Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  'I . . .' He pointed again, not quite so certain.

  'She'll have dived,' said Junior. He raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. 'They don't stay up very long. But she'll be up again in a moment. Did she blow?'

  'Yeah! Of course she did!'

  Junior didn't look convinced. 'I didn't hear anything,' he said quietly.

  Sissy put one hand on the rail, the other on the back of Matchitt's jacket. 'This is so exciting!' McClean shouted, pointed left.

  'That's her!' shouted Matchitt.

  Something black showed through the spray.

  'It's a minke!' McMaster guldered.

  Junior lowered his glasses. 'If it is,' he said, 'it's driving a speedboat.'

  'You what?' I said.

  Junior smiled and nodded. 'Easy mistake to make.'

  'Fuck,' said Matchitt.

  Now we could all see it, a long, blue-black boat, three people on board, cutting through the waves at speed, about three hundred yards to our left.

  Sissy tutted. 'They'll scare her off.'

  'On the contrary,' said junior, 'she'll probably hang around. They like the boats, like to come and play. Good for us. Not so good for the minke in the old whaling days.'

  The speedboat passed on. Sissy waved at the crew. They didn't seem to notice. Matchitt went back to the cabin for a drink. Sissy went with him. McMaster and McClean returned to the prow. Frank returned to the wheel and restarted the engine.

  Junior leant on the rail. I leant with him. 'You ever get tired of doing this?' I asked.

  He shook his head. 'I love it.'

  'What about your dad? He used to hunt them, didn't he?'

  'Of necessity. It was his job. We live in more enlightened times now.'

  'I doubt if he looks on them as enlightened.'

  Junior smiled. 'You'd be surprised. He puts on a bluff old act.'

  'He does it well.'

  'Well, we're in the tourism business. It's not Disneyworld, but every little bit helps.'

  'A bit of hype. Just like in boxing.'

  'Sure. He snarls and growls once in a while, but there's no killer instinct in him. He did a job once. On a whaler. Now he doesn't have to any more. Who would choose to kill a majestic creature like the whale if they didn't have to to survive themselves?' He raised his glasses again and began scanning.

  I shrugged. He had a touching faith in human nature. McMaster was just doing a job. A job for which he needed the killer instinct. It was a pity Matchitt couldn't box for toffee. 'Who indeed?' I said and spat into the water, a nasty habit, but someone has to do it.

  I spat on a thirty-foot whale.

  I stepped back. Sleek. Silent. Beautiful. I didn't know what to say. I pointed.

  Junior didn't notice.

  'Whale,' I said.

  'Mmmm?' Junior dropped his glasses and looked at me.

  'Whale,' I said, and pointed again.

  He just caught the tail end as it dived. 'Whooh!' he said. 'Snuck right up!' He turned back, shouted: 'Cut the engines! Sighting!' The thunder of footsteps. 'Take it easy!'

  They came from different directions, but in a hurry, the boat banked a bit, then settled. 'Where?' squealed Sissy, the first to arrive.

  'Gone under again.' Eyes intent now on the water about a hundred yards ahead. 'But she'll be up in a moment.'

  We followed his gaze. The engines died. Frank appeared in the cabin doorway. Matchitt pushed past him, clutching the bottle of whiskey, and made his way along to Sissy. 'Lost the speedboat then?' he growled.

  And up she came.

  'Jesus,' said Matchitt.

  'Okay!' shouted Junior. 'It's a minke okay! It's a female! Slightly longer than the male! See the pronounced dorsal fin! The white band round the pectoral fins!'

  She slipped under the waves again. 'Gee!' said Sissy.

  'Beautiful,' said McClean.

  'There's another!' shouted McMaster, pointing right.

  'There's one!' shouted Sissy, further right.

  'There's stacks a them!' shouted Matchitt.

  They seemed to be everywhere, but there were only seven or eight. All close to the ship, all diving and surfacing independently but hinting at a secret link, like they were all part of one giant creature wriggling about us. A great blue worm. They were astonishing. Incredible. Fandabbydozey. Junior kept up the running commentary. 'The minke feeds mainly on krill. That's a small, shrimplike crustacean. If they're in short supply it has been known to take small fish. It's sometimes mistaken for the killer whale. They're both about the same size.'

  'Oooh,' cooed Sissy, 'there's so many of them!'

