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As they get nearer, Cyrus helps Angus to climb the ladder, pushing as the old man pulls. Bedraggled and exhausted, Angus collapses onto the deck, rolling onto his side, coughing and spluttering. Water gushes from his mouth and nose and he sucks at the air and coughs again.
I wait for Cyrus to come up the ladder. The old man reaches over the side, offering his hand.
‘Leave him,’ says Radford.
‘He saved your life.’
‘I was fine.’
The old man pulls up the ladder. I point the shotgun at Radford’s chest. ‘Save him, or I kill you now.’
Angus blinks at me through the seawater dripping from his hair. ‘Know how to use that?’ he asks.
‘I’ll pull the trigger and find out.’
He slowly sits up, leaning against the bench seat.
‘No further,’ I say.
‘What’s yer name again?’ he asks.
‘Evie.’
‘That wasn’t always your name.’
‘Adina.’
‘Yeah, that’s right, I remember now. Yer sister talked about you a lot.’
I motion to the old man. ‘Lower the ladder.’
‘No,’ says Angus. ‘That’s a single-barrel, twelve-gauge shotgun. One shell. One shot. She cannae stop both of us.’
‘I don’t have to stop both of you,’ I say, raising the gun to my shoulder and pointing it at his chest.
‘Yer won’t do it,’ he says, feeling in his pocket for his hip flask and realising that it’s lost somewhere in the sea.
‘Give me tha’ gun, lassie,’ says the old man, stepping nearer.
I swing the barrel towards him and back to his son. My finger twitches on the trigger.
‘Help me!’ yells Cyrus.
‘Give me the gun, and we’ll lower the ladder,’ says the old man. He’s telling the truth, but they’re going to kill us anyway.
Trying to take the tremor out of my voice, I focus on Angus Radford, hating him with every sinew and fibre of my being. ‘I know you plan on killing us today, but I promise you one thing,’ I say.
‘And what’s that?’
‘You’re going to die first.’
I pull the trigger and his face dissolves into a bloody pulp that wipes away his crooked grin and his scarred face and his cruel eyes. For a moment, he stays where he is, sitting upright, but slowly he topples sideways to the deck, gasping shallowly.
The old man is staring at me in disbelief, his mouth open, a cry lodged in his throat. Suddenly, he finds his voice, screaming in rage and charging at me. I duck his arms and use the shotgun as a club, but it bounces off his shoulder and I lose my grip. It slides away from me. He comes again and I scramble away, trying to reach the ladder. The deck is slick with blood, and I seem to be running on the spot, getting nowhere.
Hands pull me back from the ladder. Close around my neck.
‘That’s enough,’ says a new voice, yelling above the pock pock of a different engine.
