Ship to Shore

by Peter Tonkin

  She swung the door to the gym open and crossed to the nearest of the two multi-gyms standing at the back of the big room, behind the basketball court. Between the multi-gyms was an exercise mat. Still lost in thought about the officers of Atropos and how she was going to describe them in print without spending the rest of her life fighting libel suits, she stood on the mat and began the routine she always used to loosen her muscles prior to putting them to serious work. It was a routine she had learned in ballet class at acting school when she had harboured dreams of dancing. She stood erect, then spread her legs until the muscles in her groin began to pull. She leaned forward from the hips and let her body relax so that the backs of her hands brushed the floor between her ankles. Eyes closed, concentrating with every fibre of her being, she pulled herself erect, allowing her arms to flow up above her head, stretching ever upwards as though attached by tightening lines to the ceiling. Then she flopped forward until she could feel the fibres down the backs of her thighs stretching, and began again.

  The first officer was called Yasser Timmins. At first she had thought his given name denoted an Arabic mother — the scrawny little man was so wizened and weathered that it was impossible to tell what mixture of races his forebears might have sprung from. But no. Soon enough she discovered that ‘Yasser’ was another nickname and had nothing to do with race. It was a mocking echo of the words he used most often, especially when talking to Captain Tightship: ‘Yes, sir!’

  Yasser seemed to have little or no character, motivation or understanding of his own. He existed to obey orders and to ensure that the orders he passed on were equally well obeyed by those unfortunate enough to be beneath him. While he grovelled before his captain, he lorded it over the others, enforcing his demands with petty, sadistic punishments. It was a miracle that he had ever risen to any kind of rank at all and the thought of him going further and actually gaining command of a ship simply made her blood run cold.

  She stood up and began a series of exercises designed to loosen the muscles of her torso and lower back. These, too, were her own variations on ballet exercises. She put her hands on her hips and began to swing her torso from side to side, eyes closed as she concentrated on stretching the muscles in her sides and buttocks.

  Next under Yasser was Hogg, and Fate had given him his nickname for real. All Hogg seemed to think about was food, though Ann suspected he might indulge in other fleshly delights too whenever he got the chance. He was not the youngest of the officers, but he seemed the most juvenile, with his childlike over-indulgence at meals and his legendary Dagwood multilayer sandwiches in between. There was something soft and faintly repulsive about his roly-poly, odorous, dough-boy body, and Ann had no trouble at all in imagining him spending all his nights between his watches abusing himself in his cabin poring over the porno mags the Wide Boy had brought aboard to hire out among his shipmates.

  Ann went into her last set of loosening-up exercises and thought about the Wide Boy. She sat with her back straight and spread her legs as far apart as they would go. Then she lowered her head until it all but touched her right knee. Extending her hands down her calf, she pulled gently, feeling the long muscles of her back stretching, all the way down to her bottom, while every tendon and fibre in her leg pulled, from toe-tip to the top of her thigh. After three on each leg, she rolled onto her back and pulled her legs, toes pointed, down towards her nose.

  His name was Reynolds and he was third officer, but everyone called him the Wide Boy. He might have had a given name but she had never heard it. If he wasn’t called the Wide Boy, then it was Butch. Butch Reynolds. He was like a caricature from a gangster film, posing like Pacino or Mickey Rourke as though always ready to pull a comb out of his back pocket — a comb or a blade, or a gun. There seemed to be nothing he could not supply. Ann had seen enough war movies where some member of the command, some supply sergeant or junior officer, was always able to get his hands on anything. These fictional characters seemed to be pleasant enough, and useful, too. But not the Wide Boy. Reynolds was bad. And the stuff he could always get his hands on was not the kind of stuff they supplied in innocent old war movies. He was the one with the funny smokes, the pills, the little plastic packages and God alone knew what else. Of all the men aboard, Wide Boy Reynolds was the one, perhaps, who frightened her the most.

