Firefly Gadroon

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Second team, now entering,’ the tannoy squawked, ‘is the Ashwood-Pentney team driven by Harris. Spectators please make way.’

  I was stepping over the rope when a miraculous croaking cough froze me in mid-straddle. Tinker and Lemuel were pushing through the crowd beind me. Lemuel could hardly stand and Tinker looked knackered. Dolly was with them, sickly pale but pleased.

  ‘Tinker!’ I rushed at them, babbling. ‘Lemuel! Is your last name Gulliver? Are you the Gulliver who—?’

  ‘Give us a drink, Lovejoy,’ he whispered, trying hard to open his eyes.

  ‘With sugar?’ Dolly asked. I love her, but Jesus.

  ‘A drink!’ I screamed. ‘Beer! Listen, Lemuel.’ I grabbed him and pulled him to one side. ‘Can you do this? We’ve got to enter and win it.’

  ‘Fall down,’ he wheezed blearily.

  ‘Eh?’ I thought I hadn’t heard right.

  ‘Fall down, you thick berk,’ Tinker rasped.

  I fell spectacularly, groaning. Tinker was quicker than me for all his hangover. He was already waving to the judges. They started impatiently across the paddock. I groaned, holding my belly.

  ‘Here, sir,’ Tinker was calling when Dolly trotted back with two bottles of brown ale and a cup of tea, the innocent. ‘Lovejoy’s got his appendix again. He’s entering a substitute.’

  ‘This is a nuisance,’ the head judge said coldly, a testy old colonel who’d hanged men for less. Charming, I thought indignantly, doing my stricken act. I really could have been dying. ‘Lovejoy’s done nothing but procrastinate. Who’s the sub?’

  ‘Him.’ Tinker pointed to Lemuel who was busily soaking the ale back while Dolly, ever the optimist, held the cup and saucer.

  ‘Gulliver?’

  Even in mid-act I couldn’t help hearing how the judge’s tone changed. His impatience became respect. I let myself recover enough to see Tinker push the tottering Lemuel under the rope into the paddock. Please God, I prayed fervently. Let Lemuel get among the prizes so I can hire a boat to kill Devlin tonight. I admit it wasn’t much of a prayer.

  There’s a saying, isn’t there, horses for courses. It applied to Lemuel like nobody else I’d ever seen before. Three parts sloshed as he was and probably never having handled a nag for some years, what he did was quite uncanny. He sort of shook himself and just walked – swaying unevenly a bit, but definitely casual – into this massive shifting mass of horses and said, ‘Come here, you buggers. Let’s have a gander at the lot of you.’ And the horses looked round and simply did as they were told. I swear they nudged each other, pleased at having swapped a nerk like me for an acknowledged master. The crowd stilled reverently and silently paid attention to the shapeless heap called Lemuel.

  He must have been some champion in his time because word shot round. Farmers poured from the beer marquee to the ploughing field. A murmur of approval rolled round the crowd as Lemuel did the oddest things, like squeezing the shire horses’ knees and smacking their chests, really giving them a clout. Whereas I’d kept out of their way when they showed the slightest hint of friendliness, Lemuel just mauled them about. Like gigantic infants, they tolerated him happily as he prodded and thumped and strapped them. I noticed the judges didn’t shout at him like they had at me when I’d taken my time. That’s discrimination, I thought irritably.

  ‘Ready, sir,’ Lemuel called at last. He took up some straps and flicked, and the whole ponderous team thundered slowly from the ring towards the field, hooves thudding in time and great heads nodding together. It was a magnificent sight, almost beautiful. Before that I’d always thought horses really mediocre but Lemuel, shuffling along behind and swearing abuse, made them almost dance. I had a lump in my throat as the spectators rippled applause.

  ‘See that, one-handed out of the paddock, first time?’ a farm man exclaimed near me.

  ‘Better, Lovejoy?’ Claude was by me, all eighteen stone of him smiling in a hurt kind of way.

  I was in no fit state for a scrap so I instantly showed I was still unwell by doubling up again and groaning. Dolly believed the act and helped me off to sit on an exposed mound where we could see Lemuel in the distance.

