Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

When Diane got outside the cell she leant against the wall, took a hankie out of her sleeve and wiped away the tears that she had controlled in the room. She blew her nose, pushed the hankie into her sleeve and got out her ‘sat phone’.

“It’s Diane. Run the word ‘Priory’ through the computers and compile a list of places. It may be nothing, but there’s not much to go on… yes she did…silly little mare… she’ll be fine… daddy’s on the way to make it all better for her.”

Torquay Harbour

5 a.m.

April 19th

Torquay was an open harbour, walls around, but no blocks to entry. Stanton was nearly out of fuel when he entered the seaward gap. It was dark and the sun wasn’t due to rise for at least an hour. He turned on the light on the top of the boat and steered his way into an empty berth. There were three empty berths near the sea wall. There was a heavy bump as the prow of the boat hit the wooden jetty. Stanton had cut the engine when he’d steered it in, so there was no reverse power to hold off hitting the woodwork. He switched off the light, ran to the back of the boat, grabbed a line and tied her up.

Stanton stood quietly on deck looking and listening. The harbour was quiet. Some distance away there was an inner harbour with smaller boats. There was a little traffic on the road, lone car lights, the street lamps polluted the pre dawn dark, aside from that there was nothing.

Back in the cabin, aware of time as he was Stanton took a break to eat and drink. A pack of digestive biscuits from a cupboard and a large mug of tea helped him feel stronger.

Refreshed he gathered some useful tools in a bag and walked the jetties looking at berths. There were plenty of yachts and most had engines. He couldn’t really sail a yacht, not alone. There were very few cruisers. There were five sprigs of floating walk ways and along the third he found what he was looking for. There was a clean looking Fairline Phantom 38 three berths in from the walkway.

Stanton climbed aboard and broke through the back door using a crow bar. Glass shattered as he levered the door open, he was acutely aware of the noise as it echoed off the water. The harbour seemed unwatched and no alarm went off when he broke in. He was twenty minutes getting to the wires behind the control panel. He found the starter wires and fired up the engine, it started first time. He went to the back, cast off and as the boat began to drift he gave it power and steered his way carefully around the sprigs of jetties and into the open sea. He checked the electronic panel, fuel tanks were full. It was a nice little boat, lounge, berths, kitchen, very plush, but unlike the Nelson Landguard 33 there was no ‘autopilot control system’, he’d have to steer it all the way.

To that end he motored around the bay, checked the depth sounder and anchored just off Oddicombe beach, just under the Babbacombe cliffs. He took of the aft cabin doors and threw them over the side, putting the back covering up. He cleaned up the glass and checked the boat over. He found no clothes left there except for a blue Berghaus coat with a hood and a woolly hat.

It was lovely really, a real floating home. He found the paperwork for it in cabin storage, the berth ticket for Torquay and owner’s papers. Not for the first time he blessed the complacent laziness of the average human being. They hadn’t thought that anything would happen to them. In his line of work you spent everyday assuming that bad things were going to happen and watching out for them. The alarm system hadn’t even been switched on. At last clear that he could pass muster with a harbour master at Dover, as he knew he’d be arriving in daylight, the Torquay ticket showing he hadn’t come from abroad, he could cruise in, tie up and wait until nightfall to get out and head for the Thames estuary.

It was getting on for six am and there was a pale light in the sky to the East. He hauled anchor and pointed the boat out of the bay and into the channel. The Fairline could do 30 knots and Stanton pushed it as hard as he could, knowing channel traffic would slow him around the Dover area.

Dover

6 a.m.

April 19th

The darkness surrounded him, there were screams and cries, lights flashed showing images of shadow figures pointing guns, the muzzle blast was bright orange and in the light women children and men were shot, then the light flash ended, darkness taking the bleeding victims away as the shadow gun men faded away too. David ran to the flashes of light to help the people who’d been shot; he was fearful of the shadows with guns, terrified that the light would shine on him and he’d be shot. He struggled to pull his own gun from the folds of his coat and light after light came on and more and more people were shot by the shadow men. He rushed from place to place to help, trying hard to fight. Finally he got his gun out and the light shone on him. He spun in a circle sweating and in a light further away Beaumont stood, called to him and was shot. David ran towards him suddenly reaching the end of a railway platform. David pointed the gun into the dark beyond and a figure marched out pointing a rifle, David fired just as the shadow figure emerged into the light and David saw that it was his father falling to the ground and the view changed to one of himself as one of the shadow men looking into the pool of light at his father’s bloodied face…

“Father!” David shouted as he woke, hands tangled in the duvet and soaked in sweat from head to toe. David breathed as if out of breath. He started as Mary’s hand touched him on the back.

“Bad dream Davey?”

“Aye.”

“Get up and write it down straight away then you can get me a nice cup of tea.”

David went downstairs found a piece of paper and wrote the dream down, he heard the toilet flush and Mary appeared, heavy and round in her pregnancy, the belt of her dressing gown under the bump like a fat man’s belt under a gut, the dressing gown didn’t quite cover her.

“Not long now Mary McKie eh?”

“No I’ll be glad when she comes out.”

“Sit down I’ll get you some tea.”

Mary watched him leave the room. He was tall, broad shouldered and his biceps stretched the edge of the T-shirt of his ‘pyjamas’, his legs in the shorts showed defined calves. She wondered that such a formidable man, strong and intelligent should struggle with his emotions. She knew he’d been troubled by the lorry of immigrant bodies he’d told her he’d found one time in customs work. She knew though that most of his life he’d feared little. When Connor was born David had been there strong and assertive, but when the baby came out he’d cried, with joy of course. It touched her that such a man was attached to her. She was unsure though of the path his life was taking and feared that his ‘secret’ life would drive a wedge between them. David came back with two mugs of tea.

“Conor still asleep.”

“Yes.”

“What was your dream?”

David told her.

“That’s very Freudian I’d say, killing your own father. Didn’t Oedipus do that by accident?”

“Yes. What do you think it means?”

“Something to do with control I’d say. Maybe you feel that things have got out of control, you know, the parent, the controller being killed, safety gone, feeling unsafe?”

David grabbed her hand and kissed it.

“My word you’re a clever lass aren’t you. Maybe you should counsel me eh?”

“I’d like that. I don’t want to be on the outside.”

“I don’t want that either. We’ve always been close.”

She squeezed his hand.

“What happened at the bus station?” She asked.

“I’m not supposed to talk about what I do.”