Soon, Hamilton found himself backed into the corner with only his lantern. Collins continued to advance, taking his sweet time.
‘BUSBY!’ screamed Hamilton, ‘BUSBY – help me!’
Realising help was unlikely, Hamilton struggled up after placing the lantern in the corner. Collins swung and Hamilton managed to block the blow with his left forearm, he snapped a jab back into the place where Collins’ nose used to be. The punch had little effect and Hamilton followed it up by driving his knee into the knife handle jutting from Collins’ side. The blade was driven deeper but no pain registered on the skinned man’s torn features. Collins swung again and this one caught Hamilton in the jaw, smashing it with an audible crack and pushing bone through flesh. Hamilton dropped to his knees with his hands up to his face, pain blossoming. Collins stepped back and drove a punt into Hamilton’s head that would have sent a rugby ball flying over the posts. The chef’s head snapped back and bounced back against the steel bulkhead with a sickening crunch, muscles and ligaments twisted and tore in his neck. The lantern tipped and fell and the light was extinguished.
All that remained was the dark – and the priest’s mocking laugh, as flesh slapped against flesh. It sounded like a beef carcass being hit by sledgehammers and Earl Hamilton was glad when sweet, sweet unconsciousness finally came.
As Lily lit another cigarette and tried to sort through the feelings that were raging within her, she failed to hear the first stumbling steps of Warner after he clambered to his feet. Warner’s skin was as white as communion host, his shirt stained red, movements leaden, and his eyes as cold and dead as a corpse dragged from the river.
Just as Lily stubbed out her cigarette he reached for her. Something, some feeling, made her turn her head slightly and she saw the fist coming. Lily turned away enough that he only caught her a glancing blow across the back of the head. Ducking to the table she rolled clear and avoided the hammer blow that Warner slammed down with his fist.
‘Connie?’
He stumbled towards her, movements as jerky as those of a marionette in the hands of a novice. She took a step back and stumbled, ending up sitting on the deck with Warner rapidly approaching.
‘Connie, please – what are you doing?’ she left unspoken, her wonder that he was even up and moving despite his pallor and the awful wounds in his arms.
As he closed on her, Lily waited until the final moment and then kicked out hard into the inside of Warner’s left knee. Her heel connected solidly and his leg buckled. Scrambling beneath the table, Lily tried to crawl out to the other side but Warner grabbed her ankle and dragged her back. As soon as Lily’s body became visible Warner drove a punch into her kidney, another dead centre on the bone of her spine, a hooking blow into her ribs that stole her wind, and another into the back of her head. Lily screamed. Warner tangled his fingers in her hair and turned her to face him.
‘Connie, don’t, please…’
She watched as he cocked his fist back and her hand leapt to the table, searching blindly. Lily had hoped to find a blade but instead her hand closed around the sake bottle. In the same moment that Warner drove his fist forward Lily smashed the bottle into the side of his head. Her blow had little effect and he followed through with his punch catching her, hard, above the right eye straight on the bone. Even as white stars danced before her eyes she could feel her eye swelling shut.
‘Mnh, you bastard,’ Lily’s words were slurring now, ‘my old nan hits harder than that. You fucking bastard. You’re not Connie.’
The broken sake bottle was still in her hand and Lily drove the sharp shards of the clay bottle into Warner’s eye – turning and twisting it once it tore flesh and the jelly of the eye into shreds. She felt a warm thick wetness ooze onto her hand. When Warner’s grip on her hair still didn’t release, Lily grabbed at his wrist, intending to drive her thumb nail into his wrist but instead it slipped inside his cold ruined flesh. Lily screamed again. Warner’s fist pulled back and slammed a wicked hook into Lily’s temple. She sagged, consciousness slipping but managed to return the punch with one straight into his face, breaking his nose. Another punch to the side of her head. Lily leaned forward and bit Warner in the chest. Bit hard until her teeth met. Nothing. He did not even flinch. Jesus, what has he become, she thought as she watched his fist cock back yet again. Darkness clouded the edges of her vision. This one’s the doozie. But the blow did not connect. Lily struggled to focus but something was wrong. The fist wasn’t there anymore. The thing that had been Warner turned and looked at the stump that his lower forearm had been turned into.
With a roar, Busby kicked Warner in the face and the force of the blow pushed him away from Lily, although his vice-like grip tore a chunk of her hair away as he was thrown back.
‘You cunt,’ Busby said as he raised his already bloodied axe, ‘treat a fuckin’ lady like that would you?’
Busby spat into Warner’s face and planted another kick into his chin. He stepped back and set his legs. The axe dropped in a slow lazy arc and buried itself in the top of Warner’s head. It was a murderous blow that shattered skull and hacked into brain but still Warner grabbed at Busby’s wrist and dragged himself up. Busby reversed the axe and jammed the butt end into Warner’s face hard but still he rose. The big sailor took a step back hardly able to believe that Warner was still coming.
Lily dragged herself up and grabbed a knife from the table. She turned and plunged the blade into Warner. He backhanded her across the face and she clattered to the deck. Busby pulled the axe back and readied himself. He held the axe two-handed near the end of the handle and stood like a lumberjack about to deal the final blow to some great redwood. He stared straight into Warner’s eyes.
‘Goodbye, Connie.’
The axe swung in an arc above Busby’s head and then smashed through Warner’s neck hacking into his spine and catching in the bone. With a grunt, Busby yanked it through. For a moment Warner stared at him with his cold dead eyes and then the final strands of skin and sinew gave, and his head bounced away beneath the mess table.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Think we can make it back across the deck and down the ladder?’ asked Snell.
Connelly stared out from their vantage point inside the doorway and took in the deep puddles, rain slicked surfaces, and the wind that was trying to shake loose even those objects that were tied down tight. He shook his head.
‘Not something I’d want to chance especially loaded down as we are with these rifles.’
Amelia nodded.
‘I don’t fancy my chances, especially after last time. Shouldn’t there be a ladder inside somewhere to take us down to the next deck?’
‘Yes, sounds better than going out there.’
Connelly raised his rifle and Snell slammed shut the door. Amelia checked the action on her own rifle and followed. They moved by the meagre light thrown by the light of the lantern which Snell carried. The ship shifted beneath them as it rode a swell.