The explosion seemed to start quite slowly, in the forward part of Sandalshoon. There was a brief orange glow, then an appalling crack. The yacht’s forward coachwork mushroomed outwards and a pale cloud of flame bloomed over the quiet sea. Flames ran aft and there was another explosion. Burning diesel oil showered the water. In the glare of the fire the moon disappeared.
‘My God,’ said Sandro, choking. ‘The lovers.’
Jenny, on the afterdeck of Campanula, pointed at the water. They could see two dark heads against the blaze. Within seconds Colly was in the tender picking them up.
‘Whenever we meet,’ said Nicola to Colly as Nigel pulled her into the Boston dory, ‘I’m flopping about in the water with nothing on.’
Colly got them well away from the magnificent holocaust. They sat looking at it.
‘Nothing we can do,’ called Sandro.
Nigel and Nicola climbed self-consciously aboard Campanula and were wrapped in towels. The five of them stared awestruck across the lurid water.
‘I don’t say you two were wrong: said Jenny to Nigel finally. ‘In fact, I daresay you were right. But I do think, pet, you should have consulted us.’
‘Christ, you don’t think we started it?’
‘What do you expect us to think?’
‘It started forward,’ said Colly. ‘I guess the galley. The calor-gas cylinders.’
‘How?’
‘Mr Body. I guess with his foot. Then he’d use the automatic lighter. There is one? Electric?’
‘Yes,’ said Nigel. ‘Works from a battery.’
‘With his foot, Colly?’
‘We’ll never know. He had an hour. What a way to die.’
‘A Viking funeral,’ said Nigel.
Nicola shivered and snuggled against him. There was no trace in her now of the smart, self-conscious London copywriter; nor of the animated corpse who had to be pushed through doors. There was no trace in Nigel now of the charcoal-grey-suited executive-on-his-way-up.
They could feel the heat of the burning yacht, though Campanula was well out of reach of danger.
‘A Viking funeral,’ repeated Sandro. ‘And he took his retinue with him to Valhalla.’
‘And you two,’ said Jenny, ‘you two just decided to go for a dip?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicola.
‘Good gracious.’
‘Of course,’ said Colly, ‘he thought we were all on board.’
‘So he did,’ said Jenny faintly. ‘Which but for being arch and sentimental . . . Gracious. What a moral there is there.’
The thick metal masts thudded down almost together, landing in great showers of sparks. Much of Sandalshoon was metal; much was also wood, plastic, paint, fabric. The five sat watching for a long time.
‘Would they be killed instantly?’ asked Nicola.
‘Body, yes, just about,’ said Colly, ‘leaving aside the time he took starting it. The blast might have knocked the others out. Or maybe not.’
‘I feel a bit sorry,’ said Jenny, ‘for Chuck Running Deer. And little Albie Joy. I suppose that’s silly.’
‘Quite silly,’ said Sandro.
‘All of a sudden I horribly want a drink. I suppose that’s silly too.’
‘Most sensible.’