I pull my hands behind me into pretty much the position he’d taped them and kick my legs to keep my head above water. Surprise my only weapon.
As his flashlight picks me out, I whip my head away from him to hide the lack of tape over my mouth. I kick harder to make him think I’m trying to escape.
The boat alters course and he cuts the engine. It’s a good sign.
If he’d been intending to run me down and let the propeller savage me I would be done for. For the first time, I’m glad of his earlier boasts. He’s planned for me to drown and I know how important his plans are to him.
This is what my whole plan of defence and attack is based on – his adherence to his methods. The earlier admission he’d wanted a more painful death for me was a signal of his self-imposed protocols.
His choice of death for me has been preordained and he won’t deviate, regardless of how much he wants to.
Either he will use the boathook to hold me under the surface, or he’d join me in the water and use his bare hands to finish the job.
Both options give me a glimmer of a chance.
I keep my mouth in the water and breathe through my nose. My legs kick a steady enough beat for me to retain my position. Taking care not to look directly at the flashlight, I watch his approach.
A gust of wind several thousand feet above us moves a cloud enough for the moon to backlight the boat with an ethereal glow. Norm’s body is silhouetted against the sky. So is the boathook in his other hand, the curved lug distinctive against the sky.
The bulk of the boat drifts closer until Norm is above me.
His torch is dropped into the basin of the boat as the boathook upends and comes down. He’s aiming the tip towards the crook of my neck.
There’s no hurry to his movements. He’s being slow and deliberate, intending to draw out my suffering.
I let the rubberised tip find its mark.
When it does, I kick harder so he has to use more force.
The pressure increases on my shoulder until I feel myself being driven under the surface. Once my head is submerged, I stop kicking and grasp the boathook with my hands. Jerking it to one side, I haul with everything I have. My body soars upwards with the change in thrust and my head breaks the surface.
Norm lets go before he’s dragged into the water, but I’ve got him off balance. His arms windmill as he tries to retain his equilibrium.
The water doesn’t let me swing as hard as I’d like, but my aim is good.
The wooden pole hits him on the side of the kneecap, the blow enough to finish what the yank started. He topples into the water with a violent roar.
I take the chance to fill my lungs as I spin the boathook round so I can hit him with the business end. My fear of water has been dispersed by the fiery MacDonald blood surging through my veins.
Trained Marine or not, right now I’m fancying my chances.
My legs’ rhythmic kicking keeps my head above the water as I wait for him to surface.
He doesn’t.
Instead I feel strong hands grab my waistband.
There’s no time to grab another breath before he drags me under. The wooden boathook in my hands pulls upwards towards the surface.
I have to choose between having a weapon or two hands to fight him with.
Fingers grasp at my throat.
Instinct makes me release the boathook.
I scrabble at his hands as the pressure on my throat increases.
My fingers find and isolate his pinkie. A sharp tug back breaks it. The hand around my throat doesn’t loosen, so I move on to his ring finger.
It takes a firmer jerk to break it, but I don’t stop there. I keep pulling as his hand slips from my throat.
Extending my hands, I reach for his face.
After showing him how to defend against strangulation, I’m not stupid enough to go for his throat.
My thumbs find his eyes, but he shoves me away before I can put any force behind them.
I thrash upwards and bang my head against the boathook as I surface. My fingers grasp it as I peer into the blackness searching for Norm.
He’s a few feet away. I think about taking a swing at his head but he’s out of reach.
He ducks under the surface after drawing in a rasping breath.
Expecting another attack, I pull the boathook into a vertical position with the curved lug pointing down.
Nothing happens. There’s no pulling on my legs, no stiletto piercing my skin.
I listen for him splashing, in the hope he’s given up and is swimming away. I’m just starting to believe he has, when I feel the water behind me swirl and an arm snaking round my throat.
He isn’t trying to choke me. Rather than pulling me back against him, he’s leaning forward using his weight to push my face into the water.
A knot of muscle pressing against my left cheek tells me which arm he’s using. This knowledge lets me know where his face is.
I tilt the boathook as I straighten my arms.
Thrusting backwards with every last morsel of strength, I drive the boathook into his face. There’s a sudden halt to its momentum so I repeat the blow a second and third time.
The arm leaves my neck and I kick my way towards some precious air.
As I fill my lungs, I turn to see him thrashing in the water. He has both hands pressed against his face. There are unintelligible screams of pain and frustration coming from him.
Whatever damage I’ve done to his face gives me enough of a distraction to do one of two things.
I can make my way to the boat and escape to summon help to round him up. Or I can raise the boathook above my head and save the taxpayer an expensive trial.
There’s no real decision to be made. If I leave him here, there’s a chance he will make it to shore and evade capture.
He may take a while to heal, but one day soon, he’ll be ready to kill again. I can’t allow that.
Taking a careful aim, I slam the lug of the boathook into his temple. It doesn’t just collide – it penetrates. His contortions slow to a judder then stop.
The only movements he’s making are caused by my efforts to free the boathook.
Pulling him towards me, I place my hands on his shoulders and push down.
I start to count. It’s a slow count, which may be out by thirty seconds either way.
It doesn’t matter how accurate I am. Six minutes under the surface with a crushed temple will make sure this ends tonight.
When I reach three sixty, I let go and allow him to drift face down. I’m certain he’s dead by the way his limbs hang low in the water.
I turn my head, locate his boat and set off in the worst backstroke known to man.
THE END
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