The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,23

winds force five gusting to six or seven, seas four to six metres. Jesus. He’d never been in anything like this before. But there was no question of running for shelter. As Punk had said, it was all in motion now. He would head straight for the storm, lose himself in the heart of the depression, dare the bastards to follow him in. Clay looked at the chart, up at the barometer. Nine hundred and ninety-two, a fall of nine millibars in three hours. It was coming, fast and furious, and he was riding its whip edge. Time to dive in. Just try to catch me.

Clay set about preparing. He found the kettle, half-filled it with water, fired up the stove and clamped the kettle down tight on the burner. The stove swung on its gimbals, the kettle perfectly happy despite Flame’s corkscrewing shimmy. He broke out a tin of beans, dumped them into a saucepan on the second burner then opened a can of sardines and dropped two of the salty darts into his mouth. He drank a litre of water, the taste clean aluminium. With the food warming, he went forward and rummaged in the wet locker. Punk’s heavy-weather gear was two sizes too small. Clay found an old wool sweater and pulled it over his head, tore the cuffs of the oilskin jacket up to the elbows along the seam and stuffed himself into it. He was too broad. It wouldn’t close across the chest. He found a pair of fingerless wool gloves, pulled on the right one, threw the left back into the locker and donned a black wool skullcap. It wasn’t going to keep him dry, but it was the best he could do. It would get cold in there.

Soon the beans were steaming. He gulped them down straight from the pan with the rest of the sardines, poured the hot water into a steel thermos and sanded in a handful of instant coffee and a slug of sugar. He stowed the pot and kettle, stuffed a handful of muesli bars into his jacket pocket, wedged the ukulele tight between the settee cushions and climbed above deck.

Coming out of the warmth and relative peace of the cabin into the fury of the rising storm was like waking up to a firefight, an awakening as rude as birth. His stomach lurching, more from fear than the increasingly violent motion, Clay stashed the thermos in the small aft locker, checked the compass, his watch, and looked up at the rigging, the too-dark sky close, boiling. He had too much sail up.

It took him the best part of half an hour to put another reef in the main, shorten the mizzen, hank on and raise the storm jib, everything so much more difficult with just four fingers and one thumb. Then he brought Flame’s bow reluctantly to wind and set course for Ushant and the dark eye of the storm.

As the depression tracked south and east, the wind backed, pushing Flame along in rising seas. Night fell, cold and brutal. By 21.00 the barometer had fallen another seven millibars. Clay estimated the winds at force five, howling through the taut rigging like wounded jackals. By 22.30 he had to douse the main, fighting with the flapping canvas as Flame pitched and yawed in a universe that seemed to have no end and no beginning. Punk was right. She was a strong little boat, this thirty-two feet of teak and brass, surfing the frothing wavetops, grinding through the black troughs.

Just after midnight he caught a glimpse of lights somewhere off his starboard bow, a freighter perhaps, steaming south. He watched it a moment, imagining the well-lit bridge, warm and dry inside, the comforting rumble of the big engines underfoot, and then it was gone. Under storm jib and mizzen trysail, Flame hurtled into the depression. With the glass at 993 and falling, Clay closed up the hatch, took the wheel and tied himself into the cockpit.

By 0300 hours, the last of the coffee gone, Flame was reaching in heavy quartering seas. Clay’s arms and shoulders ached with the continuous effort of keeping Flame on some sort of course. The wind seemed to have stabilised at something like force five, a deafening, almost human cry. Even under shortened sail, they were making ten knots, maybe more. With only the dull phosphorescent glow of the compass to guide them, they rode the contours of the storm. Clay peered out into the