High Water (1959) (31 page)
At that moment, the gun in Vivian’s hand came to life. There was a soft hiss, followed by a dull thud, and he felt the handle wrench itself from his grasp.
He squinted his eyes to shield them from the small island of fire which blossomed out of the middle of the placid water. It was bright enough to dull the sun’s rays, and the heat scorched his cheek, as the faulty flare changed Lang’s dinghy into a raging inferno. Dimly Vivian heard Lang’s screams, and saw the heavy shape, with tongues of flame licking from his legs, jump wildly into the water. The plump hands thrashed the water into a white froth, the upturned face was empurpled with fear, as the gaping mouth choked and gurgled at the sky.
Vivian watched Lang’s crazed efforts in a sort of detached wonder, as with one last, piercing cry, the face sank below the water, the shape becoming an indistinct, pink blob, and finally disappearing completely.
Vivian knew the answer to many things; he knew, for instance, that Lang had died of greed. Dragged to the bottom by the plates he had cherished above all other loyalties, even love.
Vivian’s arm slipped from the scuttle, and he fell headlong on to the settee.
He had won his battle. He didn’t try to fight the tide of darkness which closed him in its cloak, nor did he hear the screech of metal, as the powerful launch ground alongside decanting its cargo of blue-uniformed figures on to the sinking yacht’s deck.
Philip Vivian was at peace with his conscience.
EPILOGUE
ONLY A FEW
people braved the cold, Atlantic wind which swirled the pieces of paper from the streets and sent the lonely seagulls squawking angrily from their perches. The windows of the hotels stared blankly at the tossing white-horses across the bay, adding to their general air of emptiness and desolation.
The boats in Torquay harbour huddled together at their moorings, as if for comfort, while the uneasy stir of the waves made their masts spiral and bob in miserable harmony. Everywhere, the covers were on, the unnecessary gear stowed away, to await another season, which now seemed a long way away.
Only one boat in the harbour looked fresh, and completely at home in the grey surroundings. She lay alongside the lower jetty, rolling easily, contemptuous of the wind and the weather. Old Arthur Harrap took a last look round and nodded, apparently satisfied with his work, and thoughtfully shook the deck mop over the side. He smiled quietly, as a big black-and-white cat rubbed itself round his legs, purring noisily.
‘Glad to ’ave yer ’ome back, are yer?’ he wheezed. ‘Won’t be long now, I reckon.’
He squinted his watery eyes along the jetty, as a taxi pulled up with a jerk. He watched them narrowly, as they walked slowly down the stone steps.
He was looking paler, and carried his arm in a sling. And she, well, he shook his head in admiration. He gave the cat another pat, and slipped quietly over the rail of the yacht, hunching his shoulders to meet the wind.
As his steps rang out on the stonework, he was whistling softly. He’d go back later, when they’d settled down.
After all, he reflected, they were in love.
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781448107599
First published by Arrow Books in 1974
This edition published by Arrow Books in 2002
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Copyright © Douglas Reeman 1959
Douglas Reeman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 1959 by Hutchinson
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ISBN 0 09 907900 3
