Got My Eye on You Chapter Ninety One


Pocket Full of Rye (Part Ten)


Once the front lock gates opened, Donna felt the launch swaying in the eddy caused by the inflow from the Thames. Then there was a roar of the engine and the Lady Aileen leapt forward like a greyhound out of its starting gate. She felt the boat lean into a hard turn to port. The right hand turn meant they were headed downstream. The tarpaulin was jerked away and rough hands grabbed her. She was then picked up like a sack of grain- one of the guards had her feet, the other her shoulders. For a moment, she was terrified that they were going to throw her overboard. She'd surely drown, given how securely she was tied, so she tried to wriggle out of their hands. The man in the front dropped her shoulders and she crashed onto the floor, banging her head to the point where she saw stars. Momentarily stunned, she did not resist when he picked her up again and then took her down the hatchway to the lower deck.

She was carried to the forward compartment, and thrown in. A few minutes later they returned carrying an unconscious Sherlock, tossing him in head first so that he landed half on top of her. She spent the next ten minutes wiggling out from under him. Once she could breathe again, she tried to remember what the space was like. It had an odd shape that tapered sharply at one end to follow the prow of the launch. It was a glorified storage cupboard, not much more than a meter in height, and both of them were lying on top of ropes that smelled of stale brine water. It was enough to make her gag and she had to struggle hard not to vomit. She tried to distract herself by calling up memories of the launch. Donna knew the Lady Aileen well enough, but had only ever travelled in the upper deck- the wheelhouse cabin was well lit. with windows on all sides. Here there was only a tiny window, no bigger than a good hard-backed book on each side of the bow. Through she was facing the left window, she could see that the sky was still dark. Even so, it was enough to let in the lights of the shoreline. She tried to recall the map. This was the port side, so the northern bank of the Thames. Downriver from the port, they would first pass the Tilbury Fort and then the power station. For some reason, being able to know where they were mattered to her.

She heard the thrum of a passing boat, and felt the launch cross its wake, heaving itself up over the choppy little waves. Probably the Gravesend Ferry. Even the name sounded ominous, given their current situation. She knew that the first crossing was early, designed to get the 6am dock workers to their shift. The boat was tossed from side to side, and the hull smacked the waves. They were going downstream at quite a pace. She tried to guess the time. It was probably past five-thirty now, less than an hour had passed since their capture. She kept wondering when or if Sherlock was going to regain consciousness. The doctor kept trying to listen to his breathing, in the hope that his skull had not been fractured. At first her hands pressed up against his stomach gave her some idea of his condition, but it was getting harder as the feeling in her hands was now being replaced by pain. The only good thing was that her hands were also getting very cold, and that numbed them. With her back to him, it was hard to tell what was going on.

Donna tried to calm herself. Panic solves nothing. There would be a long spell of dark coastline, all the way around the bend, before moving north. Thurrock Council had preserved this area as natural; fields and salt marshes mostly, until the Thames reached London Gateway, the brand new port that was just about to open. Run by Dubai's DP World, London Gateway would sound something of a death-knell for Tilbury. They had six huge new docks on the north shore, all the most modern equipment and the space to build Europe's largest logistics park in which to store the goods offloaded. Donna knew that it would probably only take another five years before Tilbury was put up for "re-development"- turned into some new posh marina with fancy waterside apartments for City workers who wanted to be nearer the countryside. She could imagine a fast cat service starting up to get them to Docklands and Canary Wharf. What am I worrying about? I won't be here to see it.

Behind her, Sherlock seemed to shift a bit and then he groaned. Their heads were right up against each other, pushed that way by the curve of the prow. Back to back, it was hard to be heard over the sound of the waves crashing against the hull.

"Shh. Sherlock? Don't let them know you're awake. They seem to be scared of you, so Tolhurst clobbered you."

There was no reply.

She tried again. "Are you in there?"

He grunted. "Make up your mind. First you tell me to keep quiet, then you want me to talk."

She found that funny. Stifling a giggle, she said, "Just looking for proof of life. Are you alright?"

There was no reply.

"Heh- you still there?"

"Obviously." This time his reply was slurred, a little hesitant.

"Your head?"

"Hurts…waves don't help."

She could sympathise, the up-down motion of the bow was accentuated this far forward. "Just don't throw up, please."

"I'll try to bear that in mind."

She started to think about concussions. She needed him to stay awake. Keep that mind occupied. "What do you think we should do?"

The detective wiggled, probably testing his bonds. "…want the good or bad news?"

"Uh, I think I can guess the worst, so if there's anything good, I'd be thrilled."

"…still got my phone."

"Didn't they search you?" She was astonished.

"Mmm, …shoved it down my pants… a good Muslim wouldn't go there."

Now she did giggle. And that made her realise that she was still desperate for a pee. "Can you turn over? Maybe I can get my hands on it."

He was struggling to move. He groaned again and went silent.

"Sherlock?" Damn, he must have lost consciousness. If his hands were as tightly bound as hers were, it would be hard for him to move.

Then a bit of luck. The Lady Aileen must have cleared Coalhouse Fort, a Victorian coastal defence built in the 1860s. The Thames took a sharp bend northwards here for a thousand meters, and the launch leaned into the curve of the river, bucking a bit as the incoming tide fought back. The effect was to dip their side of the boat down, and she was shoved up against the bulkhead wall. The same motion meant that even unconscious, Sherlock rolled over. He collided with her cuffed hands and she cried out from the pain.

"Shhh. Don't…head hurts enough."

"Oh, God that hurt."

