Page 36 of Savage Redemption

“Shut your mouth. This is a good little earner, this is.”

“Money for old rope. We’re being paid to sit on our arses and watch seagulls.”

I don’t offer an opinion, preferring to relax against the rail and watch the island recede into the distance.

This procedure is repeatedfive times over the rest of the week. They are long days, the work strenuous and tedious, but already the foundations of Ethan Savage’s annex are taking shape. The footprint of the new building is obvious, and the skilled bricklayers are coming into their own.

I’m on stone-hefting duty. Ethan Savage insists on natural materials which will blend in with the original structure, so we’re working with solid granite shipped over from quarries on themainland. My role is to load a wheelbarrow with as much as I can shift at a time, and keep the skilled men supplied.

Bertie is on cement-mixing duty, and we constantly pass each other as we march back and forth. “I could murder a cup of tea,” he mutters. “Forgot my flask this morning.”

I sympathise. The regular tea breaks are an essential part of the day. There are plentiful supplies of water provided, but the rest is up to us. Bertie won’t forget his flask again in a hurry.

A commotion up ahead halts me in my tracks. A fight has broken out between Bertie and one of the other men. Everyone else downs tools to shout and cheer them on.

Bex and Mr Darke are on it, hurling themselves into the fray, but not before Bertie has landed a perfect uppercut on his adversary’s chin. The other man, by the name of Smiffy, I think, is out cold.

Bex crouches beside him while Nathan Darke demands to know what this was all about. He glares at Bertie. “I told you already, no throwing punches. Don’t bother to show up tomorrow. You’re fired.”

“But ’e accused me o’ nicking ’is tea,” Bertie protests. “What were I meant to do?”

“I don’t fucking care. You’re out.” Darke is already on his phone. “Go wait on the ferry. And you needn’t think you’re getting paid for today.”

Bertie continues to protest just cause, but no one is listening. Eventually he accepts the inevitable and trudges off the site. That was a costly drink of tea he nicked.

Meanwhile, a diminutive female figure has arrived, sprinting around the perimeter of the castle and dropping to her knees beside the injured man. Smiffy is starting to come round, but he’s still groggy and confused. The newcomer opens her bag and produces a torch and a stethoscope.

A doctor then, or possibly a nurse.

She performs a cursory examination. “Concussion,” she concludes. “I need someone to help me get him to my clinic.”

Bex glances around. “You,” she declares, pointing to another of the labourers. “And you.” This time her gaze falls on me. “You two can do it. And be quick, we’ve lost enough time already, and now we’re two men down.”

I dart forward and thrust my arm under one of Smiffy’s. The other man selected does the same at the other side, and between us we haul him to his feet. The doctor sets a brisk pace, and we fall in behind, half dragging, half carrying the stricken Smiffy.

“He did nick me tea,” Smiffy keeps repeating. “I saw ’im, wi’ me flask, the thieving sod.”

Personally, I don’t doubt it, but I keep my mouth shut. It doesn’t pay to get involved, and I’m too busy taking advantage of this unexpected stroke of luck, a chance to see a bit more of the island.

We skirt the cobbled courtyard, Loud voices greet us, the sound of children playing. A bunch of around half a dozen children, boys and girls, aged from perhaps ten or eleven to mid-teens are enthusiastically kicking a ball about. Two sets of goalposts have been created out of bikes on their sides, and several men have joined in the game. I recognise Ethan Savage among the players and can’t help noticing when one of the smaller boys takes a tumble. Savage helps him up, crouches to dust dirt off his knees, and gives him a quick hug. It’s easy, casual affection, taken for granted by the child.

I assume the boy to be one of his sons. I know he has two, a boy called Tomasz and a toddler, Sebastien. He’s obviously a caring father, which chimes with my research. Family is important to Ethan Savage. He looks after his own.

He glances up at us as we pass and gets to his feet. “What’s going on?” he demands.

The doctor halts. “Fight on the site,” she calls out. “One of the men has concussion. I need to observe him in my clinic.”

He nods. “Just make sure he’s on that ferry later. No one stays overnight.”

“She waves. “Got it,” then she’s on the move again.

The clinic is unexpected. I’d imagined a fairly basic surgery, but this is a well-equipped facility with X-ray capabilities as well as two or three individual rooms for patients needing overnight care. One door is marked ‘laboratory’ and another ‘theatre’.

“Put him over there, on the trolley.”

We do as the doctor tells us, and she immediately repeats her observations. Blood pressure, pulse, temperature, before turning to us. “I can take it from here. You two go back to the site.”

We leave Smiffy in what seem to be capable hands and make our way back the way we came.

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