Seizure (3 page)

‘What the hell's up with her?' Flynn shouted.

The girl shook herself free from Gill's grasp, screamed and fell to her knees, gesticulating at the sea. She was hysterically upset and Flynn couldn't understand a single word. His eyes followed the desperate pointing and squinting into the sun, until he saw a tiny bundle of black rags on the surface, some fifty metres starboard of
Lady Faye
.

His heart and insides were suddenly wrecked. He stared at Gill, who had also spotted the bundle, the object of the girl's hysteria.

‘A baby,' he blurted. The girl was frantically trying to claw her way overboard again. Flynn took it all in. Sharks tearing apart one dead body, others attacking their injured fellow shark, scores of fins now in the water, circling and building up courage to attack; a cluster of boat debris all around
Faye
making any quick manoeuvres completely impossible. His basic instinct took over.

He kicked off his deck shoes and began to climb onto the starboard railing.

‘Steve!' Gill cried, seeing what he was about to do.

Flynn didn't hear her, but he was suddenly brought back to reality as Jose tried to assist a young black man into the boat. As the man's right leg dangled tantalizingly in the water for a few seconds too many, an immense mako shark powered out of the water like a rocket and took the bottom third of the leg into the huge cavern of a mouth containing rows of magnificent tiered teeth.

Gill screamed. The man emitted a sound that was unworldly.

But Jose clung on, his strong arms under the armpits of the man, and for a few moments it was as if he was competing in a tug o' war with the mako. Then, as the huge fish twisted away, there was an ugly tearing sound and a massive chunk of the lower leg had gone, ripped off with an elemental power. Jose fell back onto the deck with his prize of a writhing man, screaming in pain, a terrible jagged wound gushing a huge amount of blood.

Flynn watched the scene for a moment. It had seemed to happen in slow motion, like a movie. But then, without further hesitation, he jumped feet first into the water.

Despite the heat of the air, the sea was incredibly cold. As it enveloped him, oxygen was sucked from his lungs as though he'd been punched in the belly. Flynn fought through this initial shock and began a powerful crawl towards the rag bundle that was a child.

His mind didn't even start to question what he was doing. What drove him was just as inbuilt as the responses and re-actions of the sharks in the waters around him. He wasn't being brave or stupid, he was simply responding to the stimulus presented before him, even though deep down he realized that the child would be very, very fortunate to be alive. And he would be just as lucky to get out of the sea in one piece.

Instinct propelled him through the swell, adrenaline fuelled his system and he was suddenly at the rags. He pulled them towards him as he trod water and kept an eye out for approaching fins. The bundle was firm yet pliable and instinct now told him there was a child wrapped in it. As to whether it was still alive was not something he had time to dwell on at that moment. Holding the child to his chest with his left arm, he struck out with a powerful sidestroke back in the direction of
Lady Faye
– and just at that moment he caught sight of a hammerhead fin cutting towards him at a terrifying rate, maybe only thirty metres to his left.

Something deep inside twisted in agonizing panic. The shark was maybe fifteen metres away now. Coming for him.

He scissor-kicked his legs hard, trying to make himself move faster, but knew it was a futile effort. Part of him wondered what it would be like to be attacked by such a creature.

Then there was a crack, followed by another crack. The hammerhead rolled away, blood gushing out of the centre of its head.

Flynn didn't spend any time assessing what had happened. He powered back to
Lady Faye
, which Tommy was reversing carefully towards him through the debris without damaging the boat. Two pairs of eager hands reached over the side. Flynn could not begin to describe the unbelievable feeling of relief as Jose's fingers gripped his right arm, he managed to pass the bundle to Gill, and then Jose hoisted him to safety, ensuring his feet didn't dangle too long in the water.

As the Spaniard dumped him on deck, Jose looked at him in dismay and said, ‘You're one crazy bastard.'

Lady Faye
ploughed through the choppy waters of the Atlantic Ocean, throttles well open. Tommy stayed at the wheel, grimly piloting the boat north towards Puerto Rico, trying not to keep glancing over his shoulder at the mess on the deck behind and below him.

