Over we went on to our beam-ends, the outboard motor screaming as the screw found no water to bite, George dangling then vanishing overside amidst a raffle of canvas and cordage. In we drove to the murderous rock, beam on, until a fearful gnashing noise told us that the mast had gone and we felt our craft strike – not with a crash but a nasty, mushy sensation. Bubbles came up from where George must be. I seized an oar and fended us off as best I could; Sam grabbed the gutting-knife and slashed and hacked us free from the raffle of wreckage overside. We caught one glimpse of George, face up, an arm flailing, then the undertow seemed to catch him and he vanished under the boat. He reappeared after a minute, twenty feet to seaward, still with one arm thrashing the water; we ground against the rocks again and again. I fended us off with one oar. The motor coughed and died. Like the fools we were, none of us was wearing a life-jacket, nor was there visible a length of casting-line to throw to George. As I battled with the oar Sam crawled to the little forepeak and rummaged frantically, dragging out our dunnage in search of anything useful; then kneeling, frozen, staring at what he had ripped out of George’s sea-bag. It was a tight ball of cloth, wrapped about with ¼″ line. Sam raised this to his nose and made a face of loathing.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I screamed against the rising noise of wind and sea. He didn’t answer. He undid the parcel: it was a mackintosh, the cuffs and shoulders studded with nails. From it he drew a hideous rubber mask. He didn’t look at me; he wiped his fingers on a thwart and looked to where George had thrashed his way, one-armed, almost to the side of the boat. Sam took the other oar and slowly, as though carrying out some ritual gesture, raised it two-handed high above his head, blade upwards.

George had his good hand on the gunwale now and we could see a great flap of skin hanging from his scalp and the bloody ruin of his crushed arm. He looked at Sam. His hand left the gunwale and his face vanished. Sam threw the oar into the boat, then lurched aft to the motor. I fended off for dear life: our timbers couldn’t take much more punishment from those granite daggers. The engine roared into life; Sam revved it until it screamed and then suddenly we were in open water. I started to bail. Once, looking over my shoulder, I thought I saw something half a furlong away with an arm up-raised, but it was probably only a cormorant.

We were in sight of Ouaisné Bay before either of us said a word ‘I suppose he must be dead by now?’