NAILS

“Mr Waterman! Mr Waterman!”

Augustus is sitting halfway up the stairs, catching his breath. That wretched leg! He has never got used to it. It still startles him sometimes, when he looks down, even though it happened so long ago. That was where his foot was; that is where his toes should be.

If that swine of a sheriff had not taken his stick, his good stick, then he would not have to make do with a piece of rotting driftwood that was lying around, which can barely carry his weight.

Yes, yes, his head says. It’s your own fault. If you hadn’t used the stick to hit your own daughter, your own flesh and blood…

“I know! Just shut your mouth! Shut your mouth for once!” his mouth tells his head.

“Mr Waterman, there’s another letter. I think it’s really important this time. You need to…”

He stands up, his makeshift stick bending, almost breaking. Everything always breaks here; the wind from the sea, always blowing, makes sure of that. It eats wood – and that includes the planks nailed across the door. If he pushes against it, he knows the door will eventually give way. Landlubbers never think about that kind of thing. If he wanted, he could be out in an instant. But what then? Where could he go?

“Can you hear me? Will you come downstairs?”

He sees something white sticking through the hatch. What is it now? He limps across the room.

“There was… it wasn’t your daughter, there was a man here just now and he… I’m sorry, but there was no envelope, and I happened to glance at it and I thought… Well, just read it for yourself. What are we going to do? Um… I mean you. What are you going to do? You can’t stay here!”

For the sake of politeness, Augustus pulls the crumpled paper from the hatch and looks at it. Yes, there are clearly letters on it. Neat letters, completely different from last time. He scratches his beard.

“Is it from Lampie?”

“No, that’s what I just said, a man came with it, a man who was in a hurry. He was very friendly though. But what do you think? What are you going to do?” The neighbour’s voice is shrill and anxious, and she is clearly waiting for him to say something. But what?

“Um…” he says. “Well…”

“You have read it, haven’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Well?”

“Thanks, then,” he says. “See you tomorrow.” He hopes she will go away. But she does not.

“Mr Waterman?” she says. Her face is close to the hatch; he can see a small part of it. A brown eye.

“What is it now?”

“You did read it, didn’t you?”

What should he say? He could lie, of course. Or he could make himself look like a fool.

“Mr Waterman? You can read, can’t you?”

 

The most important details are not in the letter, thinks Augustus after she has read the letter to him. Ah, an admiral who wants to hang him, yes, he could do without that. And he clearly needs to get away. But where should he go? And where is Lampie?

“Somewhere in a boat, that man said. She’s rowing across the bay, I think he said. Could that be right?”

“What?” Augustus yells through the little hatch. “At sea in this… Now? I have to get out of here!”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” his neighbour replies. “You do. But how?”

Augustus pushes against the door of his prison. A powerful storm is on the way, he can smell it, he can feel it in everything. And he will not let it happen again that his child is out there somewhere drowning while he sits at home, doing nothing. He has to get to the harbour, right now, as fast as he can. He pushes again, even harder this time. The door opens a hand’s breadth. Two. The nails have almost released their hold on the wood, but not completely. Outside, his neighbour is also tugging away at the door and showing him where to push.

“No, lower. No, not like that… Hey, if we just had… Hang on, I’ll go and fetch my husband’s pliers.”

Her husband? he thinks. Not that he cares either way.

“My late husband, that is,” she says.

“Oh,” says Augustus.

“Like your wife, eh?”

“Yes,” Augustus replies.

“Right, then,” she says. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

 

With a pair of pliers, the last of the nails are out in no time. He hears them dropping onto the slabs outside. Then he gives the door one last push and it opens with a shriek of iron. Augustus steps outside.

He holds up his hand to protect his eyes from the light, even though the sun is not shining. Clouds are quickly filling the sky, and in the distance the storm has begun. He has to get to the harbour as quickly as possible, but it is not going to be easy, not like this. He looks around.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” says his neighbour. “Do you need something to eat first?”

“No, no, a stick’s what I need. A good, strong stick.”

She has a nice laugh. And something in her hand.

“Ah, yes,” she says. “The man, he brought something else with him, and now I understand what it is.” She produces a piece of wood that is far too short for a stick, but which – surprisingly – fits exactly under his half-leg. And it stays in place. And it does not even hurt. She helps him with the buckles.

“Well, good luck,” she says, when the leg is in place. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye out for Lampie. And if you’re ever nearby and you’re in the mood for soup: I live over there.”

She almost has to scream, as the wind is blowing harder and harder. As Augustus walks away, he glances back. She is a little older and a little fatter than he thought. He raises his hand. With the wind at his back, he hobbles down the sea path.