Desmond Bagley - The Tightrope Men

Harding wandered off into the storeroom and Denison resumed his study of the map of Sompio. From time to time he heard scrapings and bangings as Harding moved boxes about. Diana was on watch at a window and she and Lyn conversed in low tones.

After a couple of hours Harding came back looking rumpled and dishevelled. In his hand he carried what Denison took to be a gallon paint can. ‘I’ve found it.’

‘Found what?’

Harding put the can on the table. ‘The powder.’ He prised the lid off the can. ‘Look.’

Denison inspected the grainy black powder. ‘So what?’

‘So we can shoot the punt gun. I’ve found some shot, too.’

McCready’s eyes flickered open and he sat up. ‘What gun?’

‘The punt gun I was telling you about. You didn’t seem interested in it at the time.’

‘That was when we had guns of our own,’ said McCready. ‘What is it? A shotgun?’

‘You could call it that,’ said Harding, and Denison smiled.

‘I think I’d better look at it,’ said McCready, and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. ‘Where is it?’

‘I’ll show you.’ Harding and McCready went out, and Denison folded the map and went to the window. He looked out at the unchanging scene and sighed.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Diana; ‘Bored?’

‘I was wondering if our friends are still around.’

‘The only way to find out is to stick your head outside.’

‘I know,’ said Denison. ‘One of us will have to do it sooner or later. I think I’ll have a crack at it. It’s three hours since McCready tried.’

‘No,’ said Lyn. The word seemed to be torn out of her involuntarily. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘Leave that to the... the professionals.’

Diana smiled. ‘Meaning me? I’m willing.’

‘Let’s not argue about it,’ said Denison peaceably. ‘We’re all in this together. Anyway, it’s a sure cure for boredom. Keep your eye on those reeds, Diana.’

‘All right,’ she said as he walked to the door. Lyn looked at him dumbly.

He swung open the door slowly and waited a full minute before going outside, and when he did so his hands were above his head. He waited, immobile, for another minute and, when nothing happened, he took another step forward. Diana shouted and simultaneously he saw a movement in the reeds on the edge of the marsh. The flat report of the rifle shot coincided with a clatter of stones six feet in front of him and there was a shrill spaaang as the bullent ricocheted over his head.

He waved both his hands, keeping them over his head, and cautiously backed into the hut. He was closing the door when McCready came back at a dead run. ‘What happened?’

‘Just testing the temperature.’ said Denison. ‘Somebody has to do it.’

‘Don’t do it when I’m not here.’ McCready went to the window. ‘So they’re still there.’

Denison smiled at Lyn. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he assured her. ‘They’re just keeping us in a pen.’ She turned away and said nothing. Denison looked at McCready. ‘What do you think of Harding’s gun?’

‘He doesn’t think much of it,’ said Harding.

‘For God’s sake!’ said McCready. ‘It’s not a shotgun — it’s a light artillery piece. Even if you could lift it — which you can’t — you couldn’t shoot it. The recoil would break your shoulder. It’s bloody useless.’

‘It’s not meant for waving about,’ said Harding. ‘It’s designed for use on the punt, like a 16-inch gun on a battleship. You don’t find many of those on land because of the difficulty of absorbing the recoil — but you can put half a dozen on a ship because the recoil is absorbed by the water.’

‘Just my point,’ said McCready. ‘It’s as useless as a 16-inch gun would be if we had one. The powder is something else; maybe we can do something with that.’

‘Like making hand grenades?’ queried Denison sardonically. ‘What do you want to do? Start a war?’

‘We have to find a way of leaving here.’

‘We’ll leave when the Czechs let us,’ said Denison. ‘And nobody will get hurt. They’ve fallen for your fake treasure map, so what’s the hurry now?’ There was a cutting edge to his voice. ‘Any fighting you do now will be for fighting’s sake, and that’s just plain stupid.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ said McCready, but there was an undercurrent of exasperation in his voice. ‘Your watch, Harding; then Denison and then me.’

‘You don’t mind if I mess about with the gun while I keep watch?’ asked Harding. ‘It’s of personal interest,’ he added apologetically. ‘I am a wildfowler.’

‘Just don’t cause any sudden bangs,’ said McCready. ‘I don’t think my heart could stand it. And no one goes outside that door except on my say-so.’

Denison stretched his arms. ‘I think I’ll try to sleep for a while. Wake me when it’s my watch.’ He lay on his side on the bunk and for a while regarded Harding who had struggled in with the punt gun. He had some paper and appeared to be making small paper bags.

Denison’s eyelids drooped and presently he slept.

He was awakened by Harding shaking his shoulder. ‘Wake up, Giles; your watch.’

Denison yawned. ‘Anything happening?’

‘Not a thing to be seen.’

Denison got up and went to the window. Harding said, ‘I think I’ve figured out the gun. I’ve even made up some cartridges. I wish I could try it.’ There was a wistful note in his voice.

Denison looked about the room. The others were asleep which was not surprising because it was midnight. ‘You’d better rest. When we move we’ll probably move quickly.’

Harding lay on his bunk and Denison inspected the view from the window. The sun shone in his eyes, just dipping over the horizon far over the marsh; that was the lowest it would set and from then on it would be rising. He shaded his eyes. The sun seemed to be slightly veiled as though there was a thickening in the air over the marsh, the slightest of hazes. Probably a forest fire somewhere, he thought, and turned to the table to find the results of Harding’s handiwork.

Harding had made up six cartridges, crude cylindrical paper bags tied at the top with cotton thread. Denison picked one up and could feel the small shot through the paper. The cartridges were very heavy; he bounced one in his hand and thought its weight was not far short of two pounds. A pity Harding could not get his wish but, as McCready had pointed out, firing the gun was impossible.

He bent down and picked up the punt gun, straining his back and staggering under the weight. He cradled it in his arms and attempted to bring the butt to his shoulder. The muzzle swung erratically in a wild arc. It was impossible to aim and the recoil as two pounds of shot left the barrel would flatten the man who fired it. He shook his head and laid it down.

An hour later the view from the window was quite different. The sunshine had gone to be replaced by a diffuse light and the haze over the marsh had thickened into a light mist. He could still see the boathouse where the punt lay, and the reeds at the marsh edge, but farther out the light was gone from the water and beyond that was a pearly greyness.

He woke McCready. ‘Come and look at this.’ McCready looked at the mist thoughtfully, and Denison said, ‘It’s been thickening steadily. If it keeps to the same schedule visibility will be down to ten yards in another hour.’

‘You think we ought to make a break?’

‘I think we ought to get ready,’ said Denison carefully. ‘And I think we ought to find out if our friends are still there before the mist gets any thicker.’

‘We meaning me,’ said McCready sourly.

Denison grinned. ‘It’s your turn — unless you think Harding ought to have a go. Or Diana.’