‘If you want castrating,’ said the first officer, brandishing it in his face, ‘You just ask us and we’ll do it for you.’
‘One more caper like this, sunshine,’ said the other, ‘an’ you’ll be in front of the governor…’ They told them all to go. Petru didn’t take out the metal cutters that Ilie had slipped into his pocket until they’d joined Fraser in the cell.
Fraser quickly packed his wash-bag and suspended it from his waist so that it hung inside his trousers.
‘You look like you need good fuck up,’ observed Petru, and the others giggled nervously.
They made their way up to the yard, Fraser trying to keep between them. The sun blazed down, striking diamonds from the wave tops. Good news, and bad news…
They walked slowly round the perimeter, pretending to talk, watched by three officers. Gulls wailed. Fraser took off his shirt. They reached the point where Petru had spotted the weakness in the fence and Fraser knelt down, loosened his shoelaces, stood up again. He breathed deeply – in, out… in, out…
The yard filled. The screws chatted amiably with some of the prisoners, their eyes ceaselessly flicking round the rest.
‘OK, Fraser?’ murmured Ilie.
‘OK.’ His heartbeats were threatening to spew over into his lungs and he could barely speak.
Ilie gave a nod, and their two countrymen on the other side of the yard started shouting at each other… then one of them threw a punch.
The screws ran over, trying to force their way through the ring of men already forming.
Petru whipped out the cutters and ducked under the bar. He cut down to the deck where the fence had rusted, then upwards, attacking the flat metal between the oblong holes – snip, snip, snip – moving smoothly up like a can opener…
Once he’d cut to his height, he lashed with his foot, tearing the fencing away from the deck. He bent it outwards, then began kicking the other side, and that’s when the screw saw him—
‘Hey!’
He began running over, but a deftly placed foot tripped him and he sprawled on to the deck as the other two officers struggled to free themselves from the jostling crowd.
Petru pushed the other side of the fence out, Fraser kicked off his shoes and ducked through, Petru followed, and then Ilie, but he was grabbed by a screw before he could make it…
Ilie did his best to delay the screws, blocking the hole so that they couldn’t get after the others… Petru danced noisily towards the bow while Fraser worked his way quietly stern-wards… Then he pulled off his trousers, heaving in deep breaths.
He took a step back, filled his lungs with air once more, then leaped out as far as he could to avoid hitting the slanting sides of the ship… and the last thing he heard as the air whipped past him was the mewling of the gulls…
Ilie was yanked aside, his hands streaming blood where he’d gripped the fence, and the officer ducked through.
‘Come on, lad, don’t be a fool.’ He was talking to Petru, a few feet away.
Petru jabbered at him in Romanian, walking backwards, enticing him to follow… When he could go no further, he too jumped outwards, emitting a primal scream as he fell through the air.
‘Man overboard, port side,’ another screw shouted into his mobile. They watched as Petru surfaced and began swimming away from the boat.
The siren began to wail.
Below, three more officers pulled on life-jackets and jumped into the launch.
‘Ready?’ the one in charge, who was called Kevin, shouted.
He pulled a cord and the boat fell horizontally into the water. The motor started first time and the man at the helm steered her round.
‘There he is!’
Petru’s head bobbed in the sea in front of them. He looked round, saw them coming, waited… and just before they reached him, he duck-dived and they overshot.
‘There, over there!’
They hauled the boat round, but again Petru ducked, and then again… but after that, he knew he’d had enough. He allowed them to grab him and haul him over the side like a drowned sheep.
‘Are you all right, you dumb bastard?’ one of them asked as they turned back to the ship.
The radio crackled.
‘It’s all right, we’ve got him and he’s OK… Oh, shit.’
He turned to the others. They think there were two of them…’
They searched along the side of the ship and along the wharf, then they checked under the stern, and then they searched the other side of the ship and the wharf there.
‘Nothing,’ Kevin said into the radio.
‘You sure?’
‘Course I’m fuckin’ sure,’ Kevin snapped, then paused.
‘Better get a diver out, I suppose.’
20
It took Fraser just over a second to reach the sea, a long, long second in which he felt as though his whole body was trembling like a leaf… Hold it straight, hold nose, head up to avoid a smack in the face…
As he hit the water, some of the breath was driven out of his body by the shock. He had no idea how deep he was. Can’t go up… He turned in the water and swam downwards. He could see the sun dappling the sandy bottom as he reached it, levelled off and turned determinedly for the cliff-like blackness of the ship’s hull… Only 120 feet, that’s all…
As he passed into its shadow, he became aware of the wash-bag banging into his groin with each frog stroke of his legs. Was it slowing him down? Keep going…
No light now, only blackness and the sensation of water streaming over his face and body. Just keep going…
Without warning, his back scraped into the hull. He turned down, kicking against it, then his face hit the sea-bed.
Christ! How much room…?
Keep going.
With a knock, his head hit something. He felt at it – it had to be the keel…
He pulled himself under, his heels scraping the sand, his lungs vainly trying to pump as the carbon dioxide level rose in his blood.
