was an inch from the churning sea that splashed his head and
neck.
"Get
off... Get off ... Getoff!"
He
panted and choked as the sea splashed into his mouth. Any second now.
Any
second now Suzy would roll over and he'd be trapped beneath her.
Alone with her and whatever was in the water, unseen, pulling him
down.
He
didn't see it come. But suddenly he felt a blow to his face; followed
instantly by a pain that pierced his right eye.
"Christ!"
The
water churned white. The heavy catch-box rolled over his back and
into the sea.
Why
could he no longer see out of his right eye? He blinked to try to
clear it. Why did it hurt? Why-
He
was still blinking when the second blow came. This time to his left
eye. Again came the piercing pain as if something sharp had been
driven into the eyeball.
Now
the foaming white had gone. There was only a throbbing dark, blotched
with red.
With
a mighty pull, the fisherman freed his hand. With the release the
boat slapped back level onto the water.
And
then it was still-and silent. The ferocious threshing of the ocean
had stopped.
Henry
Blackwood shakily pulled himself up onto the bench seat that ran
across the middle of the boat.
He
lifted his fingers to his face and felt his eyes.
"Blind
... I'm blind, old girl. ..." His voice was a dry whisper. "How
are we going to get home, girl?"
He
sat there for a full three minutes, whispering over and over, "Who's
done this to us, girl? Who's done this to us?"
Then
he felt the boat dip beneath him.
He
tilted his head to one side, listening. A low splash, then the sound
of water dripping on water.
The
boat dipped down.
Someone's
pulling us down ...
No
... No. Someone is climbing into the boat.
He
did not move. He did not speak. He did not show any sign that he had
heard anything at all.
He
just used all his thirty years' experience as a fisherman to sense
what was happening-and where.
At
the prow, someone was pulling themself onto his boat. On to his Suzy.
Slowly
he let his hand fall to his side.
The
oar. His fingers tightened around the timber shaft.
Still
pretending he'd noticed nothing, he waited until the time was right.
Then
in an explosive moment he was on his feet, picking up the heavy oar
and swinging it in a tremendous arc; the oar buzzed through the air.
It
hit something wet. Something not hard nor completely soft. Something
that felt like-
"A
man. A sodding man ... I got him, Suzy." Blackwood heard the
satisfying splash of the man falling back into the water, no doubt
with a mess of broken ribs to nurse on his homeward journey.
It
happened again. The tilting of the boat as another climbed on. The
fisherman swung the oar again, hitting the man. Again the splash.
"If
only I could see the bastards. I'd bust their bleeding skulls."
He panted and swung again. The oar cracked against flesh. And yet
there were no cries of pain even though the blows were hard enough to
snap bones.
"Who
are they, Suzy? Why are they doing this to us?"
Drug
smugglers. That's it, he told himself. Foreign boats were coming in
at night and leaving the drugs in his lobster pots. The next day
divers would swim out from the beach, pick up the drugs, and within
hours they would be en route to poison the kids in the cities.
Well,
they'd cocked up. Blackwood had caught them. He would break their
bodies with his bare hands if he had to. He didn't even feel the pain
from his punctured eyes now-pumped with adrenalin and anger, he was
ready for the fight.
They
were coming fast now. The boat dipped at the stern, then on the bow,
then the port side. He saw them in his mind's eye, divers in
wet-suits, hoisting themselves onto Suzy-catch him when his back was
turned then slip a knife through his ribs.
But
the stupid bastards had picked the wrong man.
With
the Viking blood of his ancestors singing through his veins, the
fisherman swung the oar like a warrior's sword, hacking and chopping
the men off his beloved boat and back
neck.
"Get
off... Get off ... Getoff!"
He
panted and choked as the sea splashed into his mouth. Any second now.
Any
second now Suzy would roll over and he'd be trapped beneath her.
Alone with her and whatever was in the water, unseen, pulling him
down.
He
didn't see it come. But suddenly he felt a blow to his face; followed
instantly by a pain that pierced his right eye.
"Christ!"
The
water churned white. The heavy catch-box rolled over his back and
into the sea.
Why
could he no longer see out of his right eye? He blinked to try to
clear it. Why did it hurt? Why-
He
was still blinking when the second blow came. This time to his left
eye. Again came the piercing pain as if something sharp had been
driven into the eyeball.
Now
the foaming white had gone. There was only a throbbing dark, blotched
with red.
With
a mighty pull, the fisherman freed his hand. With the release the
boat slapped back level onto the water.
And
then it was still-and silent. The ferocious threshing of the ocean
had stopped.
Henry
Blackwood shakily pulled himself up onto the bench seat that ran
across the middle of the boat.
He
lifted his fingers to his face and felt his eyes.
"Blind
... I'm blind, old girl. ..." His voice was a dry whisper. "How
are we going to get home, girl?"
He
sat there for a full three minutes, whispering over and over, "Who's
done this to us, girl? Who's done this to us?"
Then
he felt the boat dip beneath him.
He
tilted his head to one side, listening. A low splash, then the sound
of water dripping on water.
The
boat dipped down.
Someone's
pulling us down ...
No
... No. Someone is climbing into the boat.
He
did not move. He did not speak. He did not show any sign that he had
heard anything at all.
He
just used all his thirty years' experience as a fisherman to sense
what was happening-and where.
At
the prow, someone was pulling themself onto his boat. On to his Suzy.
Slowly
he let his hand fall to his side.
The
oar. His fingers tightened around the timber shaft.
Still
pretending he'd noticed nothing, he waited until the time was right.
Then
in an explosive moment he was on his feet, picking up the heavy oar
and swinging it in a tremendous arc; the oar buzzed through the air.
It
hit something wet. Something not hard nor completely soft. Something
that felt like-
"A
man. A sodding man ... I got him, Suzy." Blackwood heard the
satisfying splash of the man falling back into the water, no doubt
with a mess of broken ribs to nurse on his homeward journey.
It
happened again. The tilting of the boat as another climbed on. The
fisherman swung the oar again, hitting the man. Again the splash.
"If
only I could see the bastards. I'd bust their bleeding skulls."
He panted and swung again. The oar cracked against flesh. And yet
there were no cries of pain even though the blows were hard enough to
snap bones.
"Who
are they, Suzy? Why are they doing this to us?"
Drug
smugglers. That's it, he told himself. Foreign boats were coming in
at night and leaving the drugs in his lobster pots. The next day
divers would swim out from the beach, pick up the drugs, and within
hours they would be en route to poison the kids in the cities.
Well,
they'd cocked up. Blackwood had caught them. He would break their
bodies with his bare hands if he had to. He didn't even feel the pain
from his punctured eyes now-pumped with adrenalin and anger, he was
ready for the fight.
They
were coming fast now. The boat dipped at the stern, then on the bow,
then the port side. He saw them in his mind's eye, divers in
wet-suits, hoisting themselves onto Suzy-catch him when his back was
turned then slip a knife through his ribs.
But
the stupid bastards had picked the wrong man.
With
the Viking blood of his ancestors singing through his veins, the
fisherman swung the oar like a warrior's sword, hacking and chopping
the men off his beloved boat and back
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