Cook kicked out, towards the giant. The man leant backwards, but Cook was aiming at his hand, holding the tiller handle. Cook gave the kick everything he had and he felt the man’s fingers crunch between the sole of his boot and the oak handle.
The giant pulled his hand, but Cook kept his boot pressed against it, pinning him in place.
‘Nice try,’ the other man said, pulling his gun out of his belt. He cocked the hammer and levelled the revolver at Cook, before realising the problem. If he fired from where he stood, he’d be shooting through the base of the ship.
Above them, the freighter was experiencing its own troubles. A porthole exploded, showering the men in the small boat with glass. The man with the gun looked up as a jet of flame burst out of the hole, then disappeared almost instantly, the flame sucked back in as the ship gasped in oxygen, through the broken window. There was a roar, then a moan of bending metal. Sounded like the whole ship was trying to fold in on itself.
Cook pulled his legs back and pressed them against the side of the boat. He leant forwards, like he was doing a sit-up, legs bent, muscles taut. Coiled, like a spring. He could see up to the main deck of the freighter. There was a sailor standing there. The sailor raised his hand. Looked like he was going to say something.
The flash of light was brighter than the sky. Brighter than anything. It was as if the sun itself had exploded, and everything was light.
Cook pushed his feet against the side of the boat and thrust himself backwards.
He went into the giant, his momentum carrying the two of them past the point of no return. Mission accomplished, Cook had time to think, as the giant went backwards over the side of the boat, Cook following him in. No control. Two bodies tangled, both panicking, Cook and the man falling into the brown water as above them the whole world turned into a ball of fire. The blast from the explosion swept across the surface of the water, and the keel of the boatdisappeared. The boat they’d been in only a second before suddenly didn’t exist.
Cook went under, his legs and hands tied, and the giant’s arms wrapped around his chest, scrabbling to push him down, to use him as some kind of ladder back to the surface, back to a chance of life.
Cook gasped, straining every muscle in his neck as he pushed his face to the surface. As a reward for his effort, he got a brief taste of oil and burning air, and a large gulp of water. He choked, but stopped himself. One more big gulp and his lungs would fill, and that would be it.
Cook was under no illusions. He was going to die. But at least he could take the other man with him. A man who trafficked in women, a murderer. Cook felt the man behind him and swung his elbow back, feeling it connect. The man backed away, and Cook turned around, grabbing him, looping his tied wrists over the man’s head, embracing him.
They were sinking. The light from the fire above was fading. Cook felt the pressure increase as the water pressed on him from every side. The giant was struggling with everything he had. He came at Cook with a head-butt, but the water slowed his action, dulled the effect.
Now it was simply a battle of wills. Cook’s will to die, taking the man with him, and the giant’s will to live. Cook had gravity on his side, and the weight of the water in their sodden clothes, pulling them ever downward. But most of all he had his will, which had never failed him, and would see him through this one last test.
The other man knew it. He gave his all to one last struggle, writhing like an eel. Cook brought a knee up, into his groin. The giant opened his mouth, a reflex action, a gasp. A stream of bubbles rose up, large, then small, then the bubbles stopped.
Cook tried to unwrap himself from the corpse, but his strength was gone, and his lungs were burning, and the desire to breathe in was everything.
It was the end.
86
Cook felt a searing pain in his scalp, his hair was being torn out at the roots. It cut through the numbing caused by the cold water, even cut through the desperate desire to open his mouth and gasp for air, even though he knew there was no air to be had.
But then he felt an arm under his shoulder. The tillerman, he assumed. The boat must have survived the blast.
‘He’s gone,’ he heard a voice say as he was dragged out of the water. More hands grabbed him and pulled him over the side.
It was a different boat. Similar smells of foul water and petrol, but a proper wooden deck. Cook rolled onto his stomach, and vomited what felt like ten pints of river water, again and again, until he was heaving with no result.
‘He’s tied up,’ someone said.
‘Untie him.’ Another voice. A voice of authority.
‘Looks like an execution.’
Cook felt his hands and feet being cut free and he rolled onto his back. Three fishermen looked down at him.
‘Were you on that boat just went up?’ one of them asked.
Cook tried to respond, but he couldn’t speak. He tried to get up, but his legs failed him. Instead, he lay on the wooden deck, looking up at the burning wreckage of theAddington Lass. A column of filthy black smoke poured into the sky. Two fireships already circled it, arcing jets of water into the flames.
87
Frankie didn’t have money for the train fare, but he reckoned he’d worked out how to avoid the conductor. Last time, with Cook, he’d watched the conductor doing his rounds – starting at the front of the train, then slowly walking through each carriage, punching tickets. Every stop, he had to leave off the ticket-punching and lean out the door, making sure everyone was all aboard before he blew his whistle to let the driver know it was safe to go.
So Frankie was in the middle carriage, towards the back of it. He’d kept an eye on the conductor, working his way along the corridor, popping into each compartment, the click of his ticket-puncher keeping everyone informed of his whereabouts.
