Something powerful is drawing Ward back to Devil's Island. Something he thought he had forgotten. He must evade vicious lighthouse keeper George Jaggles in order to rescue it, but Jaggles will soon be the least of his worries. Because an assassin is...
He gave one last, desperate kick, and felt his hand breach the surface. He burst out into the night air with a gasp, his heart hammering. He cried then, with fear and relief. He didn't care about the Brother anymore – all that mattered was that there was air filling his lungs. He sucked it in and breathed it back out in great racking sobs. Death had been so close.
He remained there, treading water, bobbing like a cork, until his terror abated. Then he looked about the surface for signs of the Brother. Nothing. As he had floated there the gentle swell had been pushing him imperceptibly back towards the rocks, but also southwards, and when he did finally look up at the shore he realised he had been washed around into the next cove. He was thankful the current was not taking him out to sea: he didn't think he would have had the strength to swim back to shore against it.
He let the swell wash him onto the rocks, and clambered painfully up onto them – they were jagged with mussels and cut into his knees and feet. He stumbled up to a natural track that wound its way around the base of the cliff-face. To his left it ended at a promontory around the other side of which lay the shelf he and the Brother had fallen from. To his right the track veered inland and disappeared around a bend.
He stood there for a minute, cold and wet, thinking. The ship's crew would come looking for the Brother – if not during the night, then certainly in the morning. There might even be another cleric on board. In any case, they would not leave without the body. The Brother's body would rise to the surface, then it would be found. The knife would stay at the bottom of the sea until the end of time. Only Jaggles would know Ward was missing.
There was only one thing for it. Ward would have to disappear for a while. But first, he had to get his bag back. And Fidelma.
A ti-tree grew crookedly out of the cliff-face at the promontory's most seaward point, the cliff overhanging it like a protective arm. It was a wonder it had managed to grow there at all. He picked his way along the track until he stood before the tree. Then, without stopping to think twice, he grabbed hold of it, swung around over the precipice and onto the shelf on the other side. The tree creaked warningly before easing back into the cliff-side.
At first he thought the bag was gone. He clambered about in the shadows at a crouch, growing increasingly panicked. Then he literally fell over it. It had been just a lump in the darkness.
His first thought was Fidelma. But the little dore was safe in her cosy pocket, quivering, but unharmed. He slipped her into one of his own pockets and slung the bag over his back. Then he went back to the promontory and swung around onto the track on the other side. He was still wet, but the movement was keeping him warm. He kept moving now, eager to find somewhere to dry off and hide.
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What a shame the body didn't turn out to be Ward's. I could've had this story wrapped up in 5 chapters.
