Every Picture Tells a Story

by Gregory Dowling

  I stepped away from Lucy and she let out a relieved “Phew”; it relieved me too—I hadn’t actually crushed her to death. Then she saw the bar, and a smile transformed her face.

  Perhaps a bit prematurely: it was a metal bar, not a Kalashnikov.

  There was an ornamental loop only at one end, the other one clearly having come away. This made it possible to slip it up my coat sleeve; it was a little shorter than my arm and I was just about able to conceal the protruding loop in my curled hand.

  “And now?” Lucy said.

  “We wait for an opportunity.” I said.

  “Don’t waste it.”

  “No.” It was of course by no means certain that I would get a chance to use it; what was certain was that I wouldn’t get two chances.

  We heard the woman coming back, probably having decided that what she’d heard had been animals. I looked at Lucy and said, “Just pray my trousers don’t fall down.” She gave another quick smile.

  The woman came back in, adjusting her mask as she did so. She had presumably removed it for her search.

  “I’d like a glass of water,” Lucy said.

  “Wait.”

  This was merely an automatic refusal in order to show who was boss. Some seconds later she went over to the water container and, with her rifle tucked under her arm, slopped some water into a plastic cup. She put the rifle down on a stool and took a handgun from inside her coat. Then, with the gun in one hand and the cup in the other, she came forward. She held the cup out to Lucy, while the gun unwaveringly pointed at Lucy’s heart. Lucy took the cup and sipped.

  There was just the noise of Lucy’s eager swallows; otherwise a dead-still, dead-quiet tableau, all centered, as far as I was concerned, on the dark circle of the gun’s barrel.

  Then Lucy lowered the cup. As she held it out to the woman I said suddenly, “Hey!” and there was a moment’s fumbling and the cup fell to the ground. “Idiot,” said the woman—a sibilant spray of consonants that must have soaked her mask.

  “But listen,” I said. And in the next moment’s hush we all heard the faint far-off noise of a boat’s engine.

  The woman nodded slowly. She stepped back a little and bent down to retrieve the cup. At that moment I let the bar drop down from my sleeve, catching it by its jagged end and, in one sudden circular movement, swung it around and down on her head. The crack coincided with a gasp from Lucy for which I was glad, and the woman pitched straight forward, cracking the plastic nose of her mask. She lay still, the gun a foot or so from her hand.

  “Now let’s hope she’s got the keys to these cuffs,” I said.

  Lucy said nothing, just nodded. She thrust her handcuffed arm as far around the window bar as she could so that I could bend down to the body. I had to drag the woman closer, tugging at the nearest leg. She scraped across the ground, and the mask cracked further and slipped up her face. I could hear her hard, heavy breathing. “She’s not…” Lucy said in relief. I guessed the unstated word “dead.”

  I felt in her pockets: a purse, a notebook, a packet of paper handkerchiefs (to wipe off spittle?), and a set of keys—but none of them small enough for the handcuffs.

  “They’re not there,” I said.

  “They must be—”

  We could both hear the engine getting louder. They’d be mooring within seconds.

  “The gun!” Lucy said suddenly.

  She was right. We could try shooting through the chain. I bent down: it lay a foot or so from my outstretched fingers.

  “Use the bar,” she said.

  I nodded. We could hear the engine noise change to a low rumble as the boat slowed down. I picked up the bar and managed to drag the gun across the ground. My fingers closed on it and I straightened up.

  “Okay, stand clear.” I held the nozzle just above one of the links in the chain and squeezed the trigger. The noise and kickback were terrific: the gun leaped out of my hand—almost through my hand—and we both staggered sideways.

  There was a sudden babble of voices from the boat.

  The link was shattered, however. We both broke free. Lucy picked up the gun and I ran toward the rifle. We could hear urgent squelching footsteps from outside now. I turned off the gas lamp.

  “Shall we use her as a hostage?” Lucy said.

