Bàn

A Novel by Alastair Sim

© Alastair Sim, December 2004

[Context: Eilean Bàn seems idyllic to vistors and incomers, but only a few people know the island's economy is powered by its role in importing drugs.]

Chapter 6

Rory wouldn't have done it except for the money. It was a straight £200 cash every time he went out on one of these trips. After this trip he'd have enough money to buy the old Opel Manta he'd had his eye on at Mackays Motors. It had the full spoiler kit and low-profile tyres, and once he had wheels Fiona was bound to want to go out with him.

He felt bloody silly going out to sea with an IRA-style black balaclava on, but that was the rule. No-one involved in the operation was allowed to know who anyone else was, so Rory had a balaclava on and the lads at Carsaig quay who he'd deliver the stuff to would have their faces covered too. There was reason enough for secrecy, but a balaclava wasn't going to do that much for him since if anyone saw the 'Mary-Anne' they'd know perfectly well that either Rory or his dad was out in it.

If he'd just been going out to lift creels for lobsters or velvet crabs he probably wouldn't bother going out on a night like this. There was a fair swell and the wind was about force 4 and freshening. You didn't want much more than that if you were taking a 20' fibreglass creeler into open waters. Visibility would be all right by the standards of night fishing expeditions, though - there was still a hint of twilight in the west and a clear sky with strong moonlight. For £200 cash in hand it was worth putting up with a bit of choppiness.

He cast off from the pier at Portmore. Even if anyone had noticed him leaving, they wouldn't think anything of it. On a clear night like this there was no reason why he shouldn't go out and check his creels.

The water was quiet enough until he rounded the lighthouse point at the north end of the harbour. Then the swell caught the boat beam-on as Rory turned to starboard to head towards the Aros peninsula. The boat heeled until the starboard gunwhale was only three or four inches from the water. In the little wheelhouse at the front of the boat Rory turned the wheel hard to port and pointed the bows into the waves.

As long as he didn't spend too much time beam-on there shouldn't be a problem with the weather. He could motor round Aros alternately pointing into the swell and then tacking so that the swell was behind the stern. He'd been out in plenty worse. It was actually quite fun powering into the waves - the little boat would climb the face of the wave, the bow rising out of the water until the forward view was practically obscured, then it would race down the windward side of the wave, leaving Rory's stomach behind, until the bow crashed into the face of the next one and the whole thing started again. You'd normally have to pay to get that sort of thrill.

It took Rory about 40 minutes to motor round to the north side of Aros. The forested land was dark to his right hand side, without a single light visible. To his left, the last embers of light in the west cast a line of turquoise phosphorescence over the dark sea.

At last he could see the little skerries which lay about half a mile off the Aros shore, unmarked by any beacon but far enough away from the main navigation channel towards Loch Linnhe that only a drunken or truly inept navigator would run aground on them. That hadn't prevented the occasional collision, and the broken-backed remains of a Clyde puffer still rested on the largest skerry, Sgeirean a'Chaisteil.

He took the boat round the seaward side of the skerries and turned into their lee. He could make out the outline of hauled-out seals on the rocks, staring at him curiously. The swell here was a little easier because the waves had been broken by the little islands. There was still at least three feet of peak and trough, though, which made it just that bit more difficult to work out where the buoys were when they disappeared into a trough.

No-one would have guessed that the orange plastic buoys marked anything other than the location of creels on the sea bed. Rory had not been told who had deposited the packages on the sea bed, but they could have been dumped by a yacht or a trawler. He knew it was best not to ask too much, and he'd never even met the guy who'd asked him to do this work - he just got phone calls, did what he was told, delivered the goods, and £200 in cash would come through his letterbox in an envelope the next night.

The creeler had a winch at the stern - that was probably why the 'Mary-Anne' had been chosen for this work since the packages were heavy enough that winching from the side could have risked heeling a boat over in a moderately heavy sea. Rory turned the boat so that the first buoy could be winched over the stern. He leant over the gunwhale and grabbed the buoy, hooking the cable underneath onto the winch. He pressed the on-switch of the winch and the seventy feet of cable started to wind in. As it did so, the boat started to turn anti-clockwise in the wind and while the winch was working Rory nipped forward to the wheelhouse, gave a quick pulse of the engine, turned the boat so it was stern-on to the line again and motored astern a couple of yards to resume his original position. Taking the creels in was normally a two-person job, with one man hauling them in and another man emptying them, re-baiting them and controlling the boat as necessary, but whoever was paying for these trips obviously wanted to involve as few people as possible and Rory would just have to do his best.