  She sat up, pushed herself erect and crossed to the nearest machine. She was going to start on the peck pumper. It had two hinged pads which were pulled in from their positions either side of the ears to meet in front of the nose. The multi-gyms worked by a series of pulleys so that the pads and bars raised an adjustable column of weights varying from five kilos to fifty. She adjusted the weights carefully. She wanted light work which would build stamina not muscle bulk.

  She moved to the padded seat between the peck pump pads and sat with her back to the machine. She shook her head to ensure her long dark hair would not get caught up in the machinery. Her mind still involved with the list of deck officers, she reached back to grip the pads. The position thrust out her breasts to straining fullness against the stretch top of her exercise suit and her reverie was interrupted by a series of catcalls and wolf whistles. All along the gym window stood a line of early-bird seamen who had clearly discovered a new and popular spectator sport. She looked at them, stunned by the simple rage this puerile invasion of her privacy ignited inside her. Her Italian blood commanded that she rise up and scream at them at once. Explain to them in some detail what pathetic excuses for men they really were and speculate individually, collectively and loudly upon their parentage and personal habits.

  She was up out of the machine and halfway across the basketball court before she realised it and only the arrival of Yasser Timmins stopped her. He shoved past the end of the line of men and slammed in through the door. ‘What kind of an exhibition is this, Ms Cable?’ He had a high, whining voice which she found she disliked as much as everything else about him.

  ‘An exhibition of prehistoric chauvinism!’ she spat.

  ‘I thought the captain had forbidden you to wear that outfit around the ship,’ he persisted.

  ‘It’s the only exercise outfit I’ve got. It’s six thirty in the morning, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘You will just have to take some other form of exercise. I can’t have my men distracted by ...’ he paused. His words were identical to Captain Black’s words yesterday and he couldn’t remember what came next.

  ‘What other form of exercise?’

  ‘Screwing!’ came a call from outside. She recognised the New York Irish voice of crewman Sean O’Brien.

  Timmins was shaking with rage now, and all of it was directed at her. ‘You see?’ he hissed. ‘You see what your exercise is inciting? I forbid you to come here again, no matter what the time!’

  ‘None of the idle slobs you call crew seem to use these facilities in any case. How dare you forbid me to use them!’

  Timmins drew himself up to his full height, which was a mistake. His balding scalp almost drew level with her eyes. She could see the dandruff in the oily black wool round it. ‘I will not allow the crew of this ship to stand watching through these windows while you put on a pornographic ...’ He faltered as she took one step towards him, a right hook in the making.

  A roar of sound stopped her. Over the scrawny officer’s shaking shoulder, she saw the huge metal storm shutter rattling down the outside of the window to cut out all the daylight and every crewman’s gaze. The lights flickered on to reveal a tall, powerful-looking man in an exercise vest and tracksuit pants. ‘Hey, Yasser, what are your work team doing hanging around out there?’ he asked with quiet amiability. ‘O’Brien got nothing better to do than leer? I think Symes is actually drooling. You waiting for old Tightship to get up and tell you what to do next?’

  ‘They were watching our guest here doing her exercises.’ He spat out the word ‘exercises’, making it sound dirty.

  ‘They’ve never seen anyone aboard do any real exercise before, I guess,�
�� said the tall man. ‘I sure as hell never have.’ He crossed to the exercise machine Ann had been using, saw the way it had been set with one flick of his bright blue eyes, and walked to the other one. ‘Certainly never seen any officers do any exercise. Tightship’s too old, you’re too scrawny, Hogg’s too fat, and the Wide Boy’s got other fish to fry. None of you’re much when it comes to exercising. But you’d think one of you would know how to run a ship, how to command a crew. And you’d think a first officer would know that the best way to stop a bunch of idle, dirty-minded, shit-for-brains lay-abouts from looking through a window at people taking a little exercise is to pull down the shutters.’

