The Ship

by Stefan Mani

‘And I’ll be left in peace?’

  ‘YES, YES, YES!’

  ‘All right,’ says Satan, slightly loosening his grip on Sæli, who manages to get his feet on the floor and draw in a little oxygen.

  ‘Let him go!’ says Methúsalem, clutching even more tightly the rifle that’s shaking in his hands.

  ‘Breathe slowly,’ Satan whispers to Sæli, who’s convulsively sucking and wheezing as he tries to inhale. ‘And you’ll get me out before we reach land. Otherwise I won’t get you out of debt. Understood?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asks Methúsalem, lifting his rifle. ‘Stop whispering! Let the boy go.’

  ‘Let him go,’ says Rúnar.

  ‘Do you understand?’ whispers Satan to Sæli, who manages to nod between gulps.

  ‘LET HIM GO!’ shouts Methúsalem, aiming his rifle straight at Sæli’s blood-red face. ‘Let him go or I’ll shoot the both of you!’

  ‘Methúsalem!’ shouts Rúnar, about to grab the rifle barrel.

  ‘Rúnar!’ John says, grabbing Rúnar’s hand before he can grab the rifle.

  ‘Cool it in here!’ Satan yells at the three men. ‘Put down your guns and I’ll let the boy go.’

  ‘Methúsalem?’ asks Rúnar with a shrug.

  ‘We do as he says,’ mutters John and he lowers his shotgun.

  ‘Okay,’ says Methúsalem, aiming his rifle at the floor. ‘But only until he lets go. And be ready, boys. And you – let go now!’

  ‘I’m letting go,’ says Satan. He takes his hands off Sæli, who takes two steps forward, vomits on the floor and then leans against the nearest wall.

  ‘Easy!’ says Methúsalem, pointing his rifle at Satan’s chest. ‘Turn round and put your hands above your head.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, cool it, man! You’ve been watching too many police movies,’ Satan says, turning around and putting his hands behind his head. ‘So where are you going to lock me up?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ says Methúsalem, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then he looks at Sæli, who’s coughing and whimpering and blowing snot. ‘Bear up, boy, and hurry up to the bridge before the bell brings the Old Man out.’

  Methúsalem then moves his eyes back to Satan, who bends his knees as he turns around. Satan grabs the rifle barrel with his right hand and pushes it aside. The chief mate’s index finger jerks on the trigger and the shot goes off.

  BANG!

  The report isn’t particularly loud but so sudden, unexpected and disturbing that it sounds like a cannon to the ears of the sailors, who stiffen and go cold inside, their mouths filling with the bitter taste of blood, as if death has breathed down their necks.

  A small hole appears in the wall above the head of the bed, the air smells of burnt gunpowder and the fine smoke gets in the men’s noses and their startled eyes.

  ‘But let me tell you something,’ says Satan, still holding the rifle barrel and looking directly in turn at each of the gunmen, who have turned to stone in the face of this self-confident madman. ‘If in the end you can’t prove I’m this saboteur you’re looking for, I’ll kill the lot of you.’

  None of them can utter a word, because none of them knows what to say.

  ‘Let’s go, then!’ says Satan, dropping the rifle. Then he turns around, stands with his feet apart and conscientiously places his palms on the back of his neck.

  ‘Yeah,’ mutters Methúsalem, clearing his throat as he looks at Rúnar, who shrugs and looks across at the chief engineer. Big John raises his eyebrows with a sigh.

  The three gunslingers are faced with a man who turns his back on them with his hands behind his head, but they hardly dare open their mouths to give him orders – because they’re no longer sure whether they have captured him or it’s the other way around.

  B-deck

  ‘Can I offer you some dessert? Ice-cream or something?’ asks Ási the cook, pouring more coffee in second officer Jónas’s mug.

  Ási had promised Methúsalem to keep Jónas busy chatting in the mess for ten or fifteen minutes, or until they had managed to sneak this Satan guy unnoticed down the stairs and into the forecastle, where they were going to keep him chained up for the rest of the voyage.

