The Devil in Amber (13 page)

Aggie dipped her head, evidently shocked by this revelation. I ruffled her jet-black hair. ‘Listen, Ishmael, you can stay. Of course you can. But do you really think your life’ll be worth a fig once Corpusty realizes you helped me escape?’

She looked as grave as ever.

‘Then there’s this convent of yours and the smuggling operation and that devilish face. Don’t you want to get to the bottom of it all?’

The girl looked far from certain.

‘And then,’ I continued. ‘There’s that private business of ours that was so rudely interrupted—’

Aggie suddenly flashed me a winning smile. ‘I shall come!’

‘I’m so glad! Now, let’s not waste any more time. Come on.’

Tucking in at my elbow, Aggie stepped with me into the corridor. It was ill-lit and suddenly seemed threatening as the pair of us stole quickly along its rocking length, making our way up the rusted stairs to the deck.

At once, I saw that Nature was on my side. The fret that Aggie had earlier complained of had matured into a dense and oily fog, slowing up the
Stiffkey
’s progress and giving us a wondrous cover for our escape.

Aggie and I crept across the deck, treading carefully to avoid the creaking boards, until we reached the rail, the paint all blistered and rusted like that on a seaside pier. The boat, as leaky and unpromising as her parent craft, lay alongside. Corpusty had no doubt ensured it was prepared as planned in case insomniac old me had smelled a rat.

Swiftly, I put a leg over the side of the rail and glanced down at the little boat, swaying in the fog-shrouded swell.

Aggie held back.

‘Don’t fail me now!’ I cried. ‘You deserve a better life than this, Aggie! You know you do.’

I put my hand on the rail, preparing to vault over, when there came the harsh clang of metal on metal. Next to my hand had appeared Bullfrog’s tin-opener appliance, ringing off the rail by my own vulnerable digits.

My head snapped up and there he was, a great Buddha in his stained underwear, towering over the two of us, his boiled-egg eyes alive with dope-fuelled malice.

‘
H
ell!’ I cried, pulling my leg back over the railing and dodging the mulatto’s claw as he swung it towards my head.

It was no good simply trying to make our escape by boat, the cook would raise the alarm and we’d be done for. The only solution was to silence the bugger–if a mute can be silenced–and in as permanent a fashion as possible. Taking advantage of Bullfrog’s unwieldy bulk, I put my head down and charged him, connecting with his massive gut and sending him staggering backwards.

Bullfrog let out a guttural rasp, his half-tongue shifting in his mouth like a flayed thumb, then raised his metal claw to strike again.

Aggie was everywhere at once, raining blows onto the side of his head and kicking at his calves until he roared with fury, spit gushing from his lips. He lashed out as though swatting at a bothersome fly and I grabbed one of his massive arms, straining to keep the deadly barb from connecting with anything fleshy of mine.
Jabbing my elbow backwards into his face, I felt his nose break with a satisfying crunch but the beast was so powerful that he scarcely flinched and simply tossed me and Aggie aside like limp dolls.

Skidding over the slippery deck and almost toppling into the freezing sea, I saw Bullfrog stomping towards us again, looming out of the fog like a ghoul from an old sea yarn and waggling his tongue in fury.

Fumbling for the pistol, I tried to take aim but Bullfrog was too swift, smashing me to the deck with one great paw and then raising his harpoon-hand to impale me. The gun went sliding across the decks and vanished over the side.

This pleased Bullfrog, who set up a slobbering chuckle, sweat dribbling from his brick-like forehead and collecting in the pouchy bags beneath those manic, glittering eyes.

Then, all of a sudden, he came crashing down beside me with the force of a felled tree. I slid out of the way just in time. Aggie had clamboured onto the fo’c’s’le behind him and swung a fire extinguisher against his temple with every ounce of strength she possessed.

Bullfrog shrieked in pain and put his good hand up to his face. Recognizing that we meant business, he began to stagger back towards the stairs, evidently intent on raising the alarm.

I scrabbled forward on my elbows, grabbed him by the ankles and yanked backwards. It was like trying to topple a block of granite. Aggie appeared at my side with the extinguisher, ready to swing again, but the brute lashed out and speared it with his hook.

At that moment, a terrific wave hit the
Stiffkey
and the vessel bucked violently, knocking the cook off balance.

It was all the chance I needed. Leaping up, I pulled his absurd chef’s hat over his eyes and, as he struggled to see, I grabbed him by his filthy neckerchief and wrenched him down onto his knees.
He toppled over and, metal claw rendered useless by the impaled extinguisher, rolled like a carpet towards the railing. For a moment he lay like a crab on its back, flailing and gasping, then I skittered over the saturated boards after him. Planting my feet against his side, I gave a mighty kick and propelled the great monster over the side.