  ‘Go for some more ale, love,’ I told her, making sure Claude could see my face screwed up in pain.

  ‘I don’t think you should. They may want to operate, dear.’

  I looked at her. She was serious, actually believing my act. ‘It’s for Lemuel,’ I explained, making sure Claude had gone to see our champ. ‘I’m only pretending, love.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that, Lovejoy!’

  I watched her go, marvelling. Well, it had taken me some years to link the drunken figure of Lemuel with the mighty champion ploughman of the Eastern Hundreds, so who was I to criticize. Smiling, I lay back peacefully, the roar of the distant crowd music in my ears.

  At two o’clock the delighted Mrs Hepplestone was presented with the rose bowl for her team’s success at the ploughing championships. Lemuel got the keys of his new car. I made Tinker tell him of a certain important matter of murder which I had in mind, and that his prize was required as deposit. We drove grandly down to the estuary and hired a motor launch from Terry’s boatyard. Terry showed me the controls and I signed the papers with a flourish. Lemuel’s new car went as security and deposit combined. Dolly drove us back to town, and then took me home to the cottage for a quiet rest before tonight’s action. I promised I’d make a meal for us both when I got a minute.

  Chapter 15

  Dolly promised to stay at home all evening and all the following day in case I had to phone urgently for anything. She was white and worried, but I was beginning to think that was par for her course. We had a long snogging farewell at my gate before she drove off and I invited Germoline to crack on.

  I boxed clever choosing my route. I had more sense than to go along the main roads, and selected one of the old cart tracks between the farmlands. Only three miles out of our village there’s a turning through the woods where the American War Cemetery stands, which saved me and Germoline miles. The wind was fairly whistling across as Germoline plodded between the rows and rows of sad heroic crucifixes. We made fair speed and reached the estuary a few furlongs below the staithe about dusk. The big Yank’s posh boat was there again, I saw in the lessening light. Mended.

  The place looked as peaceful as any holiday cove, with a few noisy families packing up for the day into cars ready for home. Two yachts were riding in, just starting to show lights. An inverted cone was hoisted from Joe’s station, meaning I supposed some sort of weather. The radio’s always on about them, onshore winds near Dogger Bank and all that.

  We went to Drummer’s old hut. Germoline’s ears pricked and she stared around at me as if asking what the hell. I explained as I undid her cart and stuffed her manger full of some granular material Lemuel had got her.

  ‘It’s this way, Germoline,’ I told her. ‘I’m going to the old fort. There’s a load of nicked antiques out there, in the fort’s lowest concealed room. I happen to know that because Mrs Hepplestone’s old man made a model as a clue. Maybe he was in on it too; I don’t know. You saw them doing the ferrying bit, didn’t you, cock?’ I went on. ‘It’s reprisal time, Germoline.’ She snickered approvingly at this. She was bright for a donkey – just how bright I was yet to find out, and in the most horrible way possible, but at the time I was so full of myself I thought I was in command. ‘See?’ I said, patting her neck. ‘Devvo will come to ship his stuff out to the continental buyers tonight, the deadline. I learned that from Mannie. And I’ll have pinched it all!’ She snickered again, over the moon at my plan. In my innocence I scratched her shoulder and added, ‘Of course, he’ll come for me, but I’ll ram the bastard in the dark. It’ll be an accident. I’m not sure if Devvo can swim, but let’s hope, eh?’

  This was all right, because I can swim like a fish. Anyway, I’d hoped by then to have unloaded all the recovered antiques.

  ‘And when I come sailing back,’ I chuckled, ‘guess which cl
ever little donkey will be waiting here to cart the goodies into hiding, here in the hut?’ I winked. ‘I’ll rescue Devvo if he confesses, by which time there’ll be enough rescue boats on the scene to witness . . .’

  It seemed foolproof to me then. No wonder I was grinning all over my face. I went inside and lit the lantern in Drummer’s window to guide me home, and splodged my way back to the staithe. Terry had said the boat would be all stocked up and full of petrol. I had the keys.