  'Don't be misled by the numbers, ma'am. The minke is an endangered species. There are thought to be only around fifty thousand of them alive in the world today.'

  'Fifty thousand!' roared Matchitt. 'Fuck, that's millions!'

  'It's really not. ..' began junior and then stopped. Matchitt had produced his gun.

  'I really think. . .' said junior.

  'Fifty thousand?' said Matchitt.

  'Yes, sir...'

  'One wouldn't make any difference then, would it?'

  He turned and walked unsteadily back towards the prow, bottle in one hand, gun in the other. Junior followed. I went after him.

  McMaster shook his head disdainfully. 'Stanley?' said Sissy.

  'Just the one!' Matchitt roared again. He stopped and pulled the gun up. The nearest minke to him was about thirty yards out. He steadied his aim as best he could, then fired twice. Junior and I both ducked down. We couldn't'see where the bullets landed. Lost in the waves. The minke dived. Matchitt let out a roar of laughter and moved on up the boat. He took another swig as he moved. Then stopped and pulled the gun up again. Junior moved for him, but Matchitt swung the gun round on him.

  'Leave me alone!'

  Junior raised his hands. 'Just give me the gun, sir.'

  'Fuck off !' roared Matchitt. He loosed another couple of bullets. 'Last of the big game hunters!' he shouted and cackled again. 'C'mon, Moby, show your head I'

  'Stanley!' I shouted. 'They're not even Fenian whales!'

  I don't quite know why I said it. Don't know why I was sticking my neck out for a bunch of dopey, blubbery mammals. Matchitt turned the gun on me. His eyes were wide. Nostrils flared with excitement. Blood lust, maybe. Maybe I had gone a joke too far.

  'Now here is an endangered species!' he shouted. 'The lesserknown crap reporter. Do you want put out of your misery, son?'

  'Sissy appeared behind me. 'Stanley, put the gun down,' she said.

  Matchitt shrugged. 'Ach, Sissy, love, I'm only raking. Do you want a go?' He waved the gun at her.

  'No, Stanley. This isn't a good idea.'

  Junior went to move forward again. Matchitt trained the gun on him.

  'All in my own time!'

  'Okay! Okay!' said Junior. 'Take it easy. Just put the gun away. Nothing more will be said. Just put it away.'

  He crept forward another foot or two.

  'I'm fuckin' warning you!'

  And then there was a crack and I ducked involuntarily, in the same instant looking for the splash of blood, and it was a second before I realized that the yelp of pain came not from junior but from Matchitt, that the gun was skidding across the deck and , Frank was standing across from us with his whip in hand. It was incredible. It was like a scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, if it had been made on a very small budget.

  Matchitt stood in shock. He cradled his hand. Junior ran and picked up the gun. Frank just shook his head and returned to the cabin.

  Sissy stepped forward and put a hand on Matchitt's shoulder. 'Oh, Stanley,' she said. 'A little too much whiskey.'

  McMaster pushed through. 'You are one stupid cunt, Stanley,' he said. 'Excuse the language, Sissy.' Sissy nodded. Then McMaster threw an excellent left and Matchitt fell like a sack of Comber spuds.

  McClean came up, turned to junior. 'I'm very sorry about this.'

  'I should report it.'

&nbs
p; 'I'm sure we can sort something out.'

  Junior nodded. He glanced back at the cabin. 'We'll talk,' he said.

  McMaster and I pulled Matchitt up and dragged him to the cabin. We lay him down on a bench. He was out cold. We stood over him for a moment.

  'Poor Stanley,' said McMaster.

  'Which do you think he'll boast about in the future?' I asked.

  'Being knocked out by the future world heavyweight champion, or being disarmed by a whale's penis?'

  'Future world heavyweight champion?'

  'Yeah, well.'

  'Och, Starkey, I didn't know you cared.'

  'I'm subtly trying to build up your confidence, Bobby. Don't get carried away.'

  'I'll try not to.'

  Then there was another crack, a deeper, duller crack which shattered the window behind us. The crack of a bullet. We hit the deck. Frank shrank behind the wheel. Sissy let out a scream. Another crack. Another.

  'Jesus,' moaned McMaster, 'they're shooting back!'