In total they had managed to rescue fourteen people, including the young man who had lost most of his lower leg to a shark, the mother and baby – and two dead bodies that had not been got at by the sharks.

The man with the injured leg had gone into deep shock. Flynn and Jose worked on the terrible wound as best they could, packing it with bandages and antiseptic cream from the well-equipped – but in the circumstances, painfully inadequate – first aid kit. They wrapped his leg and made one of the other refugees prop it up at an angle to help stem the blood flow by use of gravity.

The leg was a horrible mess and he had lost a lot of blood all over the deck, which kept Jose scowling and muttering because he knew he would never get it cleaned properly: human blood stained more permanently than anything gutted from a fish.

The baby had been snatched from Flynn's hands before he was even pulled on board. The young mother – and Flynn was shocked by her age, or lack of it – clutched the bundle to her inadequate bosom and Gill steered both of them into the stateroom, where she wrapped them in the boat's best quilt that had been covering the double bed. Then she hovered over them, not even knowing if the baby was dead or alive. She stood there feeling helpless as the mother knelt on the bed, holding the baby tight, rocking back and forth, wailing and chanting.

Flynn stood up from the shark-bitten man then picked his way over the splayed legs of the exhausted travellers who were packed side by side on the deck. They had all been given a hot drink. Some managed to drink it, others could not and were obviously very poorly. He then had to step over the tarpaulin that had been used to cover the two dead ones. Flynn asked if any of them spoke English or Spanish, but their responses were muted and confused. Not that he felt like holding an in-depth conversation, but he wanted to know where they were from and what had happened. The Spanish coastal police were already demanding explanations over the radio and Flynn didn't have any answers.

‘I don't need this,' he bleated. ‘Not my scene.'

‘
Como
?' Jose asked.

Flynn gestured helplessly and shook his head. ‘
No muy bien
,' he said. ‘Not good – el crappo.'

‘Fuckin' immigrants,' Jose snorted.

‘Ugh – whatever . . . anyway, you mean old bastard – good shooting.'

‘
Como
?' His grizzled face screwed up.

‘The rifle – bang-bang.' Flynn pretended to shoot. ‘Killing the shark – thanks,
amigo
.'

‘
De nada
,' he shrugged, then turned back to the injured man who was convulsing. Flynn saw him, but went down into the stateroom where Gill was tending mother and child.

It was a pathetic scene. For a few moments Flynn felt his guts wrench and breathing seemed difficult.

Gill shot him a worried glance and a hopeless gesture.

‘Is it alive?' Flynn whispered.

‘I don't know, she won't let me see.'

Flynn's nostrils flared. He stepped in front of Gill, went down on his haunches before the woman and opened his arms.

‘Please.' He jiggled his fingers to indicate he wanted her to hand over the child. She shook her head and clung on even more tightly to the bundle. Flynn persisted and edged closer, trying to look as reassuring as a drenched six-foot-two, tough-looking man could without scaring the living daylights out of her. ‘Please . . .
por favour
. . .
sail vows plait
,' he said as though he was multilingual. ‘The baby . . .'

She continued to hold on defensively, but her expression changed as he held in there. Her grip on the infant slowly relaxed and her arms opened until Flynn knew it was OK for him to reach forward slowly and take the child. It felt like he was taking a cold, lifeless bundle and he churned inside. Maybe he should have let her keep it.

That wasn't an option now.

He placed the child, a boy, carefully on the bed and unwrapped the damp covers. It lay there lifeless and unmoving, its black skin blue with cold and lack of blood. Flynn could not prevent a hiss of despair escaping from his lips. The mother clamped her hands to her face and gagged a scream, while Gill laid a hand on Flynn's back.

He leaned over the child, his hands touching its cold, clammy skin. His first and second fingers slid up to the neck, just underneath the jaw, probing for a pulse.

