October Song

by Ru Pringle

COIRA’S FIRST THOUGHT is: Eh?

  Then she works it out: Rocket Propelled Grenade –

  – and everything seems to slow down.

  Throwing aside his gun, Alistair flings himself at her. At the same time, in a corner of her vision, she notices a man standing in the nearest of the two overtaking boats. He’s braced by two companions, haloed in bright smoke. Somewhere between the man and her, she’s conscious of movement.

  She moves as though operated by someone else.

  Her arm rams the tiller left, forcing the boat suddenly away from the wind. Alistair checks his plunge by grabbing the mainsail sheet.

  Sails over-filling, the boat heels sharply, as though hit physically from the side. She’s aware of Alistair yanking the mainsail free even as the deck is jerked from under him. His feet come level with his head. As sea pours over the coaming into the cockpit, the sail slams forward.

  The yacht lurches upright, surging towards the other boat.

  A noise like a crashing orbital rocket seems to fill the world. There’s a deafening clank right next to her ear. Chemical smoke fills her lungs.

  Then she’s choking, watching a flame-spitting something hurtle into a wave like an escaped Catherine wheel.

  ‘Fuck that!’ squeaks Alistair’s voice, uncharacteristic both in language and pitch. For a moment he just stares at Coira, clutching the rail that’s just stopped him being thrown overboard. There’s white all around the startling blue of his irises.

  Then he does a kind of controlled tumble into the cockpit, scoops up the rifle, slams his back against the cabin and lets off six rounds.

  He’s not targeting engines this time. Coira turns to see two bodies hit the sea beside the nearest hurtling boat. She gazes at the rail next to her. Its chrome-plated tubing is massively bent. At the apex of the dent is a fin-shaped gouge. ‘Nice work,’ Alistair barks. ‘Sorry – must deal with these guys. No games now.’

  ‘Don’t hold back on my account!’

  He lets go another four rounds in fairly quick succession. Holds up his gun.

  ‘They’ve pulled back. Can’t get them reliably at this range. Be interesting to see if they’ll give up.’ He looks over his shoulder. ‘Um, Coira – can we restore our original heading please? Before we run aground?’

  She turns the boat, reaching forward to pull in the mainsail.

  Oops.

  Alistair hits the button for the engine and the regular clatter stops. It seems blissfully quiet with just water burbling past the hull and the strange groan the keel makes when the boat is going fast. Even the outboards sound distant now they’ve throttled back to sailing pace.

  ‘No point wasting fuel now they’ve caught us.’ Alistair slumps onto the fibreglass bench opposite. He looks completely wired. ‘Bloody hell. That would have hit the cabin. We’d have been blown to bits.’ He swallows, audibly. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for another RPG.’

  Coira’s staring at him. He won’t quite meet her eye. ‘What now?’

  ‘Game of bluff, I think. They know now I can pick them off, but the remaining boats can still get to us if they attack from three sides, as I can only cover one at once. Some of them will get killed though, so let’s hope they’re not feeling brave. They might also try with another RPG.’ He takes a shaky breath. ‘Though I don’t think so. Those things are hard to come by. I’m kind of surprised they wasted even one on us. I’d assumed it was the boat they were after.’

  ‘I’ve got it. Worked it out.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Aha. I think so. They’re fucking eejits.’

  This raises a weak grin. ‘Rationality’s out the window, that’s for sure. Perhaps we ruffled feathers. And if this a macho thing, if it’s personal now, then I think we’ve a real …’

  ‘Alistair. Look.’

  He turns to where she’s pointing. On the nearest shore not far away, ragged figures are lined above the storm beach. They’re gesticulating wildly; jabbing outstretched fingers at the yacht, chanting things she can’t hear. While most are men, at least a third look like women.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Alistair’s expression is comical: a Victorian confronted with cunnilingus. Though scared almost out of her wits, Coira finds her primary response to be an aching sadness. What she’s seeing seems to signify the end of something. Its replacement by something irretrievably malformed and diminished.

  ‘Doesn’t take much, does it? For the veneer to rub away.’

