by J G Alva
“How many of them are there?” He asked.
“Six,” she said, with only a slight accent, and her eyes flicked to the man on the bed. “Five now.”
“Are you on board with your parents? How many of you are there?”
“Yes. My mother and father. It is only us. Family.”
“Where are they?”
The girl pointed up.
“The deck. At the front of the ship.”
“And are the five men with them?”
“Yes. They were when he” – her eyes flicked to the body again – “brought me down here.”
“Okay.” Nick had to think, but his mind kept tumbling over itself, you killed someone, you killed, how did you, what, how, until Toad reared his ugly head, silencing all questions. So he could kill, if he had to, and Toad seemed to be pleased with that.
“Does your father keep a gun on board?”
The girl nodded solemnly. Her eyes seemed to fill up her whole face.
“Show me.”
◆◆◆
They went up on to the fly deck, the girl trailing behind him. He waved her back to the doorway and she crouched in it, watching him.
Nick eased toward the cockpit, bent over at the waist. Half hidden by the cockpit controls he peered down on to the bulk of the main deck.
They were there, five men in dirty, torn clothes, knives on their belts, guns in their hands. They all looked competent and terrifying. Nick wanted to turn around and run, get off the boat, get back on to the island, he couldn’t kill anybody else, one had been a fluke, a reaction, like PTSD, it wasn’t in him to kill anyone else...but he knew he couldn’t run. The girl’s parents were down there, by the railing, the father on his hands and knees. The mother stood helplessly watching him, crying. Some of the men were laughing. Blood was running over the father’s face. He was dark skinned, darker than his daughter, Greek by the look of him, but his hair was bone white. He looked fifty, maybe a little older. The mother stood with her back to the railing, clutching herself and crying, a handsome woman with long dark hair and skin a couple of shades lighter than her husband. One of the men stepped forward and kicked the father in the stomach; he flipped over on to his back, groaning. The men laughed again. One of the men seemed to be bored by all this; he had one foot on the railing, smoking a cigarette, the gun hugged to his chest.
Nick stood up, aimed the gun, and fired; he didn’t think about it, he just did it. He shot the man who had been kicking the father first, his head exploding in a splash of red. Heads turned in confusion, looking for the source of the shot, but it was too late for them. He shot the one next to the first man in the shoulder; he screamed like a woman, falling first to his knees and then on to his back. The two at the railing next to the mother took a bullet each in the chest, one flipping back over the railing, the dim sound of a splash tiny and insignificant compared to the booming sound of the gun. The last man, the one furthest from Nick, was the one who had been smoking at the railing; he had managed to bring his rifle up to bear on Nick, but he was perhaps half a second too slow. Nick fired. One of the man’s hands exploded, and the gun clattered to the floor. The man was shouting something, his face twisted with fury, but Nick’s next shot took him in the throat, and he stopped talking abruptly and then slowly, ever so slowly, slid backward along the railing and fell to the deck, dead.
The gun blasts and the shouting done, the silence seemed to rush at Nick all at once. The mother and the father stared up at Nick with fearful anticipation, almost as if they expected him to carry on where the other men had left off. He supposed he couldn’t blame them, seeing as he probably looked like a wild man himself, with his long hair, beard, and ragged clothes.
The daughter appeared below suddenly, running to her mother and father, and they embraced her, their worried eyes on Nick.
He turned and made his way down on to the main deck.
They watched him as he crossed toward them, three sets of eyes staring at him, fearful of what he might do next.
Nick tried to smile, but it felt strange on his face. He offered the gun.
“Here,” he said. “I believe this is yours.”
The father took it.
Nick then turned and walked to the edge of the deck and promptly threw up, over the side, into the sea. He felt better for it.
◆◆◆
One of the pirates was not dead.
It was the one he had hit in the shoulder, who had screamed like a woman. Nick went over to him and stood there a moment, looking down at him. He stared at Nick like a frightened farm animal sensing the bolt. He moaned, clutching his right shoulder. The shoulder was pumping dark, hot, wet blood. The blood was so dark it looked almost purple-black.
