"He's
American!" announced David. "Like Superman!"
"That's
right, I guess I am," chuckled the big American. "I've
lived here thirty years. Never been away." Then, grinning
broadly, he called to Ruth and Chris. "How do you do? Need any
help? We're a bit of an Aladdin's cave here; things take some
finding."
Chris
returned the grin. "No thanks. We've found your light-bulbs."
David
hopped back to the counter. "I've got a goldfish," he told
the American jubilantly. "He's called Clark Kent. Have you ever
met Superman?"
"No.
But I loved Superman when I was a boy. I collected all the comics. I
saw all the movies." A broad grin split his lopsided face. "
'Course, they were the old ones then. All in black and white."
"Black
and white?"
"Yeah.
They were made a long, long time ago. But you know, I used to sit
there spellbound, right down at the front, big tub of popcorn in my
hands, eyes bugging out at the screen."
"I
think David's found a friend," murmured Ruth to Chris.
He
took the light-bulbs from Ruth. "Where next? Back to the hotel
or the seafort?" He itched to have another look round. "David
hasn't been inside yet."
Ruth
hunted for a handful of coins in the pocket of her jeans. "Actually,
Chris, I could do with nipping down to the caravan. I need to measure
the windows for the curtains."
Chris
realized his expression must have given him away.
"Don't
worry, Scrooge, it won't cost anything. I'll be using the dining room
curtains from the old house."
Chris
saw that David was still talking earnestly to the big American as
they walked down the aisle to the counter.
"Got
what you want?"
Chris
smiled. "For the time being. But I expect we'll be beating a
pathway to your door before long." As Ruth counted the money out
into the man's huge hand, Chris noticed that the American no longer
looked so cheerful. Now he avoided eye contact. He even began to talk
about the weather in the odd fragmented way that Chris thought was
still the strict domain of the English when they were trying to break
the ice at parties. Or were trying to pluck up the courage to tell
you something important.
Ruth
shepherded David out with a goodbye over her shoulder. David shouted,
"See you soon."
Chris
said goodbye. The American said nothing, his lopsided face now
expressionless.
What
had David said to upset the man? Chris would have a few words with
the boy as soon as they were in the car.
He
followed his wife and son back to the Sierra. A breeze drifted sand
from the beach across the road in little yellow waves.
He
glanced back to see the American standing in the doorway of the shop.
He was watching them intently.
As
David scrambled into the back seat he gave the man a cheerful wave.
Chris saw that the man did not wave back. The lopsided face was set
in an unsmiling mask.
"Misery-guts,"
muttered Ruth.
"You
noticed too?" Chris climbed in, started the engine, and pulled
out. The few cottages lining the empty road looked deserted. Not a
soul in sight.
In
the rear-view mirror, he could still see the American standing in the
shop doorway.
He
glanced back at David, sat with the comic on his knee.
"David,
what did you say to the man in the shop?"
"Nothing."
"You
must have said something," said Ruth, looking back. "He
doesn't look very happy at all."
Without
taking his eyes off the comic, David shrugged. "I only told him
we were moving into the old seafort."
Chris
watched the man in the rear-view mirror. The American continued to
stare after them until they drove out of the village and out of
sight.
BANG!
BANG! BANG!
There's
no going back.
This
is it.
Mark
Faust knew what he must do.
He
was in the deepest part of the ship, turning the huge iron wheels
that would open the sea-cock valves. Once open the sea would rush
into the Mary-Anne and sink her within minutes.
Turn
the wheel, turn the wheel.
It
turned-slowly, too slowly.
"Jesus.
Turn! Turn!"
Grease
and rust stained his hands red and black. The ship rolled in the
swell. Overhead a single light-bulb crusted in dirt swung,
illuminating the bilges with a weak yellow light. The piles of old
chain, cable, pieces of machinery, and empty boxes cast shadows that
swung to the left, then to the right, as if participating in some
crazy dance.
BANG!
BANG! BANG!
This
was crazy, thought Mark ferociously. All crazy. A dream. Perhaps he'd
wake soon with the crew shouting Merry Christmas.
Dear
God ... It would be Christmas soon. Turkey. Christmas trees. Paper
streamers. Presents. Cards with Santas and sleighs and-
Jesus.
Something scuttled by his feet. Another. Dark and fast.
Rats!
The
incoming water was driving them up from the bilges.
There
were dozens of them, running up over the chains and cable, their dark
wet bodies glistening in the feeble light. One jumped and bounced off
his face. Its thick cold tail hit him on the cheek and its claw
scratched his bottom lip.
Overhead
the mad banging continued.
Three
days ago Mark had been released by the ship's hijackers to cook for
them. Once he'd been told to take food to the Skipper's cabin. Was
the Skipper dead? He knew most of the crew were.
When
he had entered the Skipper's cabin he had stood there, his neck
aching with tension. "Is anyone there?"
Silence-apart
from the bass throb of the engine and the wash of waves against the
Mary-Anne's iron flanks.
He
clutched the tray until the edge of it dug into his stomach. "Hello?"
