More whiskey was slopped into the glass. ‘No! Blast it. No, he shouldn’t. Boy like that. Should be out cutting hay like the rest of us at that age. But what does he do? Buys reams of material. Sends off for all sorts of mechanical parts. What’s he building up there? Who knows. Like Doctor Frankenstein he is. Whatever he’s doing, the noise coming out of that tower at night is enough to waken a dead pig.’
The man downed his drink in one, its harshness shocking his system from stomach to eyeballs.
‘And don’t tell me lobsters aren’t getting smarter. I caught a lobster last month and I swear he was trying to communicate. With the clicking claws and the pointy head yokes.’
The landlord rapped the bar with a knuckle. ‘You can shut up now, Ern. They’ve gone.’
‘Don’t matter,’ said Ern, clutching the bottle protectively to his chest. ‘I don’t like fellows with hats anyways. Never trust a hatter.’
The landlord was tactful enough not to point out that Ern himself sported a jaunty cap.
It took mere minutes for Bonvilain and Sultan Arif to find Forlorn Point. The old British Army marker stone by the roadside helped quite a bit.
‘The place is well named,’ noted Arif, placing his shoulder satchel on a tree stump. From inside he selected twin revolvers and a selection of knives, which he arranged on his belt.
‘I presume we are not sending for help.’
‘As is occasionally the case, Sultan, you are correct,’ said Bonvilain. ‘This is a Martello tower; we could have a battleship off the coast and still not gain entry. We proceed cautiously. Diplomacy first, then guile, and finally violence should it become necessary.’
They stepped over the ruined remains of the wall and across the yard, careful not to snag their boots on treacherous creepers that snaked from the rocky soil.
‘It doesn’t look much,’ said Sultan, picking moss from the tower wall.
Bonvilain nodded. ‘I know. Clever, isn’t it?’
A quick circuit of the tower confirmed that there was indeed only one doorway, above head height and plugged with a wooden door.
‘I’ll wager that door is not as flimsy as it looks,’ muttered Bonvilain.
Sultan placed his cheek against the wall. ‘The stones vibrate from a generator, Marshall,’ he noted. ‘I can hear classical music. It sounds as though there is an entire orchestra in there.’
‘A phonograph,’ said Bonvilain sourly. ‘How very modern. Conor Broekhart always liked his toys.’
‘So, how do we get in? Throw stones at the doorway?’
This is the Airman’s tower, thought Bonvilain. He enters and leaves from the roof.
‘I throw stones,’ he said to his captain.
‘You always had a good arm for stone throwing. What can I do?’
‘You can search in that bag of yours and see if you brought your crossbow.’
Sultan’s eyes glittered. ‘No need to search. I always bring my crossbow.’
Linus Wynter was enjoying Beethoven’s Ode to Joy while he fried up some traditional Southern grits on the pan. His secret ingredient was cayenne pepper – of course, Conor’s limited galley did not have any pepper so he was forced to use a pinch of curry powder instead. It may not be quite up to his normal culinary standards, but it was unlikely that Conor would complain after two years of Little Saltee food. At any rate, Conor had left for Curracloe beach not more than five minutes previously, and by the time he returned the grits would be no more than a distant memory.
That phonograph was a scientific wonder. Conor had explained how an orchestra could be transferred to a wax cylinder, but in all honesty Linus hadn’t made much of an effort to understand. The sound was scratchy and the cylinder had to be changed every few minutes, but it was sweet music all the same.
In spite of the crackling music and the sizzling grits, Linus heard the muffled voices outside. At first he assumed it was the local lads poking about, but then he heard the word Marshall, and his mild curiosity turned to a ball of dread in his stomach.
Bonvilain had found them.
Wynter had never been much of a marksman, but all the same he felt a little comforted once his thin fingers closed round the stock of the repeater rifle concealed beneath the worktop.
Just let Bonvilain open his mouth and I will do my utmost to close it forever.
Seconds later, a rock thumped against the door, followed in quick succession by three more. The last ringing against a steel band.
‘I thought as much,’ said a voice. ‘A reinforced door.’
Linus checked the breech with his thumb, then shouldered his way along the wall to a gun port.
Loaded and ready. Say something else, Marshall.
Bonvilain did. ‘Conor Broekhart. Why don’t you come down so I can finally kill you. May as well be blunt.’
Linus sent six shots winging towards the voice.
Perhaps God will favour the virtuous, he thought as the gunshots echoed around the tower’s curved walls and the discharge smoke sent his windpipe into spasms.
‘So,’ called Bonvilain. ‘Conor is not at home and the blind servant pulls the trigger. Just so you know, blind man, you just grievously wounded the pillar I was sheltering behind.’
Or perhaps the devil looks after his own, Linus concluded, covering his nose and mouth with a wet cloth from the sink.
I must warn Conor. He must not be taken. I will fire the emergency flares.
Conor was worried about Linus alone in the tower, in spite of the fact that the American had survived wars and prison for fifty years without his help, and so he had rigged a series of emergency flares to the roof. The fuses trailed down to various spots throughout the tower and were capped with sulphur sleeves. It was only necessary to yank off the sleeve to light the fuse. The fuses were linked so if one sparked, they all sparked.
The nearest fuse was in what they jokingly referred to as the lounge, a collection of chairs clustered around the fireplace, which Linus was using as a gin still.
Fifteen steps from the rifle slot to the lounge. One step down. A bench by the wall. Nothing I don’t pass by a hundred times a day.
Linus coughed the last of the rifle smoke from his lungs and began his short walk carefully. What a shame it would be to come unstuck from a twisted ankle. There was plenty of time. Bonvilain would be reluctant to enter through the front door, as there could be any number of guns pointed at that target.
Walk slowly but surely.
Linus was thrown into turmoil by a series of gunshots, each one clanging against the door, setting the metal ringing like a bell.
Wynter dropped to all fours, puzzled.
Has the marshall grown stupid? The door is reinforced; he said it himself. Why shoot at it?
The answer was obvious, and occurred to Linus almost immediately.
He is not trying to kill me, he is trying to distract me. The marshall is not alone…
Something cold, sharp and metallic pressed against Linus’s neck.
‘You left the roof door open, old man,’ said a voice in heavily accented English. Linus knew immediately who it was. Sultan Arif, Bonvilain’s deadly second in command.
‘You of all people should know,’ continued Sultan, ‘that sometimes trouble comes from above.’
The fuse. I must ignite it.
Linus made a lunge for the lounge, suffering the blade at his neck to gouge deeply, but there was no escaping Sultan Arif. The captain grabbed him as though he were a struggling pup and hoisted him to his feet.
Keep your bearings. Know where you are.
It was a difficult task with such distractions to his senses. There was pain in his neck and wet blood down his back. The gunshot echo had not yet faded and Sultan swung him around. Linus was utterly disorientated.