The father appeared at Nick’s side, staring at the man also. He wiped blood from his face, but a clump of it glistened at his hairline.
“It’s your boat,” Nick said. “What shall we do with him?”
The father seemed to think this a valid question and considered it.
The wounded man looked at them both, his eyes blazing out of his contorted black face. He began muttering at Nick in a language Nick didn’t recognise.
He turned to the man standing beside him.
“Do you understand what he’s saying?” He asked.
The father nodded.
“A little.” He looked at Nick thoughtfully. “He wishes you to burn in all the fires of hell. And many of your ancestors to burn also.”
“Hm.” Nick looked at the man. He moved forward, brought a foot up and stepped on the man’s wounded shoulder. His mutterings turned to a scream.
The father said something to his wife and daughter and they hurried below deck.
“They should not see this,” he told Nick. His accent was thick, his English clumsy.
Nick nodded.
He studied the man at his feet, and with absolute shock realised that he recognised him.
It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be…but it was.
He had been one of the men in the party that had stabbed Nick aboard the St Anne.
It was incredible, it was unbelievable, but Nick was convinced he was looking at one of the same men who had been responsible for boarding his ship almost two years ago.
“Do you speak English?” Nick asked him.
The wounded man did not answer. His eyes held Nick’s.
“Give me the gun,” Nick said to the father, and without a word he passed it to him.
Nick levelled the gun at the man. He realised that he was shaking with anger and could not make himself stop.
“Do you speak English?” He repeated, the impatience clearly audible in his voice.
“Yes,” the man said, his accent thick, his top lip pulling back from his teeth like an angry dog.
“About two years ago you boarded a boat called the St. Anne. Do you remember?”
The man did not answer. Where his hand held his shoulder, blood pumped through his fingers.
Nick waved the gun at him.
“The St. Anne. Do you remember?”
“We take many boats,” the man said. “Many boats. I cannot remember all of them.”
“You should remember this one. A man paid you to board the boat and kill one of his friends. A white man. His name was Castle.”
Something in his eyes told Nick that he knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Yes,” the man said again.
“What happened to the boat?”
The man stared at him.
“Answer me, or I will shoot you,” Nick said, waving the gun again.
“Nothing,” the man said. “Nothing ‘appened.”
“Nothing?”
The man was silent.
“You got your money?”
The man swallowed thickly. His face glistened with sweat.
“Yes.”
“And you let the boat go?”
“Yes. We would not 'ave 'ad the rest of the money 'ad we not let it go. That was the bargain.”
>
So. Jessica had made it. And the rest of Mitchell Cole as well, by the sound of things. He had always known it, but to have it confirmed took a weight off his chest he hadn’t known was there.
Nick thought about it, twisting it this way and that in his head; he looked at the wounded man and wondered if he couldn’t somehow get him back to England to testify. With his testimony Mike would be put in prison for a long time. But staring at the man Nick came to realise that it was an almost unbelievable long shot. The man would have to spend time in a hospital, and if he managed to survive the gunshot wound the necessary papers and procedures would have to be set up for his extradition, there would need to be lawyers, a trial, an almost insurmountable quantity of red tape to endure. And through it all the acidic suspicion that justice would somehow not be served. No, there was too much that could go wrong, too much delay. And what about Nick in all this? He had killed five men. If they went to the authorities he would probably be cleared, but how long would that take? Weeks? Months? Years? And during all the months it would take for anything to happen, Mike would be able to prepare a defence, set up an alibi, discover some legal loophole; he had come this far, he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
No.
Nick raised the gun and shot the man in the face. He died instantly, and Nick realised he didn’t feel anything, not pain, nor sympathy, nor revulsion. He was a lump of rock carved in to a man shape and made to move around on puppet strings. He was cold rage, icy revenge, sub-zero justice.
Nick handed the gun back to the father and said in a tired voice, “I’m done.”