  However, Ási, the sociable charmer who can talk about anything with anyone, can’t make any contact with Jónas, who already has a reputation for being pretty distant in any company. But on this trip he’s reached the point where they can’t get a sensible word out of him, and when he does look his mates in the eye it’s almost as if he doesn’t recognise them, or as if he simply looks right through them into some other world.

  ‘No thanks,’ mutters Jónas, standing up without tasting his coffee.

  ‘Up to you, pal,’ says Ási, removing the last of the plates and cutlery from the table in the officers’ mess. ‘But there’s lemon cheesecake in the fridge that’s looking for hot coffee with a view to a lasting relationship.’

  ‘Thanks for the meal,’ says Jónas. He leaves the mess and sets off up the stairs with heavy steps, his back bent by worry and anxiety.

  When he’s about halfway up the steps from D-deck to E-deck he hears movement on the port side on the deck below him. He stops on the third step from the top, holds on to the railings either side and listens. He hears a number of men who walk in a row to the stair and then march like soldiers down to C-deck without laughing, swearing or talking to each other.

  Jónas feels that something is not as it should be – seamen don’t often walk around in silent groups. He creeps back down to D-deck and peers through the stairwell. There he sees Big John and Rúnar disappearing round a corner on C-deck, straight backed and with serious expressions, and clutching shotguns to their chests.

  What’s going on?

  He jogs along behind them and manages to see the whole group before they disappear down to B-deck, which will take them outside. At the head is Satan with his hands in the air, and behind him Methúsalem, handling his rifle as if it were equipped with a bayonet.

  Good God!

  ‘Easy,’ Jónas says to himself, drawing a deep breath and rubbing his cold hands together.

  They’ve arrested Satan, which means they think he cut the wires – which is good. But what if this criminal talks? What if he tells them he isn’t Jónas’s brother-in-law? Then what will they think of Jónas, who’s been keeping it secret that he isn’t? Why should he keep such a thing secret? What if Satan tells them that Jónas paid him five million to keep quiet? What if he shows them the cheque?

  What can Jónas say then? That Satan had threatened him? That he had paid Satan to keep silent? To save his life?

  Jónas runs up to D-deck and straight into Satan’s cabin. The air smells of burnt gunpowder, there’s a bullet hole on the wall above the bed and a pool of vomit by the bathroom door.

  Jónas searches everywhere for his cheque. If he can find it, lying his way out of all this will be easier. Then he’ll just say that Satan threatened him – that he threatened to kill Jónas if he told the others about him.

  Jónas finds the duffel bag in the closet and empties it.

  He digs around in the clothes and finds the passports, the bankbooks and the share certificates – but not the cheque. He shoves the clothes back in the bag and pockets the papers.

  There’s nothing in the bathroom cupboard but cigarettes. Jónas steals one pack and continues the hunt for the cheque. He can’t find it anywhere. It’s not under the mattress, not on the couch, not under the bed; not behind, inside or under anything. It isn’t in the cabin.

  The bastard’s got it on him, of course!

  ‘Damn!’ Jónas mutters, then sits on the couch and lights a cigarette.

  He has to do something. He has to think of something. Something brilliant. Something dramatic. Something that will draw his shipmates’ attention away from obvious facts and logical conclusions.

  It’s now or never.

  Jónas puts out his cigarette, turns off the lights as he leaves the cabin and closes the door behind him. He listens fo
r movement, hears nothing, and opens the door to the platform behind the wheelhouse. The storm has approached the ship again, dimming the daylight and raising the wind so the sea is grey and choppy. Jónas holds onto the railing with one hand

  and throws Satan’s papers overboard with the other. The wind grabs the ruined passports, the bankbooks and the share certificates, stirs its catch round in midair, lifts it high above the ship and then scatters it over the churning sea.

  The less there is available about Satan, the better. No ID, no family, no papers, nothing.

  Who’s going to believe the word of a man who can’t prove his identity?

  Jónas smiles crookedly, but not for long. He still has to carry out the most difficult part of his plan; he has undermined Satan’s credibility but he still has to prove his merciless cruelty. Once the crew sees what this man did to Jónas when he threatened to expose him, they won’t doubt the evil of his character. Then they won’t doubt his guilt. Then the cheque won’t make any difference, whether it’s found or not.

