Mike Shevdon - The Road to Bedlam

We went back to the front.

"We need more people." I pointed to the row of windows facing out over the harbour. "We need to be in these shops. Every one of them has an upstairs. The police can go house to house. Two of us simply isn't enough."

A gull call came again, and I pressed the cold of the glass to my cheek. There was almost no difference. I could hear the muted call coming through, but it was muffled, as if it were under blankets or filtered through something.

"Here. Somewhere here."

I threw my arm out and turned slowly, looking for some sign, some indication of where she was.

Greg stared about, his eyes feverish. "The light's going. The sun's already down. We lose the light and we'll lose her."

"Look for a light in the windows. There might be one that's occupied."

We scanned the front, looking for signs of occupation. In the upstairs room of a junk shop a single bulb hung bare behind the glass. I rushed to the door, repeatedly pushing the bell-button and rattling the door until a shadow appeared and pulled the door ajar.

I shoved my way inside, followed by Greg. The bell rattled maniacally on its spring. A bearded man, piggy eyes behind round glasses, looked confused at Greg and offended at me. I barely broke pace, pushing through to the back of the shop. Greg stayed with him.

"Dave? What's upstairs?"

He made to follow, but Greg's giant hand landed on his shoulder and held him back.

"Upstairs – what's up there?"

"My stockroom…"

I took the stairs upwards two at a time and burst into the room.

The single bulb presided over stacks of old rubbish in an array that made the Maritime Museum look tidy. I snatched an old blanket from a pile in the corner to find only a badly stuffed armchair, piled with broken toys. It was just rubbish.

A sound rumbled through the mirror, an engine, gravel-ground and diesel-driven. It had started up. I barrelled back down the stairs, heading for the street.

"Wrong idea. A truck. I can hear the diesel. It's just started. He's moving. We've got minutes at most."

Greg piled out of the shop behind me and we scanned the road. I raced down the front. A white van was manoeuvring back and forth in a parking space. I raced for it and went for the back. It reversed towards me then stuttered to a halt.

A big guy, blue-dyed tattoos down his arms, jumped out.

"What'ya think you're doing? I nearly ran into you, idiot!"

I yanked at the back doors of the van. They were locked.

"Open this. Open it now!"

"There's nothing in there. I'm picking up, not dropping off."

Greg appeared at my shoulder. "Do what he said."

I don't know whether it was the dog-collar or the set of Greg's shoulders, but the big guy fiddled with his keys and inserted it into the lock. He yanked the doors wide.

"See?"

The van was bare. I stepped back, scanning the line of traffic. We needed more time. It could be any one of them. I held the mirror up to my ear. Big truck, little truck, van, car?

The noise was much louder in the mirror, a dull thrumming that reverberated through the glass. A constant rumble that you felt rather than heard. I stepped back, turning slowly through a full circle, trying to hear a sound that matched that deep growl. I found myself facing out.

Across the road, on the far side of the harbour, one of the boats was moving. A couple of men walked up and down the sides of the boat as they disentangled it from the ones around it, slipping tethers and untying mooring ropes. I watched it in fascination. The boat pulled around and skewed sideways, drifting into the one next to it. From the mirror there was a deep thunk as they gently collided.

I started walking towards the harbour, Greg following me, eyes on the traffic, not seeing the boat.

"Can you hear it? Is she still there?" he asked.

I concentrated on the boat. Lights came on, white, red and green. A spout of diesel smoke erupted from the rear with an answering roar from the engine in the mirror. I quickened into a trot, following the line of the harbour wall where it circled around.

Greg shouted behind me. "Is she there?'

The boat rumbled loudly and pulled back into clear water. It drifted out into the centre of the harbour, turning slowly. I could see lights on in the cabin and men scurrying around on the deck. I could hear the engine idling again, not across the harbour, but through the glass of the mirror. I tucked the mirror under my arm, moving into a run, wrapping concealment around me so they wouldn't see me racing around the harbour wall, tracking the boat.

Three men, all fishermen, one in the cabin steering, the other two on the deck. The engine grumbled and the water foamed behind it. The boat pushed forward, heading for the harbour entrance.

A moment for decision. If I was wrong – if it wasn't that boat – then I would lose her. If she was on shore I would lose her. I dropped the mirror; it bounced once, twice behind me, then smashed as I ran on around the curve of the harbour wall. Seven years' bad luck. I'd better be right.

The boat pulled around and headed towards the harbour mouth. I increased my pace, wrenching open the well of power within me, intensifying the concealment and misdirection. I wanted to be invisible. The boat turned into the opening, heading for open water. I raced for the end of the harbour wall, timing my run.

The boat accelerated and the well within me dilated, flooding my muscles with power. My body sang with it and I sped forward, heading for the end of the sea wall. As the boat crossed into open water, I leapt up off the harbour wall, sailing out into space, my legs still pumping, the boat coming up fast beneath me so that I landed with a whump!, crashing on to the cabin roof, rolling forward, carried by my own momentum. I tipped over the side, momentarily airborne again. Thump! I hit the side of the boat as it rose on the swell, grabbed the rope mesh draped over the side, my body hanging over so that my feet dangled in the frothing water.

"What were that!" a voice called out of the cabin.

"What were what?"

The answering voice came towards me and I tightened my grip on the mesh and deepened the concealment that hid me.

"That thump. Sounded like we hit something."

There was a pause. "Driftwood maybe? Somethin' in t' water, most like."

"Any damage?"

A figure passed by above me and headed for the bow. While they were busy, I hauled myself up on to the rail. The boat started oscillating as it met the swell from the open sea. It ducked and tipped, the bow sending up a shot of spray into the last light of the day. My lips tasted salt where I licked them and my jacket clung to me. I hauled myself over the rail and limped towards the stern, still wrapped in concealing power. My side hurt where I had hit the rail and the nerves on my left side still jangled from the impact.

Now that I was aboard I could see that this was more of a work-boat than a trawler. It didn't have the spars and the drapery of nets ready to haul over and drag through the sea on the end of booms, but rather piles of wire pots and smaller nets that could be cast overboard by hand. It still had the tall prow and deep stern of a deep-water boat, and there was a small nest of radio aerials rising from a mounting bar above the cabin. It would be seaworthy for days at a time, and as I watched the harbour dimming behind me, I wondered how far they planned to go.

The wind was cold now, chilling the water that had soaked into my trousers and sleeves, and I pressed my hand to my side. I didn't think I'd broken anything but I would have bruises to match anything I'd acquired in training. The three men gathered ahead of me under the electric lights in the cabin. The occasional red-point glow of a cigarette glowed through the dirty glass. They ignored me, intent on the water ahead, but even so I kept my concealment close.