He rose up out of the darkness, slid across the slippery deck and slashed with the flail.
The chain caught the first man across his face. He gave a wild yell, staggered, then pitched into the river.
The second man, his reflexes swift, spun around, knife in hand to face Fennel, but the chain slashed him around the neck, tearing his skin and sending him reeling back. He clutched at nothing, then went into the water, flat on his back.
Fennel darted into the shadows. His grin was vicious and evil. He knew the other two men in the boat couldn't see him. The light was behind them.
There was a moment of confusion. Then frantically, the man who had used the oar, grabbed it and began to pull away from the barge. The other man was trying to get his companions out of the river into the boat.
Fennel lay watching. His heart was hammering, and his breathing came in jerky snorts through his wide nostrils.
The two men were dragged aboard. The rower had the second oar now in the rowlock and was pulling away from the barge. Fennel remained where he was. If they saw him, they might risk a shot. He waited, shivering in the cold, until the boat disappeared into the darkness, then he got to his feet.
He leaned over the side of the barge to wash the blood off the chain. He felt the icy rain sliding down inside his trousers. He thought they might come back later, and if they did, the odds would be stacked against him. They would no longer be taken by surprise.
He shook the rain out of his eyes. He must get out, and get out fast.
He went down the eight steps into the big living and bedroom and flicked on the light.
The woman in bed sat up.
'What is it, Lew?'
He paid no attention to her. He stripped off his sodden trousers and walked naked into the small bathroom. God! He was cold! He turned on the hot shower tap, waited a moment, then stepped under the healing hot spray.
Mimi came into the bathroom. Her eyes were drugged with sleep, her long black hair touselled, her big breasts escaping from her nightdress.
'Lew! What is it?'
Fennel ignored her. He stood, thick, massive and short, under the hot spray of water, letting the water soak the thick hairs on his chest, belly and loins.
'Lew!'
He waved her away, then turned off the shower and took up a towel.
But she wouldn't go away. She stood outside the bathroom, staring at him, her green, dark ringed eyes alight with fear.
'Get me a shirt . . . don't stand there like a goddam dummy!'
He threw aside the towel.
'What happened? I want to know. Lew! What's going on?'
He pushed past her and walked into the inner room. He jerked open the closet door, found a shirt and struggled into it, found a pair of trousers and slid into them. He pulled on a black turtle neck sweater, then shrugged himself into a black jacket with leather patches on the elbows. His movements were swift and final.
She stood in the doorway, watching.
'Why don't you say something? Her voice was shrill. 'What's happening?'
He paused for a brief moment to look at her and he grimaced. Well, she had been convenient, he told himself, but no man in his right mind could call her an oil painting. Still, she had provided him with a hideout on this crummy barge for the past four weeks. Right now, without her plaster of make-up, she looked like hell. She was too fat. Those sagging breasts sickened him. Her anxious terror aged her. What was she . . . forty? But she had been convenient. It had taken Moroni four weeks to find him, but now it was time to leave. In three hours, Fennel thought, probably less, she would not even be a memory to him.
'A little trouble,' he said. 'Nothing. Don't get excited. Go back to bed.'
She moved into the room. The barge lifted slightly as the wind moved the river.
'Why are you dressing? What were you . . .'
Just shut up, will you? I'm leaving.'
