Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Farewell time, but not protracted. The kids took the dinghy down to the water; it seemed feather light and rose and fell and slapped the rocks and the weed. Jasha had hold of Gaz. Just a few words from him and they might have heard him and might not, and the business in hand was getting him into the craft. They had no water to give him, and no food. He was in the middle of telling them that they were good people, and the pain had lifted in his chest, and he could barely hear his own voice. The tide pulled away, the tide did the job and the wind caught at the dinghy’s side and propelled it. It was the back-stop.

The girl had not covered herself and shook from the cold. Timofey might have choked on tears. The old hunter gazed down at him ‘Did what I could, could not have done other.’ Gaz saw Timofey point once, back down the inlet and towards the city and then they were scrambling to get clear of the open rock and regain the cover of the undergrowth. He did not need to use his hands as paddles because the elements took him out into the flow and away from the shelter of the headland.

Gaz felt a desperate sense of tiredness. Wanted to sleep and reckoned if he did, could, that the pain would go and the sleep would be deeper.

The tide took the dinghy, and the swell was around him and spray splashed on to him. If it had not been for the water coming over the smooth rubber sides he would have slept. One hand was draped over the side and in the sea, and was intended to act as a rudder, futile because the craft now had a mind of its own. The tide and the wind dictated that it went effortlessly towards the central water of the inlet, and here the current was more headstrong and the wind funnelled up between the two hillsides flanking it. Almost starting to dream. Of warmth. The rain seemed to have slackened but not the gusts, and he made good speed… and he was thrown from one side of the dinghy to the other. Water cascaded over him, was in his wound and in his face and down his throat and stung his eyes. The dinghy shook and he gripped the fine rope looped around the inside of the tiny craft. He was close to capsizing and the rain came in torrents, and his movements must have further opened the wound and damaged the interior cavity. If he went under he would not regain the surface, knew it. A great dark shape was passing him, a ship surging on down the inlet and towards the sea. Later he would see the lights of the bridge, then would be flung about again as the screws churned the water.

He felt that the fight had left him.

Would drift and would wait for sleep to claim him.

Did not know his name, nor where he was, nor why. And the tide raced faster and the wind flicked the waves and the swell was fiercer.

He had no sense of time. He wore a watch but it was on the arm that trailed in the water; his hand was frozen numb and he could no longer move it. Not that the time mattered, other than that it was a fraction lighter on the far horizon. The cloud blanket was still capping the hill line on the east side of the inlet, but he reckoned it softer. Could have slept… The rain had stopped, but not the wind.

Gusts caught at the inflated sides. The dinghy was pushed forward and spun as it went. Gaz’s head lolled and sometimes he was facing out to sea and saw the cloud and the horizon merging, and sometimes he was facing the west’s hills that bordered the inlet, or the east’s, and there were moments when he faced where he had come from and could see distant pricks of light. There were navigation beacons on rocks close to the shore, and buoys flashed intermittently, but he did not know their pattern or their importance.

A cargo ship had passed him and he had smelled the wet coal loaded in the hold, but it had not seen him, had gone past at speed and he had again been shaken by the waves it created. He might have slid overboard but had, again, a sufficient grip on the rope, and that further tired him. The combination of tide and wind moved him but he had no destination, only the fading hope that he might clear the inlet, be carried towards the west, might leave Russian territorial waters, might be picked up if he were seen, if he lived. Spray climbed the sides and washed across him.

With his free hand he made a little cup of his palm and scooped out minuscule quantities of the water that now settled at the bottom of the dinghy. His buttocks were in water, and his boots, and the part of his back from which the bullet had exited. There was no cup, tin mug, bowl or plastic water bottle which would have helped his feeble efforts to bale. And the water, deep enough to lap against his body, further chilled him. Gaz supposed there would be a time when exhaustion married a loss of hope and then the best answer was sleep. A long sleep and a dream of warmth and of the sun, and of a girl and love.

A light caught him.

Bright and firm, locking on him. Then was gone. The dinghy rode a wave, sank into the following pit, shipped more water, then surged up again and the light caught him a second time. Eyes wide open now. He waited for a shout, yelled commands in a language that he did not understand, but the light lost him. He was aware of rocks and they obscured the light. He drifted on. The dinghy collided with the shore. A rock was towering above him and he was against it and there were weed and barnacles, and the waves beat against it. The craft smacked into the rock, rode it, then dropped and wallowed in a swell, and came again. Gaz fought to trigger the little coherence left to him. Realised… the light would have guided fishermen working close to the shore, simple. Men who used little boats would have relied on the light, and he realised he was now wedged.

Big moment. The failure of the back-stop. The light caught him, dropped him. He was between two rocks and the waves beat against him. How would it end? A good chance that he would be pitched off the dinghy and dumped into the water and the first wave would hurl him against the rock face. Would be a quick finish… Tried to look for the girl’s face. He used a leg. Managed to find the strength because he had the image of her, and the wind tore her hair, a small sad laugh, and… he stamped and pushed and the dinghy was freed, went in a tight circle, then bounced him against the far edge of the rock and he lingered there for tantalising seconds, then the dinghy moved and the current held it and the wind caught the sides. He moved on, and looked back, and saw a big shadow on the shore. It moved with a rolling, uneven gait as if it were disabled. The light on the rock swerved again and held it for a moment, then disappeared and found Gaz and left him and shone out across the open water. When the beam completed its circle and again lit that part of the shore above the rock, close to low twisted trees, the bear was gone. Gaz rubbed at his eyes. A delusion? An hallucination? Something that he had seen or imagined, or dreamed of? Where it had moved, and where the light had made bright diamonds of its eyes, was deserted.

Two more ships passed him. One was a fishing boat and the other was a freighter, and they were far out in the inlet channel and he was tossed some more by the waves they threw at him. More spray came in and his efforts to ladle out the water failed to match what splashed in. He thought the cold was worse. He had a question in his mind. Wanted it asked and needed it answered.

‘What I did, had it any value?’

Not a big voice, he hardly heard it. Waited for the reply but in his ears were only the swirl of the waves and the singing of the wind, and carried to him across the white caps were the diminishing sounds of the engines of the trawler and the freighter.

‘What I did, will it make a difference?’

He listened. The grey cloud still blanketed him and a mist had formed. Harder to see ahead and the current was still strong and the wind was prodding him towards the open sea. Listened for Knacker and his smooth talk, and for Alice and Fee who would be encouraging and talk about assessments still being made but the picture, on the whole, being good. Listened for the words from Timofey and Natacha that would lift him, and those of the hunter who had carried him to the back-stop opportunity. Listened for what the officer would tell him, and wondered where he was, what he did, whether the reading of him had been true or was merely wishful thinking. Heard nothing.