Find My Brother, Page 5

  Chapter Five

  The members of the crew who had descended from the ship to collect McBride were both carrying pistols, but they needn’t have bothered. McBride was not going to make a fuss. After all, he was allowing himself to be transported to Russia. That was the only way he was going to find Ben the journalist. That was how McBride’s mind was working at the moment. He was apprehensive, this was the point of no return. But he wanted, needed the excitement.

  So he meekly ascended the steps, one crewman in front of him, and one behind. Just before entering the dark entrance to the ship he looked back and down. The whole dock area was lit in an orange haze. Immediately below he could see the transit van, the driver standing by it, looking up at them, cigarette between his fingers. And then McBride stepped into Russia. The dark corridor led some way, and then they were descending steel stairs, still in single file, still with McBride in the middle. He could still feel the gun pressed against his back. At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor ended with a door on the left. The man in front brought out a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, stood to one side and let McBride into the room.

  He was in a cabin, a cabin to contain prisoners. On the right, a steel double bunk, anchored to the floor and wall. Straight ahead, a lavatory pan, in stainless steel, and to the left of it, a stainless washbasin. Above the wash basin, a porthole. A non-opening one, McBride noticed. But still, a bit of luxury, being able to see out. On the opposite wall from the bed, there was a built in floor-standing cupboard. The floor was composition, the walls painted white, with rust showing through in places. At least it was en-suite, and with running water. The bunks had very thin mattresses, and two blankets folded at the end of the beds. No bed linen. If they had told him, he could have brought his own.

  The two men stepped outside and McBride heard the sound of the key being turned in the door. It looked as though he might be the sole occupant, and his spirits rose. And they hadn’t taken his rucksack with them, so he had warm clothes and underwear. He could even wash his underwear in the basin, he supposed.

  He sat down on the bottom bunk. He was tired. He looked at his watch. Three a.m. He expected they would sail with the tide. Not that it helped, he didn’t know the tide times. But it would be probably about six hours, give or take. Since they were leaving Teesport, he assumed that they would make for St Petersburg. It was a large container port. To go further to Archangel would be inefficient. The main population was nearer to St Petersburg. So they would sail up the North Sea, and into the Baltic. They would sail to the west coast, closely passing Helsinki, and maybe two or three hours more to St Petersburg. They wouldn’t be at sea more than two, three days at most. He walked across to the wash basin, tried the taps, and to his surprise got reasonably hot water. He washed well, and used a towel that hung under the basin. It was grey but he used it, aiming to wash it out the next day. He made the bottom bunk, spreading both blankets, and climbed beneath them. The room was quite warm, although he could see no signs of heating systems, although there was a square vent in the ceiling, guarded by a very stout grid. Perhaps it was rudimentary air conditioning.

  McBride awoke suddenly, wondering where he was, and quickly got his bearings. He heard voices, steps along the corridor and above his head. Somewhere below was the sound of the engines. He swung his legs off the bunk, went over to the porthole and peered out. They were slowly moving, passing other moored vessels. He turned when he heard a key in the lock, and a seaman came in with a plate and a mug. He placed them on top of the cupboard and gestured with an eating motion. He turned back out of the door and locked it.

  McBride turned from the sink and investigated what he had been given. A mug of dark brown tea, sickly sweet. He shuddered as he took a swig. On the plate, two slices of dark brown, almost black bread, with some sort of meat, probably ham. Better than he had been expecting.

  After dining, McBride sat on his bunk for several minutes. He began to itch. He took off his shirt, which he had worn in bed, and found the cause – several red weals in a group, and further round his body, another group of bites. He had been bitten by fleas. The last time had been so long ago that he had difficulty recognizing the evidence. The blankets probably had several fleas in residence, so there was nothing he could do about it.

  He decided to wash his clothes, the ones he was wearing, and also some dirty clothes in his rucksack. He took off his socks and realized he still had his credit card parked under his sole. It might still prove useful, so he put it back in one of a fresh pair socks.