  Alistair says nothing.

  As if spurred by the chanting on the island, the boats either side of Otter’s Pocket gun their engines. Having surged well ahead of the yacht, they ease back and hold their positions to port and starboard.

  There’s cheering from the shore.

  ‘Here we go.’

  Alistair picks up the spare magazine. Stuffs it in a pocket. He looks faintly ridiculous with his bare feet, ponytail, tie-dyed pyjama bottoms and assault rifle.

  Having slowed considerably, the RIBs are moving more smoothly over the waves. The lead pair start closing from either side, like pincers. The third is creeping up behind. While one of its surviving crew steers, the other is crouching or kneeling behind the bow. Braced across the air chamber, his weapon seems to be pointed directly at Coira’s face.

  ‘Should we manoeuvre?’ Her heart is out of control again. ‘Try and take out the boat behind? They can only use one rifle while they need to steer.’

  Alistair ponders this.

  ‘Good thought. I’m just not convinced it’s less of a threat, practically speaking. Even if it is, I’d be turning my back on the more dangerous ones to take it out. They can all manoeuvre faster than us. Now they’ve throttled back, their aim will be better too. If we start tacking and gybing … I’m worried all it might do is stop me hitting anything.’ He chews his lip. ‘This might be a last-ditch attempt for them. They won’t have unlimited fuel. The fact they’re attacking now could be a sign they’re getting low.’

  Terrific. We’re about to be shot to a schedule.

  The southern tip of the island is approaching. Beyond is an archipelago of at least a dozen rocky islets. Coira can make out channels between them. She can’t be sure from this angle, but some of the channels look quite narrow.

  ‘Alistair, look. If we get among those islands … Couldn’t we use them to stop the boats flanking us? Maybe even force them round the opposite sides of islands? Either way, I thought it might make it hard for them all to come at us at once. Could buy us time, at least.’

  He pouts. ‘Worth a try. Shit. I need to see the charts.’

  Alistair takes a quick look around and dives below. He returns moments later, looking surprised the cockpit hasn’t already been chewed up by bullets.

  ‘We should be just able to get between those two.’ He doesn’t point, clearly to avoid giving their intentions away. ‘The little rough ones with the tight-looking gap between?’ Anticipating her question, he says, ‘It’s wider than it looks from this angle, but there’s a skerry you’ll need to avoid. Looks like a real boat-killer. I’ll stand at the bow and keep an eye out. That’ll also mean I can cover both lead boats. Shout if the stern boat makes his move – and if anyone but me starts shooting, shelter as well as you can behind the coamings and steer by the compass.’

  Once again, Coira is feeling completely out of her depth.

  ‘Okay, Coira, bear away. Aim well right of the channel entrance so we miss that skerry!’

  Alistair puts aside the rifle, letting the sails out as Coira adjusts their course. The starboard RIB responds by veering away. The four men between its grey flotation chambers are waving rifles and fists. She can’t make out what they’re chanting above the roar of its engine. A thought strikes her, so obvious she slaps her forehead.

  ‘Alistair – wouldn’t holing the air chambers eventually sink the boats?’

  ‘Tried. They’ll be running emergency air pumps off the engine.’ He lopes off up the deck and leans against t
he forestay, his rifle like a flagpole as he scans either side, glancing regularly at the water scudding below his toes. The other boats are keeping pace, but also their distance. Glaring straight at Coira, the men on the RIB to port are miming a variety of sexual acts. On the starboard boat a heated argument seems to have broken out.

  The survivors astern are just watching.

  ‘Starboard a little,’ yells Alistair. ‘Starboard – right!’

  She obliges.

  ‘Straighten up. That’s it.’

  Rocks glide by on the port side, half a boat’s length away.

  ‘Okay … Now aim for the channel. Straight down the middle.’

  Running out of room, the boat to starboard is pulling back now. She watches it swing round the stern and come alongside the two-man RIB. It’s joined by the third. Hands reach out, linking the boats into a raft. The argument on the starboard RIB seems to have spread. With the channel approaching fast, Coira eyes the depth meter. Three point two metres, and falling.

