Except Wildtrack II still threatened us. “Bastards are closing!” Terry shouted.
I’d deliberately put Sycorax head to wind, and close to the Calfstone, in the hope that Wildtrack II, emerging at speed from the river mouth, might run aground on the shoal. It was a slender hope, and one that failed. I twisted in the cockpit to watch the slinking powerboat. I did not think they were likely to ram us. Most likely Wildtrack II had been sent to follow Sycorax and to betray our final position so the bailiffs could find us. Bannister, I thought, would be remorseless in his revenge on me, just as Kassouli was remorseless in his revenge on Bannister.
The night was not my helper. The sky was clearing. Soon we would be thrashing west under moonlight and would be in full sight of Wildtrack II without a hope of losing the powerboat. I needed time to think. I also needed to be comfortable. I was wet through and shivering. Terry was in the same discomfort and I told him to go below and find some warm clothes.
“Some proper bloody food would help, boss.” I fell off the wind slightly to put the floodtide on the starboard bow. I saw how gracefully the rebuilt Sycorax took the seas. It was a promise of what she would do with the bigger seas that waited in the years ahead. I trimmed her, belayed the sheets and pegged the tiller. She could sail herself now until we had cleared the transit of Start Point and could turn due west again. It would be a long hard thrash until the current ebbed, but we had all night.
I fetched my monocular and trained it on Wildtrack II. It was hard to hold her in sight, and harder still to see who was on board. I could see three men. No Angela. I thought I saw a man with a bandaged face, who had to be Mulder. “Could that fellow you clobbered be walking by now?” I asked Terry.
“Bloody hell, yes.” Terry tossed me up a sweater and oilskin jacket. “I only tapped the fucker.”
I wondered if Mulder had brought his shotgun, but surely they would not plan murder? Then the thought occurred that if Kassouli was right, these men had already committed one murder at sea. I stared at the powerboat. It was taking the seas badly, rearing its slick hull high on the wavecrests, then slamming down in discomfort.
Would they try and end the discomfort by sinking Sycorax? I couldn’t lose the thought of the shotgun. “Terry?”
“Boss?”
“If you feel under the engine you’ll find a wooden box screwed to a frame on the starboard side. There’s a package in it. Can you get it?”
He lifted off the companion steps and I heard him grunt as he groped in the bilge’s darkness. “Jesus,” he said as he felt the shape of the package. “Is that the bloody Colt I kept for you?”
“I don’t want to use it, not unless I have to.”
“No, boss.” He sounded disappointed.
“But unwrap it. Then get some sleep.”
Wildtrack II was still holding her distance. There were two fishing boats in sight, and I wondered if their presence was inhibiting Mulder. The beam of the Start Point light slid across the sky. I was sailing south now, aiming to go outside the tidal race at the Point.
Wildtrack II was shadowing us. The powerboat was showing a white light at the top of its radar arch, another at its stern, and the proper red and green sidelights. My pursuers were letting me know where they were, and letting me know that I could not escape them.
They kept abreast of us for the three hours it took to claw past Start Point. There was a deeper swell offshore, and Sycorax seemed to revel in the longer, higher seas. She felt hard and good, well rigged and confident. But in the morning, I thought, just as soon as I put into shelter, Bannister’s lawyers would descend on her with a writ. I had no idea how such a process was initiated, or how it was fought; only that I would be damned if Bannister took my boat from me. I had a talent, I reflected bitterly, for the making of wealthy enemies. First Kassouli, now Bannister. And all I had tried to be was truthful.
Terry slept for an hour, then came blinking up into the moonlight.
“Still there?” he asked of Wildtrack II.
“Still there.” We were on a port tack now and the powerboat was further out to sea. She was probably using her radar to follow us, but Sycorax made a small target, I had no reflector hoisted, and there were fishing boats about to give confusing echoes, and so Wildtrack II was staying well within easy visual range. A container ship, brilliant with deck lights, steamed eastwards beyond her. I was certain now that Bannister only wanted to discover my destination, but I was determined to lose him. “I think,” I said slowly, “that it’s time to scare the fuckers off. I’m going to tack.” Terry handled the foresails’ sheets. Sycorax, never graceful in a tight turn, lurched round and settled on to the starboard tack. I let her off the wind, slackening the mainsheet into a broad reach so that we were running directly at our pursuers. “He’s going to try and avoid us, Terry, but he won’t really know what we’re doing. So be ready for some smart manoeuvres. And get the gun. You’ll need a couple of extra mags.”
He gave me a surprised glance, but said nothing. He fetched the Colt, came back to the cockpit, and worked a round into the breech.
“What we’re going to do,” I said, “is scare the bugger witless.
You’re not going for the crew, but for the boat. Aim for the waterline or the engines. If you think there’s the least danger of hitting any of the crew, don’t fire. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The “sir” was unconscious. He put the safety on, then thrust the pistol into a pocket of his oilskin jacket.
I used the monocular again, training it forward, and this time I clearly saw both Bannister and Mulder standing in the powerboat’s cockpit. They were staring at Sycorax, doubtless wondering just what we intended, then they must have decided that we meant no good, for I saw Bannister bend down to the throttles and the boat dipped its stern as she accelerated away.
“Tacking!” I shouted. We tacked. Terry sheeted the headsails across, we tightened up, and were clawing almost head into the wind. The breeze seemed stronger, slicing over the coachroof and bringing a sting of spray from the bows. “Watch the bugger for me, Terry!”
“He’s having a think, boss.”
Wildtrack II, having gone ahead of us, had now slowed again.
I felt the tremble of water under Sycorax’s hull. We pitched once and the bows slammed down with a thump which banged back through the boat’s skeleton. The waves were building. The wind was noisy in the rigging and was slatting the leading edges of the sails. I was pointing her up as much as I could, still aiming her bowsprit like a spear at Wildtrack II’s flank. “Where is he?”
“He’s putting his foot down.”
The powerboat, still puzzled by our behaviour, had accelerated again. She was going inshore of us now, perhaps planning to circle around to take position on our stern. I matched her move, spilling wind so that we were running north before the wind and banging into the cross seas. She was a hundred yards away, running across our bows, and I could see three faces staring from the cockpit.
“Turning to port,” I warned Terry. “Get ready to fire!” He brought out the gun and cradled it in two big and capable hands.
I turned back into the wind and hardened the sails. Now it looked as if we’d stopped playing games and resumed our westward progress. As I’d guessed and hoped, Wildtrack II also slowed. Her bows began to turn towards us. She was circling to follow us and, at its closest, her turn would bring her to within thirty paces. Long range for a Colt, but I wasn’t after pinpoint accuracy.