Deck Boy, page 19
“You were there,” Michael said.
“I come in halfway through.” Barbara lubricated his throat with gin. “If he hadn’t overheard, or we’d all just ignored it, Curly would be here now.”
“But that wasn’t his way,” Michael said. “People die down there in the holds, shut up in containers some of them, hidden away for weeks at a time.”
“That’s right, Curly reckons he can’t just let it pass. But it’s no good confronting Ryland directly, him just the pantry boy, so he goes to the Chief Steward. Makes him promise to keep his name out of it then tells him what he’s heard.”
“We all went with him,” Michael said. “He was really scared.”
“That’s right. And the next thing, Curly’s summoned to the bridge and has to repeat his story to the old man.”
“Were the other two there?”
“No, but the Chief Steward was, lying rat. I reckon he’s as much responsible for what happened to Curly as anyone. Anyway, after Curly had gone back down, one of the watch was sent to fetch them. First Ryland, then Lenny, one after the other.”
“Must have put an end to their plan,” I said. “Did they get into trouble, police and that?”
“You’re right about the first part,” Barbara said. “I reckon it cost them a packet. And the police came in a big launch and took them ashore for questioning – Curly, Ryland and Rat’bone. Kept them overnight. But what proof was there? Just the word of a pantry boy against two ABs. Naturally they denied it.”
“When they came back,” Michael said, “Curly was shaking like a leaf, terrified. Threw up in the washbasin.”
“It wasn’t the cells and the questioning,” Barbara said, “though that was bad enough. He knew Ryland and Rat’bone would have it in for him now.”
“I bet they did.” I took a handful of crisps.
“Anyway, that night, what with the heat and everyone bored out of their skulls, there was a party on board. Crew bar, music, everyone getting plastered. After an hour or so Curly and one of the chefs, skinny chap called Squib, went to the galley to get the eats. You know, little kebabs, devils on horseback, that sort of thing. Chefs put themselves out a bit when it’s for a party.”
“The galley and the crew bar were right next to each other,” Michael said, “just a few steps along the alleyway.”
Barbara glanced at him. “But there was a door opposite that led out on deck.”
“Starboard side,” Ossie said. “Kept open to catch any breeze there was going.”
“And that’s the last we saw of him, heading off to the galley.”
“I asked if they wanted a hand,” Ossie said, “but they told me they could manage. Then Squib came back with his tray. He was only gone a couple of minutes, just long enough to take some stuff out the oven. Said Curly was right behind. But he never turned up.”
“Never thought about it at first,” Barbara went on. “Then after a bit we began to wonder where he’d got to, so Michael went to fetch him.”
“There was no sign of him anywhere,” Michael said. “Galley was empty, tray was gone. I looked in the fridge and saw the trifle and profiteroles for later, but not the tray Curly would have been carrying. I began to get scared. Then I spotted,” he drew a deep breath, “fingers of pizza and quiche and stuff, kicked out of sight under the cookers. Something wasn’t right and I began screaming, ‘Curly! Curly!’ and ran through the ship. He wasn’t anywhere: not in the washroom, not in his cabin, not out on deck getting a breath of air – ”
“When we heard him,” Barbara said, “a whole lot of us ran out to see what was happening. Like Michael says, he’d just disappeared. Then somebody saw crumbs on the deck just by that door I told you about, and a smear of tomato sauce on the rail. We thought it was blood to begin with.” He stopped. “You OK, Michael?”
His eyes were red. “It just brings everything back.”
“I know, love. So anyway, we went up and saw the mate, and after what had happened with the police and everything, he organised a search. Every corner of the ship. When he was satisfied Curly wasn’t lying drunk or hurt somewhere, he rang ashore. Police launches were out there in minutes, scanning the water with searchlights. There was no sign of anyone swimming or shouting for help, but what the police and some of the crew did see – ”
“Don’t!” Ossie cried. “Don’t say it.” He scrambled to the floor, spilling his drink down his chest. “I’ve got to have a pee.” He ran from the room.
“That’s what finished him off,” Barbara said. “He went completely to pieces.”