An’ I’m only half feckin’ way…
He twisted, got his feet against the keel and heaved. His ears hissed as the sea water streamed past them. He could feel his diaphragm pulling at his lungs now, heaving at them, trying to force them to work.
Light! Ahead…
His joints began fizzing – elbows, shoulders, hips, knees – like pins and needles as he willed his muscles to keep working, keep forcing him through the water…
Light… His mind began to sideslip. Was it lactic acid causing the pain in his joints, oxygen debt?
Light – a sheet of it above… He turned upwards, pulling himself up, up, up towards it.
His head broke surface and his lungs began working like bellows. He could hear as well as feel the air hissing raggedly through his throat – in out, in out – couldn’t get it quickly enough. He gagged, coughed as he sucked in sea water, pumped his legs to keep his head above the waves.
Sinking, need something to hang on to… But there wasn’t anything except the slap slap slap of the waves against the side.
A hole, four feet away… He kicked towards it, thrust in his fingers and held on.
In out, in out, in out… He became aware of the siren again. Had they got the launch out yet? Should he use the tube in his wash-bag? Not yet, better move… Where, where?
His lungs were working more evenly now… Move along the side of the ship? Swim across to the wharf?
No. Have to go under again…
He kept his lungs working as he tried to measure the distance across to the wharf… fifty, sixty feet? Seventy if he went at an angle away from the ship.
Move… I don’t want to… move, move…
He sucked in a last breath and duck-dived, pushing himself off and under from the ship. The sea bottom shifted like a kaleidoscope in the sunlight. Would they be able to see him against it from above?
Depends, Depends how rough the surface is, on whether anyone’s looking – had Petru managed the decoy? His lungs started heavin
g again. Daren’t surface now, bound to see me…
The gloom of the wharf loomed suddenly and he surfaced beside it, grabbed at the weedy timbers and tried to pull himself into the overhang as his lungs worked overtime to try and make up the deficit… The siren was still going, he realised as he twisted round in the water to look.
The sun glinted on the windows in the side of the ship – were there people watching him from behind them even now? He could see the fencing of the yard at the top, but no figures behind it.
Better turn to hide the whiteness of his face… Time to use the tube? Not yet…
He began slowly working along the wharf, keeping his back to the sea. It was stinging now, his back, as the salt got to work on the abrasions, and he wondered how bad it was.
A whine pierced the wail of the siren and he glanced over his shoulder to see the launch swinging round the stern of the ship.
Go under, where’s the tube, go under…
No. He was only twenty feet from his target and they were searching the side of the ship – swim, swim – fifteen feet, ten… He could see the name of the motor boat now, Omen… Good or bad? Then he’d reached the stern and hung to its rudder, hiding behind it.
He could stay here in the water indefinitely, although sooner or later they’d search… and the cold was already leaching the warmth from his body.
But if he climbed over the stern, they’d see the whiteness of his body, and if he swam to the bow, he’d still have to work his way back to the stern… and be seen…
But maybe he could worm his way along the decking – There was suddenly the strangest silence as the siren fell away to be replaced, very gradually, by the wailing of the gulls… It was time to move.
He breathed deeply again – only twenty feet this time. He pushed himself under and swam the length of the boat and surfaced by the bow. He reached up, his fingers went round the chain and he tried to pull himself up… but he hadn’t realised how weak the diving had made him.
More deep breaths, then he gritted his teeth and willed his arms to flex… an elbow on the deck, then the other on the wharf… and the sea reluctantly gave him up.
He lay in the sun on the hot deck… Move, they might be here any minute…
He lifted himself on to elbows and knees and inched himself along, trying to keep below the line of the wharf… ten feet, five, then he fell in a heap into the well of the stern.
He listened, no shouts, looked at the cabin door – Oh thank you, God. A simple Yale lock. He fumbled in the wash-bag, found the plastic card and thrust it through the crack against the tongue and pushed – with a snick, the door swung open. He slipped through and shut it behind him.
His eyes adjusted and he saw he was in a tiny kitchen. He shivered violently as he realised how cold he was… His feet slapped wetly as he made his way through a lounge-cum-bedroom to an even smaller room with a basin… and a towel!
He snatched it, pulled off the wash-bag and his sodden underpants and began rubbing himself, wincing as the towel rubbed his injured back.
Still shivering, he went back to the kitchen where he rummaged through the cupboards until he found what he was looking for – the overalls he’d seen the owner wearing, and also an old pair of shoes, laid on top of a toolbox. He pulled them on and immediately felt better.
Back to the basin, where he took out the nail scissors from the bag and began hacking at his beard…
Was it worth the risk? They’d be searching here before too long… Yes, if it changed his appearance, it was worth it.
When he’d got off as much as he could, he soaped his face and started work with the razor. It felt like a scouring pad and he cut himself repeatedly but at last it was done and a face he hadn’t seen for at least ten years peered blearily back at him from the mirror.
Engine next, or the chain…?
The engine – if he was seen working on the chain, he might have to make a quick getaway. He took the toolbox up to the well of the boat… looked round, couldn’t see anyone, turned to the control board.
It was plastic, fairly simple, the fascia held in by screws. Screwdriver… He found one in the toolbox and the screws came out easily.
