Secret Skin

by Frank Coles

  ‘Hey you hairy god-botherer,’ I said into the mouthpiece, ‘What’s up?’

  ***

  I showered, shaved and threw a camera and recorder into a bag then rushed across town in light early morning traffic. I parked the car in a dusty lot and trudged over to Joe’s pick up point a half kilometer away from the docks at the sea-facing end of Dubai Creek.

  While I waited a text message came through from an unknown sender.

  I’m sorry, I can’t do it.

  Yasmin.

  ‘Oh that’s just bloody fantastic,’ I said out loud. My story killed before it even had a chance to live and no time to find another source. Red faced and bilious, Martin would react as only a belligerent expat editor could. Empty pages never went down well; it made the adverts far too obvious On the side of the road next to the dock workers housing block a ten minute wait seemed like forever as Yasmin’s text and the morning’s scalding heat took turns to work me over.

  Somehow the Indian dock laborers cycling to their jobs in bright blue long-sleeved uniforms appeared calm, cool and unaffected by the rising temperatures. Whereas my head felt like the last tea bag in a builder’s yard, strained to the point of uselessness. And those pesky little black floaters kept gathering on the edge of sight ready to migrate into view.

  ‘You look like hell,’ Joe said when he finally pulled up in a military green 4x4, a hand me down vehicle without air conditioning.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, slamming the door, ‘and you look the image of Christian piety, but surely we’re in the wrong country for that?’

  ‘Oh sarcasm. Been drinking again haven’t you?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Sinner,’ he said, pulling off.

  ‘It’s the pressures of a high flying career in journalism,’ I said, rubbing my temples. ‘Got any water?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you forgot to bring any?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’

  ‘Idiot,’ he said shaking his head. He handed me a bottle from the side pocket of his door.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ I said.

  ‘You remember that ship I told you about, the one stranded offshore for the last 18 months?

  ‘Which one? There’s so many.’

  ‘The Peri, the fallen angel.’

  ‘I think so, the one with the three crewmen on board?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, the local owners are still refusing to take any responsibility for it or the crew. They say the boat was decommissioned, sold on for scrap, and the crew given the funds to repatriate themselves months ago.’

  ‘Any proof of this? A receipt perhaps?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Wait, don’t tell me, I’m having one of my psychic flashes. They say they can’t find the records, that it’s not their problem there’s no proof of sale and that the three starving men on board aren’t their responsibility, and if they could help, they would, but oh dear, it’s lunch time already, they couldn’t possibly.’

  Joe laughed, ‘Just about spot on,’ he said. ‘We’re taking them to court next week with local backing, and things should get sorted after that but right now I have a bit of a crisis.’

  ‘Ahuh, what sort of crisis?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know how I said I’d try and get you on board one of these “ghost ships” as you keep calling them?’

  ‘Yeah, of course, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Well, they weren’t having it upstairs.’

  ‘What? You mean him? God?’ He raised an eyebrow at me, ‘Oh please,’ I said with mock horror, ‘not those blooming angels again? It’s that Gabriel isn’t it? He’s always had it in for me.’

  He laughed for my sake. ‘Don’t test my faith David,’ he said and gripped the wheel tighter than he needed to. The muscles on his forearms and shoulders stood out against his thin white shirt like the knuckles beneath the skin on his hands.

  I took the hint and raised my arms. ‘You’re right, so sorry. I’ve been keeping the wrong company lately, journalists you see, that kind of thing passes for normal conversation with us.’

  ‘I forgive you,’ he said with a sly smirk.

  ‘Why thanks, just what I’ve always wanted.’’

  ‘Anyway, they didn’t want to have you anywhere near our project, a journalist poking around all those stranded ships could make things very sticky. There’s a lot of politics, my people have been here for decades, since this country began in fact. But if you dig too deeply into the finances of these floating graveyards we could suddenly find ourselves on the next boat home. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I get it, don’t ruffle any feathers.’

