Shamus into the gorge the moment they were challenged and with the excuse that they were trying to save a suicidal victim.

It was me they wanted more than Shamus. Now I was here to save a man’s life, and on this occasion, I was on time. Besides, how could I possibly be accepted through the gates of Hell if I was to allow Shamus to perish without even attempting a reasonable rescue? I can’t be an egoistic git all my life.

Within shouting distance, I yelled. “Are you alright Shamus?”

Shamus nodded, shouting back. “As fine as I can be-,” before he was cut off by a hard nudge in the small of his back with a silenced gun.

“Keep walking towards us, Speed! Love yelled back. “Get your hands up so I can see what they’re doing.”

I raised my hands shoulder height, slipping the two pebbles between the forefinger and middle finger of each hand and gripped the stones hard, so when I showed the palms of my hands the pebbles were invisible from their view.

Love gestured me forward with his gun hand. “That’s it, Speed. Keep coming!”

Stupid as it might sound, I was gambling on a hunch that I wasn’t about to die by the bullet but instead Hate wanted to tear me apart piece by piece and feed me to the Basking Sharks. Hate wanted me to suffer, as he had suffered by Winston’s teeth. As much as I wanted revenge on them, Hate equally wanted revenge on me. I could see the fury burning in his eyes as I went through the iron-barred gate and onto the bridge. Yes he definitely had me down for a butcher’s death. But if I needed any strong encouragement to take him on, my blood sizzled when I saw the severe bruising and cuts around Shamus’s cheekbones and eyes.

“Not in any pain, are you, Shamus?” I asked him, keeping a watchful eye on the fidgety movements of Love and Hate.

Shamus shook his head gingerly. “I’m Irish, Shacks sir. Me skin’s like leather.”

He was also a lousy liar, though I admired his bravery considering the circumstances.

Love grinned. “It’s very chivalrous of you to turn up, Speed, and so pleasant to have your company.”

“Crackers more like, but I’m here.” I began lowering my hands, sneakily slipping the pebbles back into the palms of my hands.

Love jabbed the gun deeper into Shamus’s spine. “Nothing stupid now, Speed, or I’ll blow a hole threw the old man’s spleen.”

“Just tired arms,” I said convincingly, “can’t hold them aloft all day.”

Hate began sneering. His fingers twitched in anti cipation to get at me. For the first time I saw his recent dis figurement. The half ear was an unsightly mess, a jagged piece of purplish-red flesh that no plastic surgeon could reshape to normality. There were bite marks dotting his face and scratches criss-crossed the bridge of his nose. And then there were the deep purplish bite marks on his hand obviously from his first skirmish with Winston when they had clashed at the farm.
Do I love that dog!

I can’t say I was about to enjoy the next exciting encounter when Hate drew a long bladed knife that glinted menacingly when the sunlight caught it. There was no warning. He suddenly lunged towards me, snarling obscenities. I saw the inflamed madness in his eyes. Spit flew angularly from his mouth as he rushed towards me. I held my ground and waited for my moment. My mind was working in overdrive; only seconds to react. Instinctively I looked beyond the onrushing Hate and shouted, “Get him Winston!”

Hate fell for my lie. He slammed on the shoe leather, frantically twisting with the expectancy of seeing Winston snapping at his heels, slashing his knife downwards where he thought the imaginary dog was.

That momentary distraction even fooled Love, as he looked for the non-existent beast. Love was quick to realize my deception. His eyes shot back at me, horror across his face when I caught him between the eyes with one of the pebbles I had thrown at him. My attack copied the biblical encounter between David and Goliath as the pebble jolted Love’s head backwards and he lost his balance and fell against the parapet railings, stunned, blood sprouting from the split skin and running down the bridge of his nose and dripping off the nib.

Swiftly I’d pivoted into another throwing angle and threw the second pebble at Hate, catching him straight in the left eyeball after he had turned to face me. In all the confusion I moved swiftly forward and grabbed Hate’s knife arm, fighting him for supremacy. As we spun I got a fleeting glimpse of Shamus in action. In spite of his bondage he’d shoulder charged the howling Love and sent him over the side of the railing. Unbelievably, Love had managed to grab a hold of the concrete bridge support as he fell to a certain death on the rocks and he hung there helplessly, swinging and screaming for help, frantically attempting to scramble back to safety. Shamus, to his credit, did a marvellous job in preventing Love from climbing back onto the bridge by standing on Love’s fingers. I got the distinct impression Shamus was beginning to enjoy himself as he shouted his own brand of Irish obscenities while stamping down his foot. Who could blame him?
Revenge is mine says the Lord!
I could have sworn Shamus was preaching.

While Shamus fought his battle I had mine to contend with, as I struggled with Hate for control of the knife. The frigging bastard was far stronger opposition than I’d anticipated and the swishing blade nicked the skin of my left cheek. The sight of leaking blood excited Hate and he fought even harder. The fight had us crashing against the parapets like two gladiators battling to the death in the centre of the arena. We were spinning, our feet shuffling for the firmness and grip of terra-firma. Our bodies rolled across the top of the railing, advantage changing constantly. Our knees thudded into each other’s midriff hoping for the one fatal blow to gain the upper hand.

Shamus might have been enjoying his domination of Love, but I was feeling the strain and exhaustion, tiring by the second and I needed inspiration quickly. I got it in a way I didn’t think possible, though I didn’t know what possessed me to latch my teeth onto Hate’s right eyebrow. But I did and I was biting hard into the baggy skin to hang on. I shook my head like a wild animal tearing the flesh from its prey. His screams sounded like a wounded wolf, but I didn’t let go until my mouth came away from his face when Hate released his grip on me. He went reeling back, clutching his face. Blood pumped from between his fingers, running down his cheek and chin. I spat out the offensive lump of hairy flesh to the floor, the taste of his blood trickling down the side of my mouth as I watched the ragged piece of eyebrow twitch like a squashed caterpillar.