Authors: Lucy Pepperdine
Alone
with Brewer, clearing up after breakfast service next morning,
Euterich discussed with the good doctor the possibility of lifting
the crew’s spirits a little by making something special for dinner.
Something, he said, which did not require the opening of a
tin.
“
Excellent idea,” said Brewer. “How about fish? I think
there’s a few portions in the freezer.”
“
I was thinking of something more substantial,” said
Euterich, steering the conversation.
“
Such as?”
“
Steak pie?”
“
I didn’t think we had enough meat.”
“
Oh, there’s plenty.”
“
What about pastry? Pie’s got to have a crust.”
“
Leave that to me.”
“
Okay then. You’re the boss,” said Brewer.
“
We’ll need to get the meat on to slow cook,” suggested
Euterich. “It needs to be tender. I’ll go get it. You get the
pan.”
Whilst
Brewer rummaged in the cabinet for suitable cookware, Euterich made
his way towards the cold store, surreptitiously claiming the steel
headed meat mallet on the way.
Euterich’s warm breath formed clouds in the chilly air as he
spread out a carpet of clear plastic over the cool-room floor,
covering the drain hole in the centre.
There he
opened up a slit in the plastic, pushing the edges into the drain
like a funnel. He then fitted himself with a plastic apron and a
pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, and pulled the door closed
against the switch which would out the light.
In the
dark he pressed himself against the inside wall, feet apart, right
hand around the mallet’s handle, left hand extended for balance,
and called for Brewer.
“
Hey prof! You got a minute?”
“
What’s up?” came back.
“
Come and see.”
Twenty
seconds later an unsuspecting Brewer yanked open the door, tripping
the light switch and stepped into the suddenly bright
space.
“
What’s the matt–?”
The
deeply textured mallet-head struck him at the base of the skull,
shattering the bone and driving a shard deep into his brainstem,
shutting it down. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Euterich
immediately set to work.
With
everyone else occupied in all corners of the platform, he figured
he had at least two hours clear. If all went well and nobody
interrupted him, he could have the job done well before that
time.
He
dragged Brewer’s body over to the drain hole, rolled it onto its
back, unzipped its overalls and stripped it naked.
“
You’ve spent too long sitting behind a desk, my friend,” he
said, sliding the blade of a ceramic knife over Brewer’s soft
belly. It made short work of separating skin, fat and underlying
muscle, to expose the sheath of peritoneum.
He
sliced through the layer to reach the organs beneath, took out the
liver and heart, along with the kidneys, and set them aside. A few
swift strokes dissected the main arteries and veins, and some of
the smaller ones, flooding the cavity with blood.
“
Yet who would have thought the old man to have so much
blood in him,” Euterich said, dipping his finger into the gore and
tasting it as if it were a fine sauce. “Hmmm. Not bad. Good iron
level. Moderate blood sugar. But not what I want right
now.”
Carefully he flipped the body over onto its stomach. With no
beating heart to push it around, the blood would need a little
encouragement to leave.
Aided by
gravity, red oozed from the many incisions, found the slope in the
floor and migrated toward the drain hole, slipping down it in a
steady stream. All very neat and tidy.
Exsanguination in progress, Euterich fed, satisfying himself
with Brewer’s liver, heart, and one of the kidneys. Forty five
minutes later the flow of blood stopped.
The new
full bellied Euterich/Brewer turned the old one onto its back, and
scooped out the contents of its abdominal and chest cavities,
dumping the slippery entrails into a plastic bucket to be disposed
of in the sea later, leaving the body’s interior as clean and empty
as a newly slaughtered pig.
The
vacant shell now considerably lighter, it needed little effort to
manoeuvre it onto the prep table in readiness for the next
stage.
At over sixty inches long, the flat bed of stainless steel
with integrated sink could have been custom made for the job, and
with the body correctly positioned, a single decapitating blow from
the cleaver sent the head into the sink along with a small
glug
of clotting
blood.
“
A sorry waste indeed that so much intelligence should end
up being flushed down the drain,” Euterich said, turning on the tap
to wash it away. “But not before it rubbed off on me. What you
knew, I know. And you, my friend, had a fine mind. Thank you for
sharing.”
A thin
stream of diluted scarlet trickled down the drain hole into the
waste water recycling tank. Time to get to work.
With
practised ease he separated all divisible joints; the ball and
sockets at the shoulders and hips, the hinges at the knees and
elbows, cutting through joint capsules, slicing through ligaments,
dissecting cartilage.
Sawing
through bones was both cumbersome and unnecessary. This method was
by far easier, quicker, and less messy. With the cleaver he hacked
through the softer bones of the ribs, sternum and spine, and in a
little over thirty-five minutes, he had the body in twelve separate
portions with barely a drop of blood anywhere but in the
sink.
He
selected the portions which carried the most meat; the thighs,
buttocks, upper arms and upper back, exchanging the cleaver for a
filleting knife with which to strip off the flesh and fat, and
debone them.
The
parts he did not require or could not use, including the head,
hands and feet, he wrapped in plastic sheeting, tied up in a black
plastic bag, and pushed into the refuse chute. He selected one
thigh from the remainder. There would be enough meat there for his
needs.
The rest
he hacked into smaller, more usable portions, enclosed them in
plastic bags, and placed them in an insulated box which he carried
to the freezer locker. He cleaned up the floor of the cold-room and
wiped down the tabletop. Satisfied with his efforts, he stripped
off the plastic apron and gloves. They too went into the
refuse.
Time for
a quick shower to remove any residual blood spatter or smell that
might be clinging to him, before switching modes from butcher to
chef and to begin the preparation of the evening meal.