The package, triple-wrapped in waterproof plastic, must have weighed about a hundredweight - about a two large sacks of potatoes. As it came out of the surface it lost all the buoyancy support which the water had contributed, and the entire weight pulled on the boat, dragging the stern down by eight inches. Rory swung it round quickly to minimise the time when it was destabilising the boat, and placed it in the middle of the deck to keep the boat's trim. He motored on thirty feet to the next buoy and repeated the operation, running between the winch and the controls to keep the boat steady.

Whoever was running the operation was getting greedy. The packages were definitely getting bigger, and their effect on the boat's stability was becoming noticeable. Creelers weren't designed for heavy loads - the creels weighed only a few pounds each and the target prey was high-value low-weight stuff. Only having one crew member on board saved a lot of weight, but if the 'Mary Anne' was going to have to carry four or five heavy packages Rory would have to think again about putting to sea in a stiffening breeze.

By the time he was hauling the fourth package the boat was sitting several inches lower in the water and, as the wind whipped up and the swell rose, he was having to leave the winch and take the boat's controls more and more often, unable to help guide the cable.

Suddenly the cable stopped winding. Rory rushed back from the cabin to the stern and found the cable pulled tight and immobile, with the package still underwater. That probably meant that while he was manoeuvring the cable had become fouled on the rudder or the propellor . If it was the propellor he could be stuck here for a fair while.

He leant over the stern, holding the taut cable in his right hand to help him lean over as far as possible. He shook the cable with his left hand below the water, to try and get a feel for what was obstructing it.

To his surprise the cable came loose - in his manoeuverings the package must just have lodged under the boat. The clutch of the winch re-engaged and before his reflexes could engage his right hand was pulled up between the cable and the roller at the top of the winch derrick.

Before he could react the clutch sensed the obstruction and disengaged. But Rory knew his hand was irrevocably jammed between the roller and the cable, held taut by forty kilograms of whatever drug it was he was hauling up from the seabed. He screamed and retched with pain and his vision went fuzzy with pain and shock. He could already feel hot blood running down his arm and an agony of crushed flesh and bone. He dared not look at whatever mess his hand had been torn into but if he could at least lever himself back inboard with his left hand, and not pass out while doing so, he had a chance of making a rational decision about how to get out of this.

At least he had a machete in his belt. It might not cut through the steel cable the drugs were attached to - and with his arm trapped he couldn't get the wire cutters from the toolkit in the cabin locker - but if he had to he'd cut his hand off to survive. It was obviously mince already. He didn't know whether he could actually bring himself to cut his own hand off, or whether he could survive that, but he wasn't going to die without trying to save himself, even if Fiona might not be interested in a one-handed man.

He levered himself up with his left hand, crying with pain but determined not to give up. As he pushed himself up the boat was turned anti-clockwise by the wind and the stiffening swell. It was drifting steadily away from the skerries, watched by the indifferent seals. The boat was low in the water and stern-heavy already and as he struggled water started to pour in over the port corner of the stern. The corner sunk further and as it did the water gushed uncontrollably and the little boat started to heel over onto its port side. Rory was hauled round by his right arm then hauled under as the 'Mary-Anne' capsized.

As he was pulled under the chill water he gasped for breath but a rising wave engulfed him and he inhaled a lungful of water. He tried to exhale it and inhale again, but there was only salt water to breathe. He struggled blindly to find the air pocket underneath the capsized hull, but his chest was tightening and his energy was ebbing. He felt like iron bars were constricting his rib cage until the pressure became unbearable and his chest was imploding. Suddenly when the pain had reached a level he'd never imagined possible it went, and he was embraced by a drowsy peacefulness.

Random images passed through his mind - his first fishing trip with his father as a tiny child, the first time he'd seen Fiona, the Opel Manta of his dreams with all its accessories. Everything he'd done, and everyone he'd met, seemed benign and smiling. As they said their goodbyes Rory knew that he was surrounded by love and had nothing to fear. He slipped smilingly out of this world into death.