ROUGH SEA JUSTICE
by
James Cassaday
Smashwords Edition
Published By:
James Cassaday on Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by James Cassaday
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ROUGH SEA JUSTICE
FOREWORD
All of us have experienced feelings of frustration, even anger, when Law Courts find the victims of robbery or assault to be guilty of using excessive force in defending themselves or their property. Now read one fictional, but possible case featured in Rough Sea Justice and smile (at times) as the author introduces a dash or two of humour to smooth over the trials and tribulations of one victim who gets the balance of resistance allowed by law, quite wrong.
To make matters worse, he goes on the run, sailing his yacht, Zephyr, and tries to hide from his pursuers in the waters surrounding the beautiful Hebridean Islands – but literally he ends up in deep water.
The tone of the book is upbeat throughout, and it might serve as a warning to ‘have a go heroes’. In any event the readers, including landlubbers, will surely enjoy the cruise.
THE AUTHOR
Born in 1934, the author had a narrow escape from an early death during World War II when a German bomb intended for Portsmouth dockyard destroyed his family home in nearby Gosport. James has long felt that this influenced him more than the bomb-aimer had intended, for his subsequent choice of career after leaving school had a strong leaning towards protecting life and properly. After a brief spell as a boy seaman in the Merchant Navy, he enlisted in the Royal Air Force and became a coxswain in the Marine Craft Section, the peacetime equivalent of Air Sea Rescue. This was followed by his main career in the Fire Service that spread itself over thirty-five years and gained him The Liverpool Shipwreck and Humane Society Award for saving life; and the award of the Queen’s Fire Service Medal for distinguished service.
James retired holding the rank of Chief Fire Officer. He lives close to the south coast of Guernsey, where an earlier love of sailing has now largely given way to writing, and gardening. But the sea is always in view, and it reflects in his writing.
ROUGH SEA JUSTICE
CHAPTER ONE
When George Fenwick rang me from Liverpool that day in late September I almost put him off; with the greatest respect to George, I now wish that I had. I was feeling low at the time, about as low as you can get when death takes the one you most love in the world. When you wake up to the fact that she’s gone forever, realise that all of your friends were really her friends and that after repeated attempts to draw you out of your shell they have just about given up on you. My shell was built around my garden, in Guernsey, where I had retreated in an effort to occupy my mind in work following the untimely death of my wife, Janet. It hadn’t worked for long. The place was full of memories of Janet, the roses had taken to wearing her favourite perfume, the wave of her hand was in every swaying bush; and worst of all, I started hearing her call my name. Each heart-stopping moment was followed by instant disappointment as I identified a bird call, or a snatch of conversation from the lane outside. I desperately needed help at the time but was in no mood to recognise it.
As it happened, George was not easily put off. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but he and I go back a long way, 1953 to be precise, when we both arrived in Gibraltar at the start of a two-year posting when serving in the Royal Air Force. Sharing the same billet, and the same rock, we came to know one another quite well, warts and all. He breezed over my feeble attempts to dissuade him and arrived four days later.
To be honest, I didn’t think he looked very well as I met him off the evening plane, but I wasn’t allowed time to dwell upon it.
“You look bloody awful!” He put his case down to take a good look at me as he spoke.
“I’ll explain it later. We’re eating out tonight, and you’re paying,” I said defensively.
“Just like old times,” he said, giving me the usual bear hug. “And how is Janet?”
“I’ll tell you later. The table is booked and we ought to go right away. You can unpack later.” I could tell from his expression that my second evasion had thrown him. He knew that if things were normal Janet would have been with us.
We had nothing to say to each other as I loaded his case and drove out along the road towards St Peter Port, so I was left to fill the minutes with the thought that George was one of the people I had failed to notify when Janet died - and George had really liked her.
“Have you still got that boat of yours?” he asked suddenly. I responded with a swerve of the car that brought a hoot of protest from a passing motorist. George hardly ever mentioned my yacht, Zephyr, so I knew that the question was really not the one he wanted to ask. Obviously he had sensed that something had happened to Janet.
“Janet died last September. It was cancer. She never knew what hit her. It was all so quick.” The statements came out like single bullets from a rifle, for I still couldn’t trust myself to manage a long sentence when speaking of her death.
I shot a glance at George. He sat rigid in his seat beside me and he seemed to be holding his breath. I wanted to say something to resuscitate him, but it didn’t seem the right moment to apologise for not writing to tell him. To the relief of us both, as I turned the car at the top of the hill that led down into the town, George came back to life with a long sigh.
“I was hoping you were going to tell me she had left you.” He half turned and gave me a forced grin that could well have been a grimace of pain.
“Yes, I would willingly have settled for that,” I heard myself say amidst an inner howl of grief - protest that tortured me whenever Janet’s death was mentioned.