  Jónas clambers over the railing behind the wheelhouse and climbs down on the outside until his feet are hanging free. The ship is rising and plunging deeply by turns so Jónas is either slammed against the cold metal or swung out over the wake that roils behind the stern fifteen metres below him.

  After only thirty seconds his hands ache. The metal is cold and wet, sticky with salt, and his stiff fingers are slowly losing their grip. Jónas is panting and trying to think straight as he appraises the movement of the ship. He must neither end up in the sea nor land on the railing on the deck below. It’s a question of the right moment, letting go just as the ship begins to lift after breaking a heavy wave, but not too soon and absolutely not too late …

  Boom, boom, boom …

  Now!

  Jónas lets go of the wet railing. For just a moment he seems to float in midair. Then C-deck shoots past his eyes, his stomach is filled with a cold emptiness, his heart flames in his chest and the taste of blood fills his nose, and the blood tastes of rusty iron …

  XXIII

  F-deck

  Guðmundur Berndsen is sitting on the couch in his starboard cabin playing patience. The cards slide on the table when the ship rolls or plunges but Guðmundur has been playing this same game of patience at sea for twenty years and his clever captain’s fingers have up to now straightened the cards as he went along without his focused mind even noticing.

  But no longer.

  Guðmundur is finding it difficult to concentrate and when the cards slide about it gets on his nerves, his fingers are unsteady, the cards stick to them and gradually the game falls apart into a ludicrous mess.

  ‘Damn it!’ mutters the captain, mixing the cards around before shuffling them again.

  He’s thinking about Hrafnhildur, about the sabotage on the ship, about the morale on board; and he’s thinking about that storm that Methúsalem should have manoeuvred them around long ago.

  ‘The devil take this cursed ship,’ murmurs Guðmundur and stands up to fetch a flask of cognac and a heavy shot glass.

  The captain doesn’t usually bring spirits on board but this is his final voyage, after all. Isn’t he definitely going to quit after this trip? Yes, by Christ – he’s quitting!

  ‘Just one, for my stomach,’ Guðmundur tells himself as he breaks the seal on the bottle and fills the shot glass. Then he tosses it back and closes his eyes, smacking his lips on the smooth aftertaste.

  That’s better!

  He shuffles the cards and lays the game yet again. The ship rolls back and forth, the wind from the west is rising and the daylight outside the window has turned to a weak glimmer.

  What would Hrafnhildur be doing right now? Is she going to come to Suriname? Is he still a married man – or has Guðmundur Berndsen become a divorced old fogey?

  ‘King on the ace, queen on the king,’ he mutters as he moves the king and queen, then turns up the cards that lie upside down underneath them.

  Guðmundur sighs deeply and licks his lips. He unscrews the top of the bottle, fills the shot glass and tosses it back. Then he refills the glass and screws the top back on.

  For a long time he turned a deaf ear when men in their late fifties talked about how dull it must be not to have anyone to share your old age with. How sad it was to maybe die alone.

  Whingeing old women, he used to think, and he would sneer if healthy men allowed themselves to express such sentimental rubbish.

  But now he is getting anxious himself. What if Hrafnhildur leaves him? Then what’ll he do? Rent a basement? Buy a flat in an apartment block? And then what? Play patience until he dies?

  Is he going to be one of those old guys who take root in their recliners watching TV and get cardiac arrest when someone knocks at the door? If anyone knocks. Is he going to be one of those old men with bad breath who walk about in unwashed tatters and eat sour blood pudding for every meal? Who live in smelly flats that are as dim and lifeless as themselves?

  Will he die alone and unloved, without any help, sympathy or soft hands to stroke?

  The ship takes a deep dive, rolls over to port and slams into a rising wave. The wind howls and the ship shudders from end to end; the full shot glass jumps and overturns so cognac flows over the cards, off the table and onto the rug.

  ‘Fuck it!’ says the captain, jumping to his feet. He collects the wet cards, rights the shot glass, throws the flask on the couch and strides to the window.

  Outside the dark is churning, circling in on itself, tearing up the sea, screeching like a banshee and shooting lightning in all directions. The storm is just about to slam into the ship, which is moving so slowly in relation to the wind and the waves that it seems to be bobbing in one place like a rubber duck in a bathtub.

