Short Storm

by Hegarty, David

  He loaded the .45, then the Webley. He went over to where Elaine lay. He was hoping, hoping she might have moved, might be breathing, might be alive. His hope flickered and died. Her face was pale white with a sinister pale creaminess. He didn’t have to look any closer. A dark patch glistened where the hair was, spreading in two ugly rivulets down the fine jawline and across the forehead. He pulled the light raincoat over the lovely bare legs, covering the skimpy panties and whitening skin. There was nothing more he could do, for her or for himself. She was gone. That was all. He started for the stairs below, wincing as his fingers touched some of the sticky remnants of Elaine’s brain on the hatch. His throat caught and he wiped his fingers in panic on his jeans. His feet moved quickly down the steps and along the corridor.

  In the room, he threw his belongings into his bag. With the gun in his other hand, he started out again. He didn’t look at Elaine’s remains as he went on deck. He glanced at the wheel-house again, just to make sure. The three fishermen were still talking, had not moved. He doubted Gustav was going to get a lot of help now. Going straight to the stern, he looked out and saw the dinghy. He climbed over, hauled the dinghy in and jumped aboard. Keeping his gun ready, he looked back at the trawler before he tried to start the outboard engine. It was a ten horse-power that would plane the dinghy along a good rate of knots. The tank was full. He set the gears and pressed the starter. She fired up at once and he let her run in neutral for a moment. Reaching forward, he knelt on the prow and untied the painter from the stern of the trawler. He switched her into drive and, with one hand on the side of the little craft and the other on the steering throttle, skipped off over the light but quickening swell. He soon found the light he was looking for. The one on the pier of Rinnemor. He fixed the extension on the throttle, went forward slightly to adjust the trim of the dinghy, then opened the throttle wide as he headed off to the pier.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eileen Doyle squinted into the darkness as she walked a few yards ahead of Maguire over the burrow. In some respects, her life had been hard, in others, simple. It had never been easy. That was fine by her. But she found it hard to understand her present position and impossible to accept it.

  Her right shoulder throbbed from where Maguire had hit her. Her knees were sore from the dragging she had suffered down by the car. Her mind was in turmoil about her husband. What were they doing to him now? And why? For God’s sake, he was a hardworking father and fisherman. And what of her two boys, John and David, with that traitorous lout Pritchard? God, if she could get her hands on the devil! What a little runt he was — all six feet two of him!

  The thoughts made her angry instead of frightened. It was difficult to see in the dark. She stumbled frequently over the rushes and clumps of gorse. When she did, Maguire stopped walking to let her re-establish her progress. She was angry with him too — more angry than afraid. But she had to keep cool, not get over-excited. He could react in a way that would be fatal to her. She wasn’t worried for herself, but she didn’t want to leave Sean or the boys. Her heart kicked when she thought of them. She tripped again.

  Her arms were too slow to stop her fall. She went face-first into a clump of short and stabbing rushes. Her eyes stung, her nose got pricked, and her cheeks and hands got tangled with the rush tops.

  She lay for a moment, raised herself to her knees and shouted,

  “God, what the hell do you want?”

  She wasn’t even sure who she was asking. It was a cry from the heart, a search for some simple explanation of her plight.

  Maguire had stopped behind her.

  “Shut up and keep walking,” he said.

  A few things had not gone according to his plans. There was a ripple on the surface of the calm. She could sense it in his voice. The sudden roughness when he had first hit her back at the car had been an act of impersonal discipline. Now whenever he gave her a push with the gun, or a swipe on the shoulder with the barrel, there was an air of urgency, even malice, about him.

  They arrived at the top of the grassy dunes overlooking the beach. The wind, with a salty tang, came in over the sea. She was glad of the wind and felt the cool of it from the waves. They would soon be at the edge of the strand. Another wave of anger flooded her and she lifted her tired legs with a determined desperation to keep going. She mustn’t stop. For Sean. For the boys. Keep going.