After that we forced the conversation to get lighter. I even found myself laughing for the first time in months, and it was a pretty good feeling. George is not much of a yachtsman himself, but for some reason he kept steering the conversation towards the sea. My yacht, Zephyr, came back into the frame and he reminded me that I had once held an ambition to sail her down to the Mediterranean. That was before I had met and married Janet at the time of my retirement; a second marriage for both of us, when all thoughts of sailing south went out of the window. At that point in the conversation I realised that my ambition had not quite gone away for I found myself rattling on about the advantages of living on board a yacht. I didn’t get it all my own way. George was kind enough to point out some of the privations, particularly in the kitchen and the bathroom - as he put it.
“I prefer something closer to 20,000 tons with a decent crew, mainly stewards,” he remarked with a nice touch of that Liverpool humour he was born with.
From then on we set about filling in the gap since our last meeting. It had been almost two years and a lot had happened during that time. George led most of the conversation and I was happy to let him as I wasn’t yet ready to relate in detail Janet’s illness and subsequent death. True to form, George never flagged, but underneath all the bonhomie I sensed that he had changed. I couldn’t put my finger on it; something in his appearance, the look in his eyes, in a sense at the back of his eyes - some of the fire had gone out. At the time I put it down to the fact that he had lost a bit of weight and commented on that. He replied by teasing me about my own weight, which had increased over the years, so I didn’t pursue it; after all we were getting on a bit in years and change was to be expected.
Later, at home in front of a revived fire and with the whisky bottle between us, we talked long into the night. Janet came into it frequently, as though she were in and out of the kitchen as she always was when we were entertaining. I was now able to tell George more about her courage in coping with the pain and the heartbreak, including mine, which came with the cancer.
“It’s a matter of dignity, the only rock to cling to,” he interposed at one stage. I didn’t quite understand why he should know that at the time.
The weather went sour on us the next day and we were housebound. It was a shame, because I wanted us to get out along the south coast cliff-top walks. The southwesterly gale that was blowing would have been fine with us, an added attraction to see the effect on the sea when safe on the land, but the rain that came with it was incessant. So I kept a good fire burning and bought in extra newspapers while we settled to make the best of it. The papers that day were full of yet another case of the victim of crime facing prosecution by the police, for not showing sufficient restraint in protecting himself and his property from a burglar. Living in a comparatively crime-free island I tend to quickly turn the page on such nonsense, thankful that it only happens elsewhere. Not so George, he was incensed by the case and reminded me of a string of similar happenings throughout the UK in recent years.
“You’re starting to sound like an angry old man,” I teased; ready to play devil’s advocate.
But George was only just beginning. “Someone has to start getting angry soon or it will all be too late. People are beginning to accept crime as normal in society, and increasingly, courts seem to accept that drunkenness or being high on drugs can be viewed as mitigating rather than incriminating circumstances when it comes to defending criminals. And the police, well! They now advise that when someone taps you on the shoulder and demands your wallet you should hand it over rather than punch the bastard!” He was getting more and more angry. “Do you remember the days when the sight of an innocent victim being assaulted or robbed would cause a dozen men to jump out of the crowd and go to their assistance? Do you remember as a kid on the street how almost any adult passer-by would intervene and clip you around the ear if you were misbehaving?” He paused momentarily as if inviting me to comment but I was too slow, (recalling how if I had reported any such behaviour to my father he’d have likely clipped me as well.) “We kids accepted that form of discipline because we knew we were doing wrong and we never dared to argue back. The adults were in charge as they should be,” continued George.
I got in then; I thought I had a valid point to make. “I’m not sure we weren’t a little too compliant in those days,” I argued. “Boys of our age took that attitude towards our seniors through into young manhood and blindly did as we were told. The generals had a field day with it all and it took two very bloody wars to make the up and coming generations start to ask questions of those in authority.”
“Fat lot of good it’s done,” George snorted. “Wars still seem to go on, and we have increasing lawlessness on our streets to boot!”
“You have a point there,” I agreed, “and you may rest assured that I for one most certainly will not hand over my wallet to some thug if he takes a fancy to it.”
That admission seemed to take some of the fire out of the conversation. In fact surprisingly, George then went so far as to offer me some dissuasive advice.
“Don’t ever be tempted to have a go, James. The police and the courts may have publicly agreed that it’s OK to use reasonable force to defend oneself, but I say heaven help you if you win!” He said it quietly, but very earnestly.
I wanted to express my agreement at that, but then I realised that the whole subject was really upsetting him, so I cut it short and headed for the kitchen to make some coffee. Coffee goes well with a brandy, and the conversation needed to be lightened. I didn’t want to lose the feeling of well-being George had reintroduced into my life.
We both went down to my yacht club the following evening and George was in fine form, more like his old self. He could always tell a joke well and in no time at all he had a crowd clustered around him at the bar, and there was a good deal of laughter in the air. From my position, by now at the edge of the crowd, I answered a number of questions about his name, and where he came from; and soon pretty well everyone knew him. The general hubbub was frequently punctuated by his name and drinks being ordered up for him, so much so that I wondered how long he could last. Alex Mauger - who was helping out behind the bar as he often did when they were busy - gave me an enquiring look as he added another drink to the row queuing up. I gave him a nod of understanding in return and mouthed the words “no more” to him.
