The Golden Reef (1969) by James Pattinson Page A

pointless thing to do; destruction for destruction’s sake.
    Bristow was not in sight, so Keeton went in search of him. He found Bristow on the forecastle with the rifle in his hands, taking aim at a bottle bobbing up and down in the sea.
    Bristow fired and missed, the bullet kicking up a jet of water a foot to the right of the target. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty shorts, and the sweat glistened on his soft, plump body with its peeling skin and its host of freckles.
    Keeton dropped a hand on Bristow’s shoulder and swung him round.
    ‘You bastard!’ Keeton said.
    He lifted his right hand and struck Bristow on the cheek with the open palm. The sound of the blow was almost as loud as the report of the rifle. The blood flamed in Bristow’s cheek.
    ‘You shot my cat‚’ Keeton said; and he struck Bristow’s other cheek.
    He wanted Bristow to hit back; he wanted to goad Bristow into retaliation so that he could really hurt the man. Unless Bristow fought back it would not be possible to punish him as he deserved to be punished.
    Bristow said: ‘What the hell are you talking about? What are you hitting me for?’
    Keeton could tell that Bristow had been drinking again. He was not drunk, but there was the smell of spirits on his breath. His eyes looked bloodshot and the two stinging smacks on his cheeks had brought tears into them.
    ‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. You know why I hit you. You killed my cat.’
    ‘Your cat? Since when has it been yours? I’ve as much right to it as you.’
    ‘You had no right to shoot it.’ Keeton’s voice was flint hard. Anger was burning in him and he wanted to crush Bristow, to beat him to pulp. He hated Bristow at this moment as he had never hated anyone in his life.
    ‘It was just a bit of sport.’
    ‘I’ll make you pay for your sport. I warned you.’
    ‘Ah, what’s one cat more or less? They’re filthy devils, anyway. I did right shooting it.’
    Bristow’s voice was defiant, the liquor making him bold. Keeton slapped him again, harder. Bristow still had the rifle in his hands; he swung it up, striking at Keeton’s head. Keeton caught the rifle and wrenched it out of Bristow’s grasp. He flung it away and it fell with a clatter on the deck. He clenched his right fist and struck Bristow between the eyes. Bristow’s head jerked back and Keeton hit him again, in the throat. He heard Bristow choking and he hit him again, twice, in the stomach. It was like hitting a boiled pudding; the flesh seemed to close round his fist. Bristow doubled up, retching, and collapsed on the deck.
    ‘I ought to kick your teeth in‚’ Keeton said. But there was nomore to be done. If he got a rope’s end and flogged Bristow the cat would not be brought back to life. He would simply be working off his own anger, and there was not enough resistance in Bristow to give satisfaction; it would have been no better than flogging a mattress. He felt cheated, robbed. ‘You’d better keep out of my way, Johnnie. You’d better do that.’
    He turned away and walked to the ladder leading down from the forecastle. He did not look back.
    His hand was on the ladder rail when he heard the breech bolt snick. He turned slowly and saw that Bristow had picked up the rifle and was aiming it at him. Bristow was on one knee and the rifle butt was against his shoulder. The barrel was not very steady, but it was pointing in the general direction of Keeton’s chest.
    ‘Put it down‚’ Keeton said.
    Bristow’s nose was bleeding and the blood had made a bright red stain on his mouth and chin. Drops of blood were falling on to his chest.
    ‘I’m the one that gives the orders now‚’ Bristow said.
    Keeton stood with his hands against his sides and his back to the ladder, staring into the muzzle of the Lee-Enfield.
    ‘You give no orders to me, Johnnie.’
    ‘I’m going to shoot you‚’ Bristow said. He was breathing heavily and he looked half-mad, half-scared.
    ‘You’re not,