  He sat down on his chosen machine and took hold of a crossbar immediately above his head. With all the power of a trained body-builder, he pulled the bar down until it was level with his short ribs. His eyes rested on Timmins, brows slightly raised. ‘You still here?’ he asked, mildly surprised. He pulled down again, muscles expanding with the effort. The bar was almost touching his massive thighs and Ann suddenly realised he hadn’t bothered to adjust it: he was pulling fifty kilos and he wasn’t even straining. ‘I tell you what, Yasser. Till old Tightship gets up and tells you what to do, I’ll tell you: take your men and give them some breakfast.’

  He released the crossbar and the weights slammed down like a guillotine. Timmins jumped and automatically turned to obey. He was out on the deck before he realised what the big man had made him do but by then it was too late to do anything about it except to slam the door behind him.

  Ann sat down on the exercise machine and waited for her breathing to slow. Silence filled the room, emphasised by the distant throbbing of the generators and the almost subliminal rumble of the ship’s hull through the water. At last she looked across at him. He was sitting with his arms up, still holding the rubberised handles of the steel crosspiece above his head. The blue eyes were distant, but even in profile she could see the slightly amused look in the nearest one. The laugh lines at the corners were crinkled in wry amusement; the long valley down his lean cheek from sharp cheekbone to square jaw was pulled back from the vertical by the ghost of a grin which stretched the moustache on his upper lip and revealed a gleam of square white teeth. The fluorescent lighting was bright enough to show a gleam of stubble on his chin, as though the tanned flesh had been brushed with gold dust.

  ‘I’m Ann Cable, the writer,’ she said, ‘and I’d like to thank you for what you just did.’

  He turned fractionally towards her and the smile widened. ‘I’m Henri LeFever, scientific officer, in charge of the cargo,’ he answered. ‘And what I just did was to strain every single muscle in my body.’

  6 - Day Four

  Saturday, 22 May 21:30

  The couple entering the exclusive little restaurant overlooking the River Thames were arresting enough to turn a number of heads, even among the bustle of a busy Saturday evening. The man was tall and slim. His height and apparent frailty were emphasised by the way in which he leaned on a walking stick, causing him to stoop slightly; and the angle of his shoulders made the beautifully tailored suit jacket hang loosely on his frame. Only the youthful power of his face gave the lie to the first impact. From the blue-black waves of the hair, dusted with grey at the temples, to the blue-grey thrust of his jaw, it was a face full of intelligence and life. The eyes burned brightly, like flares behind blue glass. The lines at their corners were deep, but from the steadfast examination of far horizons, not from the weight of age or illness, and the high, tanned forehead was smooth. And if the body moved carefully, there was nothing slow about the change of expressions which fled across that visage like cloud shadows over the face of the ocean.

  The woman was in many ways a perfect match for him. She was well above medium height but beside him she looked almost petite. She walked with the hint of a dance in her step, emphasised perhaps by the length of her ballerina’s legs. Her short back was ramrod straight and she held her shoulders back and her head high. The oiled abundance of her hair was, if anything, darker than his but it contained no hint of blue. It curled like smoke down onto the breadth of one shoulder, lying languidly on the emerald silk there, stirring slightly with her movement as though it was alive. The high arch of her brows lent an air of artistry to her carefully made-up face. But the make-up was calculatedly understated, almost subliminally drawing attention to the massive black-brown almond eyes, the long, straight nose flaring into broad nostrils, the wide, deep, deep brown lips. Her jaw line, ebony where his was steely and rounded where his was square, was every bit as determined as her escort’s. And the authority of the intelligence sweeping through her lively expression was every bit as powerful as his.

  The maître was expecting them and welcomed them as old friends. He showed them to a reserved table at the back in the shadows beside a massive picture window looking over the gleaming water down towards the Pool of London. There was no real impression of over-service, but the chief cellarman came to discuss their choice of a single bottle of wine and the chef himself came to guide their selection from his menu.

