29 Evie

29

One moment Cyrus was here and then he was gone. It happened so quickly that I couldn't react. At the same time, it had an almost dream-like quality, like in one of those action films where everything slows down and the bullets travel at walking pace and people lean out of the way to dodge them. I saw Cyrus moving and I thought, No, he won't, he can't, that's crazy stupid. But he did and now both men are in the water, but only one of them is shouting and waving his arms.

Cyrus disappears below the surface. His hands are taped behind his back. He can't stay afloat. Did he expect me to go with him? He knows I can't swim.

An orange lifebuoy is attached to the railing, secured by clips and a monkey grip. My hands are taped to my waist, but I can move my fingers. I pull it free, but it's heavier than I expect. Unable to throw it, I drop it over the side and the rope uncoils. I glimpse a flash of orange bouncing over the whitewash.

The boat turns suddenly, and I lose my balance. The old man has heard the yelling. The shotgun skitters across the deck. I crawl towards it. The old man yells at me to stop, but he doesn't leave the wheel. He's trying not to lose sight of his son.

I have to lie on my stomach to pick up the shotgun, but there's no way I can reach the trigger and aim. Looking down into the galley, I see a dining area with bench seats and a table. Hugging the shotgun against my stomach, I stumble down the steps and try to close the door behind me, but the latch is too high for me to reach.

Putting the shotgun down, I begin opening drawers and cupboards.

Angus is still yelling, but less often now. I don't know if Cyrus is alive. There is a cooktop with a steel cover. On the wall is a magnetised knife-rack, but I can't reach it with my hands.

Leaning over the benchtop, I use my forehead to butt at the handles until a blade falls onto the electric hob, within reach. Holding the knife in my fingertips, pointed towards me, I move the blade back and forth across the tape.

I've drawn blood, but keep cutting, not feeling the pain. Cyrus is going to drown. He can't swim without hands. Why did he do that? He can't die. Not now. Not ever. He can leave me, but he can't die on me.

I free my right hand and rip the tape from around my waist. Using my teeth and fingers, I loosen the rest of the binding until both hands are free. The boat is slowing. The engine idles. The old man comes down the steps and goes to the stern.

‘Swim this way,' he yells, lowering steps over the side.

I pick up the shotgun and climb out of the galley.

Angus Radford is thirty feet away, floating on his back. Cyrus is holding him around the chest, pulling him towards the ladder with strong strokes. Masking tape trails from one hand as he swims.

As they get nearer, Cyrus helps Angus to climb the ladder, pushing as the old man pulls. Bedraggled and exhausted, Angus collapses onto the deck, rolling onto his side, coughing and spluttering. Water gushes from his mouth and nose and he sucks at the air and coughs again.

I wait for Cyrus to come up the ladder. The old man reaches over the side, offering his hand.

‘Leave him,' says Radford.

‘He saved your life.'

‘I was fine.'

The old man pulls up the ladder. I point the shotgun at Radford's chest. ‘Save him, or I kill you now.'

Angus blinks at me through the seawater dripping from his hair. ‘Know how to use that?' he asks.

‘I'll pull the trigger and find out.'

He slowly sits up, leaning against the bench seat.

‘No further,' I say.

‘What's yer name again?' he asks.

‘Evie.'

‘That wasn't always your name.'

‘Adina.'

‘Yeah, that's right, I remember now. Yer sister talked about you a lot.'

I motion to the old man. ‘Lower the ladder.'

‘No,' says Angus. ‘That's a single-barrel, twelve-gauge shotgun. One shell. One shot. She cannae stop both of us.'

‘I don't have to stop both of you,' I say, raising the gun to my shoulder and pointing it at his chest.

‘Yer won't do it,' he says, feeling in his pocket for his hip flask and realising that it's lost somewhere in the sea.

‘Give me tha' gun, lassie,' says the old man, stepping nearer.

I swing the barrel towards him and back to his son. My finger twitches on the trigger.

‘Help me!' yells Cyrus.

‘Give me the gun, and we'll lower the ladder,' says the old man. He's telling the truth, but they're going to kill us anyway.

Trying to take the tremor out of my voice, I focus on Angus Radford, hating him with every sinew and fibre of my being. ‘I know you plan on killing us today, but I promise you one thing,' I say.

‘And what's that?'

‘You're going to die first.'

I pull the trigger and his face dissolves into a bloody pulp that wipes away his crooked grin and his scarred face and his cruel eyes. For a moment, he stays where he is, sitting upright, but slowly he topples sideways to the deck, gasping shallowly.

The old man is staring at me in disbelief, his mouth open, a cry lodged in his throat. Suddenly, he finds his voice, screaming in rage and charging at me. I duck his arms and use the shotgun as a club, but it bounces off his shoulder and I lose my grip. It slides away from me. He comes again and I scramble away, trying to reach the ladder. The deck is slick with blood, and I seem to be running on the spot, getting nowhere.

Hands pull me back from the ladder. Close around my neck.

‘That's enough,' says a new voice, yelling above the pock pock of a different engine.

A figure is silhouetted on the bow of another boat. Sean Murdoch is holding a rope in his hand, which is attached to an orange ring. Florence is next to him, helping pull Cyrus towards them.

‘She killed my boy,' groans the old man, as he releases his hold on me and cradles Angus, rocking his body back and forth, sobbing.

Murdoch has no sympathy. ‘Well, I guess that makes things even.'