  “And suppose they don’t give a damn?” I couldn’t imagine anyone caring about her. “Let’s just run for it.”

  “This is probably an island, Martin.”

  “Let’s get out of here, anyway.” I made toward the open end of the building, but halted by the pile of old fishing nets. With vague thoughts of Roman gladiators I picked up a tangle of the stuff and bundled it under my arm. It was knotted, torn, and slimy and obviously useless—as a fishing net at any rate. With another “Come on” to Lucy I ran around the side of the building and she followed me. We flattened ourselves against the wall and peered out into the fog.

  The footsteps had become cautious now, and I could just see one blurry dark shape among the bushes, moving forward with slow crouching caution. Presumably they’d separated, fanning out in true military fashion.

  I raised my rifle and fired. I aimed close to the figure and he dived to earth, rolling behind a clump of vegetation.

  “Come on, let’s make for the boat,” I said.

  There was a shot from the bushes.

  “Too obvious,” Lucy said. “Let’s go the other way round the building.”

  “Okay.”

  I picked up the bundle of netting, which had fallen to earth when I’d fired, and we ran as quietly as possible along the wall and around the corner. I stopped there, tapping Lucy on the shoulder. “Give me a leg up to the roof.” I propped the rifle against the wall and dropped the netting.

  Again she didn’t waste time asking questions. She thrust the pistol into her pocket, cupped her hands, and I stepped into them and grabbed the ancient stone guttering. A second’s heaving and rolling and I was lying on the sloping wet tiles. Lucy had understood what was wanted and was already handing me up a corner of the fishing net. I pulled it up, and it came away, leaving her holding a separate section. She then flattened herself against the wall. We could hear somebody approaching the side of the chapel with quick stealthy footsteps. One of the terrorists had entered the building, and I could hear exhortatory remarks being made, presumably to the stunned woman.

  I swiveled so that I was facing out over the side of the building, and I lay there with a length of slimy net between my hands, praying that the man would not look up, and the roof would not give way.

  The figure appeared, without, I noticed, the distorting features of the mask: dark hair, pale face. His gun was held out before him in both hands as if it were trying to get away, and he was moving in a crouching run. Seconds later he was below me and I threw the net. He became a mere distorted struggling shape, all wild bulges and grunting. I swung my legs around and dropped down, my feet aimed at the head. It was a brain-staggering blow and he reeled to the ground, where Lucy delivered another crack with the butt of her gun. I only heard this, as I too had gone sprawling. When I got to my feet he had ceased wriggling. We both ran back around the corner again.

  I grabbed the other section of netting Lucy had dropped and thrust it under my arm again, and in the same action snatched up the rifle.

  Lucy was standing flat next to the window—the one we’d been manacled to—preparing to look in, but I signaled to her not to. They could be waiting for that, with a gun ready.

  I indicated we should go on around the other side and she nodded. We tiptoed on, through rough undergrowth and sucking mud. Lucy was leading the way.

  Suddenly a figure appeared around the corner, and almost before I’d noticed him Lucy fired. He was flung backward and let out a sharp yelp as he fell.

  “My God!” I said. “You—”

  “I just got him in the shoulder,” she said. “Come on.”

  We were now running without any caution at all. We stepped past the man who’d been sho
t. He lay there cursing, his right hand clutching at his left shoulder. He had no mask on either, and we saw his features twisted in pain and fury. Lucy bent and picked up his gun, another pistol. We reached the end of the building. In its dark depths we could just make out the woman sitting against the wall, her face dead white.

  “I think only one of the boats has come in,” I said. “We’d better get to it before the other one turns up.”

  “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to start making bandages.”

  We ran down the rough path that led to the mooring place. As there had been three terrorists in each boat and we’d knocked out two just now, there was presumably one still left there, guarding the boat.

  “Who goes there?” came an uncertain voice through the fog: Luca’s, I think. We could now see the end of the vegetation, and the mist hanging in drifting tendrils over the blackness of the lagoon. Under our feet the ground was getting squelchier. We made no answer to his cry and we heard the engine being started and the water churning. The boat was moving out slowly.

