The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  Ási: ‘Don’t these belong here?’

  Methúsalem: ‘The cutters!’

  John: ‘Where did you find these?’

  Ási: ‘Out by the rubbish bins. As if they had fallen from the sky! And when I looked up, there was the new guy. He was messing around with the lifeboat.’

  Rúnar: ‘Satan!’

  Sæli: ‘What was he doing to the lifeboat?’

  Methúsalem: ‘Do we still need more evidence? Something tangible?’

  Everyone: ‘No!’

  Methúsalem: ‘Ási, we need to use the lock and chain you use to fasten the rubbish bins.’

  Ási: ‘What for? What are you guys talking about?’

  Stoker stands inside the open door to the storeroom and peers into the engine room. The gang of five stands close together talking just three metres away, their voices as loud as a male philharmonic choir, but their words drowned in the noise of the dynamo. Stoker sees their lips moving but can’t hear what they’re saying.

  ‘Satan,’ murmurs Stoker as he hangs up his greasy ear protectors. ‘That’s the name. His name is Satan! Of course – he is Satan!’

  Stoker smiles so widely that he shows his brown wisdom teeth.

  XXII

  D-deck

  Sæli leans against the doors leading out onto the platform behind the wheelhouse, lightly drumming his fingers against the door. He’s out of sight here if anyone should come along the newly scrubbed stairwell, and the door to Satan’s cabin is just two metres away. He assumes Satan is inside the cabin. Where else would a man be when he can’t be bothered to work?

  But what’s this Satan doing aboard the ship anyway? He told Sæli to bring back some bloody package from some contact in Suriname, and more or less threatened to hurt his family if he didn’t do as he was asked.

  ‘You bring the package,’ the bastard had said on the phone. ‘I look after the family. That’s it.’

  All because of that fucking gambling debt! A loss of a million that became a loss of two million, then three, four and five, like a hole that keeps getting bigger as you try to fill it, and before Sæli had realised he was falling, not flying, and the loss had become a soulless monster whose stomach had room enough for a whole flat in the Old Town.

  Why should the bugger be on board the ship, though, if Sæli’s supposed to bring the package? And how is he going to ‘look after’ the family if he’s nowhere near them?

  Sæli can’t find answers to these questions on his own,

  but if this Satan guy is on board, then his wife and son must be safe back in Iceland, right?

  But Sæli has to be sure. He has to get answers to these questions. He can’t just behave as if nothing’s happened – as if he doesn’t know who this man is. He’s the fiend who’s made his life a nightmare! A devil who has, up to now, remained in the shadows, been just a deep voice on the phone. But now he’s here. The man on the other side of that cabin door is Satan, the arch-fiend in the flesh. The terror of the underworld is cornered in a ship’s cabin, trapped inside a narrow room, like a mouse in a shoebox.

  Sæli has nothing to fear. In just a couple of minutes three armed men will enter the cabin and overpower the scum. But before they put him in chains and lock him in the forecastle, he ought to speak with Satan, face to face. Get answers before it’s too late to ask. Before he realises he’s nothing but a mouse in a shoebox. After Methúsalem, John and Rúnar overpower the man he may just close up and refuse to say anything at all. Hard guys like that are not exactly known for breaking down and crying when things go against them.

  It’s now or never.

  ‘To hell with it.’ Sæli takes three steps forwards and breathes deeply before he knocks on the door with three short blows.

  Knock, knock, knock …

  Satan is sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette when someone knocks on the door. On the table in front of him is the ampoule of morphine sulphate solution, the syringe and the needle. He’s dying to inject himself with this heavenly stuff and float into a sleep that is deeper, longer and darker than any other. But a man who is in the power of the sleeping death of a morphine rush is totally vulnerable, and considering the situation on board this ship, there’s not much chance it’s going to be some Prince Charming who brings him back to life with a tender kiss. And unlike the seven dwarfs – who laid Snow White to rest above ground in a cushy glass coffin – these blockheads are as likely as not to throw him in the sea headfirst if they find him unconscious in his cabin.

  There is another knock on the door.

