Nordic Bound

by Henry Morgan

  He stepped back to study it. It looked undamaged; there was no buckling, no twisted hinges. It was then that he noticed a faint sign near the locking wheel in the hatch’s centre. Fifty odd years ago it would have been bright red, now it was a faded brown. Written across it in white capitals was the word: LOCKED.

  He kicked at the heavy catch until the metal bolt gave way and a green sign moved in front of the other one: UNLOCKED.

  While David turned the wheel to open the hatch the girls huddled nervously together. Without having to push at all it suddenly swung open and a great gush of icy wind rushed past them. The initial scare over, the three peered out of the back of the ship into a clear sky. A hole the size of a bus had been ripped out of the stern and freezing water had poured in, pulling the ship backwards and down, hence the captain’s dash for the shore and his hurried unloading of his cargo. A pool had gathered, rising to within a few feet of the bulkhead, which had been sealed to prevent water flooding the lower decks and sinking the ship.

  ‘That’s why the door had been locked,’ he laughed. ‘I’d thought it was going to be full of gold being shipped out of the country, and it’s full of fucking water.’ He pointed to the hatch with the torch, but as the girls made to leave both let out a piercing scream.

  ‘What is it?’ shouted David. ‘What’s the matter?’

  The girls pointed in unison into the semi-darkness. David turned around, half expecting a bear to be looming over him, but there was nothing.

  ‘On floor,’ said Mishka.

  Sticking out of the water was a leather boot, and David let out a sigh of relief. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said to the girls. ‘Don’t do that. You had me really scared too. It’s just a boot – look.’ He leant down and pulled at it, but was surprised by its weight. He tugged harder and the body of a man rose slowly from beneath the icy, turbid water. David jumped back and this time let out a gasp before quickly calming down, then again passed the torch to Mishka and proceeded to pull the body from its watery grave.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ he muttered. ‘They locked you in to save the ship. What a way to go.’ He heaved harder and managed to pull the entire body out of the water. As he gripped the man’s trousers his fingers stung with the intense cold, and although the body was slightly bloated it was remarkably preserved. No doubt a consequence of the refrigerator-like conditions. It wasn’t touched by fish or other creatures, because the torpedo had weakened the keel and when the ship struck the beach the stern concertinaed into the rest of the vessel and lifted above the waterline.

  Once he had him out of the water, David didn’t know what to do with him. Until, that was, he saw the gold rings on the man’s fingers, and while he stripped the one hand he motioned for Teena to do the same with other. Initially the girl balked, but David spoke firmly. ‘Just do it,’ he ordered, and there was anger in his eyes at the girl’s initial defiance.

  The two stripped the body of its jewellery, including a heavy gold necklace with a St Christopher pendant hanging from it. David weighed the charm in his hand, recognising the patron saint of travellers, smiled at the irony, and pocketed it along with the other trinkets.

  The body slipped back into the water and David snatched the torch back from Mishka. Waving it above his head he searched the water for more bodies. There were three more, but one of them was stuck beneath some machinery and out of reach. David wedged the torch into the hatch wheel and the three set about their work in the glare of the flame. They stripped the cadavers of any valuables in a frozen version of Dante’s Inferno; the girls looking on in horror as David drew his knife and dislodged three gold teeth from the body of one, before releasing it back to its colleagues.

  When they left the girls insisted that David lock the bulkhead to stop the men walking the ship in search of their jewellery, and he smiled at them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured. ‘You’re safe with me.’

  The girls didn’t understand all the words, but they knew from what they had seen that their master was more than capable of anything.

  Back in the captain’s cabin the girls curled up in front of the fire while David broke open another bottle of vodka. He watched the light dance across the girls’ naked bodies, and settled back in the chair, his feet upon the desk. He fought sleep as he did most nights, and instead of resting and running the danger of slipping into another nightmare, he carried his gaze out of the porthole. The aurora borealis endeavoured to entertain him, at least until he could stay awake no more.