  I crawled forward to the wheel. Frank and I both cautiously peered out. Sissy was lying up front. She looked okay. She was pointing at Junior. He lay opposite her, on his belly. There was an ugly red patch on the back of his shirt. Frank moved for the door.

  'Stay here,' I said, holding him back. 'Look after the boat.'

  'It's my boy.'

  'We'll sort it out.' I looked back. McMaster was on his feet.

  'Come on, Bobby, let's see what the stupid git did.'

  'He stuck the gun in his jacket and the bastard went off, that's what he did,' he said quietly.

  I turned my head from Frank and gave McMaster a wry smile.

  'Three times?' I said. 'Accident prone, isn't he?'

  McMaster gave me a wry smile. 'And Kennedy committed suicide.'

  Crack. Shatter.

  We hit the deck again. 'They are shooting back!' McMaster yelled.

  I cautiously pulled myself up and looked out, this time away from the boat. Out to sea where the speedboat had reappeared. It bobbed quietly about fifty yards away. Three men stood behind the wheel. They had rifles aimed at us.

  I ducked down again. 'Jesus,' I said, 'there's pirates out there.' Frank inched his head above the shattered window. McMaster looked too.

  Another three or four rounds were loosed.

  'What the fuck do they want,' McMaster wailed, 'fish?'

  I looked out again. They'd restarted their motor and were moving towards us.

  'I don't suppose we can outrun them,' I whispered to Frank. He shook his head. 'No chance. I must go to my son.'

  I held him back again. 'There's no point in you getting shot as well.'

  The shout came from close at hand, maybe fifteen yards, but it sounded weak against the volume of the water. 'Everyone out on deck! Where we can see you. Put your hands up!'

  I looked out again. They were coming alongside. One gun was ' still trained on the boat. One man was steering. Another was preparing to board us. I recognized him. He was a reporter. The reporter who'd first accused McMaster of racism.

  'If I'm not mistaken,' I said, 'we're about to be boarded by a Son of Muhammad.'

  'Oh shite,' said McMaster.

  33

  'Martin,' I said, reaching over the side of the boat and grasping the reporter turned terrorist firmly by the hand, 'how are you?'

  Although the reporter turned terrorist club is a small and exclusive one he gave no indication of recognizing a fellow member, or perhaps that recognition was coded in the disdainful scowl his face seemed to wear so naturally as I pulled him up onto the Charles W. Morgan Jnr. I'm a recent recruit and not greatly au fait with the rituals of the club, so I might have been reading him all wrong. He relaxed his grip and thumped his black boots onto the deck.

  'Keep well back,' he growled.

  We kept well back. Martin King wore camouflaged fatigues. Camouflaged for jungle warfare. Not for naval combat. For that he would have needed a nice blue and white ensemble and a seagull's-nest hairdo. Still, maybe I was being picky. Maybe he hadn't been in the dub that long himself.

  He produced a pistol and waved it in our general direction. 'You armed?' he asked.

  I shook my head.

  'What about the Irish snake?'

  I nodded at McMaster. 'That'll be you.'

  'We've no weapons,' said McMaster.

  King nodded. With the sound of the speedboat and the sound of the sea, they probably hadn't heard Matchitt's attempts at whale murder. He looked at the wheelroom. Captain Frank was in the doorway. 'Come out here where I can see you,' he said.

  Frank stepped out.

  'Further.'

  Frank took another step. As an act of defiance it ranked pretty low on the scale, but it rankled King.

  'Come out here now!' he yelled. Frank took two steps. 'Raise those hands!'

  Frank raised them slowly. King searched me, then McMaster.

  Then he stepped up to Frank and pulled him forward roughly by his collar. Frank's hands bunched into fists, but he didn't use them.

  King ran his hands quickly around his body. They eyeballed each other the whole time. Then, satisfied, he turned to Sissy.

  She stuck a finger out at him. 'You think you searchin' me, honey, you gotta another thing comin'.'

  'I trust you, sister.'

  'I ain't your sister.'

  King smiled coolly. 'Yes, you are, sister, you just don't know it yet.'

  'You don't know fuck, honey.'

  'We'll see.' He nodded towards junior, still lying motionless on the deck. 'What about him?'

  'Well, he ain't seasick,' said Sissy. 'Dead or alive?' King snapped.

  'I don't know. I haven't had the chance to check.'

  'Well, check, sister.'

