“Now, put his hands on the table,” ordered Wells.
Belinda intervened. “No! Leave him alone. He’s done nothing.”
“No, not yet he hasn’t. I saw him, Belinda. I saw him kissing you. Tell me, kid, have you been screwing my wife? Well, have you?”
“No, but I wish that I had.”
Wells punched Danny in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and waved it menacingly at the young musician. “You now have a choice, kid. Your index fingers or your dick. What’s it to be?”
“No, Daniel, leave him alone,” pleaded Belinda.
Wells slapped her with such force that he knocked her clean over the table.
“You drunken slut! Well, what’s it to be, kid? Fingers or cock?”
Danny spit at Wells.
“One thing, kid, you’ve got balls… I’ll tell you what; I’ll ask Leo here. Fingers or cock, Leo?”
The big man grinned. “Fingers boss. I’ll add them to my collection.”
“Fingers it is. Hold his hands steady.”
Danny tried to struggle, but the aggressors were too powerful. He watched as Wells brought the switchblade down to touch his right index finger. Wells looked into his eyes and grinned wildly. He pressed down on the blade and the finger was severed from his hand. The blood splayed liberally onto the table.
Danny screamed in agony. Wells quickly turned to the other finger and brought the switchblade down with more ferocity. The blade easily cut through the bone, and when the deed was done, the two hoods released Danny. He fell to the ground and Belinda rushed to help him.
“You’ll have to learn to play the drums,” laughed Wells.
Leo picked up the fingers and placed them in his pocket. Wells seized his wife by her long, blonde hair, dragged her towards the door and kicked her in her lower regions.
Wells looked down at Danny, who whimpered. “Next time it’ll be your cock, understand? Stay away from my fucking wife.”
Danny was left alone. He tried with his handkerchief to stop the blood from seeping out of the wounds. He gazed at his mutilation, and that is the moment when Danny realised this was for real.
Chapter Sixteen
Both the upper deck and the lower decks were crowded with joyous passengers and crew. The fog had at last lifted to reveal a magnificent clear day. Davenport and Ingle stood on the bridge and afforded a smile, as they looked out to the blue Mediterranean Sea. The sun seemed intent on making up for lost time. It was a particularly hot morning. Davenport looked down to see the marvellous spectacle and heard the loud cheers of the passengers in all their gaiety; the women in their colourful gowns and parasols, the men in their boaters and Panama hats.
Davenport and First Officer Ingle, inwardly understood that their troubles were far from over, but at least they could see where they were going.
“Well, Ingle? Is there any sign of land?”
“No, sir. We’re still looking. I estimate that we’re somewhere off the Turkish coast.”
Davenport passed his binoculars to the officer. “Tell your men to keep a look-out for any more ships in the area. It must be only a matter of time before we see another vessel.”
“We have our distress flares at the ready, sir, but we have another problem.”
“What now? How much worse can this nightmare get?”
“The stokers, sir. They cannot be expected to work much longer in this heat without water. Some of them have been complaining of dehydration.”
“Damn them. They have wine and champagne.”
“With due respect, sir; it’s the alcohol that is dehydrating them.
“Well, Godspeed, Ingle. Let us pray that we sight land soon.”
“Sir, I think it would be wise to start rationing the drinks,” suggested Ingle. “Just as a precaution, you understand… Look at that crowd down there, sir. Some of them have been drinking all night.”
“I think you may be right, Ingle. I’ll see to it immediately.”
Dr Waverley joined them on the bridge. “Mr Davenport. Twenty-one of the twenty-four patients never made it through the night. It can only be a matter of time before the others die.”
Davenport seemed genuinely concerned. “The poor wretches. It must have been an agonising death.”
“It was, believe me it was,” added the doctor. “We tried to sedate them, but it didn’t help.”
Davenport clenched his fists. “Bell will pay for this. As God is my witness, he will pay.”