  Chapter 4

  In room eleven Sabrina was pulling on a tiny pair of black knickers. The lace on the front was so fine that the material appeared almost transparent. The small V of intricate lace gathered under her vagina to reappear as a strap that ran between the cheeks of her bottom.

  ‘Where are my stockings?’ she asked.

  Justin laid each black nylon out on the bed. ‘I’ve just got them out for you,’ he answered.

  ‘And my half-cup bra?’

  Justin brought that from the dressing table and fixed the clasps. Sabrina then settled onto the dressing table stool and slowly and purposely applied her make-up. Her black hair had been cut into a neat business-like bob, and glowed with shiny health. It framed perfectly her slightly rouged cheeks, cherry-red lips and sparkling eyes.

  ‘You don’t even know this man,’ Justin said. ‘This Captain Moscow, or whatever his name is.’

  ‘Leskov,’ corrected Sabrina. ‘Captain Vasili Yaroslav Leskov. What is there to know?’ She stood up and smoothed the black figure-hugging dress over her body. It accentuated her curves and made her look incredibly elegant, and then she stepped into a pair of black leather ankle boots. They had sharp heels and pointed toes and a small circle of fur that helped make them snug and warm – perfect for a freezing night in northern Russia. She turned her back towards Justin, who was sitting on the bed, and lifted her dress to reveal her stocking tops. ‘Adjust me,’ she instructed.

  Justin began to run his hands up Sabrina’s leg, ensuring her stockings were not even slightly twisted. ‘What do you want him for?’ he asked. His fingers reached the top of her stockings and ventured further, but Sabrina slapped away his hand and smoothed down her dress. She picked up a thin cane that lay on the dressing table, and pressed the tip to his lips.

  ‘Because, Justin, my naïve little bear. He is not just any old army officer. He is a captain at Severomorsk.’

  ‘So what?’ said Justin, through the thin cane. He hated the dismissive way she sometimes spoke to him.

  ‘I will tell you what that means. If he is at Severomorsk then he must be a captain in the Russian North Fleet, and that means he can get hold of arctic equipment; snowmobiles, perhaps helicopters. That should cut our search for David down a bit.’ She poked the tip into the centre of his forehead and pushed him backwards onto the bed.

  ‘So what do you expect me to do while you’re gone?’

  Sabrina whipped the cane down onto Justin’s penis, forcing him to double up as the sharp pain bit into him. ‘I expect you to fiddle with your limp penis.’ She threw the cane by the side of him and pulled on an ankle length coat with fur collar and cuffs. Lifting up the collar she added, ‘That’s what all you Englishman do, isn’t it; play with your soft dicks? They’re not much use for anything else.’ With that she spun around, her coat rising like a Dervish’s skirt, and left.

  Justin sat up and rubbed the pain from his penis, muttering, ‘David didn’t have a limp prick, and that’s why you can’t stand him being free. I hope he fucks you up the arse!’

  Vasili was waiting at the bar when Sabrina entered the hotel lounge. He registered her presence by lifting a glass and flashing a smile in her direction, then he downed the drink in one, slammed the small glass on the bar and waved her over.

  Sabrina glided to him, her coat trailing behind like the black wings of a Mig fighter to reveal her knee length dress and stockinged
legs. At the bar, circles of vapour spiralled above two shots of freezing vodka. Sabrina rested her hand on his arm and said hello, and the two picked up their glass and downed the alcohol.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ said Vasili. ‘You are a creation of Nikolay Rerickh certainly; a study of the mystic east.’

  ‘Thank you,’ purred Sabrina. She called over the bartender and pointed for two more vodkas, and when they arrived she picked up her glass as if to toast him. ‘And you are a very handsome man. That uniform makes you look so strong and powerful. Are you?’

  Vasili returned her salute. ‘All Russians must be strong. We have many enemies who wait to see us fall. But we have a gentler side, a great culture, men and women renown throughout the world.’

  Sabrina sipped her drink. ‘Which side are you going to show me?’