Well, George didn’t stop suddenly, but he did slow down after a time, and the conversation then became more general. It happened to be that period shortly after the release of the film, ‘Titanic’ and discussion about the film and the terrible tragedy held sway for a while. George was quiet during most of this. He had noticed that he was a bit ‘stacked’ anyway and took the opportunity to sip some of it away. So it was not until the conversation had almost exhausted the subject that he cut in.
“At the risk of sounding silly,” he began - there was instant silence during which most of us, I think, prayed he wasn’t about to crack a ‘Titanic’ joke - “why, when the captain knew for certain that the ship was going to sink, didn’t he run it aground?” George’s hand shot up to stop any immediate comment whilst he went on. “Yes, I know he was miles away from land, but the bloody great iceberg the ship had struck was still there. Why didn’t the captain ram the ship back into the main body of the berg’ and keep steaming slowly ahead to create a wedge in it deep enough to stop the bow from sinking? Ships have remained afloat for months on end when trapped in pack ice; surely it was worth a try!” It turned out to be the best question of the evening and they were still arguing about it an hour later when George and I left for home. As a matter of fact, it didn’t end there. The same question was repeated in the local newspaper a few days later in the form of an open letter inviting comment, and George Fenwick got a mention.
It was the fifth day of his visit before I got George out along the cliff path walk. I planned a fairly long route as it would be the last opportunity, for he was due to leave the following morning. I knew him to be a good walker from past experiences, not of course in Gibraltar, but we had shared long treks up in the Lake District upon our return to England. We were of similar build and he had always matched me stride for stride. We even looked much alike, and although he was a year older than I, at seventy-one, I had no reason to doubt that he could still do so. Skiddaw, Grisedale Pike, Helvellyn, Scafell Pike, High Rise, Sergeant Man, Harrison Stickle, Langdale Pike and The Old Man of Coniston; these high places had all passed under our boots, as had the Lakeland valleys. We had rarely spoken while walking, other than to point out landmarks, but it was comforting to hear the tread of the other’s footsteps in the silence of those upland areas, and all the time we were building a bond of friendship that would last beyond death itself.
We set off at a steady pace along the easier part of the route but to my surprise, turning to concern, he soon flagged so badly I was forced to shorten the walk, and on the final steep rise back to the house he could barely make it. I tried not to fuss too much, and once inside I tried to make light of it all.
“You’re a bit out of condition, George. It’s not like you to lag behind; it must be your age.” I put a brandy on the table beside his chair as I said it.
He managed a short laugh, but it almost sounded bitter. I waited for a rejoinder but it was slow coming. That in itself was strange; he loved to banter and he was usually ahead of me. Then without a word he rose and left the room. I could see that he was upset but worse than that I knew it was nothing I had said. Almost immediately, he came back, gave me a wink, picked up his brandy and went out again.
It all came out later, the rejoinder first, then the reason. It transpired that actually he’d done rather well coming up the hill, but only on handicap; and the handicap was cancer. Like most people I wasn’t quite sure how I should respond to the disclosure. All I knew was that any further jokes about it would have to come from him. As it turned out, he didn’t joke much about it again. What he and his doctor had thought was a benign problem in his prostate gland had suddenly gone haywire and he now had massive invasions in his bowel and stomach. I didn’t want to ask how long he had, but I did; because the question refused to stay inside me.
“It could be weeks, possibly months; certainly not years.” He stared reflectively into his glass, which was empty again.
I rose to refill it but he waved me down.
“I took it quite badly at first,” he went on. “Then for no apparent reason the word dignity came into my head. I said it out loud to myself and straight away I felt calmer, and somehow stronger. Since then I’ve clung on to it; it’s my rock when the going gets tough.” Then he added fiercely, “the rest of me can rot but my dignity...my dignity bloody-well won’t! I intend going out without a silly fuss. It’s no use asking God why it has to be me - I’ll know soon enough.” He stared at me equally fiercely, no doubt seeing the tears in my eyes at that moment. “Silly old sod,” he commented, kindly.
I saw him off at the airport the next day. He looked better than when he arrived and I told him so.
“It’s the fresh air and the whisky; mostly the whisky. And it’s been great seeing you again, James. As a matter of fact you look better yourself.” He paused for one of those moments you shouldn’t break into. “Can I suggest something?” The question was clearly rhetorical; he was going to suggest something anyway...and I, most certainly, was going to listen. “Sell the bloody house, get on that boat, and sail down to the Med,’ while you can.”