He gave one last strangled cry, there was a brief splash and he was swallowed up by the waves.

A strange quiet fell, disturbed only by the chugging of the engines.

‘All right?’ I gasped, turning to Aggie.

The girl looked a little dazed but then nodded quickly and jumped to her feet. ‘Come!’

Incredibly, our desperate fisticuffs hadn’t disturbed a soul. We climbed silently over the rails into the swaying dinghy, slipped from the capstan in seconds and began to row away from the ship for dear life.

The girl stayed at the stern, looking anxiously over her shoulder, expecting, as did I, that we would be discovered at any moment. Yet still I pulled at the oars, with no sign of life from the
Stiffkey.
The old ship gradually vanished into the fog as we struggled towards the mainland.

Aggie wanted to relieve me (from the rowing, you understand) but I demurred, although my arms seemed to have turned to jelly and I could scarcely feel my frozen feet. I prayed we would make landfall with all due despatch.

I rowed until I was sick with fatigue. Then, just as I felt my head nodding on my breast, there was a percussive explosion and the livid glow of a flare overhead. I sat up at once, rubbed my dry, exhausted eyes and looked for Aggie. She was staring upwards at the flare blossoming above us, briefly turning the fog-bank a hellish red.

‘They’re on to us!’ I hissed. Aggie peered into the fog, looking for
the first sign of the
Stiffkey
in pursuit. I could only hope we were on the right course. For all I knew I was pulling out to sea, possibly into some hazardous shipping lane where we would be crushed to matchwood.

Fear of capture gave me renewed energy. In my school days, despite my detestation of all forms of exercise, I’d been quite a dab hand at rowing, although I’d only joined the team in order to get closer to a chap called Reggie Side. He was a smasher with a cheeky grin and thighs upon which you could’ve landed a small aeroplane. Hey ho. Happiest days of your life, what?

Those days were long past, however, and my middle-aged muscles shrieked for release from this unexpected exertion.

Aggie’s impish face was suddenly illumined ghoulishly by a yellow glare as she clicked on a flashlight. ‘There is a promontory–a kind of spur–hereabouts,’ she whispered. ‘That is what we are heading for. But the fog…’

She trailed off, biting her lip anxiously and staring out into the solid wall of swirling moisture. I strained to hear the noise of the
Stiffkey
’s engines but there was only the steady splash of my oars in the water and the creak of the old boat.

Then, all at once, another sound intruded on my numbed senses: a steady, metrical
thrum
. A ship’s engines, no doubt, but not those of the fagged-out old rust-bucket from which we’d escaped.

Suddenly, a big searchlight crackled into life and swung in our direction, throwing out a snow-white beam that bobbed and shifted over the surface of the sea.

‘Police launch!’ I yelled over the racket of its engines.

Aggie stood up in the boat, taking advantage of the sudden illumination to get her bearings. The craft rocked perilously. As the searchlight struggled towards us, she sat down heavily and pointed starboard. ‘There! There!’

I needed no prompting and sculled feverishly in the designated direction. The searchlight, infuriatingly, found the retreating prow
and we were suddenly blinded as its glare flooded over the boat.

A voice barked out, muffled by both fog and megaphone, and it was startling in that oppressive murk. ‘This is the police! Prepare to be boarded!’

‘Not bloody likely!’ I muttered, wrenching at the paddles and craning my neck to spy out the elusive spur of land.

Not a moment too soon, the boat bumped against sand and I fell back, the oars skewing crazily and almost catching Aggie on the side of her head. She somersaulted over the side, the water coming to her waist. ‘We’ve done it!’ she cried. ‘Quick! Ashore!’

I stumbled to my feet, then immediately ducked down as a bullet sang off the boat, sending splinters into the air in a little cloud. They were shooting at us. By James! Was this England?

More bullets hit the water–
ploop
–
ploop
–as I vaulted into the sea. The cold was intense and took my breath away but I knew we hadn’t a moment to spare. Grabbing Aggie’s hand, we waded ashore, hopelessly encumbered by our heavy clothes.

I dragged myself onto the shingle, weary to the very bone. Aggie followed suit and stood up, just as the damned searchlight swung round and lit her up, bright as day.

Another shot rang out. She looked briefly astonished, then fell back into my arms.

From somewhere, as though in a dream, I heard more barked commands from the police launch but paid them no heed. Aggie crumpled into my arms and went limp.

