Max Gilbert, Page 2

  Tubbs had given him his first beer. First swallow, it tasted like something scraped off the bilges-after the second it hadn't tasted so bad. And everyone in the mess had laughed and slapped him good-naturedly on the back. By the time he'd finished the beer he felt great, all warm inside even though the beer was ice cold.

  Mark Faust wondered what his ma and pa would say if they knew. Only at Christmas was wine allowed into the house, and then only sherry in order for the solemn toast to be taken. You just sipped it-you weren't supposed to actually enjoy it.

  Not like this. Boy, was this great! Sitting laughing and drinking in the mess, the radio blowing out "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" until the speaker made the bottles vibrate, and then--... and then it all went bad.

  The door opened as if it had been kicked.

  In came half a dozen men carrying submachine-guns and shotguns. Tommo Greene had jumped up only to have half his face blown from his skull by a spray of bird-shot.

  That's when Christmas became hell.

  The attackers seemed physically huge, near-giants, with dark, tanned faces. But their eyes ...

  Their eyes glittered with such cruelty and hate. It was as if fires had been lit behind them. For Mark, their eyes were more terrifying than the weapons they carried in their massive fists. You actually recoiled when they looked at you.

  If they had said they were demons from hell he would have believed them.

  Within moments he had been thrust into the linen store with Tubbs. The shock had split the fat man's heart.

  The Mary-Anne rolled gently on the tide. They were at anchor in one of the hundreds of fiords that cut inlets deep into the Norwegian mainland.

  He slowly raised his head. Light from the dim bulb reflected from the dead man's dentures. They had slipped halfway from his mouth. One of the teeth was missing. A fight in some port, maybe, or perhaps Tubbs had simply walked into a telegraph pole after one rum too many. Tubbs himself sort of sat, leaning back against the iron wall.

  Mark found his gaze pulled to the dead man's face. Eyes closed, the face had turned white as the blood drained from the upper parts of his body to settle in the lower half, turning his hands blue. Then the dead man urinated. Wetness seeped through the denim boiler-suit to roll across the metal floor in a trickle the color of orange pop.

  Something cracked in Mark's head. He was on his feet pounding at the door, screaming to be let out.

  He seemed to be screaming for hours before the door opened. A huge figure, as big as a grizzly bear, loomed through the doorway. One look from those eyes silenced Mark.

  "He's dead, he's dead," muttered Mark, only half coherently. "He's dead. I-I want to come out. I want... He's dead. You see, he's dead."

  The man put his fingers to his lips in a shushing gesture, then calmly balled his fist and rammed it forward into Mark's face, knocking him backwards across the dead fat man and into the shelves, scattering sheets and pillowcases in a white avalanche.

  Without a word the man removed the light-bulb from the socket and stepped out of the laundry store, locking the door behind him.

  Inside, the darkness was absolute. It seemed to creep close.

  And softly touch him. A cold, cold touch. As cold as the finger of a dead man.

  "Please don't leave me ... Please ... Please ... Please. Don't leave me alone ..."

  Mark Faust's voice fell on dead ears.

  Chapter Three

  "David. Stop it. You'll lose your fingers."

  "I'm not doing anything."

  "You're picking your nose again." Ruth opened the back door of the car to let him out.

  She had brought them to visit the closest thing to civilization near the sea-fort. The tiny coastal village of Out Butterwick.

  Confidently, David headed off by himself toward OutButterwick's one and only shop-which was little more than a large, rambling hut of white timbers. He charged through the door as if he were taking part in a police raid and disappeared inside. Chris waited for his wife to lock the doors of the car.

  After all those years of running old bangers that broke down with monotonous regularity, this car, a Ford Sierra, was something special to them.

  One night he had pulled off the main road onto a farm track. There Chris had made love to Ruth in the back seat of their new car.

  They'd not done that since their courting days. And it didn't make Chris regret that those so-called golden days were long gone. It was cramped, uncomfortable; repeatedly they banged naked parts of their bodies on cold plastic.

  Any minute someone might have walked by. The astonished pedestrian would have seen a bare backside heaving away in the moonlight.

  Afterwards, they had sat in the back seat, their jeans around their ankles, shaking with laughter.

  "And what are you smirking at, Mr Stainforth?" asked Ruth, linking arms with him.

  "Oh, nothing much. I was just imagining how you'd look after six months mixing cement and humping bricks."

  She laughed. "We'll have bodies like Arnold Schwarzenegger and swear like how's-your-father."

  "You've no second thoughts?"

  She looked back at him, her shoulder-length dark hair fanned across her face by the breeze. "Any second thoughts?" She pulled the hair away with her fingers. "Hundreds. And you?"

  "Thousands." When he looked down at her he couldn't help smiling. Not only did she have the same snub nose and freckles as David, she also possessed the same mischievous glint in her eye.

  "Come on," she said, "let's see what son of Superman is up to."

  When they entered the shop, Chris gazed about the place in wonder. It was one of those places that seemed bigger on the inside than the outside. Shelves lined the walls from ceiling to floor. Hung from the ceiling were string bags full of blue and yellow footballs, fold-away canvas chairs, wax jackets, Strings of gloves--a gloriously chaotic mix. The whole place smelled of creosote and oranges.

  Chris spotted David. He was talking to a large man who leaned forward across the counter, resting his weight on his elbows. The man, mid-forties, had a head of thick back-combed hair that ran in corrugated waves. Chris noticed that the man's nose had been broken at some time. The bone hadn't been properly set, giving his face an odd, lop-sided look. The man appeared to be enjoying David's company; he was listening intently to what David was saying and nodding every so often.

  Chris tried to see where, in this stock-taker's vision of hell, light-bulbs were concealed.

  David skipped down the aisle toward them.

  Ruth asked, "Have you been talking nicely to the man?"

  "Sure have," answered David in one of his suddenly loud voices. "But he's got a funny voice. Like from a film."

  "Shh ..." hissed Ruth under her breath. "You don't say things like that."

  "I only said he talked funny," protested David equally loudly.

  The big man behind the counter light-heartedly waved David's lack of tact away with a huge paddle of a hand. "Don't be mad at him, folks. The accent throws everybody. They don't expect it in a place like this."

  "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 lop-sided 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 sea-fort?" 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 lop-sided 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 sea-fort."

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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."