Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

By now there was no sign of the other scooter. Back in the sodium light of the road he stopped again, visualizing the streets, putting himself in the other rider’s shoes. He rode off, sprinted along for a bit, then circled a roundabout, still thinking. He’d only get one shot at it … Then he knew: they’d be running north on Clanage Road then sneak back on the cycle path along the river. It was what he would do. He opened the throttle and dialled through the gears in pursuit. Traffic was light. Easily overtaking several cars he quickly reached the access point for the cycle path, a narrow stone bridge across the railway cutting.

Like magic their solitary rear light came into view after only a few moments on the cycle path. ‘Shouldn’t have stopped to chat, boys.’ They were running fast from the sound of the pursuing bike. Despite his efforts he lost direct sight of his quarry several times, such was the speed at which the fleeing rider negotiated the turns of the narrow path. Surely the guy had to crash out any second now even without his help? Should he let him go, return to the crashed riders and make sure of those two? He slowed down. Call an ambulance? They might need one. At least he hoped they needed one.

What was he thinking? They could use a bloody mobile and call their own. He speeded up again. Here the cycle path skirted the river which was at high tide and swollen from weeks of relentless rain. There was no exit until the harbour basin, they didn’t stand a chance, he would soon catch up, just had to concentrate now. Vegetation to the right, the river close to the left, Sorbie knew at these speeds there was little margin for error. He put a spurt on, getting flayed by the vegetation crowding the path. He nearly had them now, bouncing along at panic speeds. Sorbie opened the throttle further. Each time the fleeing rider looked over his shoulder to measure the ever-closing distance to his pursuer the scooter weaved dangerously on the narrow path. Nearby streetlights now illuminated parts of it and the dark, muddy waters of the turgid river. He closed the gap. Twenty … ten … five yards, this was it, he had them now. Sorbie got ready, his foot itching to deliver the kick that would destabilize the scooter. The pillion turned round, his face invisible behind the visor, but his panic obvious as he slapped the rider’s shoulder. The rider looked back and in doing so swerved right. Trying to straighten up he overcompensated and ran out of road. As the scooter carried rider and pillion over the water’s edge at over 40 mph each assumed a separate trajectory. The scooter buried itself in the black waters with a crash and hiss, followed by the rider’s somersault. The pillion hit the surface in a helpless tangle.

Sorbie braked hard then looked back. In the gloom he could see very little on the water. He turned and directed his beam at the crash site. The scooter had disappeared. One helmeted shape frantically splashed and thrashed about, shouting something. Sorbie turned off his engine but kept the lights on.

‘I can’t swim! Help! I can’t … fucking … swim!’

There was no sign of the second mugger. The helmet dipped under water, arms thrashed, a wordless scream. Even a proficient swimmer might have trouble swimming after a crash, clothes and boots heavy with water and wearing a helmet, probably injured. The figure bobbed up again, coughing, screeching. ‘Help me!’

Still no sign of the other one. And all that was holding this one up was probably the expanded foam in his helmet. Sorbie swung the handlebar to direct the light here and there but nothing was visible on the surface apart from bits of plastic debris from the scooter and the thrashing figure of the drowning man. He had sounded like a teenager. Now he was just gurgling and retching. Sorbie looked about him. Just when you needed some rubbish to throw in the water for the bastard to hold on to there was none around. He took off his helmet. ‘Ah shit.’ The black, oily water didn’t look inviting. ‘Tell me it’s nice and warm in there, you bastard.’ Quickly he shrugged off his jacket and grappled with the zips of his boots. He dropped them disconsolately just as the mugger’s helmet disappeared under the surface. ‘Oh shit. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.’ DS Sorbie jumped feet first towards the empty spot where the man had slid under.

Eleni . Gary loved the name. It suited her. A simple name, old-fashioned, unpretentious, yet classy. He was glad the new owners hadn’t insisted on renaming her. Not only would he have considered it bad luck for a boat to be renamed but a modern name would not have fitted a classic motor yacht like the Eleni . Laid down in 1915, completed in 1920, she was a gentleman’s yacht and every one of her seventy-three feet and seven inches a lady. Loved, abused and neglected in turn, she had been at home in the Adriatic, had languished in a lonely berth in the thirties, had seen action in WWII on harbour defence patrol and had survived a near miss off Dunkirk. Gary tapped the soft soles of his shoes on the wooden deck. Beautiful women had sunbathed here under tropical skies, soldiers had huddled here after having been picked off the beaches. Both tanning lotion and history had soaked into these planks and would stay sealed inside them now for as long as she stayed afloat, no matter who walked on them. He would miss her, missed her already. The refurbishment had taken six months and he had worked on her almost from the beginning.

In the light of the setting sun the Eleni inspired nostalgic dreams. Here, moored at the very end of the harbour basin, surrounded by nothing but boat sheds and the gutted hulls of barges and houseboats waiting for a second chance for a useful life, it was easy to forget which century you lived in. You could lean back against the woodwork and dream.

Almost as soon as the press had finished scribbling notes and taking pictures of smiling people holding aloft glasses of champagne everyone had packed up and left. Gary was not important enough to have been invited along to the celebration dinner, only the project leader, engineer, vendor and new owners went. He himself, along with Dave the mechanic and Sharon the general dogsbody, had been given money to celebrate in the pub. But he’d declined and Dave and Sharon had left without him. All day sadness had crept up on him, and more than sadness. Not far below it nagged an irrational anger as though the yacht had been stolen from him. Sold into slavery. Like a beautiful woman the Eleni could inspire jealousy as well as love.

The fact they had chosen to celebrate in a restaurant rather than here, probably for fear someone might spill champagne on the polished fittings, simply added to his resentment. If they felt any real connection to her they’d have celebrated on board, started up her two Gardner engines and taken her out to sea, where she belonged. But the new owners were not really interested in her, she was a business tool now, to be used for corporate hospitality around Majorca. He wasn’t likely to see her again let alone be allowed on board. In the end he had chosen to remain behind and say a quiet, undisturbed farewell.

What he really wanted to do was to cast off and take her back in time all the way to the Indian Ocean of the nineteen-twenties and — thirties, to Ceylon and on to the islands off Siam. He ran his fingers over the cool, polished teak of the wheelhouse. He’d had a hand in restoring it, as in most other things wooden on the yacht: her steamed oak beams, rock elm timbers and teak deck. He wouldn’t really call himself a shipwright yet, though he had when he applied for the job. He’d lied a fair bit but got away with it and learnt on the job. Now that the project was finished there was no more work here for a while. Perhaps he would move to Cornwall or up north, he hadn’t decided yet. There was still boat building going on in Scotland, he knew.