  It was a grand thing, long and white. These modern fast craft always seem taller than necessary but I suppose our boat-builders know what they’re doing. They charge enough. It had radar, and a mast with a great bulbous thing at the top and a lot of wires. ‘Radar’s hazy inshore, but invaluable,’ Terry had said, showing me how it worked. The idiot had wanted to show me its insides. The point was that none of it seemed missing. I’d got more maps than the Navy. Anyway, I knew where I was going.

  I got the engine going by simply pressing a knob by the key. The last family carful was leaving the staithe as I moved the boat into the channel, carefully keeping my lights off though some white riding lights were showing in the lower creeks. As I turned my craft into the sea lane I could see the single flash of the lightship miles down the coast where the treacherous sands steadily ingest coastal freighters year after year.

  I put her at low speed between the promontory of the clubhouse and the shipyard. Somebody flashed one handlamp at me. I ignored them. In the dusk a wind was rising steadily. That tinselly tinkling was beginning to sound again, the wires tapping on the metal masts of the yachts pulled up on the hard. Somehow comforted by the din, I smiled and glanced round at the little harbour. Plenty of lights, street neons reflecting well on the darkening sky. I was reassured. There would be plenty of help there should I need it. Surprisingly how easily lights are seen over a black sea.

  ‘Devvo,’ I bleated joyously, ‘here I come.’

  As I left the shelter of the harbour and the wind’s force began tugging for the first time I admitted that I didn’t really intend to kill Devvo or his two goons. I’d only be troublesome if they started anything. Otherwise I’d bring them tamely to justice, which was after all what it’s about, isn’t it? Germoline would be narked because I’d this funny feeling she wanted blood, but women are like that. Even if it did mean helping Maslow to get promotion . . .

  The boat started rocking up and down on the choppy sea. Watching the waves rising against my hull made me giddy as I started out between the long dunes into the open sea. I began to discover one thing after another, all vaguely worrying. You’d point the boat at some distant light, and after a minute you’d find your bows sideways on even if you’d kept the illuminated compass perfectly still along one of the lines marked on its glass. Presumably all sorts of nasty currents were moving about under the water. I had a chart telling you which way they went but hadn’t time to study it seeing I’d spent the afternoon resting, so to speak, with Dolly at the cottage after my exertions of the morning’s ploughing.

  I must have gone zigzag for more than a mile, correcting every furlong or so on the lightship as the sky darkened. The speedo said I was going about six knots, whatever they are. I tried to make this reading sensible by spitting over the side and watching it float past but got into difficulties by not steering straight so gave it up. The cockpit had an interior lamp which I switched off. If Devvo’s boat overtook mine in the darkness I didn’t want him spotting me.

  The motion of the boat was making me feel vaguely queasy. And I suppose the knowledge that I was drawing near to that enormous great concrete monster out there in the ocean wasn’t doing me any good. Anyway, I had a knife with me, a modern piece of Scandinavian metal ten inches long which I’d nicked from one of the tacklers’ harness racks that afternoon. I’m like that, a real planner. No doubt Devvo’s goons would be knuckled up and maybe armed with a pistol or three. Devvo naturally would be clean as a whistle. My boat chugged on.

  My face was wet from spray. The wind was cutting across me now, making my eyes water with the cold, but I could make out the red light on the old sea fort’s mast. Was there some gnarled old salt left on the fort to tend the light? Nowadays they were automatic, I supposed, though you can never tell. My spirits rose. Some poor sod stationed on the wretched thing meant at least one guaranteed witness.

  I decided to curve right round the fort and come at it from seaward. That would give me less of an edge by reducing the time I’d have. Devvo’s merry crew would probably come direct from landward. I cracked another couple of knots on the speedo and turned south-east or thereabouts.

  Coming up to a big solid mass sticking menacingly out of the sea in the dark’s a frightening experience. It’s also very sudden, which sounds odd unless you’ve done it. I’d kept my eyes on the red beacon that meant the sea fort, which had climbed slowly up the black sky the further out I got. Then it started disappearing and only coming back again when the boat rose on the swell. I tumbled that I must be getting very near and that the lip of the fort’s main platform was cutting the beacon off from view. I wished now I’d had the sense to take some daylight measurements.

