The Life and Times of William Boule.: Dead girls tell no tales. A heart-pounding action thriller...

by Max China

  Get ashore first and pick them out of the crowd coming off the boat.

  If they were on board, that’s how he’d do it. But if they were on there, how had they managed it without being detected?

  He turned various scenarios over in his mind. Boule, instantly recognizable, must have smuggled himself on, concealed in a car or lorry.

  He made his way down to the vehicle hold.

  As soon as the boat had chugged clear of port, it surged to full speed. On the upper deck, Miller steadied himself, chin on chest, and leaning partly over the top rail he gripped it in each hand, holding on. With knees slightly bent, and one foot behind the other, he looked as if he were stretching, about to commence exercise.

  He measured his breathing, counting one-two-three on each rise, and then did the same on each fall of his chest. Swallowing saliva with increased frequency, he bowed at the railing, still trying to hold back the inevitable. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Rapid chimes indicated a cluster of received messages. What the …? It’s working again! Stella...? It has to be her.

  He straightened, removed one hand from the railing and dug deep into his pocket with it to retrieve his mobile.

  Nine new messages. All from Stella.

  He swayed unsteadily as he released the rail with his other hand, and with feet planted wide, scrolled back to read the first of them.

  The phone rang. He almost dropped it.

  ‘Stella,’ he said, taking a deep breath, ‘where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Bruce, I can’t do this anymore ...’

  ‘Wha—’

  ‘No, don’t interrupt. I’ve been worried sick. You don’t answer your phone, you don’t answer my texts. Leaving cryptic messages for me to find at home just doesn’t cut it with me anymore.’ She ran out of breath.

  He jumped in. ‘Hey, that’s not my fault! There’s been a problem with the signal, the network or something. I’ve tried calling and texting loads of times,’ he said, adding quickly, ‘Anyway, I’m on my way home now.’

  ‘With her?’ she said, with undisguised venom.

  ‘Not, with her – not in the way you just said – but she’s here. In the boot of the car, as a matter of fact.’

  Silence.

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘I’m here, I’m just thinking. What on earth is she doing in the boot of your car? What car? I’m almost afraid to ask what’s going on but, you see, that’s what I’m talking about.’

  What’s that in her voice? Resignation: but to what? ‘Are you thinking about leaving me?’ he said.

  ‘When you took off with her, you left me. You’ve been gone … what is it, three, four days? I can’t even think ... you left me. I’ve had enough in my life of being left. I thought you’d be different.’

  ‘Look, about that photograph—’ he began.

  ‘It isn’t about the photograph! I’m not so stupid I don’t know what she’s trying to pull ...’ She stopped suddenly, thinking about her new tattoo and how she’d reconciled herself to competing with her, how she had believed what he said was true and what she’d felt when she’d opened that book. No more.

  Something had changed. She felt uneasy. The line went dead. A feeling of dread seized her. Frantically, she pressed the redial button. She hadn’t finished talking. She’d wanted to say, ‘We’ll talk when you get home.’

  There was no answer. ‘Oh, God!’ she cried, tilting her face heavenward. ‘One more chance, but it’s the last time.’ The feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t go away. ‘We didn’t say goodbye,’ she whispered.

  ‘Stella, are you there?’ he said, sensing she’d gone.

  He stood with his face to the wind; vaporized mists of seawater sprinkled his face. Raising his voice, he repeated her name. ‘Stella?’

  With his back to the rest of the deck, focusing on her, he sensed something not right.

  A female voice, immediately behind, wheedled, mocking him. ‘Stella, are you there, Stella?’

  He froze. It sounded like Stella, but it couldn’t be. He’d just been talking with her; she was in England.

  He didn’t need to spin around to see who it was.

  The sickness he’d been keeping at bay seeped into his gullet. Slowly, he turned to face the monster who stood behind him.

  ‘You!’ Boyle said, pointing his finger. ‘I should have known you had something to do with all this.’

  Miller stared directly into the face of the evil he’d first encountered as a child, and shuddered at the mask he wore: rouged, ladyboy lips, high cheekbones, flesh pulled impossibly tight, emphasizing his broken nose, white where the skin stretched over the bridge of it.

  Miller’s eyes finally settled on the fist his enemy had made.

  He read the word the letters of each tattooed knuckle formed. Wrath.

  ‘You know what happens now, don’t you?’ Boyle said, closing the gap between them.

  Chapter 29

  ‘You got lucky before, but this time I’m ready for you, sonny boy. This is going to sting a bit.’

  Miller looked into his adversary’s face.

  Boyle glared back, his eyes flickering as he watched Miller’s lower body for sudden leg movement.

  He thinks I’m going to try to sweep him, and he’s on guard against it. Miller feinted with a left jab, dropped down and tried the sweep, thinking to double-bluff the old fighter.

  Boyle skipped over his leading leg and then, before Miller could regain his footing, closed him off into the corner of the barrier behind.

  Miller cursed his stupidity. A shotgun charge of adrenalin fired through his veins. His heart galloped a double pump. A long-forgotten dream returned. Kirk, his former mentor and teacher, demonstrated a series of moves. It had worked before. He had to act without thinking. Mushin. Mind of no mind. Empty mind.

