‘Fuck it! Fuck it!’ he screamed in childlike frustration. He dropped the matches, and sank to the floor of the galley, weeping.
It was a look at his watch that finally brought him to his senses. 2.17. He must either sort something out or get away quickly. If Robert Benham arrived next morning for a day’s sailing and found his office rival in Tara’s Dream, it would not look good.
Robert Benham. Robert Benham was of course hyperefficient. He was the sort of man who would ensure that his boat contained all requisite stores.
Graham straightened out of his crumpled heap of self-pity and moved across to the gas rings.
Good old Robert. There, tucked behind the blue metal frame lay not one, but two boxes of Swan Vestas matches. One match on its own wobbled sideways in the hole he had drilled. Two stayed, but didn’t feel very secure. Three, however, jammed in, tight and unshifting.
He moved the hatch back gingerly, but the matches stood too proud. He took them out and cut them down to the right length. The matchheads almost touched the underside of the hatch. They would definitely touch the sandpaper as it was pushed over them.
He couldn’t resist one practice go. He moved the hatch to its closed position, very slowly, so that the sandpaper just caressed the red matchheads.
Then, with only average force, he opened the hatch. There was a little rasp and a flame flared.
It worked.
He closed the hatch hastily and the action put out the flame. When inspected, the fibreglass showed a slight discoloration behind the sandpaper, but the flash had been too brief to deform its shape.
Graham took out the three spent matches and, almost as if he were blessing them, cut three new ones to length and set them in place.
Shining the torch on the floor, he meticulously picked up all his spilled, damp matches and put them in his pocket.
Then, covering his hand with a tea-towel that lay neatly beside the stove, he turned the switches of both hot-plates on, low. Reaching through the curtain beneath, he found the domed stopcock of the Calor Gas cylinder. One way it would not turn.
The other way it gave. He unscrewed it as far as it would go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The night was darker when he emerged from the galley. He guided the vertical board into its slot, moving the top hatch forward a few centimetres to do so. This was done with infinite care; he had no wish to fire his detonator too early. Then he replaced the padlock and pushed it together to lock. A quick wipe round the hatches and padlock with a handkerchief was the only fingerprint precaution he took.
Still keeping the muddy feet out of the boat, he contrived to pull the waders back on and fix the tops to his belt. Ducking under the ropes which lashed tiller and boom in place, he eased his body round until he perched on the transom.
The darkness was too thick now for him to see the water’s edge, but the one upstairs light still on in Bosham Quay showed the direction he had to take.
With one hand on the stern of the boat and the other holding the torch, he launched himself into the hissing blackness.
The shock was how far he fell. Water closed, growling, over his head. The tide had risen faster than he had expected. His feet, muffled in the waders, touched nothing solid. He kicked upwards towards the surface.
Then he felt a new wetness as the space around his legs filled. Kicking became harder as the weight of water dragged him down. He gasped, salt water rasped through his nose, mouth and trachea. All was darkness, noise and pain.
His hands fumbled in panic for the buckles of the waders, but their new leather was stiff and reluctant. Then, thank
God, he thought of his belt. Though he could feel it constricting around him, he managed to undo the buckle and tug it free. With a lung-bursting effort, he kicked and kicked, until at last the waders’ weight slipped away from him. He kicked again and at last his head broke the surface. He gasped for air and the waves slapped in another mouthful of salt water.
His chest was tight and the cold bit into his bones. He knew he couldn’t survive long in these conditions.
Tara’s Dream was no longer visible. Graham was so low in the water that he could see nothing but the sky. But even without bearings, he could feel that the water was propelling him along at some speed.
Despair threatened, but he fought it. He hadn’t come this far to be snuffed out so easily. He commanded an extra kick from his trembling legs and managed to raise himself a little out of the water. Fortunately, he was facing the right direction. For a second he saw above the waves the gleam of light from Bosham Quay. He kicked towards it.
His clothes clung and dragged at him, but he did not pause to remove them. He could not spare the energy to manoeuvre himself out of the pullover, and, though the jeans would slip off easily enough, he remembered the car keys in the pocket. To be stranded, drenched through, beside a locked hire-car in Bosham, was not going to help the secrecy of his mission.
Progress was agony, but he was going with the tide and eventually one foot scraped on mud. Graham tried to stand and received another scouring mouthful of water. He forced his limbs onward and at last both feet were grounded. His arms still made swimming movements and though the water was shallow enough for him to stand, he had no strength, and shambled ashore on all fours.
He lay, beached and panting, thinking he would never move again. But he felt the lapping of water round his legs and knew that the tide was rising fast. He eased himself to his feet and tottered towards the quayside light. His teeth chattered and his whole body was shaken by spasms of shivering. His shoes had been taken by the rising tide and shingle scratched at his feet.
He willed himself not to look at his watch until he was by the car. His shaking body was moving as fast as it could; and extra panic was as likely to slow him down as spur him to greater effort.
The tarmac pressed sharp stones into his soles as he inched forward. The pavement was less painful, but his first two steps had left large give-away footprints, so he stuck to the road. He was relying on the tide to erase his traces over the mud.
At last he leant against the Vauxhall Chevette and dared to turn his arm and raise the bedraggled sleeve that covered his watch. In his exhaustion he would not have been surprised to discover a whole day had elapsed since last he stood there.
The journey from the boat had taken little more than half an hour. It seemed incredible. He felt an urge to laugh, from sheer weakness and relief.
But he curbed it. He was not far behind his schedule. Having survived this far, he mustn’t fail now.
As quietly as he could, he unlocked the car and extinguished the interior light which came on when the door opened. He was still trembling, but that was just a physical reaction to exposure; emotionally he was beginning to regain control.
He reached into the back of the car for a black plastic bag he had in readiness and then, standing in the street, took off all his clothes and placed them in it.
The risk of being nicked for indecent exposure was perhaps an unnecessary one, but Graham hadn’t reckoned on being soaked to the skin. And he decided that he was less likely to be discovered by some affronted resident of Bosham at two a.m. than to receive unwelcome enquiries from the car-hire firm about salt and mud stains on their upholstery.
He reached again into the back of the car for the shirt, jacket, trousers and underpants he had ready and, in spite of his trembling, was quickly dressed. He brushed the worst of the sand and mud off his wounded feet before donning socks and shoes. His body felt salty damp under his clothes, but there hadn’t been time to dry himself properly.