Contents (48)
- PAST LIFE
- David Mark
- PART ONE
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- PART TWO
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
McAvoy wishes he’d left Kincaid back at the boathouse but he couldn’t be sure he would do what McAvoy asked. Couldn’t be sure he would keep his mouth shut for long enough for Aector to try and recover his son his own way.
‘Just do me in,’ growls Kincaid, wiping his mouth. ‘Kill me now.’
McAvoy reaches past him. Takes a hammer, and a length of cord from the box. Grabs two long white tubes and stuffs them into the waist of his trousers. Nods his thanks to Barrington.
‘Are they fucking flares?’ yells Kincaid. ‘What good are they? Look, McAvoy, this isn’t right, mate – you’re just going to get killed, and me killed, and your boy killed, and that’s if he’s still alive to begin with …’
McAvoy takes him by the lapels and hauls him close. Looks deep into his eyes. Places one big hand on his wet face and shoves him down to the deck. Shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, my boy’s alive.’
Behind him, Barrington kills the engine.
‘Tide will take us from here,’ he says. ‘Your man – he’ll have been tired if he paddled out against that tide, especially if he had, erm … cargo.’
McAvoy nods. He’s already made the calculations. He knows they can’t be far behind their quarry. Prays to God that whatever is in store for Fin, it will not have begun in earnest.
The fort looms ahead: all rusty metal and slimy concrete, rising from the water like the lair of a Bond villain. It’s circular, rusting steel plates and reinforced concrete, rivets seaming every panel, bleeding rust like weeping bullet holes.
‘There’s no ladder down,’ says Barrington, quietly. ‘Water should be high enough, but you’re going to have a bitch of a time getting up …’
McAvoy nods. Looks down to Kincaid still sprawled on the deck. ‘You go back with him,’ he says, softly. ‘Go to the nearest lifeboat station. By the time you get there, this will either be done or it won’t be. I was never going to make you come with me. Thank you for telling me what you have. I hope that whatever comes next, you’ll remember that I did my best.’
Barrington looks up, confused. Flinches, as the craft drifts under the base of the fort. Looks back to McAvoy. ‘No, seriously, you can’t …’
McAvoy reaches up. Grabs the rusting metal that encircles the first concrete strut. Feels the sharp steel puncture his palm, opening the wound in his skin. Heaves himself upwards.
Begins to climb.
THIRTY-FIVE
The darkness is assembling itself into patterns now. Shapes. The ink-dark patch of nothingness in the top left corner of his vision is becoming a rectangle. Ahead, the pitch dark is glinting, as if some distant light were striking metal. Below, somewhere near his face, the night-time black is becoming great wormy coils of damp rope.
Fin McAvoy feels a weariness in every part of him. Has never been more aware of himself. He is hot with pain: glowing needles in every patch of fleshy softness; brutally cold pliers twisting at the places where his bones don’t quite meet. He knows terror, suddenly. Knows true fear as if the monsters in his nightmares have followed him into wakefulness.