He pondered the wires… That’s the ignition and that one must go to the starter… He pulled them off with pliers, made some connections and then touched… The engine turned over a few times and then caught. Great! He switched off. Now for the hardest bit.
He found his lock pick and took that and the toolbox up to the bow, his back pricking with pain both real and imagined. The chain passed through a large iron ring on the quay and then through the rail of the boat – Shit! There wasn’t a ring on the deck he could unscrew, it would have to be either the lock or the chain.
One attempt with the pliers was enough to tell him that the chain was too tough for them to cut through. And the lock was solid and completely resisted his crude pick.
Could he cut them? He rummaged through the tools for a hack-saw, but couldn’t find one…
He fell back on his heels as sickness congealed over him… To have come so far… Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
Oh Frances…
Run for it?
He’d be caught.
He looked at the rail again… The chain went round it just above the foot, which was held on to the deck with four big screws. Could it be bent upwards?
Gotta try…
He took out the biggest screwdriver and started. Two of the screws came easily, one with difficulty, and the last not at all.
He tried leaning on the screwdriver, but the slot was frayed now and the end just slipped over it.
He found a hammer and, after another nervous look round, placed the screwdriver in the slot and banged down several times. Then he placed both hands round the handle, pushed downwards and tried to force his hands round… it felt as though the skin was being torn from his palms… the screw moved a millimetre… another… then it was free.
He looked at the rail again. There was only one way the foot could move – up, so he took the hammer and bashed upwards. The rail slowly bent and the foot raised itself an inch from the deck. He pulled on the chain to get some slack, then slipped it under and it fell with a plop into the sea.
The stern was held on with rope, which he cut with a kitchen knife and hauled aboard, then he started the engine again.
Fraser had never conned a boat before in his life. He looked at the controls. A wheel – for steering. A lever marked Throttle – fair enough… Drive one way and Reverse another.
The stern was sticking out more than the bow, so he cautiously put the throttle into reverse – and with a clunk, the engine note dropped and the boat edged slowly backwards.
Magic! When he judged he was far enough out, he switched the throttle to drive and gingerly opened it – and the boat moved forwards.
He spun the wheel and headed out to sea.
*
While the diver was being called, a party of prison officers began searching the quay and all the boats on the port side of the ship.
After a while, Kevin suggested that, for form’s sake, a couple of them should search the seaward side as well, and Darren and Andy were dispatched.
There wasn’t a great deal to search.
‘We’d better ask Ol’ Man Bailey if he’s seen anything,’ Andy said.
‘Is he here this afternoon, then?’
But as they approached the Omen, they saw it turn and head away from them. The figure in the wheel-house gave them a wave and Andy waved back.
21
The governor was convinced that the diver would find Fraser’s body underneath the ship, and when he didn’t, went into overdrive to try and make up for the lost time. The police were informed of the escape and prison officers with dogs were sent to block all the main roads, especially the causeway, and to watch the local railway and bus stations. Ilie and Petru were questioned, but only shrugged their shoulders and muttered in Romanian.
Then Andy got to remembering what a
miserable bastard Old Man Bailey was, how he’d never waved or made any friendly gesture to any of them before, and after agonising for five minutes, found Kevin and owned up.
*
Fraser was vaguely aware that Weymouth had a harbour and pointed Omen at roughly where he thought it would be. He was making about seven knots, although he wasn’t to know that. Gulls cried and circled the boat, hoping for fish. The sun warmed his back and a fine spray from the bow wash found its way into his lungs, and he had to remind himself that this was not the end of his troubles, only another beginning…
Do they know I’ve got the boat yet?
Would they be waiting for him at the harbour, should he ditch Omen before he got there?
But if he just left her somewhere, it would look odd, it would be remembered, and he’d still have to walk into town… He kept going.
A few minutes later, he picked out the funnel of the cross-Channel ferry and steered for it, and a little over half an hour after he’d started, he reduced throttle as he entered the River Wey. Without thinking about it, he kept to the left of the channel and couldn’t understand why the boats coming the other way hooted, one salty dog even shaking his fist at him – then someone shouted, ‘You’re on the wrong bloody side, man,’ and he quickly moved over.
He entered a pool where mostly larger boats were moored. The smaller vessels and sailing craft seemed to be beyond a low swing bridge over which ran a road, but he couldn’t see how to get through. He looked round – there was a quay to his left, but all the mooring spaces were taken. Other boats were moored to buoys. Aware that he’d look conspicuous if he hung around for much longer, he steered for the quay and put Omen into neutral as he came alongside a large cruiser.
‘Anybody there?’ he called out.
No answer.
He tied the bow to the cruiser, then went below and packed his wash-bag into the toolbox.
Then, as an afterthought, he went to the basin and carefully cleared away all the hair he could find – no need to let them know he’d shaved off his beard. Though they’ve probably already guessed…
Then he picked up the toolbox (camouflage), pulled shut the door, and with a muttered ‘Thanks, Omen,’ climbed on to the cruiser and thence to the quay. He crossed the bridge and headed for town.
Bad Medicine- A Life for a Life; Bed of Nails; Going Viral Page 17