  Vasili smiled broadly. ‘My gentle side, of course. I have much planned.’ He knocked back his drink and Sabrina did the same.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘I have a car waiting… come,’ said the Russian.

  Sabrina downed the last of her vodka and followed him. Outside a huge square-jawed soldier stood by a long black limousine. She let out a girlish giggle. ‘For us?’

  ‘Compliments of the motherland; a woman of your beauty should walk nowhere.’

  The soldier opened a door for her and she slipped into the rear of the car, her exposed leg, elegant and perfectly shaped in its stocking sheath, not missed by the soldier or Leskov.

  Vasili issued abrupt instructions to his driver in his native tongue, and Sabrina noted how the Russian voice always sounded as if it was issuing orders. It was commanding and strong.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, sinking into the soft leather, revelling in the familiar smell of animal hide.

  ‘The theatre,’ Vasili answered. He pulled on a polished handle attached to a walnut panel and a small cabinet unfolded to reveal a selection of drinks and fine crystal glasses. ‘There is plenty of time. Let us see the city.’

  The car pulled off and the two sidled closer to each other. Their glasses chinked together and Sabrina glanced out of the car. Streetlamps and lights from houses and shops seemed to parade past. Many people pointed at them, taking an interest in the unusually long car. Some noticed the small military flag flapping from a chrome pole on the bonnet while others, those with knowledge of what the car meant, turned away and melted into doorways. The reaction wasn’t lost on Sabrina; she was in the company of a powerful man, and she liked all things powerful. The sound of a bottle refilling her glass returned her attention to her companion.

  ‘What are we going to see?’ she asked.

  ‘Chekov,’ said Vasili. ‘What else?’

  ‘Where is your woman?’ asked the bartender in the lounge of the Romanov. Justin gave him a sneer and picked up his drink, and on the way to a secluded alcove he began grinding his teeth. He only did that when anxious, but noticed he was doing it evermore often. He flopped into a club chair and stared out of the window. Mandelstam Square was deserted except for an occasional person scurrying through the snow as it flurried and gathered here and there in the darkness. He bit into his drink, swallowing the liquid through gritted teeth, and the moment his glass landed on the table the barman was there.

  ‘Another vodka?’ He already had a glass in his hand, and he replaced the spent glass with one already charged.

  ‘Keep them coming,’ said Justin. He thanked God that Russians drank vodka like the British drank tea, and renewed his thanks that Russian vodka was cheaper than India’s favourite infusion. Suddenly there was a loud thud and Justin looked up to see the barman leave a full bottle on his table.

  ‘A man who drinks on his own drinks fast,’ said the barman.

  Justin reached out immediately and took up the bottle.

  ‘You are alone?’

  For a moment Justin thought it was Sabrina, such was the resemblance, but once he had recovered his senses he stammered in the affirmative and the girl sat without being asked.

  ‘You are English?’

  ‘I am English,’ said Justin, and then in his mind he added, and you are about to rip me off.

  ‘Do you see the sights?’

  Justin looked out of the window at the deserted square. ‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I see the sights.’

  ‘I am Catherine,’ she smiled.

  ‘And you look great,’ added Justin.

  The girl looked confused. ‘Pardon me?’

  Justin shook himself out of his torpor. ‘No, I’m sorry. I was just being flippant. Would you like a drink?’

  Catherine smiled and poured herself a large vodka before Justin had time to reach out and do the honours. ‘So,’ she beamed, ‘what are you doing in Russia?’ Her body language had suddenly become animated since the offer of a drink.

  ‘I’m a tourist,’ Justin answered. ‘Travelling in your country.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Tourist,’ she grinned. ‘No you are not!’

  He panicked. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Who comes to Murmansk to see the sights? It is rubbish, one big factory, choking trees, smoke, everything is choking. Tourist, it is shit. Is that what you say? Yes, I think it is. Shit, yes?’

  Justin started laughing. Her whole manner was open and honest. ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘I am no tourist.’

  ‘Then what?’

  He thought a moment then leaned forward and whispered, ‘I am a snow collector.’