  We reached the end of the path and saw the boat, with a crouching figure, some feet out in the water. Lucy stuffed one of her pistols into her coat pocket and took double-handed aim with the other. I watched, the tiniest touch appalled, but mostly fascinated.

  The shot resounded and the man in the boat was hurled back in exactly the way his companion had been; he fell overboard in a whirl of limbs.

  I dropped the net and rifle and waded out. He was kneeling in the water, which had already gone a darker color with blood from his shoulder. I hauled at his good arm and dragged him to shore, laying him down on the mud. He was gasping some words that I couldn’t make out, but I don’t think they were of forgiveness. Lucy was also in the water, clutching at the boat, which was revolving in a threshing wash of foam.

  I picked up the rifle and net and joined her. We clambered aboard. It was a simple sandalo, with an outboard motor. Lucy settled herself by the motor. A little farther along the shore another boat was moored to a pole. “Move us over to that,” I told her.

  We chugged toward it. I stood up and raised my rifle and fired into its bottom. I prepared to fire again.

  “Give me the gun,” Lucy said.

  “What?” I handed it to her, and she pulled a catch or something and the spent cartridge flipped out. She handed it back. I fired again. Water started bubbling up through the holes. She backed us out into the lagoon.

  “Now where?” she said.

  “God knows,” I said. I saw a lamp at the bottom of the boat. I picked it up and played its beam in a slow circle: there was nothing but thick drifting mist in all directions.

  “Just move,” I said. “The farther we get from here the better.” I didn’t say anything about the other boat probably being on its way: we were all too aware of that. I found a notch the lamp attached to at the front of the boat and fixed it there. We chugged forward through the fog.

  After a few minutes we saw low spongy marshlands ahead—barene, as they call them in the lagoon—and we swung around and coasted by them. Lucy kept our speed down: much of the lagoon is under a meter in depth, and it gives way to marshes and mudflats almost imperceptibly in places; it would be annoying, if not actually suicidal, to foul up our propeller through careless speed.

  “Listen,” Lucy said, quietening our own engine. We both strained our ears and through the fog we heard the distant rumble of a boat. She cut our engine completely and I switched off the lamp.

  The dark and the fog pressed in clammily on us as we sat there, waiting, listening. I moved back and put my arm around her; the boat rocked drunkenly.

  The engine was getting louder and we could now see a fuzzy glow somewhere ahead to our right. All we could do was sit tight and pray that they passed us unseeingly; it didn’t cross my mind that it might not be Them: who else would be chugging around these remote waters on a night like this?

  Louder, and louder—and brighter and brighter. It was almost impossible not to feel the boat was aiming deliberately at us. And there was nothing we could do.…

  So I thought, until Lucy stooped and picked up the rifle. She raised it and sat there carefully aiming. And then, when it was clear that they would see us within seconds, if they hadn’t in fact already done so, she fired.

  A tinkle of glass and sudden blackness. She started our engine up and we suddenly leaped forward. There were confused voices from the other boat, and then the cutting clarity of Padoan’s voice: “Fire, you fool.”

  Somebody fired. We could hear the thrashing and whirling of water as their boat swiveled to follow us. We were still showing no lights but the white gash of our wash would show up, even in this fog.

  It was clear that their boat was the more powerful. Their motor was now roaring, and as I looked back I could see the shape of their upraised prow, rearing and swooping on the water like snapping jaws.

  “Slow down,” I said to Lucy. She glanced at me, and I brought my hands up close to her face to show her the net I’d taken up from the floor. She nodded, reducing power.

  I turned around and leaned out, beyond the motor; I threw the net, using both hands to cast it over as wide a surface area as possible. Lucy pressed down again and we shot forward. Their boat must have reached the net just seconds later and there was a sudden spluttering and then a wild churning as their propeller tangled itself. Whoever was driving was clearly trying brute force to break free, and was fouling things up even more.