  ‘Holy Mary …’ Guðmundur crosses himself in the face of the indomitable power of nature.

  The crests of the waves are everywhere, whipped into white foam that grows ever greyer as the light fades.

  ‘ … Mother of God.’ The captain takes a deep breath. Then he stiffens as something heavy and wet slams into the closed window.

  Some brown and leathery creature with eight tentacles and a large head.

  ‘Have mercy on us!’ cries the captain as he watches the creature on the window with revulsion.

  A large octopus is glued to the glass and staring at the captain with a dead eye.

  The bridge

  Sæli is standing at the starboard window, helplessly watching the chaotic storm as it comes careering out of the west, black as the smoke from burning oil. Sæli is not authorised to pilot a ship, and even though he thinks he probably could disconnect the autopilot and sail the ship out of the storm, he is not allowed to touch the controls.

  What should he do?

  The waves are getting higher and higher, the sea rougher and darker; heavy gusts of wind are slamming against the ship like invisible punches; wood and metal are grinding and grating; the daylight is fading, the ship is dancing with death and the view is distorted by the foaming sea as it buffets the windows.

  ‘What is going on here?’ asks Guðmundur, slamming the door behind him as he enters the bridge. Steadying himself against walls and tables, he makes his way past the map room and into the middle. ‘Where’s Methúsalem?’

  ‘Methúsalem?’ echoes Sæli, looking at the most senior officer with a mixture of fear and relief. He’s afraid because he’s part of a secret mutiny, but relieved at the same time because someone has come up to the bridge to take command of the ship.

  ‘I told him to sail east! There’s a gale coming up, even a hurricane, twelve on the scale.’ Guðmundur sits in the captain’s chair. ‘Where is the man?’

  ‘He … He …’ Sæli clears his throat so hard he starts coughing.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, boy?’ says Guðmundur, studying him carefully. Sæli is as pale as a ghost and clearly in some sort of state: his hands are shaking, his eyes are wide and shiny, and if the dark stain on the front
of his trousers is anything to go by, he’s wet himself.

  What the hell is going on?

  ‘Where is Methúsalem Sigurðsson?’ asks Guðmundur loudly as he disconnects the autopilot and grabs the helm.

  The captain doesn’t have to wait for the seaman’s answer, though, because as soon as he looks out the window the facts are evident.

  Down on the port side of the weather deck, four men are walking forwards along the ship in single file. They are halfway along, fifty metres behind them, fifty metres to go. At the front is the new deckhand with Methúsalem behind him; next is Rúnar with Big John at the rear. And all of them are armed, except the man in front, who has his arms raised and his hands behind his head. Rúnar is carrying a long chain on his left shoulder and John has a five-litre water container in his right hand. They’re stumbling as the ship twists but making their way forward, step by step, their knees and backs bent, their bodies beaten by wind, rain and spray.

  ‘What is going on?’ shouts Guðmundur, staring out the window as if he can’t believe his eyes. ‘What are the men up to? Are they armed?’

  ‘They’re going to shut him in the forecastle,’ says Sæli.

  Disobedience! Defiance! Mutiny!

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ Guðmundur screams as he reconnects the autopilot. Then he jumps down from the chair and strides into the chart room, where he rolls up the charts that are on the table.

  Just as well these mutineers didn’t get hold of the charts!

  ‘Where are you going?’ asks Sæli, holding on with both hands as the ship takes a deep dive.

  ‘You’re staying here, boy, and doing nothing and touching nothing!’ Guðmundur says forcefully as he opens the door to the corridor with his left hand, clutching the rolled-up charts to his chest with his right. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU IDIOT?’

  ‘But the storm …’ says Sæli with tears in his eyes.

  Guðmundur, red faced, gives the young man a disdainful look but says nothing. Then he steps over the threshold and slams the door behind him.

  Weather deck

  The forecastle door is shut. It’s a waterproof metal door with three hasps. It’s painted red, as is all of the front of the forecastle, and painted on it in white letters is the English name for this space: FORECASTLE.