  Catherine leant back in her chair with a puzzled expression. ‘For why?’

  He rummaged for a witty answer, but one eluded him. ‘Because…’ he said slowly ‘…because in England we have a shortage of snow.’ He poured yet another large shot into each glass. ‘And everyone in England loves snow at Christmas. Snow in churchyards with red robins on gravediggers’ spades. Snow on Christmas trees with candles burning bright.’

  Catherine grabbed him by the arm in earnest. ‘If you like snow, I show you snow.’ She pulled him up and for the first time Justin realised that she was very tall. She was also very beautiful, just like Sabrina.

  ‘Come,’ she laughed, her voice loud enough to attract attention, ‘let us get some snow. You have money?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘I have some. Not much.’

  ‘This is Russia,’ laughed Catherine. ‘You do not need much if you know where to spend it.’

  Justin lost all inhibitions, grabbed his coat and bottle of vodka and raced after her. Near the door he looked to the barman and shouted, ‘Hey, Boris…’ he didn’t know the man’s real name, but when he looked he pointed at his bottle, ‘charge it to room eleven!’ and with that Catherine lunged out into the darkness, so he followed.

  The girl was already fifty yards away, running and laughing, oblivious to the snow that had turned heavy and was scraping her face with icy nails. Justin raced after her, following the footsteps her leather boots left in the crisp white carpet that paved the streets.

  ‘Where are we going?’ cried Justin.

  The girl took a right turn and disappeared around the corner. Justin followed, and had travelled a little way when he realised there were no more footprints. He stopped and surveyed the street. The only character he saw was a statue of Anatoly Bredov.

  He retraced his steps, feeling deflated. The girl had excited him and offered an opportunity for fun away from Sabrina. She also hinted at danger in the way she suddenly took off after asking him so many questions. He trudged his way back, then saw two sets of prints, his and Catherine’s. It was as if she had vanished into the eerie silence of a Murmansk night.

  ‘Hey, English.’ It was her. She was standing on some basement steps with a naughty grin on her face. ‘You are looking for someone?’

  Justin walked across and peered over the rails. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I wan
t to dance,’ she said. ‘You come. We can dance together.’

  Justin ventured to the bottom of the basement steps and stopped at a large black door. ‘What is this place?’

  As if in answer the door opened and a blast of heat followed. A man in a long coat stumbled out, supported by a girl with long blonde hair. She pulled the man to his feet and smiled at Justin and Catherine, before helping her companion to climb the steps.

  Justin gazed into the building. Everything inside was dark except for hotspots that were illuminated by dull red lights hanging from the ceiling. Catherine tugged his arm and he found himself being taken inside, where his first reaction was to notice the smell. There was a strong odour of leather mingled with sweat and the unmistakable scent of sexual excitement.

  Catherine joined the throng of writhing, dancing people. Her ankle length coat was swirling as she twisted and turned, and Justin saw that above her leather boots she wore only a leather miniskirt and a cropped leopard print bustier that revealed her midriff. As the dance floor thumped to the beat of some northern Russian rock Catherine moved further into the crowd until he lost sight of her.

  Aware that he stood conspicuously alone, he pushed his way through the crowd and headed for the bar. By paying for his drink in dollars he secured prompt service whenever his glass required a refill, but Justin was more concerned with the whereabouts of his new companion than the vodka the barman kept throwing at him.

  Occasionally he caught glimpses of Catherine as she appeared at his side of the dance floor, but before he could attract her attention she melted back into the mass. He soon realised however, that she was a popular girl. Different men would drape themselves over her but she danced on, impervious to their attention.

  When he lost sight of her for the last time Justin decided to check the place over. The cellar, for that was the best way of describing it, was crowded with people and for a moment he pondered how they had all arrived there. Since he had been in Murmansk the largest number of people he had seen was at a bus stop, and they numbered about four. Here there were hundreds of revellers all in various states of abandonment. They were mostly young, but there were a number of older men present who seemed more intent on viewing the spectacle than being part of it.