The huge dreary sky was beginning to streak with crimson as the dawn took hold, and in the rosy light, I could clearly see the hole in the girl’s coat where the bullet had struck her.

‘Aggie!’ I whispered urgently. ‘Are you…?’

‘I am all right,’ she whispered back. ‘Please do not concern yourself.’ But her eyelids were fluttering weakly and she sagged in my embrace. I yanked the coat from her back. The sweater beneath was darkening with blood. She’d only been struck in the
shoulder, I was hugely relieved to see, but it was clear she could go no further.

As if reading my thoughts, she tried to focus on me, her eyes rolling in her head. ‘Go! You must go!’ she sighed, shakily batting my arm.

She was right, of course, and I had no intention of giving myself up to the bobbies just for her sake, but I nobly shook my head, striking my most heroic pose. ‘I’m not leaving you like this,’ I breathed, like an overwrought Ivor Novello.

‘You must!’ she cried. ‘I will be all right.’ She turned her head towards the sea, where the sound of the approaching police launch was growing louder. ‘They are coming! Go, my dear, dark man! We shall meet again soon!’

‘Right-oh!’ I cried, brightly. Well, chivalry’s all well and good but when a chap’s liberty is at stake…

I laid her gently on the cold sand. Normally, I’d have been confident that, whatever charges were laid against her, we were no longer in America and she would at least be treated well. But the trigger-happy antics of our pursuers gave me pause.

‘I’ll find you,’ I gallantly whispered in her ear. ‘I promise.’

She nodded absently, already slipping into unconsciousness.

Taking to my heels, I didn’t look back as I hared across the beach, my bare feet sending up sprays of shingle.

It was devilishly hard going. The ‘spur’ was scarcely more than that, a narrow strip of land with the dark sea on both sides and, as I ran, I willed it to become wider and more solid so as to provide me with at least a scrap of cover.

Perilously exposed, I risked a glance backwards as the sun rose like a dull guinea amidst the cloud. The police launch had beached and I could see a cluster of men around poor Aggie. There was a brief pause and then three of them began to pelt in my direction. I didn’t wait for the next bullet but dashed on, clutching my clammy coat around me against the bitter, howling wind.

All at once, the shingle suddenly gave way to marshland but this provided scant relief. Exhaustingly, for every stretch of firm, reed-covered ground there was another of swampy morass. Time and again, I wasted valuable minutes tugging my frozen feet from the ground, the saturated soil gripping leech-like to my shins and only giving them up with a horrible, sucking belch.

I was conscious of little save the huge, cold sky and the smudge of land at the horizon. The bleak landscape was dotted all over with boats, stranded by the low tide, their rudders projecting in ungainly fashion from every limpet-encrusted stern.

Staggering on, I tripped and fell head-first into the reeds, sending a pair of geese clattering and squawking into the air. Lungs aching appallingly and with the familiar taste of iron in my mouth, I lay there for a long moment. I watched the geese flap off into the reddening sky, their path crisscrossed by a ragged ‘V’ of other birds winging south.

Utterly spent, I could hardly bear to raise my face from the embrace of the soaking soil and took long, laboured breaths, inhaling the scents of the marsh, the musty stink of the reeds, the distant aroma of woodsmoke.

Cracking open an eyelid, I suddenly saw salvation. Lying abandoned and almost completely covered in the long grass was the wreck of a fishing boat. It was upturned so that the peeling planks–Wedgwood blue and positively festive in that desolate landscape–faced the sky. It was exactly what I needed as a hiding place and I crawled towards the wooden shape hoping against hope that the interior was dry.

The knees of my trousers were soaked through to the skin but I inched onwards, pulling myself through a ragged hole in the disintegrating planks and into fusty but wonderful darkness.

I sank down, breath coming in great whooping bursts. It was hardly a permanent solution, but this shattered hull at least gave me room to think.

I could head for the nearest town. Despite my state of déshabillé, I’d pass for a sailor and I still had cash, tucked away in the soaking money-belt. But, of course, the place would be crawling with rozzers. I might as well turn up and bang a gong, announcing the arrival of the celebrated Lucifer Box: artist, bon-viveur, sexual athlete and wanted felon.

An uncontrollable shivering took hold of me and I hugged my knees in a vain effort to keep warm. I knew I should move on, find somewhere genuinely secure to rest, but I felt my head nodding again as the strain of the past few hours began to take its toll.

I snapped suddenly awake at the dreaded sound of baying hounds. With renewed desperation, I felt in my pocket for matches, hoping against hope that they were sufficiently dry to be of use. I stiffened as, below the noise of the pursuing dogs I became aware of another sound. Close to. A sort of
shuffling
.