‘Would they be Irish sharks by any chance?’
‘The white house, round the bay? With the yacht?’
‘The Lorne. She’s a ketch. By Dickies of Tarbert. A pretty craft. Too good for that scum.’
‘Is that what it is? Two masts? Taller at the front?’ My brain struggled for the right words.
‘You’re not a sailor, then.’
‘Tried it once. I prefer ferries. Will anyone be on board or do they all stay in the house?’
‘Depends.’
‘I don’t want anyone to get away.’
He nodded. ‘Here.’ He put the can down and knelt in the sand. He began drawing. ‘It’s simple. Main mast is for’ard, mizzen is aft. She’s gaff rigged, fore and aft.’ He sketched square-shaped sails whose top edge was suspended from a wooden spar instead of tied directly to the masts. ‘Makes it easier to handle. You get more sail up for less mast. There’s also a jib.’ He drew a triangle without spars, that ran from the top of the main mast to the bow. ‘You can sail her fine on a mizzen and a jib. When it’s moored they just drop the sails onto their booms and lightly reef them. Quicker to the off.’
The vocabulary started to come back to me. ‘Steering?’
‘Tiller. Helmsman stands thigh deep in a cockpit between the stern and the mizzen mast, under the boom.’
‘Cabins?’
‘I’ve not been on board but she’ll have six or eight bunks and a galley. Access from two hatches.’
‘A handy boat for a round trip to Ireland?’
He nodded. ‘Are you just yourself?’
‘Me and Dickson here.’
He sized me up. ‘Army?’
‘2nd Seaforths. 51st Highland Division.’
A grin split the red beard in two. His hand came out. ‘The Highway Decorators. One of Tom Rennie’s boys. Me too. Black Watch. Tobruk?’
I smiled. ‘You were on our left flank. Christ, it was hot.’
‘Hotter in France.’
‘The first time or the second?’
He looked at me quizzically. ‘Just the once. We were 9th Highland. Territorials. Rebadged as the new 51st in time for Africa. Sicily then France. You?’
I sighed. ‘ Deux fois. BEF in ‘40. Then Africa, Sicily and back to bloody France.’
‘St Valery? I thought you all went on a nice German holiday? You escaped with Rennie?’
‘A few of us didn’t fancy the tour guides. A crofter from Lewis taught me how to sail a fishing boat we pinched from the French. Three days of rope burns and a headache. I thought he was talking Gaelic all the time. It was just fancy boating terms. It’s why I prefer big boats with engines and a canteen.’
He looked me up and down. ‘Christ.’ Then very deliberately, he saluted. ‘Wait here.’
He went back to his hut. He came tottering back with another outboard motor, a much bigger version than any of the ones clamped to the boats. It took him five minutes to replace one with the other and to fill the tank.
‘You should get ten maybe eleven knots from this yin. It might help.’
He placed another can of fuel inside the boat, and we began to drag the boat down the sand and into the shallow water. He held it steady while I clambered on board. He stood with waves lapping against his hips while I settled myself. He explained how to start the motor, priming the carb and using the throttle. I held the top of the motor, gripped the handle of the cord and tugged. The engine coughed, spluttered; I opened the throttle a little more and it fired up and moved into pop pop mode.
‘What’s your name, friend?’
‘Eric. Eric McLeod.’
‘Brodie. Douglas Brodie.’ We shook hands. ‘Well, Eric the Red, I’m truly grateful. If I don’t come back, or it gets damaged, well…’
‘Never mind the boat. Find that lady of yours. I’d come with you, for the laughs. But I’ve the wife and bairn now,’ he said wistfully.
I turned round to face the open sea, twisted the throttle cum steering handle and revved away from the shore. Dusk was settling across the water and the waves grew choppier as I headed out past the point. A northerly was picking up from the shore and I began to worry about getting swamped when I turned side on to it.
Far off, at the point of the next bay, I could see the distant house and boat. I took a wide arc out towards the Ayrshire mainland and buzzed and splashed my way for half an hour. I tried the boat at full pelt to see how fast it could go. Quick enough for me to get drenched and on the verge of capsizing as the wind buffeted me from the shore.
I settled down to a steady 3 or 4 knots, butting into the waves. When I was opposite the house a good three or four hundred yards out, I turned about and started heading landward. I sat lower in the boat, relying on the gathering dark and the grey swollen sea to make me invisible. I just hoped the bad guys were all pointing their guns at the road.
FORTY-SIX
I dropped speed until the engine was down to a low-key throb. But it still sounded as loud as an ice-cream van on a Sunday without the pleasurable anticipation. Finally I had the bulk of the jetty between me and the house. The Lorne was bigger than I’d thought from afar, perhaps a 50-footer. The jetty was about forty feet long so that the ketch stuck out well beyond the end. Hefty wooden pillars propped up each side of the jetty and stood a good three feet proud above the deck. Halfway along the deck stood a wooden locker about six feet long, three wide and high.
As each swell rolled through, the ketch swung from side to side and the halyards flapped and clanked. I cut the motor and nudged against the pier, and sat there clinging to the wood for a long minute to make sure no gangster with a grievance was about to blow my head off.
I tethered the boat to a pillar on the opposite side to the Lorne. I scrambled to my feet, praying none of my weapons would end up as buried treasure in the murky waters below. Slowly I raised my head above the deck of the jetty. I could see into the back room of the house about thirty yards away. There was a big bay window with wonderful sea views, or in this case, wonderful me views. Lights were already on and I could see one figure standing up talking to someone else, sitting down. He turned and talked to someone else. I think I recognised the curly-haired guy I’d shot in the foot. I hoped it still hurt.
I climbed back down to my boat and lifted the can out. I placed it on the deck and then laid my shotgun, knife and revolver alongside it. I carefully climbed up and on to the jetty and crab-crawled along it. Then I made my preparations.
The fire caught quickly and roared into the air above the wooden locker. The flames themselves were enough to attract the attention of the house. But just in case, I’d left the can with its cap tightly screwed on, on top of the locker. I watched, tucked down behind the last pillar as the flames enveloped the can. I started to fret. If the fire ate through the wooden lid too fast, the can would drop through and just lie there. I looked up at the house. Three figures were at the window gesticulating. Then they vanished. From a side door, two came running, or rather one was running, the other hopping. The third figure stood in the door watching.
The two coming fast towards me had handguns. They should have had buckets of water. The faster of the two sprinted on to the deck and crashed on his face like a felled tree. His gun spun away from his hand. Behind him, Hopalong did a more leisurely but nevertheless acrobatic tumble and came to rest nursing his shoulder and head. Neither had seen the tightly drawn fishing line stretched across the first two pillars. The downed men were about three feet from the roaring flames.
They were both struggling to their feet when the can exploded. I ducked behind my pillar as the shrapnel flew. Bits of red-hot tin sliced the air and peppered their faces and bodies. Globules of burning petrol and oil stuck
