by Ru Pringle
‘All these little inconsistencies. They’re are adding up, don’t you think? I’ll give you another interesting little titbit. You know who the acting PM is? Until – if – Faulkner recovers?’
‘Peter Coaker.’
‘What d’you know about him?’
She shrugs, wondering where he’s going with this. ‘Fairly bland by-the-numbers cabinet minister. Careerist. Serial womaniser until his forties. Parents wealthy enough to send him to Eton. Unspectacular academically, I recall, but seems to have used his connections well enough. He’s quite old for PM material these days.’
‘Did you know one of his close friends at school was Sir Trevor Bolton-Clemens?’
‘I didn’t know that, no.’
‘Another was Lord Vernon Jones. Who was instrumental in engineering the Scottish coup – or annexation, or whatever label you want to give it – eight years ago. He orchestrated pay-offs for Scottish MPs and military top brass and so on. Without him, England probably couldn’t have got Scotland back without military action. Which would have been a hard sell politically – could have set reunification back a decade. I’ve seen the files.’
It’s not the first time Lorna’s been unsettled by his indifference to her adoptive nation’s demise. ‘Is any of this so surprising, Sebastian? As far as I can see, Westminster’s always been run by old boys’ networks. In fact, I thought that was true for the world in general. What does this prove?’
She watches his dark, chameleon eyes trace the skyline of Arthur’s Seat. A team of joggers is moving silently towards the summit of the little mountain. A lone bird – a raptor of some kind – hovers above them. The seagull on the wall, she sees, is gone.
‘I could grow to like it here,’ he says.
‘There are worse places, certainly.’
He blows a lungful of air between his lips. ‘You may well be right. I’m getting ahead of myself. But, we’re at an impasse. We need … a way to move forward without tipping our hand.’
He turns to her.
‘So, I think a priority is a shortlist of people we trust. Today. It won’t be long before I get called south for a slapping.’
‘Well. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’
‘Oh, it will, Lorna. I’ve seen how these things work.’ He tilts his head towards her. ‘I give it two days, tops.’
‘Sebastian?’
‘Yes?’
Lorna purses her lips. Hesitates. ‘I’m gratified, but …’ She cocks her head. ‘How do you know it’s not me?’
Sebastian says nothing for a few moments. Then he turns back to the view.
‘Ultimately you have to trust someone.’
CHAPTER 34
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RPG
ALISTAIR BLOWS OUT a great huff of air. As he does, he seems to transform subtly. Something inside him hardens. He looks up the mast at the Windex. Then at the wind-speed, boat speed and depth indicators, and the compass. He looks around with slow deliberation, as though committing his surroundings to memory.
‘This,’ he says, ‘will be interesting.’
Something’s blocking Coira’s throat. It feels like her heart’s trying to emerge from it. ‘Pirates?’ she manages.
‘Something like that. Pay out the jib sheet a few centimetres, please.’
She does. She watches Alistair look at the GPS speed indicator. It’s reading a little over seven knots. He seems satisfied. ‘Who d’you suppose they are?’
‘People who came here on boats? Separatists? Islanders who got desperate?’ He shrugs. ‘Doesn’t really matter. This is an ambush. When they saw we’d got spooked, they were straight to their boats with weapons. I don’t think they’ll be asking us ashore for tea.’
‘So what can we do?’ Coira’s all too aware how shrill she sounds. ‘In their speedboats they can probably go, what? Thirty knots?’
‘I’m working on it.’
His mouth is a tight line. For a few seconds he seems to freeze once more, like a robot that’s run out of power.
Then he growls: ‘Take the tiller. Aim directly for those islands off the south end of Iona.’
Having checked she’s seen where he’s pointing, he vaults in one fluid movement through the cabin hatch.
Coira lunges for the tiller, just in time to stop the boat pirouetting. Clutching it tighter than necessary, she slides onto the uphill bench, feet braced against the bench opposite. Already she can hear the roar of outboard engines.
She resists the urge to look.