  Now two point nine.

  ‘Steer to port!’ Alistair calls out. ‘Getting shallow here!’

  He comes running back along the deck as the three boats suddenly roar away towards the south-west. Coira rises to her feet. ‘They’re leaving!’

  Her delight is short-lived. As he jumps into the cockpit, Alistair’s shaking his head. ‘They’ll flank us around the back of the islands. My guess is they’ll hose us from both sides as they make a fast pass from off the bow. Be lucky if I get a couple of good shots in.’

  Not what she hoped to hear. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Not much. We can hug the shore, but we risk getting pinned down. We won’t see them once they’re behind the islands. Unfortunately, they’ll be able to see our sail for miles.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘Then again …’

  Rubbing a hand over his lips, he watches the last of the boats retreat behind the nearest rocks.

  ‘Okay,’ he barks. ‘Hand me the tiller and get ready with the jib.’

  She obliges. Alistair seems to be counting under his breath. He starts nodding rhythmically to himself.

  ‘Jib in!’

  With one hand Alistair yanks the traveller across its track and hauls the mainsail tight, pulling the tiller round with the other. The boat spins, heeling hard. The wind seems almost to disappear.

  ‘Three point two metres,’ Coira tells him.

  ‘Be ready to grab the tiller and keep her steady. I might need to jump up with the gun.’

  The channel they were entering slides away to the right as the boat makes for open water once more. An islet passes to starboard. Eight knots.

  Still no sign of the other boats.

  Between the next set of islets, another channel opens up. Beyond them, a larger island is approaching. Still no sign of the boats. But then …

  ‘Over there! Between the islands.’

  She indicates the way Alistair does, with a slash of her arm. She’d caught a glimpse of boat-grey rubber just before the view of the channel closed off. Alistair’s using his gun’s scope like a telescope. ‘Missed it. Depth?’

  ‘Four point eight.’

  ‘See which way they were moving?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Might be a bit late to ask this, but don’t suppose you’ve more assault rifles stashed away somewhere?’

  ‘Believe me, I’d have told you.’ The island to starboard is coming very close. ‘Tide’s pushing us into shore. We may have to tack.’

  ‘Where the hell are they?’

  Instead of answering, Alistair pulls the traveller further uphill. The mainsail’s boom is now parallel with the hull. The boat’s not happy: even Coira can feel it can’t sail any closer to the wind. Flesh-pink, black-veined rock slips silently past metres away.

  ‘If they’re just round the corner, we’re in trouble,’ Alistair says. ‘The wind direction means we’re kind of pinned here. Take the tiller again. If we make it round this island, bear away from the wind and take the channel between the island and the smaller one you’ll see to port. According to the chart, it’s deep enough as long as you stick to the middle. If we can’t make it, and I shout “tack”, push the tiller hard right, then straighten up once the mainsail has come round and filled.

  ‘Got it?’

  She nods and repeats ‘Got it,’ but he’s already moving back up the deck.

  The boat pushes on into the channel. Steering on to their new course, Coira lets out the mainsail sheet, judging its angle like she’s been shown, using the telltales and Windex. The jib, she decides, can stay where it is. Alistair’s at the bow once more, sweeping the sea around the islands through his scope. The silence is eerie. There’s nothing to break it apart from the gurgle and slap of water against the hull and the whale-like moan of the keel.

  This is how being hunted really feels.

  There’s a splintering noise from up front. Fragments of fibreglass clatter off the sails. A split second later, a report echoes loudly off the rocks. She hears a gasp from the front of the boat. Pops her head above the cabin and looks where Alistair’s rifle is pointing.

  At the top of the island, barely two hundred metres away, is a shield of rock. A man is lying on it.

  He’s squinting down the sight of a rifle.

  ‘Hunting rifle!’ Alistair’s yelling. ‘Get down – keep her really steady.’ He looses off a couple of rounds. Adjusts his sight. There’s a fresh eruption of fibreglass centimetres from his toes, and another loud report.

  Alistair grunts as a spray of shockingly bright red appears on the sail.

