The Revenge Game Read online

  THE REVENGE GAME

  Gerald Hammond

  © Gerald Hammond 1981

  Gerald Hammond has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1981 by MacMillan

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  On technical matters, I have tried to be accurate; and I have to thank those friends who have allowed me to pick their brains, particularly Allan Houston, Bill Tilley and (a friend by correspondence only) Geoffrey Boothroyd.

  On the other hand, the characters and events are fictitious. There is no Canal Authority, but I must thank Mr Nelson, the Assistant Chief Engineer (Scotland) of the British Waterways Board for his help in trying to avoid embarrassment to any real person.

  G.H.

  Chapter One

  Study a map carefully and you will begin to see in its apparently random pattern a certain logic imposed by the topography. Towns and villages are placed for the convenience of man. Small roads join small places, twisting to follow the easiest routes or the boundaries of big estates. Main roads and railways strike determinedly across country, and streams and rivers follow the lowest ground.

  But, for a canal, it is as if the laws of physics have been upset. A waterway, between locks, must be level and locks were and are expensive, so a canal follows the most economic contours between places where a lock or a series of locks may most easily be made. As a result a canal may for a few miles pretend to be a river and follow the bottom of a valley, or it may soar on a giant aqueduct over river and road and railway. Often, it will crawl across the face of a hillside.

  This explains how Wallace James, from the tiller of his barge, was able to look over the roofs of Newton Lauder.

  Wallace was fed up. The late summer sun shone prettily on the countryside, but it beat back off the water and made him sweat so that the midges came bothering him. He thought of taking off his waterproof jacket, but it would probably only rain.

  The trouble was that Wallace was bored. A shy man, he had taken to the life of a bargee for the sake of the peace and seclusion. He enjoyed the solitude, but not the monotony. Nothing ever happened, and nothing was ever going to happen. Fifty yards ahead, Caesar, the last working barge-horse in Scotland had he but known it, plodded steadily forward, keeping his eternal strain on the rope. Beyond was the lock. Well, at least the near gate was open for once.

  There was a soprano scream. Wallace looked round. Without noticing him, he had just passed a small boy. The boy had been fishing, but now his line was round Merganser’s bow. There was a short tug-of-war. Wallace watched with impotent interest as the line stretched to ever more astonishing lengths and then broke. He was sorry for the boy. He considered throwing him a coin towards a new line but thought better of it.

  Caesar seemed to be looking at him rather oddly, and he wondered why. Then he wondered why Caesar was standing stock-still on the towpath instead of plodding ahead. And then he saw the lock-gate and the paddle-winch pass beside him. He was in the lock, and Caesar always stopped for locks.

  The point was past, he realised, when a bump could have been averted. Merganser, under her own momentum, advanced slowly, ponderously, unstoppably on the further lock-gates, and he braced himself. There would be some damage to his stem, he supposed, and the few spectators would despise him. Not that he gave a damn what they thought. He could not see the remaining gap, but it must be almost gone. Surely now. . . .

  The bump came and the incredible happened.

  The gates were large, sturdy, built to withstand the hydraulic pressure of twelve feet of water. They were angled so that the pressure could do no more than lock them ever more firmly together, supported at their massive hinges by solid masonry and below by a masonry sill. They were as solid as a dam. Never could they give way.

  Yet the gate which was struck vanished instantly, folded flat down, while the other pivoted diagonally and left the way open.

  On a surge of released water Merganser was hurled forward. She glanced off the remains of the gate, splintered her gunnel on the lock wall and was out, planing on the crest of a ten-foot wave. Behind her, one of the upper lock-gates slammed shut, as it was designed to do in such an emergency; but the other stayed open.

  For some seconds Merganser was high above the level of the lower towpath. Hundreds of tons of water poured over into the street, and Wallace saw people running and an empty car bowled over. The barge could easily have followed the water into the town, but by some miracle she held straight. Then the water, hardly slowing its mad rush, began its change from a sheer ten-foot step to a gradually flattening slope as the water from the upper level hurried to fill the lower. Soon a mile or more of the lower reach was brimming over, the water pouring muddy into fields and back gardens. Later, the weakest point would give and the canal-bank be breached. Fortunately for all, this point was beyond the further limit of the town.

  Back at the ruined lock, Caesar was puzzled yet unconcerned. His collar had never before been pulled over his head with such force, but he knew that when it was removed it was time to graze. No doubt his nose-bag would be along in due course. Meantime he would make do. He put his head down and grazed.

  Chapter Two

  Keith Calder was vaguely aware of noises in the street, but he was intent on finishing a delicate repair to a seventeenth-century Italian wheel-lock and he was, thinking, peevishly, that he would have liked to have got out that evening. But the grouse would be a late start that year, and duck and partridge were not yet in season. Even the eternal wood-pigeon had deserted the area. It was going to be another damned, dull day on which nothing of interest would happen.

  A fanfare on his own car-horn fetched him to the shop door.