A lot of thumping and clattering is going on below decks. Alistair’s head and torso reappear. He jabs an oil-blackened finger against a button near the hatch, producing a muffled, coughing clank and sounds of water squirting from the rear of the boat. The deck trembles and a puff of fumes and smoke eddies around the cockpit. Somewhere beneath her bum she hears a twin-piston engine rumbling unevenly to life.
‘Should give us an extra knot or two.’ Alistair springs back into the cockpit as though the hatch was a piece of gymnastic equipment. His brow is sheened with sweat.
‘I thought …’
‘We’ve enough juice for a few kilometres. Personally I’d class this as an emergency.’ He motions for the binoculars. As he puts them to his eyes, she risks a peek astern.
The boats have already reduced their distance by at least a quarter. There’s no point pretending their target is anything but Otter’s Pocket.
‘Kalashnikovs,’ Alistair murmurs, sucking his teeth.
‘How many?’ She’s not sure why she asks the question. Possibly because if she doesn’t feel involved in some way she will simply freeze up.
‘Enough.’ As if realising this isn’t entirely helpful, he adds, ‘I see two rifles per boat. That’s what they’re showing us. I’ve no idea what they have down on the decks.’
‘That’s … not very reassuring!’
Coira doesn’t think she’s been this scared before. Not at Craobh Haven. Not even in Oban. None of that had been directed at her, and without faces to put to it, her pursuit by the authorities had been dream-like. All too easy to put down to paranoia.
What’s happening now is personal. And she can think of nothing that she or Alistair can realistically do to stop it.
‘How long d’you think we have?’
He scratches his head. ‘Five minutes.’
Fucking hell. ‘What do you think they’ll do?’
‘If the human heads on the stakes lining the shore are anything to go by, nothing good.’
‘What? What did you say?’ He doesn’t repeat it. She scans the shore in panic, glad she’s not the one with binoculars. ‘You fucking … hippy! Why couldn’t you have had a normal mid-life crisis and taken up powerboating!’
‘Coira! Not helping.’
She feels about to explode. This isn’t her element, and she has no idea how to contribute. ‘There has to be something we can do?’ Alistair glares at the approaching boats. He's clearly thinking hard, though she has no idea what.
His eyes flick to hers. They look terribly cold.
‘Can you move to the other side of the tiller?’
She hesitates. Steps awkwardly over the tiller’s long wooden handle, trying to keep the pressure on it steady so the boat doesn’t turn into the wind. As she sits, Alistair slides onto his side in the cockpit’s footwell.
‘Here’s what we’re going to do.’ He opens the hatch in the seat she’s just vacated, just wide enough to push an arm inside. Coira hears a ripping noise and, to her astonishment, he slips a big, ugly assault rifle out onto the deck. It’s followed by a couple of curved ammunition magazines.
‘You have a gun,’ she observes, aware that she sounds like an airhead. At the same time she’s thinking: how’s that going to help, exactly?
Alistair squirms on to his front. ‘Take us closer to shore. Sea looks smoother there – it’ll make what I have to do easier. I’ll set the sails right now, but I’m
going to brace myself low in the hatchway, staying out of sight as much as possible. You’ll need to sail the boat.
‘Got that?’
She nods, and he slides into the cabin feet-first, perching himself on one of the steps inside with his head and shoulders framed by the hatch.
‘So,’ he continues, adjusting a sheet with each hand. ‘I need you to do three things. First, plug your ears with something: I’m going to be firing right past you at close range. Second, without making any sudden movements, stay out of my line of fire so I don’t need to worry about shooting you. And third, steer.’
He slackens a cord, moving the mainsail traveller a few centimetres closer to Iona.
‘It’s important you keep her steady. Change direction as little and as smoothly as you can. The boat will corkscrew over waves if it hits them at an angle, so try to hit them head-on. It’d be good if you can also trim the sails – but the priority is keeping the boat as steady as possible. Oh – and four: keep an eye on the depth gauge. If you see anything less than three metres, tell me immediately, and when – and only when – I tell you, steer sharply to port.’
He points.