“We all did,” Michael said. “If it wasn’t for those Indian doctors, there’d have been two of us had a breakdown.”
“Yes, but you’re lucky, you got through it somehow, you’ve got your head screwed on tight.” Barbara fanned the front of his boiler suit. “See what Ossie’s like even now.”
“Yes, yes,” Luigi sat up impatiently. “But the river, the police’a with their searchlights. What you see?”
“Crocodiles,” Barbara said. “Big estuary crocodiles. Low down in the water like logs. They come out scavenging at night.”
“I hate them,” Michael said.
“One swam right under the gangway light, remember? We saw it, big long snout, horrible thing.” He hesitated. “People saw them fighting over something in the water.”
Michael looked away.
“That’s what happened anyway,” Barbara said. “The crocodiles got him. He might have been dead before he went into the water. I hope so. No way of telling. But the river police knew where to look. A lot of bodies and dead cattle and stuff get chucked into the Ganges and come floating down the Hooghly on their way out to sea. They found him on a sandbank next morning.”
“Or what’a was left of him,” said Luigi.
“Yes, all right,” Michael said. “That’s enough.”
“Except Ben doesn’t understand it was Ossie who saw the body,” Barbara said. “He really loved Curly.”
“What do you mean?” Michael said. “We all loved Curly. What about me?”
“Yes, I know, but Ossie was the one on deck when the police launch came alongside to ask the old man for identification. Body covered by a tarpaulin. Pulled it back so he could have a proper look. Right below where Ossie was standing. Lying there in the sun. Black with flies. AB on the gangway said you couldn’t hardly tell it was a man at all, except – ”
“Stop it!” Michael was distressed. “Stop it!”
“Sure, sure,” said Luigi. “But the police’a, they no question them? The bosun and this Rat’bone? First your Curly he accuse them, now he dead in the river. In my country we know this is revenge’a. We go one night when they no expect it, and we cut’a their throats.”
“I wish you had been there, I’d have given you a hand,” Barbara said. “But the Indian police did everything they could. Took statements from everybody. Handcuffed the two of them and took them back to headquarters. Four days in the cells but they couldn’t break their story: said they didn’t fancy the party so they’d spent the night in Ryland’s cabin, playing crib and having a few drinks.”
“Everyone knew it was a lie, everyone knew they’d done it, you could tell just by the look in their faces, but there wasn’t any proof.” Tears spilled from Michael’s eyes. “Bastards!”
Luigi put an arm around his shoulders. “Sshhh. You OK now.”
“What about Ossie though?” I said.
“That’s what finally broke him,” Barbara said. “Seeing Curly’s body like that and the two of them winking at him every meal time. Knowing they’d killed him. On top of everything he’d had to put up with before. Completely went to pieces, couldn’t stop crying and shaking. The mate had to sedate him. When we docked in Calcutta a few days later they took him off in an ambulance. Flew him home when he was fit enough to travel.”
“And when we met him signing on, that was him just back?”
“Yes, I told you, after months in hospital and under the doctors. Then his mother died, remember, and left him alone in that horrible house. Would have driven me mental, never mind poor Ossie. No wonder he had to get away.”
Right on cue Ossie appeared through the curtain, holding Attila in his arms. The ginger tom cat snuggled beneath his chin, purring like an engine.
“I think he likes me,” Ossie said with pleasure.
“Course he does, you big daft brush.” Michael wiped his eyes. “We all like you.”
“You’re my friends.” Ossie regarded him with pale, protuberant eyes. “Have you been crying?”
“Yes, I’ve been crying.”
“What for?”
“Why do you think, Ossie? We were talking about Curly, weren’t we?”
He pondered Michael’s words. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Michael pulled away from Luigi and drained his glass. “Here, somebody pour me another gin before I do something desperate.”
Charlie looked in, a can of lager in his hand, then the cheerful Kevin and a couple of others.
Kevin had a new story.
Michael shrieked: “Kevin, you dirty, dirty boy! I’m disgusted! You’d never tell a story like that, would you, Ben?”