It had
been a long time since he’d had a decent steak and kidney
pie.
“
That smells braw!” exclaimed
McDougal, fresh from his shift and shower. “I’m sae starved my
stomach thinks ma throat’s bin cut.”
Euterich
stretched Brewer’s face into a benign smile, “What an unfortunate
choice of phrase Mr McDougal, if I may say so. It won’t be long ...
I wonder …”
Time to set minds stirring.
“…
have you by chance seen Mr McAllister? It would seem that
every time I am rostered onto kitchen duty, I find myself here on
my own.”
“
Cannae say that I have,” said McDougal. “Bin hard at work
cleaning off gull shit all afternoon. Filthy bastards get
everywhere. I wouldnae be surprised if I picked up some foul
disease from it.” He grinned widely. “Or indeed some fowl
disease.”
“
Such a dreadful waste of your talents, Mr McDougal,”
Euterich sympathised, falsely.
“
Aye, ye can say that agin. Next thing the Boss Man will hae
me scraping barnacles off the legs. Still, if that’s what they want
tae pay me for, that’s their loss. Giz a shout when the food’s
ready.”
“
Will do.”
Presented with a plate loaded with tender chunks of meat in a
delicious rich gravy, topped off with a golden flaky pastry crust,
nobody seemed the least bit concerned at McAllister’s absence from
the feast.
None but
Eddie.
His
nerves, already strained as the twenty-four hour deadline came and
went without resolution, were stretched ever tauter by the vacant
seat.
Ever
since Reynolds’ death, having anyone out of sight or communication
for more than a few minutes instilled a feeling of dread in him. He
pushed his barely touched plate away.
“
Don’t you like the pie, Mr Capstan?” asked Euterich in
Brewer’s usual polite and courteous manner.
“
Sorry, doc,” Eddie said. “No slur on your cooking, I’m sure
it’s delicious and I appreciate you’ve gone to a lot of trouble,
but I just don’t have any appetite. I have too much on my
mind.”
“
Including Mr McAllister not joining us tonight?”
“
Among other things.”
“
I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine. Don’t you think it
understandable, considering recent events and how tense things have
been around here lately, that he’s found the need to take some time
out alone. I’ve been tempted to do so myself. I’m sure he hasn’t
gone far.”
Actually, he’s closer than you think.
“
He could have told us he didn’t want any dinner instead of
just not turning up,” said Eddie. “The way things have
been...”
A murmur
of concern circulated the table.
“
We could organise search parties to be on the safe side,”
said Shaw. “There’s enough of us to go in three separate
pairs.”
“
There’s no harm in looking,” said Cameron. “The worst that
could happen is we get an earful from Jock for butting into his
private time.”
McDougal
stabbed at a chunk of meat. “After dinner though, eh?”
They
found not the slightest sign of Jock McAllister aboard Falcon
Bravo.
Neither
his cabin, far too clean and tidy for Eddie’s liking, nor his
workplace cum hideout in the ROV shack, gave any clues as to his
whereabouts. He had, to all intents and purposes, simply vanished
into thin air.
Chapter 32
At the
prospect of having to report the loss of yet another crew member
the steel band tightened around Eddie Capstan’s chest, the woolly
mitten stuffed itself into his mouth, and his entire body, its
blood vessels already vibrating, felt as if it were filled with
grasshoppers.
The room
began to spin around him, and Matt Shaw watched in helpless terror
as his boss hyperventilated himself into a full blown panic attack
right there on the control room floor. In response to his anxious
call, Lydia burst through the door to attend her first proper
medical emergency.
A
curiously concerned McDougal and Cameron followed close behind.
Euterich ambled along at the rear, watching everything with
detached interest.
“
Where is he?” she said.
Shaw
stood back to allow her access to her red suited patient sitting in
the middle of the floor, forehead resting on fiercely hugged knees,
shoulders heaving, back straining as he struggled for
breath.
“
He was about to use the phone to report Jock missing when
he started clutching at his chest and breathing funny, and then he
went really white and sank to the floor and he –”
She put
her hand on Shaw’s arm, stilling his gabbling. “It’s okay Matt.
Calm down. Everything is going to be okay.”
Lydia
knelt down beside Eddie, pulled the zipper of his overalls away
from his throat, and laid a cool hand against the back of his hot
neck.
“
You’re okay, Eddie. You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry.
I’m here to help you. Try and relax.”
“
What’s wrong with him? Is he having a heart
attack?”
“
No Matt. He’s just a little tense and finding it hard to
breathe.” From her bag she pulled out a small black and white
canister, and attached a clear plastic tube and face mask. “Put
this on Eddie, it will help you breathe,” she said, fitting the
mask over Eddie’s mouth and nose, keeping her voice low and gentle
as she spoke. “Easy does it. Take long, slow breaths, in and out,
take control, slow… easy.”
She
turned to the rest of the little audience. “It’s okay guys. He’s
going to be alright. If you can give us a little privacy, I’d
appreciate it.”
“
Can
I
possibly be of any help?” asked Euterich. “I do
have a little first aid training.”
Lydia
looked up into Brewer’s benevolent countenance. “No thank you,
Lawrence. What he needs most is quiet and... a cup of tea,
perhaps?”
“
The cure to all woes? Of course. I’ll see to it
myself.”
“
Thank you. Thank you guys.”
Dismissed with courtesy, all four men filed from the room and
Eddie and Lydia were left alone.
As Eddie
breathed in the gas, Lydia moved her hand in soothing comforting
strokes over his back and shoulders. Gradually his breathing eased
and he released the hug on his knees. She took his wrist to measure
his pulse. “Better?”