‘That’s left, remember. Away from the shore. If that happens, I’ll take care of the sails. Need to hear that again?’
Coira swallows. Shakes her head. ‘Nothing to it.’ Oh, holy fuck.
‘Repeat to me what you need to do.’
She does. This isn’t condescension: he’s using textbook procedure for avoiding operational fuck-ups. ‘Listen, Alistair … Even with that,’ her eyes dip to the weapon, ‘we’re out-gunned tenfold. At least!’ Her free hand, which seems to have developed a mind of its own, pulls at her hair. ‘Have you any idea of the police stats on gunfire exchanges with that kind of mismatch? Even two-to-one usually predicts who wins. I know what I’m talking about, and I’m not kidding – we might as well jump in front of a fucking train!’
A crooked grin has been creeping into the corners of Alistair’s mouth. ‘Luckily, I’m not the police.’
‘Alistair …’ How he came to consider himself a marksman is a question for later, but his flippancy is unnerving. She’s wondering if she should try grabbing the gun and throwing it over the side.
‘Besides, I’m banking on all their rifles being AK-47s.’
Seeing she’s none the wiser, he pulls his weapon towards him by its strap as the boat hits a biggish wave, chucking spray at the cockpit.
‘This is a Heckler and Koch L85A2. It’s a bit temperamental in places where a Kalashnikov wouldn’t break stride. But one of the things in its favour is …’
She feels her face slacken. Of course. ‘Range.’
He nods, drying the muzzle with a forearm. ‘Accuracy, too.’
Eyeing his ammunition magazines, she feels dismay return. ‘If they’re untrained, they’ll probably use automatic fire. From the look of it, you’ll be on single shots.’ Her brow puckers. ‘I’ve heard of AK-47s hitting targets a kilometre away. You’re talking about … sniping from that kind of distance – from a moving boat?’
‘We just need to be beyond where they can hit what they aim for. Which would be about point four of a kilometre on solid ground. It’ll be scary, and they could get lucky. If you’ve any better ideas, I’d be ecstatic to hear them!’
She doesn’t. Alistair tosses her a wad of toilet roll from his pocket. She packs pieces in her ear-holes as he inspects his weapon, using the pitching footwell as a table. From her training she can see he’s checking that the firing mechanism’s moving freely, that the chamber’s empty, that the magazine’s spring is working smoothly, and that the magazine engages securely. Each time she risks a peek over her shoulder, the boats are visibly closer.
Clearly intent on surrounding the yacht, they begin spreading to either side in an inverted vee.
Despite a strong urge to babble, Coira keeps her jaw clamped and her attention on the task she’s been given. She hates feeling so helpless. So reliant on someone else. Particularly an unknown quantity. Alistair’s wedging himself with great care in the hatchway. She sees the logic of what he’s doing: he’s chosen a height that will let him fire just over the sides and stern of the boat, but which he hopes will obscure both him and his intentions. Being uncharitable, she might think he was using her as a shield.
He peers through the sighting scope. Pointed disconcertingly close to her ribs, the muzzle moves independently of the boat, as though stabilised by a gyroscope. Both Alistair’s eyes are open, she notices. They flick to either side, noting targets.
As impressions of competence go, it’s so far convincing.
Alistair raises his head. He stares at the Windex. Stares at the sea surface.
Coira looks astern.
The RIBs are so much faster than Otter’s Pocket that thoughts of evasion seem laughable. Skimming over the waves, the boats jolt up and down in violent bursts of spray. They look awfully close: near enough now for her to see that most of their occupants look European, though there are African and Middle Eastern faces too. She can make out facial expressions. Grins; laughter even. And why shouldn’t they be confident? It annoys her that she’s about to be killed without knowing by whom, or why.
Then again, perhaps the killing will come later. For a moment she’s right back in the shed on Luing, physically there, staring into Karen’s saucer-eyed face as the lustrous, knotted body of that man thrusts above her …
Figures in the closest boats are taking aim.