  I let out a whoop of victory as we surged forward; almost immediately Lucy slowed down and said, “Turn the light on.” I lurched to my feet and suddenly something slammed into my shoulder—something hot and sharp and noisy. The shoulder was smashed into smithereens—or so at least it seemed to me. When I came to my senses—two seconds later—I was lying on the boards, in a twisted position, with my right hand clutching at my shoulder, which was still there but already felt sticky through the coat—and extremely painful. Lucy was saying, “Martin! Martin!” but was sensibly continuing to drive forward.

  I found myself repeating three short words, spitting them out one after another like retaliatory bullets. It helped a bit: I managed, with their propulsion and that of my legs, to get to the front of the boat, where I was able to kneel up. I removed my hand from the shoulder and clutched at the lamp, coating it with gore, but managing to switch it on. Then I rolled over to a sitting position, noticing with surprise that my arm hadn’t dropped off. I wasn’t actually relieved about this: it felt to me as if that would have been the most comfortable solution.

  Half a minute later Lucy brought us to a halt; there was no sound of pursuit. She came carefully forward and removed the lamp from its notch to examine me.

  “Oh, my God,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “This is one thing you needn’t apologize for. We’d better stop the bleeding.”

  “Yes. Or we’ll drown.”

  Thirty seconds later my coat, pullover, and shirt were off: they aren’t thirty seconds I particularly like to recall. Enough to say that the one thing I didn’t notice was the cold as I sat there bare-chested, watching her try to tear my shirt into strips. She managed it eventually with a little help from her teeth, and she wrapped the largest one around and around my armpit and shoulder, pulling tight each time.

  “I suppose the bullet’s still in there,” she said.

  “Yes.” I wouldn’t have been surprised to be told there was a Cruise missile in there.

  “You need a sling really.” And she immediately took off her own coat and pullover and blouse. We would have made a curious picture had anyone happened by. She converted her blouse into a sling, and then, before redressing herself, helped me into my pullover and coat.

  As she started the motor up again I said, “So you did end up making bandages.”

  “Yes. How do you feel?”

  “Well, I’d sooner be in bed, but I’ll survive.”

  We chugged along between barene; the occasional sea gull shriek
ed and flapped off into the mist, its belly flashing white with reflected light. There was no other sound. I started to notice the cold again, particularly around my feet, which were soaking of course. This, I suppose, was a good sign, but on the whole I would have preferred to have no sign and warm feet. After a while I said, “Where did you learn that kind of shooting?”

  “My father used to take me shooting in Scotland.”

  “I’ll never make another crack about him in my life.”

  “Well, that will be a change.”

  “Protestants, proletarians, or just pheasants?”

  “Three seconds that promise lasted. Jimmy Porter.”

  “You’re right. Sorry, sorry.” I let a wincing gasp into my voice as I said this, guaranteed to win her over: the hero, wisecracking through his pain. “You were brilliant.”

  “Thanks. We were both pretty good.” After a pause she said, “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

  “Well, no, I suppose not. I’ve never been shot, come to that.”

  “Where are we?” she said, shivering.

  “God knows. The Depths of the Seven Dead Men, maybe.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s the name of a part of the lagoon. I once noticed it on a map: I Fondi dei sette morti.”

  “Great.” She wrapped her coat closer around herself. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Or maybe we’re somewhere near the bone island,” I said.

  “The what?”

  “Sant’Ariano I think it’s called. Where they dump everyone’s bones after they’ve had a few years on the cemetery isle.”

  “Right, thank you, thank you, Martin.”

  “Just trying to be informative.”

  “If we bump into it, we’ll just get out and lie down, shall we?”

  “I will. You go on.” I probably would have too. I was becoming more and more convinced I was on the way out, and I didn’t even hear Lucy’s next remark, let alone answer it.