"Good- it means you still have some feeling in your hands. Unzip me."

She could feel the fabric of his trousers, and she tried to wiggle her fingers to get some feeling back into them. "I'm not sure I can actually grab something as small as a zip."

"jus…keep trying." His voice was definitely slurring now.

Her right hand's index finger seemed to find a gap in the fabric at the top, and she wiggled it in further trying to ignore the soft bits of flesh under the pants, then pulled in the direction of the stern of the ship. The gap in the trousers got bigger. "I think I'm making progress. Can you see?"

"No, but I can feel it."

That threatened to set her off again. It must be hysteria The thought of putting her hands down an attractive young man's pants might sound erotic, but this was hardly the time or place. "Um, how am I supposed to get the phone through the cloth?"

"Hugo Boss Y-front boxer briefs…find the entrance."

She moved her fingers, trying to ignore the fact that they were slippery with blood. At least they were getting a bit warmer. Then she found a thicker seam at a slant. She wiggled her index finger in through the opening and touched metal. At least she hoped it was metal, because it was very hard. And then she really couldn't stop the giggle. "Are you pleased to see me, or is that a phone in your pocket?"

There was no reply for a moment. Then "It's in my pants, not my pocket." He sounded confused.

"It's a misquote of Mae West, Sherlock."

"Who's she?"

She struggled to get her thumb in place so she could pull the phone out. "Doesn't matter. I've got it. What next?"

"Just a little way. Don't drop it."

"Ok. How do I tell which is the front?"

"Think it through."

Donna was trying hard to visualise what her hands were doing; it all seemed back to front. Then she realised that she should be able to feel a difference because the glass is on the front and the metal on the back. She tried. One was slicker to her fingers. Blood on glass- yep, that's the front. "Okay, I've got the front. Now what?"

"iPhone…" His voice sounded weaker, a bit dazed.

"Um, I'm a Nokia gal."

"First, got to find….top…if you feel a button, that's top. Press it for five seconds."

She fumbled. "Can't feel a button."

"Tha's bottom. Turn it..ov..ver." His speech was definitely getting worse.

She fumbled a bit. "This is hard. My hands are so slippery from blood."

He groaned.

"Uh, okay- I think I've got it." She pressed the raised section in and counted.

They were rewarded by a flare of light in the dark cabin.

She actually heard him take a deep breath. "Good. Tha's good. Now shut up."

She was perplexed.

Sherlock then spoke in a much louder voice. "Call Lestrade. Audio On."

"What?"

"Shut up. I'm talking to Siri."

She was trying to figure out who the hell Siri was when suddenly the line connected. There was a lot of noise- some sort of machine roaring in the background. Then the Detective Inspector's voice- "SHERLOCK! What the hell? I told you not to do anything crazy. Are you in the launch?"

There was a sudden lurch to the right, as the boat turned hard to starboard and accelerated. The bow lifted far out of the water, and then smacked down with a thud and a shudder. The phone slipped from her fingers. "Oh, shit, shit. Shit. I've dropped it," she wailed.

There was no reply, just the roar of the water crashing under the hull. They must be at full speed now. "Sherlock?"

"Hello? Hello? What's happening?" There was a tinny sound, not far from her right ear. The phone must have fallen into the ropes and then slid towards her head.

"Lestrade!"

"Is that you, Foreman?" Miraculously, the phone had not cut the Met officer off.

She shouted, "Yes. We're prisoners. Tolhurst- it's Tolhurst and Gillespie; they're the ones who've been selling illegals. You've got to stop them."

She could barely hear the reply.

"Say again?" She hoped to God her shouting wouldn't be overheard. The launch's engine was at full throttle, so maybe not.

"Where's Sherlock?

"Passed out- concussion."

"We've got you on GPS now. Are you headed to the Rio Tamara?"

"YES! How'd you know?"

"Just hang in there."

Donna heard boots on the deck above; people were moving around. She was trying to figure out what it meant when those boots came down the four steps to their deck. The compartment door was flung open and someone grabbed her tied ankles.

She was dragged out feet first, right over top the unconscious form of Sherlock, who didn't move. Rough hands grabbed her belt and hoisted her up over his shoulder. The guard's reefer jacket was rank with sweat, despite the November freeze; he must be scared is all she could think.

After the darkness of the lower deck, she had expected more lights on- but the wheelhouse was dark, too. She was unceremoniously dumped on the floor. When the guard pulled a wickedly big knife, she tensed herself, expecting the worst, but he bent over her legs and then cut the tie around her ankles. Tolhurst was at the wheel, his back ramrod straight with tension. Gillespie was leaning over and fiddling with the VSAT. "Damn thing! Why aren't they responding?"

Tolhurst shouted at her. "The fucking helicopter is messing with the satellite signal."

Helicopter? Donna realised that the sound she had heard in the background when Lestrade was speaking was now audible inside the cabin. It had to be a police helicopter, and it was coming closer.

The Filipino had gone back downstairs and was now dragging a limp form up to the main deck.

"Take the wheel, we might still have time to get on the tanker."

As Sharon took over, Tolhurst grabbed Donna and hoisted her to her feet. She felt the gun in his hand go up against her temple. "Do as I say and you live a little longer."

The guard grabbed Sherlock again, who groaned. Strangely, Donna was glad for that sound. It meant he was regaining consciousness, rather than lapsing into the coma that could accompany a skull fracture.

As the helicopter came closer, Tolhurst took her in a lock hold across the throat and walked her out onto the aft deck. "We're going to play hostages now."