“Never,” I assured him, and remembered a good one from school about some Girl Guides at summer camp.
Slowly the evening regained its gaiety.
But I had been frightened. Beyond the laughter I kept thinking of my own run-ins with the bosun and Lenny Rat’bone, not to mention their friend the senior cadet. After hearing about Curly, I did not wish to cross them again.
And I didn’t, not for a whole twenty-eight hours.
Knife on the Funnel Deck
“BEN! BEN!” A hand was shaking my shoulder.
Slowly I surfaced from a sleep ten thousand metres deep.
“Ben!”
I pushed back the sheet. A figure loomed above me.
“They’re away to get the whisky.”
“Mm.”
“Come on! Wake up!”
It was dark. I made an effort and my eyes swam into focus. “What is it?” My mouth tasted of sleep.
“Tony and some others,” the voice was Philip’s. “They’re away down number five for the whisky.”
I rubbed a hand over my face.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Shut up!” A sleepy grunt from the top bunk.
“I thought you’d want to know. I got to get back.” The shape vanished. There was a rattle of curtain rings, footsteps, silence.
I swung my feet to the deck. No light at the porthole. I looked out – black sea and a thick layer of cloud. My watch hung from a tack in the bunk post. Ten past one, “everyone in their pits”, just as they’d planned. I didn’t intend to go near the hatch, just see what was happening. Keep right back. All the same, I’d have to be very careful. What could I wear? Perhaps there’d be something dark in the drying room. I crossed the alleyway. The storm door leading to the crew deck, always hooked open, was shut as it had been the night I saw the senior cadet raid the cargo. The heat from the drying room hit me like a blast from an oven. Trailing clothes hung from the slats. No black T-shirt but plenty of blue boiler suits. I carried one back to the cabin.
“What’s going on?” A glint of eyes from Charlie’s pillow.
“Sshhh!” I pulled on the boiler suit. The legs trailed, the sleeves covered my hands. I turned them back and tugged my woollen hat to my eyebrows.
“What are you dressed like that for?”
“They’ve come for the whisky. Go back to sleep.”
With the alleyway lights on, even though they were dimmed, I couldn’t use the storm door and turned for’ard. The messroom smelled of toast. There were three to a night watch: one on the bridge, one keeping lookout on the fo’csle head, one on standby in the messroom. But the messroom was deserted. A small Stillson wrench lay on one of the tables. I slipped it into a pocket in case of trouble. A door led down to the engine room; another, directly opposite, led up to the engineers’ cabins. I climbed the narrow stairs and stood in an entrance looking out on the night. A lifeboat overhead cast shadow. All was quiet. I emerged on to the boat deck.
Nothing moved but the waves and gently-rolling ship. I walked aft, avoiding the open deck and treading on the sides of my trainers. At the rail I halted. The stern of the ship lay spread before me. Directly below was number four hatch, astern of the crew accommodation. Below that again lay the afterdeck. I had a bird’s-eye view of number five hatch with the swimming pool alongside, the mainmast housing, number six hatch and finally the poop. Our spreading wake gleamed in the darkness.
If I hadn’t known there were men about I would never have spotted them. I fixed my eyes on the booby hatch which gave access to the hold, and at last detected movement. What was it, someone’s head? a swinging block? I needed to get closer. Cautiously I descended a flight of steps to the crew deck and tiptoed the length of number four hatch to the after rail. A winch and samson post gave me cover. I crept into the space between the drum and the controls. I was terrified.
A spitting distance below me lay the canvas of number five hatch. At the far end, silhouetted against the white mast housing, I spotted a figure. Who it was I could not make out. He lifted the lid of the booby hatch. A second man emerged. With a soft grunt he passed something to the first man who set it on the deck. I heard a tiny bump. He descended again into the hold.
I waited, motionless. He returned. A second object was passed across. It was quite heavy. I heard a chink of glass. They were the crates of whisky.
A third crate emerged. And a fourth.
I was completely unprepared. I could have been knocked on the head and dumped over the side without knowing anything about it. All my attention was concentrated on the scene before me. But suddenly at my back there was a scuffle, a thud, a cry. I spun round. A few paces away a man fell to the deck. A baton of two-by-two rattled from his hand. Another man stood above him.