  ‘Just a minute!’ says Satan, laying his cigarette down on the edge of the table. Then he winds the bandage back around the ampoule, syringe and needle, shoves the whole lot into the empty cigarette pack and puts the pack in his right trouser pocket.

  Satan has a sip of cold coffee, then picks up the cigarette and takes a drag, leaning forward on his elbows and watching the door. He knocks his heels lightly on the floor to get a feeling for the gun and knife, both of which bounce lightly on his ankles, sending nerve impulses up to his brain and from there to his fingertips.

  He’s ready for anything.

  ‘Come in!’

  Sæli slowly opens the door and enters the cabin warily.

  ‘What do you want?’ asks Satan, knocking cigarette ash onto the table.

  ‘Me? I want to know what you’re doing here,’ says Sæli. ‘I want to know why you can’t leave me alone!’

  Satan looks at Sæli as if he has no idea what he’s talking about and couldn’t care less anyway. And indeed, he does have no idea what Sæli is talking about and he couldn’t care less.

  ‘You’re Satan, right? You said that downstairs, didn’t you?’ says Sæli, standing in the middle of the cabin shuffling his feet. ‘I’ve only spoken to you on the phone up until now, and maybe you haven’t seen me before – at least, not face to face. I’m Sæli, the guy who owes money. Ársæll Egilsson.’

  Satan takes a smoke, leans back in the couch and examines Sæli from head to foot as he casually blows smoke out through his nose. But he says nothing.

  ‘Why don’t you say something, man?’ asks Sæli, going red with rage. ‘You threaten my family on the telephone, order me to fetch some package and I don’t know what else! And then when I face you, you can’t say a word. I just want to know what you’re doing here. Are you following me? Don’t you trust me to bring you this package? Maybe you were sent here to kill me? Eh? Am I to be killed for a measly eleven million? Or is it twelve, now? Who sent you? The owner of the gambling joint? What’s his name again – Sverrir?’

  When Sæli mentions the gambling joint Satan raises his eyebrows. He sits up, leans forwards on his elbows, takes the cigarette out of his mouth and narrows his eyes.

  ‘Goddammit!’ Sæli throws up his hands and sighs noisily. ‘You don’t want to say anything – fine. But tell me one thing: is my family safe? I’m the one who owes money, not them. Are they safe? Answer me that!’

  ‘What gambling joint are you talking about?’ asks Satan, waving his left hand in a circle counterclockwise, as if wanting to rewind Sæli’s speech. ‘You said you owed money to some casino?’

  ‘Yes. In Dugguvogur,’ says Sæli, glancing sideways at the door and wiping the sweat from his forehead. ‘Stop acting as if you know nothing! You’re a collector for those pigs. You’re Satan!’

  ‘Hold your horses, boy,’ says Satan, putting his cigarette out on the tabletop. ‘You owe money to a casino in Dugguvogur and some Satan wants to collect from you? Is that right?’

  ‘You’re this Satan guy, aren’t you? I mean, if you weren’t him you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Have you ever seen this guy, the one who’s collecting?’ asks Satan, standing up and walking towards Sæli, who retreats towards the door. ‘Can you tell me anything more about him?’

  ‘Don’t mess with me, man!’ says Sæli, pale with fear. ‘There’s no sense in messing with me. I won’t stand for —’

  Sæl
i never finishes the sentence because Satan hits him open handed on his left cheek with a blow so heavy that Sæli sees only black and blood starts flowing from both of his nostrils. He leans against the wall and tries to remain upright but the pain is so severe that he’s forced to sink to his knees.

  ‘Yes, I am Satan,’ says Satan, spitting on the top of Sæli’s head. ‘And Satan doesn’t bother with minnows like you. Simply having to hit such a kitten makes me choke with contempt and shame. I don’t collect debts for anyone but myself and I don’t threaten any fucking families with anything!’

  ‘I don’t understand …’ mutters Sæli, trying to wipe the blood from his face, making it even worse by spreading it around.

  ‘Who phoned you?’ Satan squats down beside Sæli and grips his throat tightly with his right hand.

  ‘He said his name was Satan,’ says Sæli, sniffing blood up his nose. ‘I never saw him, but I saw his car. It was a big BMW, maroon.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ says Satan, letting go his hold and standing up. ‘We’re being fucked around, my boy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Sæli as he totters to his feet, coughing.