‘What d'you think . . .?' Gill started to ask behind him, leaning over his shoulder. He waved her to silence and returned his fingers to the search. Was there something? Or was it his imagination? Or just a forlorn wish to find something? His fingertips probed gently. He opened one of the baby's eyes and the eyeball rolled back. His own eyes watched the baby's chest. Did it rise and fall? His concentration was total, cutting out everything else that didn't matter.

He tilted back on his haunches and hoarsely whispered, ‘There's a pulse . . . I'm sure of it. Hardly there, but it is there.'

‘You certain?'

He nodded shortly. ‘How do you feel like holding a baby to your bosom? The kid's getting no heat from Mum. Here.' Flynn's eyes flickered to the refugee. She was staring with cold terror. ‘But I know you're hot stuff.' His eyes angled up to Gill. ‘If the kid doesn't get some real warmth, it'll die.'

‘It's a no-brainer then,' Gill said. She pushed Flynn aside, reaching for the motionless child. ‘You wrap us up tight in the quilt,' she told him.

He did. ‘Good lass,' he told her. ‘You'll dine out on this for months back in London,' he said.

But she didn't really hear him. She was feeling so drained and emotional. ‘This is a miracle,' she said as she felt the baby move.

‘That's the problem,' he winked. ‘The impossible I do at once . . . but miracles . . .?' He shrugged with a wink.

TWO

D
etective Superintendent Henry Christie scanned the printed crime report as he walked purposefully and grim-faced down the hospital corridor. His eyes quickly read the dry, formulaic words which, while succinctly summarizing the incident, went no way towards truly describing the sheer terror which came with it.

It was the third such robbery, but the first one that had gone utterly wrong. The first two had been particularly brutal and frightening affairs and innocent people did get hurt – quite badly – because these robbers were violent, nasty people. However, no firearms had been produced and no one got shot, a fact which ratcheted number three up to another level entirely.

The MOs of the robberies were all exactly the same.

They came in from out of town into an unsuspecting backwater and targeted a security van collecting the day's takings from a superstore close to a motorway. The offenders knew exactly what they were doing, when to do it and how to get away – which meant that good planning had gone into the jobs. The only difference between the execution of this robbery and the previous two, other than the use of the gun, was that it had taken place in Blackpool, whereas the others had been committed over in east Lancashire. This meant the offenders had travelled further. As it was believed they had come in from Manchester, it was a big hike and more risky for them.

The change in venue had also caught the cops on the hop, something that was grating with Henry Christie.

‘How much?' he asked.

‘Forty grand.'

Henry pursed his lips. ‘Definitely the same crew?' The question was almost superfluous, but he had to ask it.

‘Yeah,' the detective inspector said, trying to keep up with Henry's pace as he strode down the corridor to A&E. ‘Deffo Manchester crims.'

Henry flicked the crime report back at the DI, nodded stone-faced and very serious. He swung a right turn and pirouetted through a double door into the cauldron that was the A&E reception area. He stopped abruptly to get his bearings, almost causing the scampering DI to rear-end him.

‘How's the security guard?' Henry asked. The shooting had happened some four hours earlier and Henry knew the doctors and nurses here at Blackpool Victoria Hospital had been working frantically on him since he had arrived with a bullet in the face. The said slug was lodged somewhere between his right eye and his brain.

‘Last I heard, touch and go, fighting for his life,' said DI Rik Dean.

Henry took a steadying breath in order to regain some control over himself. ‘What's being done . . . been done?' he asked, meaning what the hell had the police done so far?

‘Uniform were on the scene within minutes, motorway patrols were alerted and India Ninety-Nine was put up. Statements are still being taken from some very shaky witnesses at the store, which we've shut down for the day, much to the management's annoyance. There's a big crime scene investigation going on and Manchester have been apprised of it.' The DI shrugged. ‘They torched their car on Shoreside, which incidentally was stolen from Manchester, then divided up into maybe two or three other vehicles. And, of course, the residents on Shoreside aren't exactly coming forward in droves to assist. We reckon they'd be back in the city within forty-five minutes, tops.' He shrugged again.