  Coira stands, screaming something, but Alistair seems oblivious. He just holds the trigger, the gun spitting six bullets in quick succession.

  There are no more shots after that.

  Alistair staggers back down the deck, his rifle clattering onto the bench as he reaches the cockpit. Grimacing, he pulls the jib sheet slacker with his left hand. His right is dripping blood on the deck. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he yaps, seeing her horrified stare. ‘Steer!’

  He opens the under-seat locker. Pulls a red and white flag from it. Gripping one end in his teeth, he wraps the rest tightly round his biceps and expertly ties it. He seems about to restart the engine, but reconsiders. For a moment he just rocks back and forth, face contorting.

  ‘You have morphine?’ Coira ventures.

  ‘Med kit. Shelf by the chart table.’

  He takes the tiller as she scurries down the canted steps. She claws books, plastic tubs and anything she can’t identify on to the floor until she unearths a green plastic case with a white cross. She lobs it up onto the cockpit floor, raking through it on her knees until she finds a pre-filled syringe with “MORPHINE” printed on the packet in bold. She rips off the wrapper and cap, unceremoniously pulls his waistband down, and empties it into the top of his buttock.

  ‘Don’t think it hit an artery,’ she says, inspecting his arm. There’s a hole in it the size of a five pound piece. He’s as white as a sheet. ‘Not going to pass out on me, are you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No exit wound.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that later.’ They’re passing into open water, and her eye has just been caught by a grey shape appearing from behind the island that’s now receding steadily astern.

  It’s followed by a second, and a third.

  ‘At least they fell for it,’ she says. ‘Good tactics.’

  ‘Not so sure. I think … they went behind the island to drop their sniper. Somewhere he could get a good shot.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t work.’

  He gives a sad little smile, snarling with pain as he picks up the gun again. He releases the old magazine. Slots in its replacement. ‘Not going to give up, are they?’

  She looks him in the eye. ‘Doesn’t look that way.’

  The three boats are getting larger by the second. Beyond the shelter of the islands, the swell is starting to build. The wind is blowing alm
ost against it, making the waves stand up. The boat starts pitching strongly.

  ‘At least they’ll find shooting as difficult as we will.’ Alistair prostrates himself along the downhill bench so his rifle protrudes beneath the stern rail. He wriggles, vainly trying to get comfortable. The boats behind are fanning out again. They’re launching off the waves now, crashing down in bursts of forward-blown spray. It looks precarious. Travelling diagonally to the swell, yawed to one side as they become airborne, the boats are caught like kites by the wind, hitting the water at such steep angles she keeps thinking they’ll cartwheel.

  It doesn’t seem to dent their resolve.

  White splashes zip across the water alarmingly close to the stern, and there’s a volley of loud cracks. The sound is startlingly close and clear on the following wind.

  More gunfire. More tiny splashes, ever closer.

  ‘Looks like they’re just going to turn on the taps,’ croaks Alastair. ‘Where the hell do they get all their ammo?’ He lets off a couple of shots. Then a short burst. She can’t tell if he’s hit anything. There’s a series of staccato chopping noises as a line of coin-sized holes appears a metre up the mainsail. Still clutching the tiller, Coira slides to the cockpit floor, making herself as small as possible. Suddenly her situation seems ludicrous. I’m a wanted terrorist on a sailing cruise in the Hebrides, for fuck’s sake, with an ex-boyfriend who turns out to be some fucking military ninja – about to be killed by head-hunting pirates. She actually giggles, drawing a startled look from Alistair.

  Then she glimpses something below the mainsail. At least, it’s part of something: sea-grey and very large. It’s also moving improbably fast.

  Coira barely has time to grunt in surprise when there’s a sound like the eruption of an underwater volcano.

  She turns astern, towards the noise. The ocean between her and the other boats is bulging impossibly upwards, swelling and extending; its tip bursting into a towering, toppling column of frothing white. The column mushrooms inexorably over their heads, blotting out the sky, arcing downwards on all sides and deluging Otter’s Pocket with more water than she thinks can possibly exist in what’s meant to be air.