Dr Waverley interrupted. “About Bell, Mr Davenport. He needs a drink. I was told that you gave orders not to open his door in any circumstances. Surely, he must be given a drink.”
“No. I stand by what I said. That monster deserves to die.”
“But…”
“That is my final word. We have more urgent matters to deal with without worrying about that psychopath.”
The fatigued doctor changed the subject. “I have a man in the sick bay, Mr Davenport, a Mr Cooper. His index fingers have been severed, courtesy of Daniel Wells and his thugs.”
“My God, it does not get any better, does it? How is he?” asked Davenport.
“He’ll live, but he won’t be playing the guitar again.”
“Do you want me to lock Wells up, Mr Davenport?” asked Ingle.
“Hell, no. Wells is one of my major shareholders. I’ll have a word with him. Perhaps we can come to an agreement over compensation. At this moment in time, we have more pressing matters to worry about.”
First Officer Ingle went on. “What do I tell the stokers, Mr Davenport?”
“You must rotate their duties. We must keep moving.”
“But that will not solve the problem, sir. They’ll have to work twice as hard.”
“Iisn’t that what they’re paid for? To work.”
“I must object,” butted in the doctor. “These men cannot be expected to work in such atrocious conditions.”
Davenport scowled. “If they do not like it, send them to me. A good morning to you, gentlemen.”
“Captain Bligh lives on,” joked Ingle, as he watched Davenport leave the bridge.
******
Darkness enveloped the Empress Medina, and First Officer Ingle lowered his binoculars and strained his eyes to scan the horizon. “Take over, Baxter. Let me know the minute you spot anything.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Ingle rubbed his eyes and ignored his rumbling stomach. They had sailed half speed all day without any sighting of vessel or land. The stokers were told to rest during the night. The first officer made his way to his cabin and was disturbed by the loud commotion coming from the Old English Inn. “What is going on here?” he bellowed.
The white-jacketed barman perspired profusely. “I tried to tell them, sir. They cannot have any more drink. Mr Davenport’s orders.”
First Officer Ingle stared at the sizable mob that had congregated around the bar. “I’m afraid he’s right, gentlemen. The drink is now being rationed.”
“Rationed?” screamed one young man. “What do you mean it’s rationed?”
“As a precaution, the drink is to be rationed.”
“Wait a bloody minute. We’ve not eaten for twenty-four hours, and now you’re telling us we cannot have a drink? That is ludicrous,” roared a middle-aged man who sported a handlebar moustache.
Ingle raised his voice. “Ludicrous it may be, sir, but that’s how it is.”
Another man spoke up. “We will reach Turkey no later than this afternoon. That is what you told us. Well, the afternoon has passed.”
“There are complications, sir,” explained First Officer Ingle. “If you make your way to the Grand Stateroom, Mr Davenport is about to enlighten you.”
“Dash, Davenport! He is making promises he cannot keep.” The middle-aged man was becoming flustered.
“As I’ve already explained to you, everything will become clear after Mr Davenport’s talk.”
The mob retreated and left behind a very relieved
barman. As they shuffled their way to the Stateroom, Davenport took his position on the stage. There was much hustling and bustling, the rumours rife.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
“What’s good about it?” screamed a robust woman who wore a red cloche.
“If you’ll let me continue. I know I promised you we would be in Turkey this afternoon, but there have been further complications.”
“What complications?” yelled the woman.
“The compass appears to be malfunctioning. We have no means by which to navigate.”
A crescendo of noise erupted from within the crowd.
“What type of ship are you running, Davenport?” shouted a distinguished looking gentleman with a black beard. “First of all it was the radio, and now the bloody compass.”
Davenport held his hands high. “It is beyond our control I’m afraid. We have lookouts on the bridge, and as soon as they spot anything, they’ll let off the distress flares. Now that the fog has lifted, it will be only a matter of time before we are spotted.”
“What about food? We’ve not eaten for over twenty-four hours.”