  Maguire breathed heavily behind her as they reached the edge of the low cliff. She halted.

  “Move!” he shouted, coming up close behind her. She felt the barrel of the gun in her back, his other hand on her shoulder. She stumbled forward, over the ledge onto the steep sandy fall to the sand below. Her eyes were shut, her arms flailed. She rolled, a low gasping scream rising and dying in her throat as she tumbled down the slant. Her shoulder hurt, the pain biting into her arm and side. With an awkward lunge, she pushed herself to her knees and feet. The wind flapped her nightdress as she spat bits of sand from her mouth. She was opening her eyes, trying to get her bearings, when Maguire appeared next to her.

  “Move, you fucking bitch!”

  The prod of the gun in her side sent her forward again, dragging in the soft sand. She was heading for the waves, curling onto the beach under the rising wind. All she could hear of him now was the breathing, hard and fast, as he lurched along behind her. She came onto the harder sand, wet from the receding tide, and crossed a line of seaweed left by the thundering sea.

  Maguire grabbed her arm and she halted, swaying from fatigue and breathlessness.

  “It’s there! By God, it’s there!”

  There was a sound of surprised joy in his voice. He shook her by the arm.

  “See it just over to the left?”

  He fumbled in his pockets.

  “Get down!” he commanded and threw her to the ground at the edge of the waterline.

  The sand was very wet and her fingers sank into it as she curled them in an instinctive grasp. The water hissed away from her. Another wave crashed in, the frothy edge bubbling where she lay. It soaked her through and sucked off, back to the crashing, watery mass.

  She turned and looked at him, trying to guess what he was up to. She could see his shape feet away, dim and black in the darkness. A torch flashed on and off in his hand. There was some sort of pattern in the flashing, but that meant nothing to her. He was holding it shoulder high, pointing it out to sea. She followed his aim and got to her knees to see better. Then she bent over, half expecting another belt from him. She squinted into the wind and wiped her eyes with her wet hand. A small light was out in front, a mile or so across the waters.

  Maguire kept on flashing and shouted into the wind,

  “Here I am, you bugger! Come on, answer! You bloody Frenchman!”

  He took a few steps to the side, as if to let the person to whom he was shouting see him more clearly. The flashes from his torch were quick now, on, off, on, off, with no pattern. He started to curse and jump from side to side, waving the torch up and down. He splashed in the foam, shouting all the time.

  Eileen sank to her knees again, exhausted. Already the falling tide was leaving the waves shorter than where she knelt. They barely reached her now. Maguire was down in front of her, splashing and shouting like a maniac, calling the Frenchman with a ceaseless torrent of abuse. He shouted over his shoulder to her, “Do you see it?” as if the pair of them were together, comrades in adversity.

  He stopped splashing, held the torch high and shouted to her over the incessant crash of the waves.

  “Over there! Look, it’s him! That’s fuckin’ Gustav!”

  He turned from her and shouted out,

  “Come on! We’re here! Come on for fuck’s sake!”

  There was a maniacal half laugh in his roaring. A wave curled in and tumbled in a watery blast around his knees. He staggered back, swearing and waving his arms for balance. He kept on shouting, waving the torch and the gun, for a few moments, then stopped.

  Eileen noticed his stillness. Her eyes
were half on the ground in front of her, half on the waves, but she watched him closely from the corner of her eyes. He was like a statue. The torch shone ineffectively into the wind and the dark. There was a hint of the first tint of greyness in the gloom of the early hours. The spent waves eddied around his feet and drifted out again.

  “She moved,” he said, but the joy and excitement had left his voice. “Get up and look!”

  He turned to her and took a step in her direction.

  She felt a sharp tug on her hair and was hauled to her feet. She looked out to the sea.

  “Look at him,” Maguire said. “He’s moving. See it? See it?”