The father took the gun, staring at Nick. There seemed to be something like compassion in his eyes, and to his dismay it made him want to cry. He neither deserved nor cared to receive such compassion.
The father laid a gentle hand on his arm and said, “come below. Out of the sun. It is too hot.”
Nick nodded.
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 10
The father led the way, his hand on Nick’s arm gentle but insistent.
They went through one of the doors, down some steps, and ended up in the brown lounge, where his wife and daughter sat on one of the sofas. The wife was dabbing at her daughter’s split lip with a towel. She turned as they came in and spoke to the father, in Greek, Nick presumed, and after their brief conversation was done the father led Nick to the bar, and forced him in to one of the high stools. The father went around to the other side of the bar, took down some bottles and began mixing a drink.
“I am Yilmaz Karipidis, and I am owing you my life,” he said simply.
Nick smiled.
“Happy to be of service.”
“As for my wife and daughter...” Yilmaz indicated them with a wave of one, thick hairy hand. “I am in your debt forever.”
The drink appeared on the bar at Nick’s elbow. It was pink. Nick stared at it.
“Drink,” Yilmaz said. “It is good.”
“What – "
“It is a special drink. Yilmaz, and only Yilmaz, is knowing how to make this drink.”
Nick sipped it. It was fruity, but heavy with liquor. Possibly rum.
“Strong,” Nick said.
“Drink more. I think you need it, yes?”
Nick had to concede he had a point. He took a longer swallow this time.
He felt a warmth in his stomach, a not unfamiliar sensation but one that he hadn’t experienced in over two years, and then slowly the tremor that had been in all his limbs seemed to settle. He felt almost human again.
Almost.
“I’m Nick.”
Yilmaz raised his eyebrows.
“Nick?”
“Short for Nicholas. Nicholas Mitchell.”
Yilmaz had a pink drink of his own, and tipped it toward Nick.
“Nicholas Mitchell.”
“Just call me Nick.”
“Very well. Nick. I am a man of long traditions. I think that a first glance is telling, yes? I know that you are a good man. I know this. We will become good friends. This is I know also. Yes?”
“Alright,” Nick said easily.
Yilmaz spoke Greek over his shoulder and presently his wife and daughter came to the bar.
“And this is my wife, Agathe. And my daughter Kate.” Yilmaz spoke Greek to his wife again, and Nick heard his name amongst the unrecognisable words.
“Nick,” Agathe said. “Thank you so much for saving my daughter. She told me what was happened.”
“Oh.” Nick looked at Kate then. “It’s okay.”
“Are you a shipwreck on this island?” Agathe asked.
“I’m a wreck,” Nick admitted, smiling.
Agathe frowned.
“Sorry, I am not understanding. Maybe it is my English. Did your ship crash? Into the island?”
Nick was about to answer when Yilmaz spoke to her quickly in Greek. She nodded several times, her mouth a tight, unhappy line, her sorrowful eyes fastened on Nick.
“So they hurt you as they did us,” she said.
Nick nodded. His head felt like it weighed about a hundred tonnes on his neck.
“How long were you on the island?” Kate asked shyly.
Her English was much better than her parents. Nick looked at her. She was remarkably bright-eyed after her ordeal.
“Just over two years,” he said.
There was a stunned silence around the bar.
Agathe said something softly in Greek, some exclamation. The ship moved slightly under their feet, and bottles tinkled lightly behind the bar.
“You will be our guest on this boat, Nick,” Agathe said, looking at Yilmaz, and Yilmaz nodded. “Anything that you are wanting is yours. Yes? Will you accept the offer of our hospitable?”
“Hospitality,” Kate corrected.
“Yes. Sorry. Hospitality. Forgive my English.”
Nick looked at their expectant faces. As if he was in a position to refuse. Or would want to refuse, for that matter.
“Okay,” Nick said, and they relaxed visibly. He had the feeling that if he had refused he would have insulted them greatly. The whole scene had a touch of the absurd. It was their way, he supposed.