After that piece of advice, which later came to haunt me, the conversation lapsed. George, like I, is useless at small talk during airport farewells. What with the near constant security warnings coming from the public address system, plus the thought of taking to the air locked inside an aeroplane along with a load of aviation spirit, the only thing that seems to matter is the goodbye. Consequently, it was a relief to us both when his flight was called. He gave me an extra long bear hug and turned to go.
“See you, James.”
“Yes, George.”
We both knew that we were lying, and how I wish I could have thought of a more adequate farewell to a much-loved friend.
CHAPTER TWO
George died the following January. I was there at his funeral service in Liverpool, and the church was packed. I was always confident that George had many other friends, but I hadn’t realised he had a whole church-full. George, like I, had been divorced, but he had not remarried. His daughter, herself unmarried, was his sole survivor. She sat alone in the front pew, a stern-looking middle-aged woman who seemed to resent being there. The rest of us filled the pews behind her and we were quite a mixed bunch. There were several attractive ladies included, who sat well apart from one another and did most of the crying. The rest of us sang, if not well then loudly and reverently, even if it did sound a bit like the Kop at times, especially when it came to, ‘You’ll never walk alone,’ - which George had requested when he had planned his own funeral. The vicar, also a close friend of his, did George proud, and the eulogy was extremely well spoken by a Welshman with a voice like Richard Burton’s. As a matter of fact, it’s a shame Burton wasn’t there; he would have enjoyed the reception afterwards. It was an informal affair in a dockside pub, where the stories about George were as plentiful and as long as the pints. I remember laughing a great deal but I forget, if ever I knew, when or how I made it back to my hotel.
I left Liverpool the next day in a sober, sombre, and thoughtful mood; George’s death was beginning to register hard and it was making me ask questions of myself. Was I going to potter around in the garden until I died, or should I up sticks and move on? Should I spend my last years on earth in deep mourning for Janet, or could I still find a little happiness? Did I want the pleasure of leaving all my money to a worthwhile charity, or did I want to try spending some of it? Did I want to be me, plain old dull me, or did I want to be more like George? Perhaps that’s why George came to see me I reasoned. He wanted to make me aware of the swift passage of time and how easily one can get left behind while the rest of the world moves on.
Three months later, my plan to sail down to the Mediterranean had been well and truly resurrected. The house sale was in its final stage and the contents mostly sold or given away, as I prepared to cut my ties to the land. I had made a big effort since the funeral, and had renewed the family friendships I had previously neglected. I found Janet’s friends to be mine also now, supportive and eager to know about my plans to sail Zephyr down to the Med’, and the men at least seemed to understand my need to get away. I fancied one or two even envied me.
For some reason, perhaps a growing feeling of excitement, I began waking up in the early hours of the morning, often around four a.m. and feeling as bright as a button. Then my days were as long as the blackbird’s, each one a little lifetime. It made me realise just how valuable each day can be and I think George would have been pleased with the improvement. It also introduced me to the BBC’s UK Theme music, a medley of tunes identified with the Home Countries that only very early listeners to radio enjoy. This I had taped to take away with me, in itself a little masterpiece of nostalgia for my ‘desert island’; all British castaways should carry one.
I took a long, quiet walk around the garden before I left the house for the last time. Spring comes early in Guernsey and everything was astir; buds, blooms, and birds building nests. The garden was full of life and hope, and now so was I. In the midst of it all I was also hoping that Janet would make her presence felt. I wanted her to tell me it was all right to go, that I could turn the page to a new chapter. Unusually, but quite definitely, she wasn’t there. In one way I was glad; it meant that I was not leaving her behind. It could be that she approved and wanted me to get on and do something with my life while I still had the time.
Upon reflection, I feel it is possible that my new-found awareness of the swift passage of time, and the need to get up and go, had a strong bearing upon a decision I would make before very long; and ironically, it led to me being locked up in prison. Notwithstanding that, at the time I was blissfully unaware that I would soon be forced to make a life-changing decision hard on the heels of a traumatic experience. I was celebrating the thought that I had just got my life in order again and consequently I was a bit off guard.
Zephyr was waiting for me at her berth when I finally came to her, free of my ties to the land. She was straining on her bow spring as if impatient to get away. The sill on the tide gate had only just opened and the sea was pouring into the marina, scouring in a clockwise direction and exciting movement amongst the fleet of yachts locked inside. But Zephyr was no longer just my toy to be played with when the sun shines and the wind blows gently. She was now my home, and in two short weeks, give or take a tide or two, we would be setting sail. Not the daytime jaunt around the island of Sark, or the weekend trip to the coastal ports in the bay of St Malo; this sail would take us over the rim of the horizon into the Atlantic and across the Bay of Biscay to Cape Trafalgar and beyond. At that point I remember saying a silent thank you to George; for without his intervention I would still have been hiding in the garden and rapidly becoming a recluse.