  ‘Either for me or these guys stuck on the boats, you could rake a lot of muck, make your buck, but then where would they be?’

  ‘Okay, I get the picture.’

  ‘Good,’ he said

  ‘You don’t take any shit do you?’

  ‘No. Especially not from journalists.’

  ‘So how come I’m allowed on today?’

  He hesitated. For a holy man he had a wicked smile.

  ‘Hang on a sec’,’ he said.

  We pulled up to the main gate. The man in the booth wore a perfectly pressed sand colored uniform. He looked lazily up at us like a snake that couldn’t be bothered to flick its tongue, clearly unwilling to expose his uniform to the possibility of creases. He looked away from us hoping we’d go away.

  ‘Open the gate,’ Joe ordered, waving a hand in front of him. The guard ignored him. ‘I am here to see the harbormaster—my friend,’ he warned.

  The guard flicked his eyes briefly at Joe and considered his options. He stood up, pressed a button, and then sat back down very carefully. The gate lifted and we drove in.

  ‘Thanks a million,’ Joe grunted after him.

  ‘So, why are we going to see the harbormaster then?’

  ‘We’re not, that was just to get past the guard.’ he said.

  ‘That’s all it takes?’ I said. ‘I thought the docks were supposed to be high security facilities.’

  ‘They are,’ he said, ‘at the other end of town. But there are all kinds of businesses out here, this is the less secure port,’ he said spreading his gear arm wide, ‘it fulfills a particular need.’

  ‘So why am I here then? Why did the arch-whatevers change their minds about me?’

  ‘They didn’t, and they haven’t. On board the Peri, there are two Filipino crew members and their Egyptian captain. They’ve been stranded out there for eighteen months. It’s basic survival, we take them water, food and medicine when we can, but they spend half their time starving and thirsty.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said and gripped the car’s hand hold as he accelerated to the end of a long and busy loading dock. We shuddered to a halt beside a small motor launch. Joe chuckled quietly to himself.

  ‘You were saying?’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re here to help me.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes, you see the captain has finally gone overboard, mentally that is. He refuses to drink or eat until the first mate agrees to become his lover.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Nope, he’s heartbroken I’m afraid, and paranoid. He thinks the other crewman is out to steal the first mate from him.’

  ‘Soooo, what does that have to do with me?’

  ‘Well, you see, he’s also become violent. Last night he tried to rape the first mate and stabbed him in his leg when he fought back. The two Filipinos managed to send a distress call and have been barricaded in their cabin ever since.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘And?’

  ‘And this was the only way I was ever going to get you on board. I think the story of these men needs to be told. Even if those who should know better don’t, there’s nothing they can do if a volunteer happens to ask questions or take a few pictures behind my back now is there?’

  I glared at him.


  ‘Volunteer?’

  ‘You are here as my protection David. I need someone else onboard to look after the captain if things get out of hand. You, my son, are it. That’s as good as it’s going to get. It’s a one-shot deal I’m afraid.’

  He opened the driver side door and stepped down.

  ‘That is,’ he said, ‘if you still want this story?’

  ***

  ‘I’m sorry, who is it?’ Joe asked the caller on my mobile phone.

  ‘Yasmin? Hold one moment please,’ he said in his best telephone voice. ‘David, it’s Yasmin, she wants to talk to you.’

  I waved a fist at him and then jammed my head back over the motor boat’s stern, dry retching into the reflected heat of the sun.

  ‘Yasmin, I’m afraid he’s otherwise indisposed at the moment, we’re on a boat heading out to sea and, well, he’s a bit worse for wear. Can he call you back? You’ll call him? In 15 minutes? Okay, you can try my dear, but where we’re going he may not have a signal.’

  ‘What’s that? He has to answer? Okay well, I’ll be sure to tell him that…oh…we’ve been cut off,’ he said, handing the phone back to me. ‘Feisty,’ he added.

