Hanlon felt the kayak moving until the momentum became unstoppable and then with a lurch it tipped sideways. As he kept pushing downwards, it rolled over and capsized. She had let go of the paddle and she breathed in deeply before the kayak went fully over.
The cold of the water hit her with an almost physical force. She was trapped under the boat. She only had seconds. She frantically tore the plastic apron away, pulling her feet out of the hull, and she forced herself out of the cockpit. Her sodden clothes felt like lead weights. She opened her eyes, the salt water stinging them, above her the upside body of the kayak, beneath her the darkness, hundreds of metres of water shading to black, the gleaming white of the hull of the boat almost within touching distance.
As she pulled herself free of the kayak, she could feel vibrations in the plastic of the hull, powerful shock waves. Her head broke upwards from the water and now she could see Big Jim leaning out from the motorboat and driving the reinforced steel point of the boat hook into the upturned kayak like a man harpooning a whale. It was floating upside down and he attacked it frenziedly, punching holes into its hull.
She could see several jagged tears in the fibreglass of the body of the kayak. It probably wouldn’t sink, but equally it would be useless as a floatation device, she wouldn’t be able to cling onto it and, of course, it was unusable as a boat.
For a second she thought that Big Jim might turn the boat hook on her or simply drive the boat over her, shredding her body with the propeller. The kayak banged against the hull of the craft; Big Jim’s face was crimson with drink, effort and rage.
Surely the fishing boat would be here soon? She was too low in the water to see it, or maybe her view was blocked by Big Jim’s boat. Hanlon tried to think of some way to scramble up onto Big Jim’s boat, take the fight to him and Harriet rather than float helplessly around, a sitting target.
She heard the roar of its engines and Harriet turned the bow away from her in a tight arc and headed westwards towards Jura, away from the fishing boat. Harriet wasn’t going to risk being caught red-handed by the trawler with a drunk, uncontrollable Jim armed with a shotgun.
As she watched them go, Hanlon felt a sense of overwhelming relief flood through her. Right now, she didn’t mind taking her chances with the sea. At least it was neutral, unlike Big Jim, who she knew was hoping she would go the way of Eva Balodis and drown. As she trod water she wondered about Harriet. Had she left her out here because that was the lesser of two evils – she would have a chance with the sea but not if Big Jim decided to attack her? Or was she complicit, confident she would die a natural death rather than have her chewed-up remains spark an investigation? Let the whirlpool take the blame.
She paused to evaluate her situation. The sea was cold but not that cold, she guessed between ten to fifteen degrees centigrade. It wasn’t a problem yet, but it would be. What was, though, was the inexorable force she could feel from the Corryvreckan, tugging at her tired body, pulling her into its deadly, watery grasp.
It would only be a matter of time, when, not if, it won.
19
Hanlon breathed deeply, treading water, willing her heart to slow. God knows what her pulse rate was.
She fought down panic. There was a lot to feel thankful for. She was still alive; she hadn’t been drowned by Big Jim; he hadn’t pulled the trigger and blown her to kingdom come. He hadn’t driven the launch toward her, smashing its bow into her body. She hadn’t been chewed up by its propellers. She was still alive. She would survive and she would have her revenge.
She could see the fishing boat clearly, but it was too far away from her to attract their attention and she was too low in the water for them to see her. It was moving slowly along, maybe dragging a net; she would never be able to reach it. She turned her attention to the current.
McCleod, what seemed like months ago when she had first met her, had derided the Corryvreckan. The story of the one-legged man swimming it. But it was one thing to choose the time and do it on a calm day with a support vessel and when you were psyched up for it, quite another when you were already tired, unprepared, on your own, stressed out of your mind, in a choppy sea and fully clothed.
The pull from the whirlpool was frighteningly strong and hanging onto the kayak now practically below the sea level as the air pockets inside filled with water, was no longer sensible. She quickly pulled off her shoes and clothing except for underwear, let go of the kayak and started swimming for Jura. She was unsure of the distance, maybe one mile, maybe two. Certainly she should be capable of doing it.
Hanlon was a good swimmer but not exceptional. Of the three disciplines in the triathlon, her sport of choice, it was probably her weakest, except when the weather was bad and the water choppy or rough. She had several competitors who would thrash her if the surface of the water they were in was smooth, but Hanlon’s tenacious, dogged personality, her ability to dig deep when troubles arose, gave her the edge when it came to adverse conditions. And she loved wild swimming, she liked to feel weed against her skin, to smell the tang of salt in the sea or taste the faint hint of earth and vegetation in a lake. To see the clouds in the