I had another week of near frantic preparation, much interrupted by visits from well-wishers, plus others who were just plain curious; before I paused to take stock. I had still to announce a date of departure but apart from a last minute top up with diesel fuel and fresh water, Zephyr was just about ready. I even had my emergency fund, 30,000 Euros, hidden away in the back of the chain locker next to the forward cabin where I slept. The ready cash was there to finance my first choice stops at minor ports and quiet anchorages where there were no banking facilities, and where credit cards or Travellers Cheques would be useless. Happily, money wouldn’t be a problem, for the sale of the house had gone well and my funds in the bank were substantial when I did come to draw upon them. It was just as well, for I had set no time limit on my adventure and, apart from the voyage down, no set course to follow around the Mediterranean Sea.
Zephyr herself was well up to such a voyage. She measured a touch under eleven metres along the waterline and had a good draft and freeboard to see her safely across the Bay of Biscay. She was also very comfortable below with a double sleeping cabin and toilet in the bow, and another double en suite in the stern section. Between them lay the engine room and a short passageway alongside it leading into the saloon and galley. The saloon itself was nicely furnished with comfortable seating, and plenty of shelving for my books. Serving both sides, but set off- centre, a large folding table catered for mealtimes, and it could hold the largest of sea charts for navigation. All of the timber flooring and panelling were hard wood, and well polished, giving a warm and pleasant ambience which I now miss dreadfully. Pride of place went to two magnificent antique brass lamps mounted on the forward bulkhead to left and right of the door to my sleeping cabin. Originally they were oil burning lamps, and they still retained their gimbals, but they were now lit by electricity running off the main domestic battery. The only other modifications were brass covers above the bulbs. I had fitted them myself, but none too well as it turned out, for one of them almost led to my demise...but that’s for later. Being well-balanced and sloop-rigged, Zephyr was easy to sail single handed. She also had a reliable diesel engine with a good cruising range, and an autopilot that allowed me to leave the helm unattended. I had only two points of concern at the time. The dinghy, a solid-bottomed inflatable, was too heavy to be stowed on deck. It lived on its davits out over the stern, which was ideal for cruising in the Mediterranean Sea, but not for crossing the Bay of Biscay. Zephyr also lacked a covered steering position, something the autopilot could never quite compensate for. Perhaps I should also add that the toilets were a nightmare to operate by those unfamiliar with them, relying upon vacuum seals, pumps, and patience. However, that is true of pretty near all small yacht toilets; so taking all things into consideration I was very proud of my little ship. I turned in early that night with an inner feeling of happiness, fuelled by a large whisky and a good book.
I awoke just after midnight; a glance at my watch confirmed that. Something wasn’t right. I lay still and listened. Even within the confines of a marina, yachts are seldom still upon the water and movement excites sounds. But I was used to them and normally they didn’t disturb me. They are all part of a gentle marine symphony until something, or someone, strikes a wrong note. There it was again, a bit like a fender scraping against the pontoon except that it was along the deck outside, almost immediately above my head and it couldn’t be a fender. I’m not a nervous or cowardly person but for some reason I was frightened, I could feel my heart pounding and my mouth was uncomfortably dry. There it was again, something dragging along the deck, but close to the cockpit now. I forced myself up and out of my bunk, puzzling why it was I suddenly felt seventy years old and rather feeble. The cabin door was open into the saloon but it was pitch black in there and I started to feel my way in. Then I heard the main hatch slide open and a lighter shade of night sky formed itself and in it the shape of a man. He muttered something and he wasn’t talking to himself, so there was more than one of them. At last I found my voice.
“What the hell are you doing?” It was meant to scare them off but instead it brought the first man crashing down into the saloon, a dark mass of waving arms, anger and swearing. I was still out of reach, at the far end of the saloon table, where my hand found a metal winch handle I had been greasing after supper.
“Get out!” I shouted at the top of my voice, as he lunged forward; then I struck out with a mixture of fear and anger. There was a bone-crunching thud as the handle made contact, then more noise as he hit the deck in front of me. The second man was right behind him; I glimpsed his shape before he tripped and fell on top of his accomplice. Almost immediately he had hold of my leg and I could feel him pulling his self up. His grip hurt like hell, so I lashed out wildly with the handle, missing him as my panic mounted. I tried again and found him this time. I followed up with two, maybe three more blows before I wrenched myself away, half falling back into the forward cabin where I lay helpless and gasping for breath.
It seemed a long time before I could steady my heart and catch my breath again, but then I had to force myself to re-enter the saloon, now terrifyingly quiet. I switched the deck head light on this time. It lit up a scene which was much worse than I had hoped. Both men were heaped on the deck and immediately I could see that the second man was never going to get up; the back of his head was a mass of blood and broken bone. When I pulled him aside and lifted the other man’s head I was very nearly sick. His face wore the pallor that only death can bring and his forehead had a dreadful dent in it. I felt for pulse beats in one man after the other but there was not the faintest trace. In stark contrast my own pulse was still racing wildly as I grabbed for the steps and stumbled out into the cockpit where I shot glances at surrounding boats, hoping to see a light on one of them, for I needed to tell someone.