  We sped across the water and slammed into each wave with a hard thud, I nearly dropped the phone. As the speed increased the distance between swells shortened and the rapid-fire tempo quickened, testing the fragile peace between my stomach and its contents.

  I wanted to shout, ‘Slow down,’ but couldn’t get the words out.

  ‘You know the worst thing for sea sickness is alcohol, tiredness and dehydration,’ he said over my shoulder, ‘you haven’t had any coffee this morning have you?’

  I couldn’t move, even to look at him and curse, if I moved it would start all over again.

  ‘Not to worry,’ he said, ‘we’ll soon have you off. Nick,’ he called to the helm, ‘Can this thing go any faster?’

  ***

  The sickness lifted as I clambered up the precarious little rope ladder that hung over the side of the ship. The steep climb and the constant movement of the waves triggered a welcome rush of adrenaline as I swung a foot out to stop myself crashing into the Peri’s hull.

  The Filipino crewman hauled me over the top rung and then pulled Joe up beside me. He looked healthy and happy. I scowled at him.

  ‘Oh what a look!’ he said. ‘Listen, you take a few minutes to get yourself together. Dakila here is going to take me to the first mate so I can patch him up, we’ll be right back.’ He held out another bottle of water and smiled when I took it.

  Then I was alone on deck. But that ageing hulk felt like dry land compared to the motorized skipping stone we’d arrived in. I wandered over to the edge of the ship to look at it. Nick motored back and forth keeping position beside us. He gave me a casual salute and then moved off to a safer distance. When I lifted my hand from the side to gesture back it was coated in large flakes of rust and dark paint.

  I explored the deck of a boat that had once been colored blue, black and white but had deteriorated into a dull patina of dark metallic ochre and smeared orange. Handfuls of crumbling metalwork pulled away in my hands. Even a minor puncture in the rusted hull would take care of the owner’s outstanding paperwork, and the crew.

  I leaned against a relatively rust free hatch on the side of the bridge tower and drank deeply from the bottle, willing the cold fluid to make me feel better.

  If only I’d ignored his call. I’d be in bed already. Without a story I reminded myself. Thank god for Holy Joe, the mixed blessing.

  My phone only registered one fluctuating pip of signal strength. Yasmin’s needs would have to wait for dry land.

  I pulled my shoulder bag round from my hip and set up for the job ahead. Keeping it simple, I’d chosen a digital voice recorder and a compact camera that was nearly all zoom lens. It had barely enough room for the technology that made it possible to take print quality stills or basic video, a great bit of kit for uncertain days out. I checked the batteries had charge; they did, tried out the wide angle, and then zoomed in on the horizon.

  At the long end of the lens I saw for the first time an effect I’d only read about. A string of distant ships sat below the horizon, appearing half submerged, almost as if they were sailing over the edge of the world.

  Easy to see how people could believe in a description of the world so far from the truth. The fear of monsters in the unknown deeps and savages in foreign lands somewhere out there always kept us believing in the unreal.

  Although the sea sickness had gone the caustic tang of nausea began to seep back into my throat. I tried to cough it away. Then a familiar Dubai stench of rancid body odor overpowered my senses. My tender stomach clenched in retaliation and the viewfinder went black. I crashed the zoom out to wide to find a tall emaciated man with staring eyes filled the frame and lowered the camera.

  The man’s filthy clothes clung to him with the well tested glue of sweat and dirt. He scanned me up and down then shuddered as if an electric current had just passed through him.

  Clearly over the edge of whatever he’d been standing on he opened his mouth to speak then forgot what he meant to say. His dry lips hung open and his gaze followed mine as it fell on the vicious glint of the fish hook he held in his right hand, the kind of implement that could easily support the weight of a large mammal hung from its torso.

  His face contorted into a lopsided grin and his eyes opened wide as if he’d just had an amazing idea.

  ‘Captain?’ I said.

  He nodded in agreement and gurgled a disturbing, ‘Hur, hur, hur,’ then twisted his shoulder back.

