The Golden Reef (1969) by James Pattinson Page B

Johnnie. You’re going to put that gun down. You’re going to put it down on the deck.’
    The sweat was pouring from Bristow’s face and the blood was running down from his nose. Scared or not, he was dangerous. He had enough liquor inside him to give him some courage, enough to blunt the edge of his fear and blind him to the consequences of his actions. Keeton knew this; he knew that Bristow had been hurt by the blows that he had received and that the desire to strike back was driving him. Keeton knew all this when he began to walk towards Bristow.
    ‘Keep back‚’ Bristow shouted. ‘You keep back, Charlie; else you get it.’
    ‘Put the gun down, Johnnie.’
    ‘I’ll put it down all right‚’ Bristow yelled. ‘I’ll put it down your bloody throat. Stop, d’you hear? Stop where you are.’
    Keeton continued to walk towards Bristow, his gaze fixed on the rifle. He saw Bristow’s finger curled round the trigger. Bristow shouted something but the report of the gun extinguished his words. Keeton saw the butt kick back against Bristow’s shoulder and something whined past his ear so close that he felt the wind of it passing.
    Bristow was working the bolt of the rifle. The empty cartridge case shot out of the breech and rang as it fell to the deck. It rolled a short way and stopped, glinting brassily in the sun.
    Keeton was on to Bristow before he had time to ram the bolt home again. The breech of the Lee-Enfield was open when he hit Bristow. Bristow went down and the rifle fell from his hands. Keeton hit him again; the bullet had scared him and he wanted to get the fear out of his system; perhaps he could beat it out by smashing Bristow.
    Bristow began to howl. There was blood on Keeton’s knuckles; he did not know whether it was his own or Bristow’s. He did not care.
    ‘You murdering bastard. I ought to kill you.’
    Bristow was whimpering, all the fight gone out of him. ‘I didn’t mean to hit you, Charlie. It was just a joke. I aimed to miss.’
    ‘I don’t like that kind of joke.’
    He went on hitting, smashing his fist into Bristow’s stomach, into his face, into any part of him that was vulnerable. Bristow stopped howling suddenly. He lay on the deck, not moving.
    Keeton picked up the rifle, carried it to the side and dropped it overboard. When the water cleared he could see it lying on the coral. As the ripples passed over it, it seemed to twist like a snake; it became sinuous, the barrel no longer stiff and straight; it might now have been made of rubber.
    Keeton left Bristow lying on the forecastle and made his way aft. He lifted the cat off number four hatch, holding it by the tail. He swung it round and round in the air and then suddenly let go. The cat flew away over the ship’s side and fell far off in deep water.

Chapter Eight
Time
    The days passed, the weeks, the months. The flesh rotted from the body suspended in the engine-room; the face became a grinning skull, mocking the two survivors with this reminder of the ugliness that lay beneath the envelope of skin and flesh, of muscle and sinew.
    ‘It gives me the creeps,’ Bristow said.
    Keeton looked at him stonily. ‘You give me the creeps, fat boy.’
    They had settled down into a state of neutrality, but neither made any pretence now of liking the other; all that had been finally brushed away by the bullet that had passed so close to Keeton’s ear. That was the kind of thing that could not be forgotten; it had left a scar on their relations that would be there always.
    Bristow had made an attempt to smooth things over. ‘I never meant to shoot you, Charlie. It was the drink that done it, not me.’
    ‘It looked like your finger on the trigger. I never saw a bottle of whisky that could fire a rifle.’
    ‘You know what I mean.’ Bristow’s voice was plaintive. He looked a mess after what Keeton had done to him; his lips were split, his eyes black and puffy, his whole body a mass of bruises. ‘I didn’t really know what I was