Unfortunately, there was not a light, nor movement anywhere. Then I thought to use my mobile telephone and turned to go below to collect it from the chart table. As I did so I saw a leather holdall on the seat and it occurred to me that it could have been the cause of the dragging sound, the prelude to the whole dreadful act.
You know the adage, ‘It never rains but it pours’, well the battery was flat. Yes, and I only keep the mobile for use in case of an emergency! Luckily, the yacht’s VHF radio was right in front of me and I realised that I could pass a message to the police via the signal station. Admittedly, I wasn’t actually in distress, nothing, nobody was threatening my life now, but under the circumstances I was sure they wouldn’t mind me using the distress frequency. I tuned in - channel 16, but it was frantically busy with a full marine emergency, a fishing boat and crew were missing at sea. I listened for a moment or two then switched the set off, conscious that I couldn’t cut in. The next option was to go ashore and find a public telephone but something held me back, something George had said was tugging at my memory. ‘As far as the police and the courts are concerned, it’s OK to use reasonable force to defend yourself, but I say heaven help you if you win.’ All of a sudden I felt a need to sit down and think things through. This wasn’t just an attempted robbery with force, there were two deaths to explain, perhaps to justify.
I poured myself a whisky and went into the stern cabin. Sitting in the saloon was out of the question, and I didn’t fancy stepping over the bodies again to get forward. I soon found that I was incapable of rational thought; although thanks to a flat battery, and George, I had avoided blurting things out to a policeman that I might later regret. Great bursts of anger, outrage, kept on clouding the issues. In the space of a few minutes my assailants had placed my life on hold, likely for months, while the whole mess was sorted out. Remorse never entered my head at this stage, I didn’t ask for this, the bastards had only themselves to blame. With such thoughts chasing through my mind it was fortunate that there was no police constable present to make notes.
It was the best part of an hour before I managed to get the main issues into some sort of order. I scribbled them down:
(1) I’m a law-abiding citizen, no police record apart from two speeding offences, and no history of violence. (I tried to ignore the fact that other people like me have ended up serving time.)
(2) I have a large sum of money on board, which they were probably after, so it was probably a case of attempted robbery with violence.
(3) I was attacked after I tried to warn my assailants off.
(4) In the heat of the moment, untrained in martial arts and scared half out of my wits, how could I be expected to judge what is reasonable in terms of defence? Had I underestimated it I could now be dead. Then I crossed that supposition out, feeling sure that someone, some smart-arse, would point out that I was still alive.
(5) This is the worse bit. Only one of my assailants has a full frontal wound consistent with an attempted assault. The other man’s wounds point to him trying to get away; and why more than one blow? I can explain it of course, but can I justify it? Lastly, I don’t have a scratch on me.
I could almost hear the prison door slam behind me. Silly it may be, but I had absolutely no intention of throwing myself upon the mercy of the court. Up until now I hadn’t shared all of George’s cynicism where victim’s rights were concerned, but I did now. Instead of sailing away peacefully on one last great adventure, I could spend the rest of my life locked away in prison. Such a prospect equally stifles the mind, and I suffered yet another bout of outrage for I was being pushed towards breaking the law for the first time in my life. By now, another disincentive to calling the police had crept into the frame. I would need to explain why it had taken well over an hour to notify them. It was the last straw that tipped me over the edge from which there was no turning back. There had to be an alternative course of action.
Having reached this decision, the ideas came thick and fast and well before dawn was due to break I had the outline of a plan in mind; but it was going to be a race against time. Already the water level inside the marina was well down and in less than thirty minutes the exit gate sill would be impassable to Zephyr. There was no time for the hundred and one things I needed to do before I sailed; no time for further doubt. I threw on some clothes, put the telephone into its charger, pressed the diesel into life, threw off the mooring lines and manoeuvred clear of the pontoon. It was of no concern to me that the diesel’s throb sounded twice as loud in the stillness of the night, no worry to me that the marina’s security camera would likely record Zephyr’s exit. It would all tie in with events confronting the Harbour Authority, and no doubt the police, in due course.
CHAPTER THREE
See Map 1 at the end of the book if your reader allows graphics.
I waited until Zephyr was well out into the Little Russel channel, with only her stern light facing the land, before I switched off her navigation lights. The night was still black and, as I had gambled, no other vessel was out there at the time. I felt confident that Zephyr was well-nigh invisible as I turned her to head northwards. It meant that she would be facing a foul tide that would slow her progress away from Guernsey; but on the other hand the time of departure would be consistent with good seamanship if later someone was asked to believe that I had headed south. At this stage I had a moment to catch my thoughts. I needed to go below to plot a course, but first I paused to take my last look at Guernsey. All I could see was a line of feeble coastal lights beneath a dark, slumbering land mass. It was a sad and lonely departure, one I could never have imagined a few short hours ago. It would have been all so different one week later if fate hadn’t intervened. A daylight departure, friends waving goodbye, a small fortune in the bank upon which I could draw as I needed it, no looking over my shoulder, and the comforting prospect of a distant return. As it was, my friends would think I had reverted to my old detached self in sailing without proper goodbyes, and no doubt they would think less of me for it; and my banked assets would now be untouchable. These thoughts were very painful on top of everything I had just endured. I stayed on deck until the Platte Fougere lighthouse was two miles distant on my port quarter, then I fumbled for the switch for the autopilot and went below to lose them as I plotted a course for Hurd Deep.
