his life for. It was still on the end of the last rope; the rope had saved it. We all stared at it, with very mixed feelings. I think, left to myself, I would have left it there. But one of the students said, ‘We might as well have it. Rory will want to see it, when he comes out of hospital.’
‘C’mon, lads, one last heave-ho for good old Rory.’
Two of them approached it along the ladders, very cautiously. They guided it with their outstretched hands, while the rest of us pulled. Then, when it finally reached the dried-out mud, six of them went out, put it on their shoulders, and carried it to shore.
Was it only me that thought they looked like pallbearers with a coffin?
But of course, close-to, it was nothing like a coffin. Coffins don’t have single masts at the front, and propellers at the stern. Keep hold of your sick imagination, Morgan!
And so they carried it into my workshop and laid it on two trestles. And then discovered it was nearly six o’clock and as somebody said wryly, ‘Doesn’t time pass quickly when you’re enjoying yourself?’
So they all dispersed, longing for showers, and vowing to ring up the hospital to find out how good old Rory was. Left alone, I gave the thing one look and shivered. I locked up, saying it could wait till I’d had a good night’s sleep.
I did not have a good night’s sleep. I had nightmares, and wakened sweating a dozen times.
But, oddly, not nightmares about mud or death, or poor old Rory choking under the slime.
No: nightmares about Hermione Studdart, who I was pursuing through a dark wood.
Hermione Studdart, who I was going to rape. And kill.
Chapter 8
I was a long time getting up next morning. I went and got a mug of coffee and smoked several fags, sitting on my bed and rubbing my eyes and scratching my head and surveying parts of my body I was not very satisfied with, in the hopeless hope that they had mysteriously improved overnight. The nightmares were very hard to shake off. They shocked me, and horrified me, and yet I kept on coming back to them, like your tongue does to the gap when you’ve had a tooth out. I mean, I’d never even considered rape, in all my life. I like women. And I’ve always thought that what is not freely given by them is of no value anyway. Seducers are not usually rapists; different breed. And yet the feminists say all men are rapists at heart . . .
Finally I came to the conclusion that if I didn’t make a real effort to get moving, I’d sit there all day. Normally I find that each thing I do, washing, shaving, even putting on my wristwatch, jerks me a little nearer to coping with the day. But not that morning. The temptingly terrified fleeing ghost of Hermione was with me in the bathroom, over breakfast . . .
Oh, for God’s sake get among some real people, Morgan!
I decided to drop in to the Duke of Portland. It was always rather nice and quiet, before the pre-lunch mob dropped in. I’d buy an Observer on the way and . . .
Mossy Hughes saw me the moment I poked my head round the swing-door.
‘Mr Morgan. What you havin’? Guinness Bitter, innit?’ He smiled, pleased with himself for remembering. Fetched the two pints to a sunlit corner-table.
‘Can’t beat Sunday, can you, Mr Morgan? Day o’ rest. Good enough for Gawd, good enough for me, is what I say.’
‘Very true, Mossy,’ I said, as solemnly as if I was in church. While the ghost of Hermione Studdart shrank back in pleading terror as her blouse tore beneath my hand. Still, it was fading now, thank God. Another five minutes, I’d be rid of it. I hoped I could keep my conversation sensible until then.
‘You get that boat OK, Mr Morgan?’
‘Yes . . . thanks. He brought me two more from the same place. A tug and a lightship. They must have belonged to Tony Tanner too. I gave him a fair price . . .’
‘Oh, he did, did he? Just forgot to tell me about it! I’ll have a word wi’ that young man! He’s a bit too fond of making a bit on the side!’
‘Well . . .’ I hesitated. I did not want to make trouble, but . . .
‘Been up to something else, has he?’
I told him about the tat.
‘You didn’t