Coira snaps her head forward. Her shoulders itch. She can’t decide if she wants to hear the bullets when they hit. ‘Stay seated,’ Alistair hisses, eyes locked down the scope. ‘Do not duck down unless I say. Trust me.’
Easy for you to fucking say.
For the third time in as many days, Coira hears automatic rifle fire.
‘Warning shots.’ Far from wincing, Alistair doesn’t seem to need to blink. He keeps tweaking something on his scope. Adjusting for distance or wind, she guesses. She’s actually practised with an L85A2 at the police range, as well as sending response units out with them, but this scope’s like nothing she’s seen. ‘They want us to go quietly.’
Sure enough, little white splashes are peppering the sea half way to the boats.
‘No way we can stop,’ he says. ‘We clear on that? Tell me the wind speed.’
Coira squints at the readout. It’s difficult to read with the sun glaring off the sea ahead. ‘Sixteen … no, it’s averaging eighteen knots. Maybe seventeen.’
She sees Alistair’s mental gears turn. It’s clear all this is not something he’s done just for practice. ‘Keep her steady. Steady …’ He seems to be aiming very high. Almost at her shoulder now. ‘You might want to give me … more room. I won’t fire if I’ll hit you. Watch where I’m pointed, and just slide out of the way. Gently, no jerky movements. Mind your eyes. This’ll be bright, and there may be particles …’
She’s about to say something, but a deafening crack assaults her eardrums. She flinches. She can’t help it. Spent gunpowder is sharp in her nostrils. She looks round as the report echoes off the rocks. Men on the other boats are cowering.
There’s another crack. Another report.
‘Miss,’ Coira hisses. Hardly surprising. That looked impossible. Despite the makeshift plugs, her ears actually hurt.
‘You think?’
In the roar of approaching outboards, there’s a discordant note. Coira sees a puff of smoke. The lead boat’s bow rears up as it stops planing, almost spilling its two forward occupants into the sea as it lurches to a near-stop.
To say she’s impressed is an understatement. But Alistair isn’t done. As the lead boat falls behind there’s another crack. This time she actually feels the hot bullet zip past her neck. Alistair mutters something. Fires again.
A second engine dies.
‘They’ll probably split up and flank us now,’ he says. ‘Be ready to slide out of my way. Yup. Here they go. I’ll try and
keep them out of range.’
There are more crackles of automatic fire. Not just behind her now, but to the sides. Coira fights the urge to look, concentrating on keeping the boat steady and her body clear of the wandering muzzle. She inches right. Ends up stuck against the coaming. Watches the muzzle swing round so it’s pointed between her breasts. Experiencing a little chill she slides the opposite way, hard up against the tiller.
The muzzle tracks away from her. There’s another crack. Another miss, if the twitch of Alistair’s lips is anything to go by. She watches him slowly exhale, barrel bobbing in time with the waves.
‘Keeping an eye on that depth gauge?’
Her eyes bulge: she’d forgotten about it completely. But it’s okay. ‘Four metres.’ But then: ‘Wait. Two point nine. Now two point eight! Alistair?’
He doesn’t move, still tracking. He releases another round.
‘Two point five! How deep’s your keel? Two point … two! Alastair …? Fucking buggering shiteing fuck …’
Another shot. She sees a bead of sweat trickle down Alastair’s forehead. He blinks it out of his eye.
‘Can you even hear me? Ahh … Four point three. We’re okay, I think – four point six. Four point eight …’ She grabs a handful of hair. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘Big boulder we just passed over.’ He releases another round. Mutters an oath and pushes off the hidden steps so that his head is higher. ‘Our draught is one point eight, by the way. For future reference. I was giving us a safety margin.’
For a moment Coira can only stare.
‘Well, you could have fucking told me that, you indescribable cunt!’
He raises a mildly rebuking eyebrow. ‘They’re keeping their distance. If we’re lucky we might be able to keep them off until they start worrying about fuel. Oh …’
His eyes grow saucer-like.
‘RPG!’ he bellows, standing bolt upright.
CHAPTER 35
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Hunt the Otter