  I moved before I heard the scrape of metal on rust and kept moving, scrabbling forward on all fours from the crouch I’d dropped into.

  The captain roared, furious that I didn’t want to play his game. He struck out again as I lunged passed him. The hook caught in the material of my trousers missing the meat beneath. I lashed out with my other foot but the deranged sailor simply pulled the hook towards him and my leg out from under me.

  Face down on the deck every dulled sense screamed the same warning.

  Move.

  After a short disoriented dash I found myself wedged into the bow of the boat, staring out to sea. Like an idiot I’d run myself into a perfect dead-end.

  I could jump over the side and swim round to Nick, but would he follow me in?

  I turned to see the captain stalk casually across the main hatch, carving efficient figures of eight on either side of him with that damned spike, blocking my way out.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I said and ran straight for him, feigned left, then bolted right. He anticipated my move and swung the hook at my face.

  The rush of air came at the same time as a faint touch of metal against my cheek, but no pain. He’d missed. I opened my eyes, pounded across the deck and leapt onto a weathered access ladder that led up to the bridge. It shifted under my weight, pulled away from the wall, and then held. My feet dangled in the air for just a second. I found the next rung and jumped rather than climbed the remaining steps.

  I expected him to be right behind me, but fear makes you quick, the psycho captain was still only down on deck.

  ‘Yahhhhhhh!’ I yelled without meaning to. Then fear turned to anger and I screamed every vulgar hatred I could think of at him.

  Ignoring my noisy but harmless protests he hopped onto the first rung and started to climb the all too short ladder.

  He swung the hook up at my feet and it shattered through the floor of the rusted upper deck. I stamped on it, forcing it to embed further into the worn out metal. He shook it violently, trying to work it free.

  I fell to my knees and held on. Forget the hangover, I wouldn’t let go, and if he climbed any further he’d feel my boot in his face.

  Then I heard voices below.

  Over the captain’s head I saw the two Filipino crewmen, Joe right behind them. They called up to him. The captain bellowed back. The men grabbed one of his legs and pulled but the cap
tain simply wound one arm between the ladder’s rungs and kept his other hand on the hook, content to stay where he was.

  A dizzying sense of unreality struck me as I stood up and looked down on the four men, the Irishman I barely knew yelling at a stranger hell bent on killing me. I searched the captain’s hard face for a way in. A human connection. He glared back. I simply didn’t register, just another obstacle between him and his fixation. The ladder would give way before he would.

  ‘Bryson,’ Joe shouted, my head snapped up. ‘Do something.’

  I tried kicking the captain’s hand off the hook, but he refused to let go.

  He needed more encouragement. Groping blindly my hand closed around a familiar shape in my bag. I pushed the pen’s nib out and began to jab at his fingers with the tip.

  His venomous shouts didn’t need translation; the small sharp pains had registered. He pulled at the hook again, working to free it for another swing.

  ‘Get on with it,’ Joe said.

  I hesitated. Get on with what?

  Without thinking I stabbed down into the fleshy part between his fingers, and pushed. Metal grazed bone.

  ‘Jesus!’ I said and let go. Like a sixth ballpoint finger the pen stuck fast in his hand. ‘Jesus, that’s just fucking horrible.’

  With a look like I’d betrayed him the captain stretched his hand out to show me what I had done. A sharp timely tug from below and he lost his grip on the ladder. His staring eyes held mine as he screamed to the deck and the three men waiting to overpower him.

  So much for the journalist as impartial observer.

  I levered the hook out of the metal and stood panting in the sun wondering how my lazy morning in bed had turned into this.

  ‘You alright?’ Joe shouted.

  ‘Yer,’ I said. ‘Is he?’

  He nodded. The two Filipinos sat on the captain, talking him down with calm words. They were still a crew.

  ‘You make good bait David. Well done.’

  ‘Bait?’ I said. ‘You proselytizing shitweasel, when I’m done having a heart attack—’