  ‘I’m not the guy who phoned you, the guy who’s collecting the debt,’ says Satan, lighting a cigarette. ‘That idiot is pretending to be me, or else he doesn’t know who I am. Shit! You get old fast in this business. After ten years you’re a dinosaur in the eyes of beginners. And then you’re suddenly stuck on a ship that’s sailing with you straight to hell.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If you’re not the Satan who phoned me, then who is?’

  ‘What package were you supposed to fetch?’ Satan blows smoke from his nostrils as he shoves the half pack of cigarettes and the gas lighter into his left pocket, on top of the sock with the shells.

  ‘I’m supposed to smuggle a package home from Suriname. Probably drugs. Something from Colombia. To pay part of my debt, you know?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ says Satan, fishing Jónas’s cheque from his pocket. ‘We’ll just keep that package and also buy as much coke as we can. Haven’t you got some currency or a credit card or something? Here, take this cheque as security. You get hold of a pile of pesetas or shillings or whatever they use down there and I’ll sniff out the cocaine and buy it. You hide the stuff, I’ll sell it in Iceland and we’ll split the profits. We’re talking tens of millions here! What do you say?’

  ‘But …’ Sæli murmurs as he takes the cheque. ‘This package – it’s not mine. And this Satan – the other Satan – he threatened my family and he’s home in Iceland and –’

  ‘There’s only one Satan! Just so that’s clear,’ says Satan and he pats Sæli on the left cheek, which is still bright red and throbbing with pain. ‘And your family is safe until the package is delivered to these guys, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ says Sæli uncertainly, then he folds the cheque in two and sticks it in the pocket of his overalls.

  ‘But as long as I’m your pal, your family is safe from cradle to grave,’ says Satan with a cold grin. ‘I’ll see to this BMW prick the minute I set foot on our fucking island. He’s as good as dead, you see? He’s dead but he just doesn’t know that he is dead!’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ says Sæli. ‘But there’s just one thing I still don’t understand. What are you doing on board this ship?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ says Satan, his grin disappearing. ‘You could say I’m here because of that guy who phoned you and threatened your family. When he made so bold as to call himself Satan he probably set off a course of events we still can’t see the end of. But to my mind it’s first and foremost because I didn’t fuck two little girls I wanted to fuck. I hesitated …’

  Satan takes a drag, shrugs, then goes to the open window and flips his glowing cigarette out.

  ‘Now I really don’t understand,’ Sæli says with an embarrassed half-grin which freezes on his lips, turning into a frightened grimace when someone rattles the doorknob forcefully behind him.

  Satan whirls round to see the door open and three armed men force their way into the cabin.

  In the lead is Methúsalem, who handles his rifle as if it has a bayonet on it, and behind him are John and Rúnar, who have no idea how to behave, so they are more like hunters lost in the woods than armed housebreakers.

  Satan bends over to stretch his right hand quickly but coolly towards his revolver in its holster but Methúsalem aims the rifle at him, his finger tightening round the trigger, so Satan decides not to show his trump card. Instead he calmly straightens up and runs his fingers through his greasy hair almost casually.

  He’s been in worse situations. These guys are just amateurs carrying guns too ridiculous for conflict in such a small space.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m … they …’ Sæli steps to the side and looks back and forth between Methúsalem and Satan, who don’t take their eyes off each other.

  ‘You!’ says Methúsalem, aiming his rifle at Satan’s breast. ‘Don’t move! Don’t even scratch your nose!’

  ‘Sæli!’ says Rúnar, letting the barrel of his shotgun sink to the floor. ‘Look at you, boy! Did he do that?’

  ‘Yes, but look …’ Sæli says, looking at Satan, who gives him a wink and a crooked smile.

  ‘You fucker!’ says Big John, tightening his hold on his shotgun, which he clutches to his chest and points at the ceiling.

  ‘He won’t be slapping anyone else during this voyage,’ says Methúsalem, nostrils flaring. ‘And he certainly won’t be sabotaging this ship any further. Mark my words, you motherfucker! You’re not going to see daylight again until we get to Suriname. We’ll make sure of that!’