  He filled the wash basin with the hottest water he could draw from the tap, worked up a lather with the bar of soap. He worked through his handkerchiefs, and his underwear, and hung the wet clothes over the top bunk, wrung out as best he could. He washed a pair of chinos and several shirts. It was still only mid-morning.

  He did push-ups on the floor, and after that, sit-ups. After an hour, he decided that was enough exercise, lay on the bed and slept. He woke again at two in the afternoon, feeling hungry but no-one had brought him food. He went across to the porthole, saw that it was sunny, the sea fairly calm, but there was nothing else to see

  At seven in the evening, the same sailor returned with another meal, this time a huge dish of soup with a bread roll, with a mug of tea. He investigated the dish. It was borsche, mainly beetroot, with soured cream, which had been added after cooking. It was good, but he was still hungry afterwards.

  The next time McBride woke, it was the change in engine note that disturbed his sleep. It was pitch black through the porthole, then he made out land,the twinkling lights of villages. They were stationary, a good way off the coast. He could see a couple of other vessels. Immediately he realized where this was. Denmark. They were waiting for slack water before entering the strait. Beyond that, the Baltic Sea. He knew that the Baltic had virtually no tide, but the North Sea had and the sea flooded back and forth through the strait, keeping an equilibrium. Two hours later, with McBride still awake. From his porthole, he saw ships begin to move to the strait, and in line pass through. Another hour and they were in the Baltic, the moonlight revealing the sea as a gleaming mirror, hardly a ripple breaking the surface. McBride went back to bed. There would be nothing of interest to see until the morning.

  The next morning sunlight cast a shadow in the cabin, light streaming through the porthole. McBride was woken by the sound of the sailor opening the door, bringing his breakfast. He sat on the side of his bunk to eat, and looked through the porthole. The ship must be close to the Swedish coast, he could see small islands, a group of them, most too small to support human life. They could not be far from Stockholm, the scenery was fairly familiar. He was up and at the hand basin when he saw a large ferry in the distance. It looked familiar. It was the Stockholm – Helsinki ferry, now making its way to Stockholm, having left Helsinki the previous evening.

  McBride knew the ship because about fifteen years ago he had stayed a couple of weeks with a friend who lived in Sweden, close to Stockholm. His friend had suggested that they went to Helsinki for the weekend, and it was a good suggestion. The Swedes loved the journey, partly because it is only about twelve hours, but also the alcohol is duty free. Sweden’s licensing laws until a few years ago gave the state the monopoly of alcohol sales to the public. The state alcohol off-license shops are in the back streets of each town. Alcoholic drinks are also available from hotel bars, but the prices are exorbitant compared to other European countries. Nowadays, low alcohol beer is available from supermarkets.

  The other reason for the popularity of the ferry was the dinner dance. The ferry had a large restaurant on board, with an orchestra and a large dance floor. The Swedes love ballroom dancing, and their dinner dances feature also in major hotels in most towns and cities. Young people who cannot afford to dine, can gain admission to the bar and also take part in the dance. The dance is very formal, and the ladies wait to be invited to dance by the gentlemen. It is considered rude to refuse an invitation. This makes the eve
nt of significant interest among single gentlemen.

  Watching the ferry as it passed quite close to the container ship made McBride quite nostalgic.

  It was dusk when the container ship passed Helsinki, and the little capital city was a blaze of light in the darkness. It was only a couple of hours before they would dock in St Petersburg. McBride looked round his prison room. He had a lot of tidying up to do. His clothes were still strung over the top bunk, dry now, and objects from his rucksack stood on the cupboard. He didn’t know where he would be taken, although he expected it would be one of the Gulag camps, many of which lay disused he knew, since the late sixties when reforms were made following Stalin’s death over a decade before. In those days changes took a long time.

  For the first time since he had left the fracking site he felt the dark shadow of fear. Then he shrugged and stood up to pack his gear.