  Boyle reached for him. He felt the press of the warm steel rail against his back and, quick as a flash, he catapulted, folding forward at the waist.

  Boyle moved swiftly to counter, but he reacted to the move he thought Miller was making, and not to the one he actually made.

  Using his forward momentum, Miller ducked beneath Boyle’s arm and spun on the axis of the foot remaining on the deck, while the other foot whipped round high and struck Boyle hard on the chin.

  Boyle wobbled, a look of incredulity on his face, cursing his underestimation of the younger man.

  Miller kicked the back of his enemy’s knee, the one bearing most weight, hard.

  Boyle twisted away and steadied himself against the railing, lashing out with a donkey kick, catching Miller in the stomach.

  Air exploded from Miller’s abdomen, and he sagged to his knees.

  ‘Got you, boy! The strongest wins at last.’

  Grabbing him by the arm, he swung Miller hard against the railings. One hand clamped around his throat, he forced his head backwards, while the other hand kept his right arm pinned down.

  From the position he was in, Miller couldn’t fight back with efficacy, but still he tried.

  The crushing, brute strength of the older man proved too much for him; the old fighter, too wily to give up his advantage, forced him over the railings.

  He’s going to squeeze the last drop of life from me, and throw me in. He’d lost touch with his inner self, couldn’t connect. Mushin. Too late, he realized it was some kind of summoning. All strength had deserted him. He looked down and saw the water below. Come by water. He couldn’t feel his legs. He fixed Boyle with a last look. The shark-like eyes stared coldly back at him. A passing regret at leaving Carla in the boot of the car turned into full-blown grief at the realization he’d never see Stella again.

  Carla’s enforced isolation grated on her nerves. She’d endured her cramped position in the boot of the car for long enough. She’d get out, stretch her legs, find Miller, have a drink with him and be back in place ten minutes before the ferry docked, easily. She pushed the seat forward and, using the back of the front seat to hold onto, wriggled o
ut, and up against the vertical surface, like a cobra about to strike. Vertebrae creaked at the base of her spine as she completed the manoeuvre. She reached back in, and pulled out the two one-litre bottles of Pepsi she’d purchased on their last pit stop.

  After checking to see if the coast was clear, she opened the back door and climbed out.

  At the far end of the deck, over the sound of the engines, Mohand heard the boom of a car door closing. He scanned the area quickly, looking for signs of movement. A steel door opened. He switched focus and for the briefest instant before it closed again, he caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman. His heart beating faster, he dashed, zig-zagging between the parked cars until he reached the same door and, pulling on it, listened for the sound of footsteps on the metal stairs. The noise cascading from above cloaked everything else. He looked at his watch. Forty minutes before the ship docks.

  He began his ascent.

  Carla knew where he’d be. When she’d first met Miller, it was on a long train journey and after some initial reticence, he’d opened up and told her some things. He only ever used air travel as a last resort, and boats ... she grinned. Well, he hated the water, so it was obvious he didn’t like sea travel either. She trudged the last few steps with aching thighs; the bottles she carried weighed her down further. She’d thought she’d met her Mr Right. The stories he’d led her to had ended up pulling them apart. She wondered if it hadn’t been for his meeting Stella, would they have had a chance?

  Stepping through the doorway onto the upper deck, she noticed nearly everyone looking on at a fight taking place up against the railings at the bow end of the boat. It took a moment to register. Miller? He seemed to be struggling with a large, long-haired, sarong-clad woman.

  She’s too big to be female ...

  The realization spurred her on. She broke into a run, and then sprinted towards them. One of the bottles fell from her arms, half-bouncing, half-rolling as it lost momentum behind her.

  Miller’s desperately grasping hand found a loose end of Boyle’s sarong. Holding it firmly, he stared in defiance, and wound it around his wrist. If he went, Boyle was going with him.

  Crump! Boyle’s eyes flashed wide, shocked at the lightning bolt of pain that ripped through his head as shards of bone from his unhealed skull fracture pierced his brain.

  Crump! An explosion of fizzing black liquid showered Miller and dripped from the ends of Boyle’s long dark wig.

  Thwack! The cracked, broken plastic sound of the now empty bottle of Pepsi being wielded by Carla was the last thing he heard.

  Boyle staggered, desperately clinging to life. With eyesight failing, to prevent himself falling – or perhaps, in his final moments, before his senses failed, determined to take Miller with him – he grabbed the crook of the younger man’s elbow and locked on.

  Caught off balance, Miller tried to jerk his arm free, but the killer’s grip, like the teeth of a savage terrier, held firm.

  Carla watched horrified as the two men went over the rails together. She fell to her knees.

  In the fleeting seconds that followed, she noticed things. Miller’s phone lay face up on the deck, spinning in a lazy circle, driven by the vibration of the incoming call. Stella’s happy face illuminated the screen. Crazily, she thought about picking it up. She was aware of people, a dozen or more. Not one had intervened but, now the fight had finished, the ones who weren’t huddling up to their children sprang to life, rushing towards the handrail where the two men had gone over.

  Then the screaming began.