  Sissy blew some air, then crossed to junior and knelt beside him. She touched the back of his head, whispered something, waited a moment then rocked him gently by the shoulder. 'Honey, you okay?' she asked.

  Junior gave a little moan. Sissy rolled him over and he let out a bigger moan. 'Sorry,' she said gently, resting his head in her lap.

  'At the risk of jumping your gun,' I said, 'I'd say he needs urgent medical attention.'

  'As will you, smartass, you keep opening your mouth.' I shrugged.

  'Okay. Now you can give my comrades a hand up. And take it easy. I'm right behind you.'

  McMaster and I moved up to the security wire and ducked under it. The speedboat had drifted off a little. The two remaining Sons still stood with their sights trained on the Charlie W. King signalled for them to draw closer. One dropped his rifle and restarted the engine, then slowly manoeuvred her in. The water was pretty much calm, but it was still awkward as the two vessels bobbed at different levels. A rope was thrown on board and we tied her up, but pulling the two of them up was still all about timing and it was the sea setting the clock. Frank and junior could have done it in half the time, but one couldn't and one wouldn't.

  One Son reached up, the other held his gun. I nearly got him, but the boat sank down. With the next swell I grabbed his hand, but then the boat was pulled hard away until it strained against the rope.

  The boat moved back in. Rose towards me again. 'Third time lucky,' I said.

  The Son nodded, reached up. I grasped his hand. The speedboat rose again. I started to pull, but he hesitated. Something didn't feel right. An odd rhythm between us. The speedboat continued to rise. And rise. It was above the level of the Charlie W. and I thought, Jesus, we're going to be swamped. But it wasn't a wave at all. The Son, eyes wide in panic, let out a scream and let go. He toppled back. His companion was thrown back against the side of the speedboat; one gun clattered on the deck, the other went overboard. Up the boat went still and then suddenly it was thrown upside down and both Sons were lost in the mad swirl of wave and chop and suck as the speedboat was swamped. Going down too was the long sleek form of the minke which had spoilt the boarding party. It came, it sank, it left.

  'Jesus H. Christ,' said McMaster.


  'I thought that might happen,' I said, and looked back at Martin King. His mouth was hanging open. He probably hadn't considered the possibility of a whale upsetting his master plan, a common mistake amongst the less professional terrorist organizations. He raised his gun and pointed it at us and his mouth opened, but he didn't know what to say. He darted forward. We moved aside. He looked overboard. One Son, the one I'd tried to help on board, had reappeared and was desperately treading water. The other hadn't. The speedboat, still tied to the Charlie W., resurfaced.

  'Throw him a rope, a vest, something!' King barked.

  'Throw it yourself, homeboy,' Sissy barked back. I thought this was maybe pushing the bravado thing a little far, but when I looked at her I could see her point. She held Matchitt's gun against the side of King's head. 'Now, how about you give your gun to that nice man there, honey?'

  King handed me the gun. I thanked him. Frank came by. King turned. Frank cracked his knee into King's groin. King collapsed. Without speaking Frank hurried across to his son.

  McMaster shook his head in disbelief. 'That,' he said, 'was crazy.'

  'Absolutely,' I said.

  'Incredible,' said Sissy.

  'You going to put that in your book, Starkey? Getting saved by a whale? You think anyone would believe it?'

  'Would you?'

  'Not if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. You think I could maybe get a minke to cruise by when Tyson's about to get into the ring?'

  I shrugged. 'You could ask.'

  McMaster bent down and lifted King to his feet by the hair, then walked him, still half doubled over, to the cabin. As he got to the door, Geordie McClean emerged. 'Where the fuck were you?' McMaster snapped.

  'In there, planning when to strike.'

  'You mean you were hiding.'

  'Yes. Someone had to do it.'

  McMaster peered into the gloomy interior of the cabin. 'What about Mr Security?'

  'Still in cyberspace.'

  I looked back out to sea. The Son was looking a little tired. 'Do you want to come on board?' I called.

  'Please,' he yelled.

  'You promise not to kill us or try to convert us?'

  'Please!'

  I threw him a rope. It fell a little short. I dragged it back in and threw again. This time he grabbed it and I pulled him towards the Charlie W. He was heavy and tired. I needed Sissy's help to pull him on board. We put him in the cabin with King. Frank came through and radioed ashore for medical help to be standing by.