“The food on board is poisoned, along with the water,” insisted Davenport. “We’ve decided to ration the alcohol as a precaution.”
Again, the crowd showed their dissatisfaction by booing and hissing at their host.
“So what are we allowed exactly?” screamed Blackbeard.
“You’ll be rationed to one bottle of wine or champagne a day. I’m sure it will only be a temporary measure. We’ll probably all have a laugh over this tomorrow.”
“And you, Davenport. Will you be included in the rationing?”
“Of course. I’ll be rationed the same amount as you. I see no reason why I should be excluded from this ordeal.”
“Mr Davenport,” yelled Ross. “Exactly how much drink do you have on board?”
Davenport cleared his throat. “The Purser, Mr Jackson, completed a stock check earlier today. We have 1,020 bottles of champagne and 2,100 bottles of wine in stock, making an overall total of 3,120 bottles. In addition, we have 202 bottles of spirits.”
“So, Mr Davenport, what does that amount to in plain English?” yelled the woman in the red cloche.
“There are 483 passengers and staff left on the Empress Medina. It calculates at just over six bottles per person, not including the spirits. I’m certain that will be more than enough.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Six days, madam. I think that will be sufficient, don’t you?”
“But how long can we go without food?” bawled Norman Quinn.
Davenport addressed the obese man. “Dr Waverley, I’m sure will relate those details to me later. He has more urgent matters on his hands at the moment. What I do implore from you, is that any biscuits, candies, or foodstuffs that you may have carried aboard are brought to the dining room tomorrow morning. This is only precautionary you understand. There really is no need for panic. The food, like the drink will be rationed out. Dr Waverley, in his wisdom did pass on orders to drink sparingly. Remember, the bottle must last you at least twenty-four hours. It will be issued from nine 'o'clock tomorrow morning from the dining room. One bottle will be issued to each person, who must give their cabin number and their name.”
“We’re doomed. We’re all doomed,” joked one of the passengers.
Davenport ignored the hilarity. “Father Rattigan will hold a service for the dead tomorrow morning at eight 'o'clock on the upper deck. As I’ve already related to you, there is no need for panic. We must act like the civilised ladies and gentlemen that we are, and tomorrow I’m sure we’ll reach land, or be rescued. You’ll have an exceptional tale to tell your Grandchildren. God bless and sleep well.”
There was no applause when Davenport left the stage, only mutterings of confusion. Confused more than most was Ben and his companions.
“Well, what did you make of that?” asked Ben.
Joe lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. “We have to confront Davenport… all of us. Are we in serious shit or is this part of his game?”
Ross spoke up. “Danny doesn’t think it’s a game. His missing fingers are real enough.”
“How is he doing?” asked Cheryl.
“He’s doing as well as he can I suppose. Cindy is with him in the sick bay now.”
“Let’s try to put this into perspective,” commented Ben. “We’re invited as prize winners on this cruise. All the crew and passengers are acting out roles of past characters from the 1920’s. Then we have this deranged poisoner… Question one; were these people really poisoned or is this part of the staged scenario? Question two; the radio and compass malfunctioning. Is that fact or fantasy? Question three; the rationing of the food and drinks. That is taking this thing a bit far. Okay, it’s possible that this is part of Davenport’s fantasy, and maybe later we’ll have a laugh about it, but one thing doesn’t add up. Wells. He really did cut off Danny’s fingers, so that means Davenport is either insane and is carrying out this charade to the extreme, or that Wells has flipped his lid and has deviated from the script.”
“You saw those poisoned people, Ben,” stated Ross. “They didn’t look as though they were acting to me.”
“Okay. Let’s say they really were poisoned. Who then is Simon Bell? Is he real, or is he acting out a scene from the past? Also, if Davenport is behind these killings, what is his motive?”
Joe interrupted. “The passengers. They’re still playing out their roles. My guess is that this is all part of Davenport’s game, apart from Wells, who obviously has ideas of his own.”