  It was then I heard the rushing, sucking sound of those vast legs of the fort, sloshing in the water. For a moment I almost gave up and turned back. God knows what made me soldier on. It might have been lust for the antiques I hoped were concealed there, or maybe love of Dolly, to show what a hell of a bloke I was. The funny thing is that it might actually have been hatred of Devlin, as Maud alleged, a curious concept. Anyhow I kept going, cutting my speed. I felt stalled but the instruments showed otherwise. The wind had crossed me again and was now whipping at the other side, stinging my eyes with spray and making my face feel cut to ribbons. I was shivering. No wonder these yachting types dress like astronauts. Dolly had brought me a woollen hat and muffler and I have this thick short coat for long drives from the days when I had something to drive.

  When the sounds got unpleasantly close I put the beam lights on, and almost swooned. I’d thought I was being careful, but now, with the yellow lamps illuminating the huge fort, I knew it had been cowardice, my typical trick of postponing anything unpleasant. I was about fifty yards off, the boat already being tugged and shoved with the crushing spread of waves round the nearest of the vast legs. There were four, of enormous girth, draped with green weeds and discoloured from corrosion. Metal stanchions had trickled their oxides like blood down the slimy legs, creating an impression of straddled limbs impaled by some giant stapler causing dirty haemorrhages towards the fast sea. I switched into reverse and for a horrible instant thought she wasn’t going to pull away. Then I was standing off about a hundred yards, pushed by the currents in a way I hadn’t expected. I wasn’t really frightened, but what with the cold and the rising wind and the frigging noise, not to mention that fearsome monster looming above, I felt like staying away at any price.

  I was still to seaward. The noise from here was somehow magnified, caught up in the hollow under the belly and funnelled out in a succession of squelches and sucks.

  I managed it without much difficulty, except that my hands were freezing and unbearably sluggish. Once one end was tethered I only had to rush back to the cockpit and throw the gears into neutral then pull her round on the rope the way I wanted. Doug had explained about the rocks between the seaward pair of legs. Modern oil rigs mostly float. These old sea forts are actually built on the ocean’s bedrock, with a protecting line of concrete or dredged rock on the side away from the land. In wartime this served both as a breakwater and as a mooring line. Rough, but effective. If I’d worked it out right, the breakwater would hide my boat from direct view from anyone tying up to one of the landward pillars – and the right-hand pillar was the special pillar Hepplestone’s model had indicated. I switched off and pocketed the keys, gave one last despairing upwards shine of my torch to fix the layout in my mind and put the boat’s lights off.

  There were projecting iron handholds from the pillar. Not the ea
siest climb, but I suppose that was the intention. The first step was about chest height. I’d brought a clothes line and some old gardening gloves, but how the hell you lowered a score of antiques down from a thing like this fort into a bobbing boat on your own without help . . . I climbed. They say don’t look down when you’re up high, but nobody tells you the other most important climbing lesson, which is: never look up, especially if you’re climbing the underbelly of an old sea tower.

  The handholds were rusted and slimed. I stopped and shone my torch every three or four just to make sure there was something to grab and that my hand wouldn’t be left waving in the air when I needed support. I ought to have kept an eye out for approaching lights at this stage but I was frightened enough. There was this moaning, faint and fairly quiet, as if the wind was hurt at not being allowed in. Give me land any time.

  At the top, flat surfaces stretched away into the distance. I shone the torch only once, clinging on like a tick on a bull. Above me the handholds led up into a rectangular hole like a loft ladder does into an attic. I beamed upwards. The light hit nothing but space, which gave me hope there might be a respectable floor for me to stand on. I climbed in, shaky and trying not to look down. It stank of must and seaweed. Holding on with my left hand I shone the torch on a level with my face and almost shouted from relief. There was a rectangular room about forty feet by forty, almost as if I’d simply climbed into a barn loft. I hauled myself in, scrambling away from that horrible edge and the sea’s noise beneath. For a minute I wheezed on my hands and knees, partly relief. Behind me, what had been a hole promising safety had now become the start of a bloody great drop and I didn’t want any part of that. I got away from it fast and tried to control my shaking limbs. No wonder Lemuel had looked decidedly grey with fatigue after the ploughing. Until now I’d regarded myself as fit as a flea.