I knew little about Hurd Deep other than that it was very deep; a steep-sided depression in the seabed some forty-five miles long. The bit I was interested in was about seven miles north by west of Alderney, itself the most northerly of the Channel Islands. This part of the Deep is clearly marked on the chart as a danger area, a disused explosives dumping ground. As such, it was unlikely to be disturbed by fishing trawlers. As it happened, I had two people on board whom I would not wish to be disturbed by a fishing trawl after I had dumped them overboard, so it was a convenient spot.
Convenient or not I had no wish to be within five miles of any spying eyes as I approached the area. It meant ignoring the Ortac Channel, the most direct route, and plotting a curved route to the west and north of the Casquets lighthouse. There could be eyes, possibly looking through binoculars, even a telescope there, but by then I would have changed the outward appearance of Zephyr, and her name in 75mm lettering on the stern would be a very small target at a range of five miles.
I completed the plot with an estimated time of arrival over Hurd Deep of 0730hrs. Quite by chance that was a convenient time for the MAYDAY signal I had planned. I had no wish to bring the lifeboat out on a wild-goose chase in darkness. With that in mind, I began a second plot to establish the likely position of Zephyr at 0730hrs had she sailed south and west for Brest when she left the marina, the direction everyone who knew my original intention was expecting me to take.
By the time I came back up on deck the first sign of dawn was visible in the east. It stirred me into removing Zephyr’s most noticeable feature, large canvas dodgers along both sides of the yacht bearing her name in 800mm lettering. I hadn’t liked the dodgers much when I bought her, but her previous owner liked the comfort they gave in the cockpit, and so did I in due course. So they had stayed, and Zephyr had brazenly advertised her presence wherever she went, but not anymore. It was draughty without them, but it certainly changed her appearance. I felt the wind straight away and shivered. It was only force three, but it was from the north, and I was very tired by now. It brought back one of my earliest memories of going to sea, of the days when ships kept lookouts stationed up in the bows, from where as a boy seaman I first got to see the dawn break during the four to eight watch. It was four long hours on watch, and four short hours off in those days, and I was always tired, but I could always look forward to my relief. Not anymore, damn it! I was on my own now and with one hell of a mess to sort out. I went below to put on a heavy sweater under my sailing jacket, and then I dug out a strop from the sail locker and rigged a block and tackle beneath the boom, close above the companionway exit from the saloon. After that I settled to wait as Zephyr rumbled her way towards Hurd Deep.
Shortly before 7 a.m., with the Casquets lighthouse just over five miles away to starboard and outlined against the early morning sun, I set to and one at a time I dragged the two men up onto the port side deck. I did this simply by lashing their feet together and, after securing plastic bags over their heads, hauled them up feet first using the block and tackle. It was a bit rough, but there was no alternative. I laid them out by the boarding point in the guardrail, one on top of the other and bound them tightly together with the short kedge anchor chain. I used almost all of it, leaving just over a metre of chain between them and the kedge anchor itself. Then I covered the lot with the spare mainsail.
It was now time for me to telephone my MAYDAY call on my mobile. Ordinarily, this call would be sent over the VHF radio following a set procedure. In most cases the coastguard station, in this case the Guernsey signal station, would simultaneously take a bearing on the call to help establish the position of the vessel. But my call was to be made by mobile telephone precisely because it couldn’t be used to indicate my position by a radio bearing. It would also have to go to the local police station instead of the signal station, as I intended to be in a bit of a panic and not overly helpful when it came to giving precise details of my emergency.
In the event, it went quite well. Firstly, I stopped the diesel engine so as to indicate loss of power. Then when I got through I shouted into the telephone that Zephyr was sinking, roughly ten miles northwest of the Roches Douvres lighthouse, and that I needed.... at this point I deliberately dropped the telephone onto the deck, waited a moment, then kicked it overboard. It sank immediately, of course, but I hoped that the sound effects would be convincing. It also ensured that I could never inadvertently use it again. As far as I was concerned, I and Zephyr, and most certainly the telephone, were now at the bottom of the sea.