  He twisted her hair and held her head steady. Her vision was blurred from the tears in her eyes. She blinked and stared out to sea. He was right. The light had moved out. It was a tiny speck in the distance.

  Maguire roared. He thrust her from him and charged at the sea. The torch fell from his hand and he aimed his pistol into the distance. Two shots flashed and cracked at the waves and the wind. The sea rolled up to his legs as he hurled his futile insults at the vanishing light.

  He turned and started to wade in to where she stood. He came right up to her. She could see his face in the increasing greyness of the dawn. The wind was rising, coming in irregular, blasting squalls across the sea, whipping the outgoing tide into an angry turmoil. The waves were getting bigger, crashing down relentlessly on the shore. The first few squibs of rain gusted in from the black cloud stretching to the low horizon. She waited in front of the sinister figure. He stood in the wind, his hair matted against his head, staring over her. His eyes came down to hers.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, the words sounding easy to her in the wind. He seemed to be in control again.

  “Maybe it’s the wind,” she said. “Maybe it’s too rough for him. He was meant to come ashore, is that right?”

  He blinked at her. It was as if he had been speaking to himself and was suddenly made aware of her existence again.

  “That isn’t too rough for him. He could manage in that. It isn’t that rough.”

  His gaze went over her head again.

  “No, something’s up. Gustav could have handled that sea.”

  She could see that he wasn’t really talking to her, but was thinking out loud, concentrating. Then, as a decision came to him, he blinked again in recognition of an idea and caught her by the arm.

  “Come on to the car. Your fuckin’ husband has some questions to answer.”

  Her heart sank. The wind blew on her skin, making her aware of the cold. The rain was coming heavily, steadily; soaking sheets of it billowed in over the beach, cutting the visibility. He gripped her by the elbow and steered her, starting the laborious march back to the beach. It was the power and strength of his stride which propelled her forward. They reached the back of the strand and the bottom of the bank. She looked up. She felt she could not climb it. As if he sensed her dread, felt the dismay which turned her heart to wood and her legs to lead, he pushed her forward. She flopped on the slanted sand. The rain bore down on her as if to beat her into the ground. She heard a click behind her.

  “Get up,” he said, tired with the turn of events.

  She tried to move, her hands on the wet sand.

  “Get up!” he said again, the anger rising and bringing power to his command.

  She brought one knee forward, put her weight on it.

  “Come on!” he roared.

  The gun barked and the sand powdered up beside her. She felt herself scream and she scrambled on all fours up the bank, drawing in the air, tearing her hands on the roots of weeds and bushes as she approached the top. Then she was over, lying on the rain-sodden grass, panting, aware of the hulk of a man hauling himself up beside her, dragging her remorselessly to her feet.

  “All right,” he growled. “Your fuckin’ brother won’t be talking to us, but, by Jesus, your old man will!”

  At the thought of Doyle, her heart turned. The boys came to her mind. She had nearly forgotten them. How could she? How could she forget her life? That’s what they were: her life. In the space of the moment it took to think of them, she was on her feet again, stumbling over the reeds and bushes. She was vaguely aware of stings on her feet and lower legs. Her arms swung in unsteady arcs, helping her balance, keeping her body nearly upright, ever ready to fend against a fall. They were soon at the top of the dune.

  The downward march was harder. Her body was plunging faster down the slope than her feet could cope with. She fell headlong down the hill, hearing his relentless footfalls just behind her. She scrambled to her feet and was moving again before he reached her. She rasped in desperate dry gulps for air. They came to a small ledge, a drop of a few feet onto a grassy slant. She paused. He reached her and pushed. At a half run, half jump, she staggered over the ledge and onto the grass. Her feet hit first and her jaded legs buckled under her. She felt the vice on her arm again and was aware of being lifted. Her legs were moving. The grass was slippery and she knew her arms were swinging and her fingers clutching. She didn’t know at what. Anything. Anything would do. She mustn’t fall. Doyle was waiting. And David, and John. She had to get there.