Ben breathed deeply. “I’m not convinced about this. Take Penelope for instance. Sorry, Nat, I know I said I wouldn’t mention her again, but I’m convinced that she is insane. She faked her own drowning. Why? And I know I wasn’t dreaming when she came to my room… Davenport has a lot of explaining to do. I suppose it can wait until the morning.”
“I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse,” groaned Norman.
“You’ll have to wait until the morning, Norman. Though I don’t think we’ll be given a great amount.”
“This will do wonders for my diet,” joked Sarah.
Cheryl interrupted. “How long can we go without food?”
Her husband provided the answer. “Do you remember the Andes plane crash? You know, the one where they ate the bodies to stay alive. It was on the tenth day when they ate the first body.”
“Shit, you’re wasted as a bus driver, Ross,” said Joe.
“I told you, I read a lot.”
“Good God, surely it won’t come to that?”
“No, Nat, we’ll be well safe before then.” Inwardly, Ben was not confident of his statement. Anything could happen on this cruise, and anything usually did happen.
******
Ben and Natasha joined the long snaking queue and awaited their rations. Disappointed passengers passed and shook their heads disappointingly. After twenty minutes, they faced the purser, Mr Jackson.
“Name please?”
“Ben and Natasha Duncan.”
“Cabin number?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Wine or champagne?”
“One of each please,” said Natasha.
“Two biscuits each and a cracker.”
“That’s it?” moaned Ben.
“That is it, sir. Next.”
They stared at the meagre rations and shuffled away. They settled for a table on the deck, rather than the dining room. Natasha did not want to eat in there, after all of the tragic deaths that had occurred. Besides, they needed the fresh air. There were many passengers on the deck and they were fortunate to find a vacant table. A cool breeze refreshed them as they took their seats.
“Well, Nat, champagne or wine?”
“Wine, Ben. We’ll keep the champagne to celebrate when we’re picked up.”
“Wine it is then.”
Ben poured the red wine into the glasses. Never had
he wanted a drink so much. His throat was as dry as dust. They sipped slowly, savoured the wine, and laughed like children when they were refreshed. Ben passed a cracker to Natasha and she took a small bite.
“It would taste even better with a slice of cheddar.”
“We’d better keep the biscuits for later,” suggested Ben, who bit into his cracker.
They finished their wine and ambled towards the railing. The couple held hands and looked out to sea. It was another clear day, but all that could be seen was the blue Mediterranean. Natasha fanned herself, and tears ran down her face.
“What’s the matter, Nat?” asked Ben, who placed a comforting arm around her. “It’s only a matter of time now before we’re either picked up or spot land.”
“It’s not just that, Ben. I can’t eliminate the thought from my mind of you and that tramp sleeping together. You were prepared to cheat on me.”
“I thought we’d cleared that up. It never happened, remember.”
“Didn’t it, Ben? Didn’t it?”
Ben was not so sure himself. He acknowledged that he had to see Penelope again. He had to, for his sanity.
Dr Waverley marched swiftly past Ben and Natasha. There was anger in his eyes. They watched him as he made his way to the bridge. The doctor halted in front of a startled Davenport.
“What is it, Doctor?”
“It’s Bell. He must be given a drink now. This is inhumane.”
Davenport placed a large cigar into his mouth, puffed vigorously and tried to light it. “Was it not inhumane what he has done to those poor people? Leave him be, Doctor. Let him die of thirst.”
“This is outrageous! If you let him die, I swear, as God is my witness that this matter will not rest. Every newspaper in England will read of your neglect and cruelty.”
“If you feel so strongly about this, then let him share your rations.”
Dr Waverley turned towards the acting captain. “Mr Ingle, you have assumed command of this vessel since the sad departure of Captain Perkins. You must take responsibility. Give him a drink, man.”
Davenport stepped in front of the furious doctor. “May I remind you whose ship you are sailing on? Mr Ingle, have this man escorted off the bridge please.”
The Cruise Page 10