With the diesel running and under way again, I had a good look around. A number of ships were visible in the inbound shipping lane to the north but, being constrained to the lane, none of them would come closer than four miles to me. Looking ahead, I searched for fishing boats out from Alderney, but luck was with me for a change, and I had a clear run to my point in the Deep, now barely a mile away. I now, even at this late stage, succumbed to a ridiculous urge to check for pulse beats in my assailants; I couldn’t bear the thought of drowning someone in cold blood. There were none, of course, and heaven knows what I would have done had there been any sign of life. At the same time I forced myself to take a good look at both faces. They looked younger in the daylight, mid-twenties I should say. I know they were not at their best, but they were an ugly, brutish-looking pair. Then I went through their pockets hoping to find proof of identity. There was nothing to show this, not even a driving licence; perhaps a basic precaution if one is out to commit a crime. I did find some cash, just over 150 Guernsey one-pound notes between them; they must have had a poor week. The notes would have been difficult to spend where I was going so they went back into their pockets; already I was starting to think like a fugitive.
With glances at my depth gauge and keeping a careful lookout, I slowed Zephyr to a crawl as I neared the dumping ground. I wanted more than eighty metres beneath the keel, and soon found it. As it happened there was a good gap in the shipping to the north at this time and I was able to creep on until I found a depth of 100 metres. After that it took but a minute or two to open the guardrail and push both men overboard. Almost immediately, they started to sink as the air in their clothing escaped, then the kedge anchor followed them with a splash and they went straight down. I stared at the sea for a moment or two, mindful of what I had just done. I should have felt sorrow but anger was still in the way. I should have said a prayer for them, but the words would have choked me. A moment later I forgot my feelings of guilt and rushed below as the opening message from St Peter Port signal station gave prelude to a MAYDAY call to all ships in the vicinity ten miles northwest of the Roches Douvres lighthouse. They were being asked to assist the yacht, Zephyr, reported as sinking in that area.
There was then a long pause in transmissions during which time I got under way, setting a course that would take me across the shipping lanes to the north. This was a time when I would need to pick my way carefully between the lines of leviathans growling their way up and down the English Channel. I had no wish to be reported for causing one of them to alter course, even a degree or two, to allow little Zephyr to cross ahead. My place was astern of them, the difficulty being that astern of one was ahead of the one following and the gaps in the lines varied greatly, as did the speeds of the vessels. It called for fine judgement at times, and patience, neither coming easily to me at this time. Fortunately, one major distraction, my crisis down off the Roches Douvres, was diminishing as gradually I drew out of range of the radio signals. I could have delayed my escape to listen in but my overriding wish was to get away from Hurd Deep. It was enough for me to know that the bait had been taken; only time would tell if it had been swallowed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Four hours later I was safely through the shipping lanes to the north of Alderney and had Zephyr hard on the wind on a long beat westwards, with the lonely expanse of Lyme Bay open to starboard. The wind had backed during the last hour or so and had eased a little, but Zephyr was still logging four knots. As yet I had no sight of the English coast, but Prawle Point at the southern tip of Devon was my next landfall, and I was due to start looking out for it in roughly five hours. It was now 11.30 a.m. and three things were worrying me. I was tired, I was hungry, and the saloon needed a good scrubbing. Take your pick, I told myself, although I knew I had no real choice. I took a good look around me, grabbed a scrubbing brush and bucket, and went below, leaving Zephyr to steer herself. She had a very good relationship with the autopilot when beating to windward and I knew that I could trust them both. The only thing wrong with the autopilot was the operating switch. Apparently, the previous owner had an inquisitive son, one who was inclined to switch things on and off without notice, so it was hidden inside a box beneath the compass binnacle. This made it very difficult to lay one’s finger on it, one of the things I had meant to correct before sailing. I had my main screen radar on down in the saloon, just to the right of the chart table. I set it for a twelve-mile range, and that combined with a quick visit to the cockpit every ten minutes would serve to keep me aware of what lay ahead.
The saloon was a wreck. I started with a general tidy up and stowed for sea all the items that were still in their harbour positions. It was fortunate that the sea condition had been slight when Zephyr left St Peter Port so hurriedly. Then I got down to the deck for the gory bit. The second man had bled quite a lot and it was now a sticky mess. That’s when I found the knife. It was a wicked looking, long-bladed thing lying hard up against the forward bulkhead, beneath the saloon table. I just managed to stop myself from snatching it up in my excitement. It obviously belonged to one of my assailants and was proof of their intent to use violence against me. In the nick of time it had occurred to me that it must bear fingerprints. It took but a moment to find a plastic bag, and then using it as a glove I lifted the knife onto the table. It then took but another moment for my excitement to drain away. Had this been found by a policeman consequent to a call from me immediately following the assault it could have exonerated me from blame. I teased myself with the thought that it might still do so; perhaps I could claim that I had done all that I had done since in a blind panic. But deep inside me I doubted that it would stand up to questioning, so I tested a few on myself. Why didn’t I call the police right away? Did I need time to construct a plot to hide the crime? Bearing this point in mind, did I by chance plant the fingerprints of one of the men I had killed upon the knife in question?