  The slanting grassy ground beneath her was a spinning mass of grey-green. She heard her own voice crying, her face contorted in fearful rage at her inability to stay up. Her legs sent shocks through her body as they stomped on the flying ground. She could feel his weight against her, the grip on her arm loosening as she began to fall again. The grip fell off and she spun. Her arms swung out and her hands caught his jacket. She heard him shout, felt him lose his balance. Her back hit the ground and she rolled. He was falling too. She didn’t want him to fall on her. He would be mad. She would never see Sean, or David, or John. The panic forced her shoulders up from the wet, stinging grass. She must roll away. Get out from under him. He would kill her. He would shoot her. His leg caught her head and she screamed. She saw him fall awkwardly, his knees crumbling under him. In his bid to catch himself, he turned his elbow to the ground and let the lethal weapon in his hand twist into his face. His fingers jolted the trigger and shot his head back in a blaze of flame and blood. She felt him let her loose and rolled to a sudden stop.

  Chapter Thirty

  The dinghy skidded and hopped over the short waves. Cullen held her on full throttle, shifting to keep her level. Even with only the first glimmer eking its way into the early hours, he could see the pier loom up in front of him. He aimed the craft to the right of the pier. He was soon abreast of the concrete wall, where it was more sheltered. He eased her down as he headed for the short strand beneath the cliff.

  He was heartened to see and feel the rain, the rising wind and the masses of black-bellied clouds. It was the kind of weather that discouraged curiosity. The dim pale colour of the sand was visible. As he neared, he cut the engine and let the dinghy drift. He picked up one of the paddles and pushed the little craft onto the shore.

  It was sheltered in the cove. He paddled to the shoreline, pulled off his shoes and socks and waded the boat ashore. He hauled her clear of the water and stowed the engine.

  He could make out the dark shadow of the pier over to his left as the early light spread. He would have to move fast. He wiped his feet with the inside of his jacket, then slipped on his shoes and socks. He must get to Doyle and Eileen. That was his first priority.

  He checked the guns. Noting the cartridges he had left, he loaded the Webley. As he turned to climb the steep, rugged and twisting path from the cove, he became aware of the increasing rain. Sharp gusts amidst a continuous blanket of rain billowed over the land. Visibility went down. The grey hue of dawn showed shapes and shadows emerging from the dark landscape.

  He stood on top of the cliff. The rain swung in drenching eddies over the pier behind him. He could see the cottages in the dawn. All was quiet, except for the sound of his own breathing mixed with the rain and the wind in the grass and the bushes.

  He moved along the winding pathway o
n the edge of the cliff. His pace was quick. He needed to get to Doyle’s house quick and see if Maguire had got to them yet or not. It would be wrong of Maguire to get them involved in their difference. If Maguire wanted his money, he should have come after Cullen directly, not through the family. He quickened his pace until he was nearly running. His legs moved in long strides and the activity warmed him up. His brain seemed sharper now that he knew what he must do and that it was finally time for the showdown with Maguire. This would finish it one way or another.

  He recognised cottages as he passed them. They hadn’t changed much in his lifetime. An odd shed here, a chicken run there — it was the same maze of alleys and gardens and old earth paths in which he had run as a boy. He came to the high wall around Doyle’s garden. He went into the field which separated Doyle’s cottage from the others. He moved with sureness and speed, crouching low as he broke into a run to the wall. The footholds were the same. He checked quickly for glass on the top. Nothing. His eyes drew over the wall and he surveyed the back of the house.

  A light shone dimly through an upstairs curtain in the boys’ room. Perhaps the light was left on for them. The rest of the house was dark and quiet. He swung his leg up so that he sat straddling the wall. His watchful eyes caught a movement in the boys’ room. He froze. Then slowly he moved, dragging his other leg over and slipping soundlessly into the garden and the shadow along the wall.