“Good,” Yilmaz said cheerfully. “We will be a most happy boat. We are staying at Mahé, in Victoria Town. You will come with us to Mahé. We will have food, and music, and many of the special drink. And at Mahé you will stay in my hotel. It is good hotel. Good service. Good food. More wine. Not so the special drink but many wines. Yes?”
Nick nodded.
“Yes.”
Agathe washed the towel she had been using on her daughter’s split lip in the sink behind the bar and then, wringing out the majority of the moisture, brought it up to her husband’s forehead. He flinched, but she muttered some soothing Greek words to him, and he brought up his hand and held the towel to his own forehead.
“There is one thing you could do for me,” Nick said.
“Yes?” Agathe said hopefully.
“There’s another person on this island with me,” Nick said. “Her name is Rebekah. Can we pick her up before we leave, do you think?”
◆◆◆
But first there were the bodies to deal with, along with the second boat.
“The boat is yours,” Yilmaz observed, indicating it.
Nick looked at it. He made a face.
“I don’t want it.”
“No,” Yilmaz said. “I did not think you would.”
“The question is, do we go to the authorities?” Nick asked Yilmaz, a careful eye on him.
Yilmaz thought. He had the easy going manner of a fisherman, a man who did not expect anything more than a good day’s catch, but this was not the sum of the man, and Nick began to suspect he was a lot more complicated than his easy going manner led you to believe. He presumably owned this boat and hadn’t he said he owned a hotel in Mahé? Then he was fabulously wealthy, and that made him infinitely more convoluted than the impression he gave, and Nick wondered if the road to his succ
ess hadn’t been a hard one, and not without its sacrifices; he had that look about him, wary eyes that had seen too much. Maybe he had done things that did not sit well with him, even now. Maybe he had killed people. Nick saw that in him, the possibility. It would explain a lot thing…his lack of shock at the deaths of the six men aboard his ship, for example. His prosaic acceptance of it.
“In things like this, the authorities are not always best able to deal with these problems,” Yilmaz said, the thoughtful look on his face. “But there is more to this. These men put you on this island. What do you think, my friend?”
Nick shrugged, walked a few paces to the railing, put his hands on it, and looked out at the island. He could feel Rebekah out there, behind the bluff, and he was surprised at his need to see her again, to hold her close.
He turned to Yilmaz.
“They’re dead now. There’s nothing more I can do to them. My friend...” Nick stopped, shook his head. “My business partner tried to have me killed. Almost succeeded. If we go to the authorities, he’ll know I’m still alive. He’ll prepare himself. I don’t want him to have the chance to do that. I want revenge, Yilmaz. No. I want justice. He tried to take my life, and I want to take his. Everything. His money, his home. I want to destroy him, as he almost destroyed me. Do you understand?”
Yilmaz nodded with complete understanding.
“Then we shall not go to the authorities. We will get rid of the bodies, we will wash the deck, we will sink the ship. And you will have the chance to make the justice. This I understand.”
“Thank you,” Nick said.
Yilmaz made a motion with his head as if to say it is nothing.
“I am thinking it is a good idea to go on the boat to see if there is not other mens on board?” Yilmaz said, and Nick agreed.
The second ship was like an old corpse, full of flies and the smell of spoiled meat, and sweat, and urine. Yilmaz took his gun and Nick one of the rifles that had been scattered on the deck. Inside the boat, it seemed to Nick that the ship had been defiled, like a farm girl taken by thugs, that it had never been loved, never been cleaned or had a fresh coat of paint placed upon it, and it had gone bad because of that reason. That was fanciful of course, it was just a lack of maintenance, but Nick couldn’t help feeling a little sad for it. It wasn’t the boat’s fault. There were three levels, and they cautiously went through every one, but there was nobody else on board. There were rooms with dirty bunks, porn magazines and crisp packets on the floors, a kitchen that looked like it had never been used, except to get drunk in, a lounge that smelled of old cigarette smoke, marijuana, and sweat, another room that seemed to be home to nothing but guns, machetes, and even what looked like a rocket launcher mounted on one wall.
