Bring your own food and booze, cos I run no gin palace.’
Morgan said: ‘Can you get me and my wife to Saint Vincent tonight?’
‘Nope. Because I won’t be back by dawn to pick up my party.’
‘Six hundred dollars, to forget your party.’
‘Nope. Big King’s got a reputation to maintain.’
‘How much?’
‘Nope. There’s plenty of boats who’ll take you but they’ll cost you plenty more than six hundred bucks if you’re running grass.’
‘We’ll be carrying no drugs. You can search us.’
‘Yeah? – you going to let me look up your wife’s vagina? You can carry a lot of cocaine up there, in a condom. Sorry, mister, I got a party anyways.’
Morgan said, ‘Okay, Mr King, I’m sorry but it looks like we’re going to do this the hard way.’ He pulled out the gun.
He felt shaky. It was the first time he had ever used a gun unlawfully. ‘Start your engines and pull up your anchor, please.’
The Kingfisher chugged out of the harbour, into the small swells. Big King sat at the helm, big and sweaty, with a face like thunder. Morgan stood behind him. This had been so easy so far he desperately regretted not having brought Anna with him in the first place. He said: ‘Turn along the coast. Top speed.’
Big King said, ‘Jesus, you could have got a dozen guys to do this voluntary. What happens up the coast?’
‘You’re going to anchor while I fetch my wife.’ He could see Big King’s mind working on that one. ‘I’m going to tie you up while I do that, Mr King. I’m sorry to have to do this. I wish you were doing it voluntarily.’
Big King growled, ‘Okay, so I’ll do it voluntary.’
‘Too late, Mr King, I don’t trust you now.’
‘Jesus,’ Big King said. ‘The pot calling the kettle black.’
Morgan smiled, despite himself. It seemed the first time he had smiled in years.
The trees were silhouetted against the lamplights on the coast road, the houses twinkling between them. But the beach looked empty. When they were three hundred yards offshore, Morgan said: ‘Okay, douse your lights. Then drop the anchor.’
Big King put the engines into neutral. ‘Why don’t you drop the fuckin’ anchor? …’ He clambered along the gunnel, to the bows. He let the anchor go, with a splash. He came clambering back sullenly. ‘Now what, Admiral?’
‘Lie down, please. On your stomach.’
Big King muttered, ‘You not one of those, too, are you?’ But he lowered himself.
‘Hands together behind your back, please.’ Big King groaned and obeyed. Morgan pocketed the pistol. ‘Now, if you try anything funny it’s going to hurt. You, not me.’
He lashed Big King’s wrists together feverishly, then ran the rope down to his ankles. He lashed them together. Big King said bitterly, ‘Don’t cut the rope, it’s good rope.’
Morgan hurried to the locker, and snatched out a flag. It was American.
‘Open wide.’
‘Look,’ Big King moaned. ‘I won’t holler. Nobody’ll hear me, anyways.’
‘Open.’
‘Oh, shit …’
Morgan bound the gag around Big King’s bristly mouth.
He turned and hurried to the stern. He pulled the dinghy alongside and clambered down into it. He untied the painter, grabbed the oars and started rowing hard.
He feverishly pulled the dinghy up onto the sand. The dark beach seemed deserted.
He ran through the palms. To the road at the side of the consular residence. There was nobody to be seen. He took a run at the wall, and swung himself up.
He dropped into the dark garden below. He crouched, panting, peering.
There was no light in the consul’s study. He slipped through the trees, down the side of the house. His heart was knocking. He came opposite Anna’s window. He took a pebble out of his pocket. He carefully threw it against the window.
She appeared immediately, her face white. She opened the window. She swung her leg over the sill, then the other, clutching the bag. For a moment she sat, then she jumped.
She hit the grass, her knees bent, and she rolled. She scrambled up and ran into the darkness of the trees. Morgan grabbed her hand.
He leant against the wall, and laced his hands together. She put her foot into his hands, and she sprang. She clambered up on top of the wall; then she disappeared. Morgan jumped, and grabbed the top. He swung his leg up, and rolled over.
‘Walk naturally.’
He gripped her hand. It was clammy. She walked erect, her heart pounding, looking to neither left nor right. Ahead were the palms of the beach.
‘Now run!’
They ran through the dark palms. They came out onto the beach, panting. Out there was the unlit shape of the Kingfisher. They ran along the beach, to the dinghy. Morgan grabbed the painter and went splashing out into the sea.
‘Jump in.’
She splashed out to it, and clambered in. He climbed aboard, snatched up the oars and started to row.
She clambered shakily aboard the launch. Big King glowered at her from his horizontal position, bulging-eyed.
Morgan hurried to the wheel and started the engines. His hands were trembly. Then he clambered up to the bows. He heaved up the anchor, hand over hand. He lashed it down then came scrambling back to the wheelhouse. He put the engines into gear and opened the throttles. The boat eased forward, doem – doem – doem.
‘Take the wheel.’
She took it. Her face was gaunt in the glow of the instrument panel. Morgan snatched up a chart, and looked at it. Then grabbed the parallel rulers. He marked off a course for Venezuela.
‘Three-zero-five.’
He took back the helm and swung the boat onto the course. Then gave the helm back to her.
He looked behind, at the land. His mouth was dry.
There was not a sign of movement. He sighed out. They had made it . . . For a moment he felt euphoric. He turned and went back to Big King.
He squatted beside him. ‘Now, Mr King, are we going to be friends?’
Big King gargled into his gag and rolled his eye at him.
Morgan