  The town square of Newton Lauder was now a lake of muddy water, sparkling under the sun and reflecting, rather prettily, the stone buildings. Any illusion that the small Scottish border town had been transformed into a Venice-like water-city was spoiled by the few vehicles that stood up from the water and by a handful of pedestrians, angry or amused, picking their way ankle-deep along where the pavements must surely still be. Keith’s estate-car was parked at the invisible kerb and Molly, his wife, was making faces through the nearside window.

  Keith turned back into the shop. He was smiling. Any change was a change for the better. He took a pair of waders out of stock, pulled them on and went out. His spaniel, Tanya, hesitated at the changed scene and then followed him, dancing happily around him and sending up little rainbows of spray.

  Molly opened the car door. ‘Carry me in?’ she asked.

  ‘I could bring you out a pair of wellies.’

  ‘You carry me, or I’ll walk in as I am. And I’m wearing – don’t jump up – wearing my new shoes, the ones you made such a fuss about the price of.’

  Keith pulled her up into his arms. ‘You’re not losing any weight,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not putting any on either. This is better.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Molly said. ‘It’s not my fault this time. Somebody was shouting something about the canal. I think somebody
’s pulled the chain or something. You’d better look out or it’ll be over the doorstep.’

  Keith put her down but kept hold of her. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘The level seems to be holding steady or even dropping.’

  ‘Will it get into the basement?’

  ‘For sure. Well, it’s flooded before, and there’s nothing down there that’ll spoil. The fire brigade can pump it out when they can get around to it. Can you hold the fort for a bit while I take a look around?’

  ‘Of course. Anyway, I’m not expecting a rush of customers until the flood goes down.’

  ‘In that case,’ Keith said thoughtfully, rubbing himself gently against her, ‘let’s go upstairs for a few minutes.’

  Molly pulled his head down and kissed him gently on the tip of his nose, at the same time drawing back slightly. ‘Thank you for your kind and flattering invitation,’ she said, ‘and don’t stop asking me; but I’m not closing the shop, and love on a bare mattress isn’t quite the same thing. Think about something else until tonight, and then you can have your evil way with me.’

  ‘Which evil way?’ Keith asked.

  She grinned at him. ‘Any evil way you like,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he said, releasing her. ‘Keep Tanya with you.’

  Molly looked after him, a touch of anxiety in her face. When Keith was amorous, he was better at home. As a husband, he had almost put behind him his predatory bachelor days; and his lapses from strict fidelity were, as far as she knew, too few and too slight for her to worry about, except occasionally in the dark hours; but she had made it a principle that his passion should never go unrequited. Still, she thought, wading up to his waist in cold water should deter him from mischief for a bit. Watching him slosh across the square, she held the shop door open for a second too long. Tanya slipped through and went in pursuit of her master.

  *

  Keith crossed the square and turned down beside the police station. As the road fell, Keith became glad of his chest-high waders. The water was over his waist and well over the doorsteps of the cottages and small villas. The adults were too preoccupied with rescuing their floors, their treasures, their favourite plants and each other to exchange more than an irascible word with Keith, but such children as had escaped from or avoided capture by their parents were having a lovely time bathing, clothed or not, and wanted to tell him all about it.

  Keith’s slow progress enabled Tanya to catch him up. The spaniel, like the children, was enjoying herself. She swam round Keith in happy circles, mostly submerged but managing to wag her tail above the water from time to time.

  ‘Heel,’ Keith said laughing. ‘Or perhaps I should say “Hip”?’ Tanya ignored such frivolity and forged ahead.

  Where the water was deepest, they met Molly’s brother Ronnie in the old rowing boat that usually lived, upturned, in his garden. ‘Thought I’d see if any damned fool was in trouble,’ Ronnie said, disparaging his own public-spiritedness. He rested on his oars.

  Tanya was tiring. Keith took the spaniel by the scruff of her neck and supported her, and she panted in idiotic pleasure. ‘Going home now?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Aye. I done my Grace Darling bit, and if I don’t get this thing home soon I’ll have to hump it.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand if you need it. Is your cottage flooded?’

  ‘Flooden,’ Ronnie confirmed. ‘But nae sense greeting, there no more to be done ’til the water’s away.’ He shrugged his big shoulders philosophically.

  ‘We can put you up until you’re dried out,’ Keith offered. ‘Ronnie, what happened?’

  ‘What I’m telled, the lock-gates failed.’

  Keith lifted Tanya and dropped her in the bottom of the boat. He looked around, but nobody was within earshot. ‘If the canal’s spilling, it’ll all be going into yon low barley-field of Sinclair’s, won’t it?’

  Ronnie looked at him in understanding. His beady eyes twinkled under his craggy brow. ‘Aye. Likely. As long as the spill’s this side of Sinclair’s steading.’

  ‘Has he cut that barley yet?’

  ‘He hadn’t yesterday. He’ll not get it cut at all now.’

  ‘All the duck in the world will be flighting in there soon,’ Keith said absently. ‘Sometimes a late harvest’s a blessing.’

