Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

One Porter wouldn’t have known about.

There wasn’t enough light to see the ceiling, but it was out of reach. Shuddering from the cold, I cast around the junk floating around me until I saw the broken oar drifting nearby. Its shaft was splintered from when Porter had tried to get through the hatch, but it was still long enough for my purposes. Swimming to the middle of the boathouse, I supported myself with one arm over the canoe and stretched above me with the oar into the shadows. Relying purely on touch, I began dragging its blade back and forth across the rough timbers. There was a bump as I felt it snag on something.

The bolt for the trapdoor into the flat above.

I’d cursed it when I’d stubbed my toe on the ring concealed under the rug, but now it was my only hope of getting out. Praying it wasn’t locked or nailed shut, I tried knocking the bolt back with the oar. But it was too clumsy and I quickly abandoned the attempt. If I was going to unfasten it I’d have to do it by hand. I tried lunging up for the bolt, but the ceiling was still too high. That left the canoe. There was a jagged hole in it larger than my fist which would make it sink if I righted it, so instead I climbed on top of its upturned hull. That didn’t work either: as soon as I put my weight on it water gushed through the hole and the canoe sank under me.

I slid off, letting it bob to the surface again. I looked around, but even if there was anything else among the floating junk I could use, it was too dark inside the boathouse now to see. Come on, there must be something. I’d kept my cumbersome jacket on for the minimal insulation it offered. More importantly, the thick plastic was waterproof.

Kicking to keep my head above water, I struggled out of it. Fumbling with my icy hands, I wadded it up and packed it into the hole in the canoe’s hull. It made a crude plug, but it was the best I could do. Hoping it would hold for long enough, I dragged myself on to the overturned hull. The canoe slipped out from under me. Spitting out saltwater, I tried again. The canoe bucked around, but this time I managed to haul myself on top until I was sitting astride it.

Now the ceiling was only inches above my head. But the canoe was already beginning to sink. Twisting round awkwardly, I groped blindly at the rough underside of the trapdoor until I felt the bolt. Gripping it with bloodless fingers, I tried to prise it back. It was seized shut. The canoe was sinking quickly now, so ignoring the bracket’s sharp metal edges I began yanking on the bolt as hard as I could.

Without warning it shot back, showering my face with flakes of rust. There wasn’t time to feel relieved. Putting both hands on the trapdoor, I pushed. The canoe bobbed lower, but the trapdoor didn’t move. Setting myself, I tried again. This time there was a slight shift. I heaved at it again. The door rose a little higher, allowing me to get an arm through.

As the canoe foundered under me, I hauled myself up and forced my other arm into the narrow gap. Then, legs kicking in space, I heaved my head and shoulders through as well. A heavy weight pressed down across my back. I’d emerged underneath the big rug, which was pinning the trapdoor on top of me. It took all my strength to drag myself the rest of the way in, but at last I pulled my legs up into the flat. Gasping, I lay face down on the floorboards. Pinpricks of light swirled in the darkness as I breathed in the sticky scent of varnish. I wanted nothing more than to lie there, but I forced myself to move. Crawling out from under the heavy rug, I rose unsteadily to my feet. The flat was in darkness. Tottering like an infant, I felt for the light switch, shuddering with cold and trailing water with every step. All my instincts clamoured for me to rush after Porter, but I was no use to anyone like this. If I wasn’t already hypothermic I soon would be. I needed warmth and calories. Fast.

I blinked, dazzled, as the overhead light came on. Porter’s search for the money had left the flat in disarray. Drawers and cupboards had been emptied, their contents strewn about, but he’d inadvertently done me a favour. He’d tipped over the sofa and in doing so had shifted it from the rug. If not for that I doubt I’d have been able to open the trapdoor at all.

My fingers were numb and dead as I tore off my shirt, and I shook uncontrollably as I rubbed myself with a towel from the kitchen. The overnight bag with my spare clothes was in the car boot, but the jacket I’d borrowed from Trask was still in the cupboard. I pulled it on over my bare skin, grateful for the warm lining. I couldn’t do anything about my trousers and boots, but they were going to get wet again anyway. The Tupperware container of dog food cake from Rachel was still on the worktop. Ripping off the lid, I crammed the remaining pieces into my mouth, forcing myself to swallow the rich mix of chocolate and carbohydrates. Then I was out of time. Pausing only long enough to snatch up a kitchen knife from the scattered cutlery, I ran for the door.

Night had fallen outside. The rain had stopped, and patches of clear sky and stars were visible behind streamers of torn cloud. But the wind hadn’t eased, and even before I rounded the boathouse corner I could hear the rushing of the creek. My car was canted down the bank among the wreckage of the steps, more than half-covered by water. The creek had spread far beyond its banks, transforming the marsh and fields into a lake. Only the higher ground around the boathouse remained above the flood, and if the creek carried on rising that would soon be covered too.

I’d worried that the boat would be gone, that Porter might have untied it to strand me here. But it was still there, its pale shape dancing at the end of the mooring rope. Supporting myself against my car, I slithered down the bank and into the water. Cold waves slapped against me as I waded out on the submerged jetty. Taking hold of the dripping rope, I dragged it towards me and clambered in. The knot fastening the line was under water, so I sawed at it with the kitchen knife until it parted with a twang. The boat immediately began to move. I let it carry me along while I crouched by the motor and tried to start it with numb fingers. It fired on the second attempt. Opening the throttle as far as it would go, I huddled down in the boat and sent it roaring up the flooded creek.

But even as I did I knew I’d be too late.

Porter would have reached Creek House by now. I’d spent too long getting out of the boathouse, and he’d have driven the big Daimler as fast as he could on the narrow roads. And I’d no idea what I’d do once I reached the house. Porter was ex-services, and a kitchen knife was no use against a shotgun. As the cold wind chapped my face, I wondered why he hadn’t gone for the stolen Mowbry when he’d had me trapped. Even if I’d managed to make it to the boat before he came back, I’d still have been within range of the shotgun. I felt a flicker of hope that he might no longer have it, that he’d got rid of it after shooting Lundy. But I couldn’t afford to let myself believe that. More likely he’d decided he didn’t need it.

Not when he could drop my own car on me instead.

The moon emerged from behind ragged clouds, silhouetting flooded trees and casting a silver glow as the boat cut across the black waters. If not for the tufts of grasses and reeds sprouting from the waves it would have been impossible to tell where the creek’s banks were. Trying not to think what might be happening at Creek House, I focused on keeping the boat in the deepest part of the channel, away from any floating debris. Then, in the opalescent moonlight, I saw something that put everything else out of my mind.

The flooding had rendered any landmarks and features unrecognizable, but off to one side I could see the long, winding hedgerow that ran beside the road.