Still
no reply; but he was sure someone was in the cabin with him. Grey
light seeped through the only porthole, revealing the bunk with
blankets heaped in an untidy pile at one end. Clothes lay strewn
about the cabin. Some had been ripped.
For
a moment he stared at the table fixed to one wall. It had been
smeared with a rust-colored liquid; here and there it had congealed
into black lumps.
BLOOD.
The
word oozed slowly into his mind. He'd seen so much of it over the
last few days that the word seemed to be losing its meaning. Blood
... it gathered in sticky ponds in the walkways, spots covered the
wall of the mess in a Dalmatian pattern, your feet stuck to it on the
steps. It was as he licked his cracked dry lips that he saw a shape
move against the corner of the cabin.
"Who's
that?"
The
shape became a human figure as the man stood. When Mark saw the face
he recoiled as if an electric current had suddenly cracked through
his body. The man's eyes were impossibly large; they were round like
dinner plates-and black as engine oil.
But
then, as the man tottered forward out of the gloom, he saw the face
clearly. The man's head had been roughly bandaged so his eyes were
covered. Bizarrely, two patches of blood had soaked through the
material, making it look as if he had two panda-like eyes, large
blurry patches that seemed to watch Mark intently as he stood there
clutching his tray.
"Is
that you, boy? Faust?"
He
managed to half-whisper, "Yes, Skipper."
The
Skipper lumbered forward, his hand clutching at the air until he
caught hold of him; then he gripped him tightly by the shoulders.
"They
cut my eyes, boy," he said, "because I told the murdering
bastards I wouldn't carry them."
Then
the Skipper sat Mark Faust on the bunk and told him what he knew, his
gnarled hands shaking. "They need three or four of us because
none of them are sailors. They've murdered the rest, poor devils.
We'll be dead too within forty-eight hours."
"What
are we going to do? Jump them?"
The
Skipper turned the blurred panda eyes on Mark; he smiled grimly. "A
blinded man and a boy? No ... But
I
know they must die, son. I've heard enough of their boasting. Death
and torture are meat and drink to these beasts. No, I thought it all
through and I see no alternative. We've got to do it."
"What,
Skipper?"
"Son,
you've got to scuttle the ship."
Now,
in the greasy pit of the ship, Mark began to heave open the last
sea-cock to admit the murky water.
Overhead
the clanging did not stop. It sounded like a distant engine with a
huge, slow beat. Bang ... Bang ...
In
his mind's eye he could see the blind skipper of the Mary-Anne in the
freezer store, beating the metal walls with the iron bar, his breath
billowing out great white clouds like a steam engine running at full
belt.
It
would be drawing the men down at a run, the taste of whiskey still on
their tongues. What the hell was the man doing in there? they would
be asking one another. Only Almighty God knew what was in store for
them. By the time they had forced open the door of the freezer store
they would be too late to undo what Mark had done.
And
the cabin boy? Where the hell is he? We'll split him open with the
ship's anchor when we get our hands on the runt!
The
thought drove him on. He grabbed the fourteen-pound hammer and
hammered at the sea-cock shaft until it jammed tight in its socket.
No one could shift it now without stripping the whole mechanism.
Like
rats in a trap the hijackers were caught.
When
he had finished he followed the fleeing rats upward. He reached a
ladder that ran up a steel service well to the forward deck and began
to climb.
Once
on deck he planned to cut the lifeboat away from its derrick;
hopefully he would make shore or be picked up by a passing ship.
Outside
it was dark. An icy breeze ripped at his hair and clothes.
As
he straightened, he came face to face with a huge figure; a pair of
eyes shone unnaturally bright in the dark.
Christ!
He never thought he'd encounter one on the deck.
For
once one of their number looked almost astonished, seeing Mark
outside at night.
Before
the man could react, Mark turned and ran. The deck was wet. His feet
slipped from under him. As he struggled to his feet he saw the
hijacker raise a revolver.
This
time when Mark ran he did not slip. And he didn't stop running. He
didn't even slow his pace when he heard the crack of the shot. The
bullet gouged six inches of paint from the railing to his left.
The
guard-rail loomed like a white barred fence out of the dark.
Mark
Faust did not hesitate. He vaulted over it...
...
and fell into another world.
The
bastard, thought Chris Stainforth savagely as he stamped on the
accelerator pedal.
"Don't
drive so fast, Chris."
"I'm
so bloody angry." Chris overtook a tractor on a straight length
of road. "What that idiot did to us."
"Well,
it's done now. It's over."
"But
why? We'd agreed to everything. We'd agreed the rent on the caravan;
we'd agreed the date we were moving in; we'd even bought the bloody
light-bulbs for it."
"Chris
..."
"And
the brass-faced sod ... he just stands there, tells us sorry, he's
not renting us the caravan. He's expecting his daughter home from
Canada and he wants to save the place for her."
"Chris
... All right, so we lost the caravan. It's not the end of the
world."
Chris
felt the fury burn into him. "What a lame excuse... the
daughter. Do you believe him, Ruth? Because I don't."