  ‘Not to the farmer,’ Ronnie said. ‘And the duck season opens tomorrow. Of course, the water’ll all drain away through the wee culvert under the road and down the ditch. Unless the culvert was choked.’

  ‘There was a dead ewe near there last night,’ Keith mentioned, as if changing the subject. ‘If he’s not found and buried it yet . . .’

  ‘M’hm. Time I was moving. I was thinking of taking a look down that way. Coming?’

  ‘One’s enough. I think I’ll go up and take a look at the canal.’

  Ronnie nodded, as if he quite understood. ‘Better ask Sir Peter along,’ he suggested.

  It was Keith’s turn to nod. Most of the ducks that would be attracted to the flooded barley would have come from Sir Peter’s land. Sir Peter had been looking forward to shooting his own flighting ponds. Common courtesy suggested that he should be asked along.

  Ronnie started to pull away. Tanya made a tremendous leap after Keith and left the boat rocking.

  To the left of the road Ronnie’s cottage was immersed to the window-sills, and of his well-kept garden only the top of the hedge and a few small rose-trees were showing. The products of Ronnie’s compost-heap were drifting in and out of the front door; but mostly, Keith noted, out, and the water-mark was already six inches above the water.

  Tanya followed Keith onto drier land, and paused to shake arcs of spray over her master before following him up a road that was beginning to steam in the sunshine. They climbed past a small wood and more houses and knots of people making wild guesses as to the causes and effects of the flood until, after a final, tiring pull to the immediate crest, they came out onto the bridge over the canal.

  The canal was brimming, and a strong current flowed towards the south. Looking in that direction, Keith could see, in the distance, figures and a lorry on the tow-path. He thought that any breach in the canal-bank would be there, but his view was obscured by the occasional willows that grew along the bank. He set off along the tow-path, waddling uncomfortably in his waders.

  From the lower level Keith’s view was even more limited, and he was still a long way short of his objective when he was hailed from a long barge that was moored against the further bank. The bargee was standing in the stern, holding up a coil of rope.

  ‘You want help?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Could you take a line back to that tree and make it fast?’

  ‘Heave me the end.’

  Keith caught the end of the rope, dragged it along to the tree and made it fast. The bargee hauled it tight and began to pay out on his mooring to the further bank. Keith took a seat on a stump and watched. The day had developed a holiday air of change and adventure, and Keith was content to drift with the new current.

  The barge settled to its new moorings, lying midstream in the narrow canal. The bargee straightened up, panting. ‘That’s a bit safer,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Can’t stop,’ the bargee said despairingly. ‘Got to get the water out of her before she sits down or the weight of it will bust her.’ He threw himself at a reciprocating pump, plying the handle as if he were rowing for his life. Gouts of muddy water spurted into the canal.

  ‘Want a hand?’

  ‘Please. There’s a spare pump.’

  The man strained on the nearer mooring-line, the barge swung closer and Keith jumped aboard. A second, vertical pump was also installed in the small cockpit, and soon both men were pumping. The work was hard, so that conversation was punctuated by pauses for deep breathing.

  ‘Bank . . . must be breached . . . further down,’ the bargee gasped. ‘Starts with overtopping . . . finds a weak point . . . may enlarge it
. . . If that happens . . . water’ll go out as if . . . somebody pulled plug . . . Didn’t want boat . . . go with it . . . or sit down on . . . foul ground by bank.’

  ‘Got a . . . cargo aboard?’

  ‘No, thank God . . . or probably . . . break her back.’

  ‘Much water in her?’

  ‘Not usually. Took some in . . . when it happened.’

  ‘When what happened?’

  ‘Bloody lock-gate . . . just went.’

  Keith was sweating. He stopped and took off his waders. The bargee stripped to the waist. They pumped steadily.

  ‘Here she goes,’ the bargee said suddenly.

  The current increased, became a torrent. The level of the water fell swiftly. The two mooring-lines hummed with tension. Keith would not have believed that so much water could go past. The barge settled onto the canal bottom. The current began to slacken and soon silty islands began to appear, pools with fish flapping away their lives and the debris of a century. The canal’s banks loomed above them. Tanya jumped down to explore a splendid new world.

  Keith stopped and mopped his forehead. ‘She seems all right.’

  The man was still pumping. ‘Not built . . . to take . . . pressure from inside.’

  ‘The water on the outside must be lower than the water on the inside,’ Keith said. ‘We could siphon most of the rest out. Got a hose?’

  They cut the water hose into sections, and a few minutes later a dozen siphons were drawing water out of the barge and onto the clay bed of the canal. The two men could sit on the bulwark, catch up with their breathing and cool off.

  ‘I’m Wallace James,’ said the bargee.

  They looked at each other, absorbing impressions for the first time. Keith thought that the other man looked, and sounded, an unlikely bargee. Wallace James was tall and thin with lank brown hair falling over his forehead. He had what Keith thought of as an intellectual face, sensitive and strongly modelled. His manner was shy and his voice educated to the point at which no accent was discernible.