  Other patrons soon became bored with watching the pair who were immediately locked deep in discussion, but a couple of newspaper gossip columnists, never off duty, kept an eye on that shady, exclusive corner, for they recognised the man as Richard Mariner and they knew that his wife was away. The woman was familiar, too, but more difficult to put a name to.

  Magdalena DaSilva leaned forward and continued her animated conversation. ‘It’s a question of money,’ she was saying.

  ‘Only money? Nothing more?’ Richard’s tone was lightly ironic but there was a trace of shock there too.

  ‘Primarily money. It’s what you can afford and how long you can afford it for and there’s nothing guaranteed. Except me, of course. I’m guaranteed.’

  ‘But you’re the most expensive item.’

  ‘For you, yes, I am. But I’m also the best in the circumstances.’

  ‘Which is why I came to you.’

  ‘You’ve got to be certain about this. You’re running quite a risk. You know there are alternatives.’

  ‘But it’s not a situation that will just go away, is it?’

  ‘No. You’re right. It won’t go away on its own.’

  ‘Then you must take care of it for me, Maggie, however much it costs.’

  One of the reporters on the far side of the restaurant slapped the table in front of him as the penny dropped. ‘I know who that is with Richard Mariner,’ he said, his voice a mixture of triumph and disappointment.

  ‘Oh? Who?’ asked his companion, fastidiously steadying the chiming glasses and quietening the tinkling silverware.

  ‘It’s Magdalena DaSilva. She’s his silk.’

  ‘Right,’ continued Maggie. ‘Let’s take it from the top. It’s a civil suit, served against Heritage Mariner and yourself, here in London, although CZP, the company serving it, is registered abroad, the ship was registered in Panama and she was lost in the North Atlantic. It’s for the full cost of a replacement hull. Millions of pounds. You have insurance but you’re worried. You’re over-stretched. If anything else goes badly wrong, then there’s an outside chance that Heritage Mariner goes down. Folds. Calls in the receivers.’

  ‘That’s it exactly. And Sir William, Robin and I lose everything, quite apart from all our employees being thrown out of work and all our ships going under the hammer. We have every spare penny we possess tied up in Clotho and Atropos and the insurance on them since the bomb attack is simply crippling.’

  ‘Could you give me enough background to make some sense of this or shall I go to your solicitors for the details? I assume the papers were with them when Sir Harcourt died?’

  The case had been outstanding against Heritage Mariner for nearly two years now, ever since the leper ship Napoli had sunk. For nine months, Richard, his solicitor Brian Chambers and their barrister Sir Harcourt Gibbons had been putting together the most careful of defences. And yesterday, a mere five days before they
were due in court, Sir Harcourt had been killed on the golf course at Brampton. Feeling as though he had himself been struck by lightning, Richard had spoken at length to Brian Chambers and he had recommended the replacement barrister. ‘I know you’ve met her socially, Richard, but don’t let that slow you down,’ Brian had told him. ‘Get onto Maggie DaSilva and promise her anything she wants. Word is that she’s the rising star of the maritime sets.’

  ‘I can fill you in on what happened,’ Richard said. ‘Then if you can’t see the way they’ve put their action at law together, I suppose you’ll have to talk to Brian Chambers tomorrow. Does this mean you’re definitely going to proceed with us?’

  ‘I’ll be seeing Brian anyway. I’ll make up my mind after I’ve talked to him and looked at what he and Harcourt Gibbons have put together. You just tell me what you can.’

  ‘The ship was called the Napoli. She was an old freighter originally built in Gdansk. Her cargo was chemical and nuclear waste which had been loaded aboard under some pressure in the Lebanon.’

  ‘Yeah, I read about that bit. The captain was killed. Heritage Mariner supplied the replacement.’

  ‘Our Crewfinders section did. Captain John Higgins. Yes. But it was more complicated —’

  ‘Complications later, unless you think they change anything about their case against you.’

  ‘Not really. There were full discussions all along the line, renegotiated at Naples and then again at Liverpool.’

  ‘When all the ports refused her entry because her cargo was so dangerous.’