“Run!” he hissed.
I couldn’t move.
“Go on, scarper! Quick!”
I may have been paralysed with fright but those on the afterdeck were not. There was a flurry of activity round the booby hatch. A single figure raced towards me. He reached the steps. I took to my heels. My saviour had vanished. The groaning man on the deck flung out a hand. I stumbled. He gripped the leg of my overalls. I kicked him and tore my leg free. Headlong I raced for the shadows. My pursuer was only metres behind. A dim-lit doorway was at my side. I dodged through, leaped up a staircase and ran out onto the boat deck.
The man on my heels was slower. Somewhere in the accommodation he fell. I sprinted round the corner. Beside me was a ladder to the funnel deck. I scrambled up and looked for a place to hide. The lifeboats, two at each side, were clamped in their davits and covered by tight canvas. The door to the funnel was locked. A narrow space between the funnel and a huge engine-room ventilator was black with shadow. I ran into it and froze.
My pursuer had lost me, but spotting the ladder he climbed to the funnel deck. My hiding place was so dark I could not see my fingers before my eyes. The man came into my field of vision. It was the bosun. He had something in his hand. From the angle he held it, I guessed it was his seaman’s knife. Breathing heavily, he hunted the deck.
“I know you’re there. Come on out.”
He approached my hiding place. I could have backed out the far side and fled but he was too close. I was terrified to move. Only two metres distant he peered towards me. One metre. He stretched out his arm. If I had remembered the Stillson in my pocket I would have clubbed him with it. Instead, with all my strength, I hit him in the face with my fist and wriggled away backwards.
“Ah! Ah!” I could hear his gasps of pain.
A second man was on the funnel deck. “That you, Jumbo?” It was Rat’bone.
I circled the funnel and flitted aft. Someone was climbing towards me from the boat deck. Steve Petersen? The senior cadet? Shoes scraped on the iron rungs. I ran away between the lifeboats.
Rat’bone appeared from the shadows. In one hand he gripped the wooden baton. His other hand covered his mouth. “Who’s that?” he said to the person who’d just arrived.
“Tony.”
“Thought you was locking up.”
“I have. What’s wrong with your face.”
“Someone give us a clout.”
“You OK?”
“Not really, no. What about the crates?”
“Dumped them.”
“The whole lot?”
“Hid one.”
“Good on yer.”
“Show you later. Any sign of …”
“He ran up here. Smacked Jumbo an’ all.”
“Who?”
“No idea. Wearing a boiler suit. Some greaser.”
They spread out. I tried to squeeze behind one of the lifeboats but there was nowhere to go. Beyond the davits they hung in space. My back was against the safety rails. Fifteen metres beneath me the ocean swished past. There was no means of climbing to the deck below. I looked up. White hand lines were looped beneath the lifeboat’s gunwales. They were for drowning sailors to cling to but gave me an idea. If I stayed where I was I would certainly be found. And if I were found – Rat’bone with his club, Ryland with his knife! I climbed the safety rail and reached for the nearest hand line.
My legs swung into space.
Saved by a Stranger
NO SAILOR in a hurricane clung to a safety line more desperately. Face to the timbers, I swung hand over hand round the lifeboat’s side. The rope hurt my fingers but I scarcely felt it. Somewhere near the middle I made a supreme effort, heaved myself up and after two failed attempts managed to hook a foot through one of the nearby loops. The second foot was easier. I hooked my elbow through the loop I was grasping and hung there panting.
If any of my pursuers saw me now I was a dead boy.
But they didn’t see me.
“Not up here anyway.” I recognised the bosun’s voice.
They drifted away. I saw a hand on a rail. They descended to the boat deck.
For two more minutes I hung there, praying the lashings were strong and the rope had not deteriorated. Beneath me was nothing but the black Pacific. At last I lowered my legs and struggled back to the rail. Never had I felt so weak but there was no time to linger. I had to get back before they began searching the cabins.