  ‘Methúsalem!’ says Sæli hoarsely. ‘He isn’t who I thought he was. He —’

  ‘You’re scared of him, Sæli,’ says Methúsalem, without taking his eyes off Satan. ‘And I can understand that. This is a dangerous man and he’s just thumped you. But that’s over now! He’s coming with us and everything will return to normal. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Sæli looks desperately at Satan, who returns his gaze and shakes his head gently back and forth, as if to tell Sæli that it’ll be all right, that he shouldn’t get himself in trouble on Satan’s account; that their agreement will remain their secret; that he’s not afraid of these men nor what they’ve got planned for him, that …

  ‘No buts!’ says Methúsalem emphatically.

  ‘Okay,’ says Sæli, hanging his head.

  ‘You just go up to the bridge,’ says Methúsalem, glancing briefly at Sæli and nodding his head towards the door. This movement – the glance and the nod – lasts less than a second.

  But that’s all the time Satan needs, and more.

  The moment Methúsalem takes his eyes off Satan he grabs Sæli and pulls him close, jumping behind him in the same movement. He hooks his left arm around the front of Sæli’s neck, locking his left fist around his own upper arm and his right fist around the back of his neck, so Sæli is stuck in a deadly wrestling hold.

  ‘STILL!’ screams Methúsalem, who doesn’t know where to aim his gun and ends up aiming it in the reddening face of Sæli, who stares at Methúsalem, desperation in his eyes.

  ‘God almighty!’ says John, looking at Rúnar, who shrugs and shuffles his feet to the right of the chief mate.

  ‘Methúsalem, don’t …’ Sæli manages to say before Satan tightens his grip. His neck bones creak, his windpipe narrows and his oesophagus closes tight.

  ‘Let that man go,’ says Methúsalem, trying to squeeze out some saliva for his mouth, which is painfully dry from right down to his stomach.

  ‘Just one question, before I snap this boy’s spinal cord,’ says Satan calmly as, little by little, he tightens his hold on Sæli, who is going blue and standing on his toes to try to avoid being hanged. ‘What are your plans? What’s going to happen if you capture me?’

  Satan has pretty well defeated this three-man invading army. All he has to do – if they don’t have the sense to t
hrow down their weapons and give up – is to sink to his knees, with Sæli in front of him, let his right hand go and get the revolver from his right ankle. Before these fools would have time to drop their jaws in wonder, as they feebly try to deal with the overwhelming fact that they have about a third of a second left to live, he’d shoot all three of them.

  However, before he goes so far as to end the lives of three people, he wants to know if there’s a better solution. If blood is spilled and men die, there will be chaos on board the ship. Then the projected cocaine smuggling he and the second mate were planning would come to nothing, and down the drain would go a business opportunity that could easily earn him millions without any serious costs, danger or trouble. And Satan is not the kind of guy who’d risk losing such an opportunity if he could possibly avoid it.

  ‘We’re going to lock you up,’ says Methúsalem, hesitating in front of Sæli and Satan and aiming his rifle now to the left, now to the right of Sæli, who watches the chief mate’s asinine posturing with a terrified, oxygen-deprived expression. ‘We’re going to see to it that you don’t cause any more damage than you’ve already … caused.’

  ‘You’re welcome to lock me up somewhere,’ says Satan with a laugh. ‘But if you’re looking for some saboteur, then you’re barking up the wrong tree, whether you believe it or not.’

  ‘We don’t believe you,’ says Methúsalem, his voice shaking. ‘Let the boy go and we’ll show some mercy!’

  ‘He can’t breathe, man!’ says Rúnar, watching Sæli turn blue and black around the eyes as he dangles in Satan’s head-hold.

  ‘I can’t stand this!’ says John, who’s breathing like an adenoidal sheep and wiping sweat from his burning forehead.

  ‘Let go!’ yells Methúsalem, spraying saliva all over the cabin.

  ‘Will I get food and drink?’ asks Satan.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And I won’t have to work and stand the watch or whatever it’s called?’

  ‘Yes!’ screams Methúsalem, on the verge of breakdown.