The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,21

tiller, planking for repairs in the forward port-side locker. Full set of charts in the nav station, Baltic to the Med, radio, lights, transponder.

‘No GPS, mind,’ said Punk. ‘I’m a bit of a purist that way. How’s your celestial navigation?’

‘Rusty. Sextant on board?’

‘Included in the price. That’s about all.’ Punk looked at Clay and held out his hand. They shook. Clay counted out the cash.

‘Oh, and one more thing,’ said Punk, shoving the wad of bills into his trouser pocket. He crouched down, reaching up and under the nav table. A teak panel swung open. ‘Priest hole.’

Clay peered inside. It was about the size of a kitchen freezer.

‘Me mate’s a master cabinet maker,’ said Punk, arms crossed, smiling with pride. ‘Join work is perfect. Completely invisible once it’s closed up. There’s an air vent to the outside, even a foam base for your arse.’ He looked Clay down and up. ‘Might be a little tight for you, mind. But you never know, do you?

Clay smiled. ‘You never do, broer.’

Punk reached into the compartment, withdrew a polished wooden instrument and closed the door. He stood for a moment looking down at the thing, a miniature guitar. He looked up at Clay and handed him the ukulele. ‘Nights can get long,’ he said with an oblique scowl, half grin, half frown. ‘Especially single-handed.’

‘I’m getting used to it.’

Punk grinned wide, pushed the ukulele into Clay’s hand. Like the rest of this place, the instrument gleamed as if it had been freshly, lovingly polished.

‘Play left-handed,’ Punk said. ‘Strum with your stump.’

Clay looked into Punk’s eyes and smiled.

‘Rhodesia?’ Punk said.

Clay shook his head.

‘When’d you leave South Africa?’

‘Eighty-three.’

Punk nodded, turned and climbed the companionway steps. Clay followed him up to the cockpit. Above decks, the wind had risen. Waves thudded against the hull. The rigging sang. A few drops of rain spattered the deck, dotted the murky water.

‘Look after her for me,’ Punk said with a catch in his voice as he clambered down into the dinghy. ‘She needs to get out, do what she was made for.’ He untied the line and started back to shore.

Clay stood a moment and watched Punk row for shore. He considered calling out, something about bringing Flame back to him, when this was all done, then thought better of it and turned away.

He jumped below, found the small jib bag and pushed it up through the forward hatch onto the foredeck. In a few minutes he had the foresail hanked on and ready to go, the sheets made good and lined back to the cockpit. He pulled off the main cover, attached the halyard, checked the main winch and made ready the unfamiliar mizzen. The engine started first go, that comforting diesel rattle, not fast, but could go all day. He walked forward, looking back towards Punk’s yard, the chimney of the cottage trailing a wisp of smoke, and let go the mooring buoy.

Soon Flame was motoring seaward, the estuary opening up broad and flat on both sides, the breakwater passing astern now, the breeze fresh in his face, the heads at Penlee looming to starboard, Haybrook bay to the east. The wind was strong but steady, eighteen knots by the anemometer, gusting twenty-five he guessed, the swell coming in strong now, Flame’s bow ploughing through the waves, the big, full keel steady and heavy, all that steel ballast holding her centre straight like a compass, a conviction.

Clear of land now, Lizard Head off distant to the west, the Spanish coast somewhere over the horizon, through the black clouds and the grey sea, five hundred nautical miles distant. If he pushed, with a bit of luck and a following wind, he could be in Santander in four days.

And somewhere out there, another thousand miles away again, across yet more sea, mountains, coastlines and frontiers, Rania.

By noon, Flame was foaming along at ten knots under foresail, reefed mainsail and mizzen in a force four westerly. Clay made west as hard as he could, knowing that, in the northern hemisphere, the wind would back as the storm moved south. He was making good time. The weather had closed in, the clouds close and heavy, visibility still reasonable. Just after one, a small freighter appeared then tracked away off to the north, heading for the coast. He had long since lost sight of land.

Trimmed up, the wheel lashed, Flame heeling nicely, he moved around the cabin, stowing his few things in the priesthole – the money, the guns and ammunition, all sealed