  A swarthy Saddam Hussein lookalike skidded into view, looking left and then right. They locked eyes.

  ‘Carla Black?’ he yelled. ‘Police! I want to talk to you!’

  ‘Man overboard!’ she shouted and, vaulting the rails, plunged over the side.

  Chapter 30

  Unwitnessed, moments earlier, a bizarre, twirling pirouette display happened in mid-air during the seconds it took for the two men to fall sixty feet.

  Miller struck the water first.

  Boyle smacked down on top of him.

  The double impact drove the air from Miller’s lungs. Reflex sucked seawater in to replace it. Water...

  He was driven ten feet beneath the surface before the initial velocity was countered by the sea. Although he’d never learned to swim, his legs scissored in a subconscious reaction to his predicament.

  Darkness bore down on him. A deadweight.

  He choked, tried to control it, but each stifled cough leaked precious air and took in more liquid.

  Mushin. What good is there in thinking that now? You’re gone, boy. He looked up. Boyle was on top of him, forcing him down. Revulsion at the thought of ending up on the seabed in that position spurred him into action, and he pushed himself clear.

  Above, way beyond his reach, he fixed his eyes on the surface. This is it. Me and you kid, returned to the sea.

  He fished the shell from his pocket and held it.

  Whispered promises made came back to him. Too late for those things now.

  The light above was replaced by darkness.

  If she’d been able to check, Carla would have discovered that only ten seconds had passed between the men going over the side and her following.

  She hit the water like a ball, with her head, legs and arms tucked in tight, unfurling them as she went under.

  Knowing the vessel had covered perhaps a hundred metres in the intervening moments, she started to swim in the right direction before even reaching the surface.

  A marker buoy splashed into the sea behind her. Not even close.

  She swam hard, at first following the length of the ship. Her eyes locked onto a point on the horizon; she realized the ferry was moving away from her.

  It was turning.

  For what seemed an eternity she drove herself through the water. Where are you?

  A floating mass of hair caught between her fingers.

  She recoiled, and shook it free.

  The realization of what it was, and what it meant, hit her.

  She realized the tangled mess of wig hair belonged to Boyle and then, peering into the depths below, she saw Miller’s white upturned face at the edge of the shimmering limits of light penetration.

  She gulped a lungful of air and dived beneath the choppy surface.

  How long had he been like this? She took his head and, pressing her lips over his, breathed air into him while kicking for the surface. She’d underestimated her own needs. On her own she might have made it, but two of them? No chance. If she released him and went for another breath, he’d sink again. They’d be back to square one.

  The sun’s shifting, marbling effect made it hard for her to judge. Ten feet? It may as well be fifty.

  She relaxed her muscles and let his body go.

  He slid through her grip, sinking, his outstretched right arm scraping down her body. She couldn’t look at him. His head brushed into her legs, going down. She lingered. This isn’t how my story is supposed to end. Without him, what would I be? At the last possible moment, just at the limit of her reach, she caught him. His fingers were held fast around an object. She probed with her fingertips to try to hold his hand; pushing them into his fist, she felt a smooth hard surface. I can’t hold on.

  Neither could she let go.

  The muffled sound of a fast-approaching engine resonated under the water.

  Twenty minutes later, the fast border control boat docked. A waiting ambulance took two prone bodies from the boat.

  Chapter 31

  21 November 2007

  The sky outside darkened, causing the interior of the spare room Carla had designated as her office, to grow dim. She squinted at the screen. Too bright. She rose from her chair, reached for the table lamp and switched it on, reducing the glare.

  She resumed typing the last of the additional chapters she’d added to her book. The final one had given her more trouble than all the others put together. Rereading what she’d written for the umpteenth ti
me, she was aware of a draught that had blown in from somewhere, and then a few spots of rain hit the windows and dribbled down the glass. For a time, she stopped what she was doing and just stared at the words on the screen.

  Who’d have thought you could kill a man with a bottle of Pepsi? It seems likely that an earlier, unhealed skull injury collapsed under the impact as I struck him, causing fatal brain damage. Miller said he saw the light go out of his eyes at the very first blow. I hit him twice, as hard as I could, before the bottle exploded on the third whack.

  When they went over the side, I knew I had to act quickly. With the boat travelling at around twenty to twenty-five knots, it was covering ten metres with each passing second. I also knew that if the fall hadn’t killed him, he couldn’t swim – and on top of that, I didn’t know Boyle was dead.

  I couldn’t believe how high up we were: sixty feet I was told later. If I hadn’t leaped without thinking, I might not have done it, and this book would have had a rather different, tragic ending ...

  I still can’t remember a thing after I’d given Miller my last breath.

  I must have simply passed out from exhaustion. All those evenings spent in the swimming pool paid off in ways I could never have imagined. It’s hard to believe the crew hoisted us on board on the end of a huge pole, but that’s what Lieutenant Mohand told me. He was grateful for my help in clearing up a few matters pertaining to Boule, as he called him. I couldn’t get used to his old Foreign Legion name; he was Boyle to me.

  I couldn’t tell Mohand the whole story. Uncertain if I’d broken some law, how could I?