After a final look around and satisfied he left no obvious clues to his six week incarceration, Euterich stuffed Lonny’s small tin box into his pocket, turned off the fan and the lights, and pushed the workshop door closed behind him.
A little heaving, straining and shoving, had the crates of engine parts back in place. Well placed illuminated signs and the smell of salt air led him to the door to the main deck, and outside. Fresh air and a turn around the deck before breakfast would do his appetite a power of good.
The wind dropped to something less than gale force and the rain had eased from the horizontal as he stretched his new limbs and filled his new lungs, scouring Lonny’s memories for information.
He let them guide him through the maze of corridors, up the steps, and into the warm and comfortable habitat, to the company of other living beings and their food.
When Lonny Dick entered the mess hall only two faces looked up.
Both registered complete indifference at his presence. The others didn’t bother to look at all, preferring to concentrate on their breakfast.
Had anyone even noticed the real Lonny had been absent since seven o’clock the previous evening? Did anyone care? The answer to both questions was, apparently, no.
A quick look round to get his bearings and he took a plate and fork from the servery, then filled the empty seat at the table next to Shaw. He stabbed at the pancakes heaped on a plate in the middle of the table and transferred three onto his own.
“Is that all you’re having?” Shaw said with his mouth full, pointing with his fork. Euterich searched his new-found data to identify the speaker - Matthew Shaw, aka Dipstick, Capstan’s lackey.
Be careful what you say in his presence because he’ll report back. Act dumb. Stick to short blunt answers, preferably edging on the aggressive, he’ll expect nothing more. Keep conversation to a minimum.
“Yeah,” he said dully. “What of it?”
Shaw shrugged. “Nutt’n. Just thought a bloke your size would pack ‘em away like nobody’s business.”
“Just ‘cos I’m big don’t mean I’m greedy, so mind yer own beeswax.”
Shaw returned to his own plate. “Pardon me for breathing.”
Euterich smothered the pancakes with maple syrup, and as Lonny would have done held his fork in his fist like a brickie wielding a trowel - so terribly crude. Also, as he imagined Lonny would do, he ripped into the pancakes, stuffing them into his mouth so tightly he could hardly move his jaw to chew.
They tasted like heaven, the intense rich sugary sweetness of the maple syrup stroking his taste-buds like angels wings. Truly divine.
He helped himself to two more pancakes. If they made him sick, he didn’t care. It would just make room for more. He alternated mouthfuls of sticky breakfast with slurps of hot milky coffee and listened in to the conversations around him; raw, male chatter, dominated by cars, football and sex, until his ears picked up another tone from behind him, softer, gentler … unmistakably female.
Why had he not noticed her when he came in? Why did he not pick up on her scent straight away?
Maybe his naturally heightened senses had been dulled to the level of the human he inhabited. Or maybe the overpowering aroma of the sweet food and coffee had blocked it.
Disguising a deep inhalation as a runny nosed sniff, he quickly filtered out and dismissed the rich sweet scent of the maple syrup and the pungent acid of freshly brewed coffee, searching past them, through them, for the fragile, the barely there, and there it was, the soft delicate fragrance of female.
A lopsided grin grew on his face as he delighted in the bouquet sliding through his olfactory passages, into the deepest most primitive recesses of his brain. Proust hard at work.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?”
The voice sliced into his concentration, pulling him out of his reverie. Strident and annoying, it belonged to Reynolds - A1 first class prick, shit stirring trouble maker.
If anyone deserved a kick in the balls, it was him. “Wha’?” said Euterich, adopting Lonny’s general slack jawed expression of inanity.
“You were grinning like a loony. What’s the joke?”
“No joke. I was just thinking?”
“What about?”
“Nuttin’ special. Just a funny.”
“Share then.”
He said the first thing that popped into his head, one of Lonny’s crazier ponderings. “I was thinking about Domino’s pizza.”
What?
“What about it?” said Reynolds, humouring him.
“They deliver in 30 minutes or you get it free, don’t they?”
“Yeah?”
“Well I think we should order, ‘cos, d’uh, look where we are. Free pizza!”
His shoulders shook with the power of an unintelligent moronic guffawing. What the hell did he say that for? Was this the level of intelligence this man worked at? Hell fire. He had to get out of this body and quick, before its dull-wittedness began to rub off on him and dragged his IQ level down to one so low it needed watering.
Reynolds shook his head hopelessly. “You’re a fucking head case, Lummox, you know that?”
The nickname struck a chord with Euterich.
He found he detested it, simply because Lonny detested it. Euterich pounded his fist onto the table, rattling the crockery, having a sudden urge to pummel Reynolds’ sneering face to a pulp.
“What did I tell you about calling me that?” he said, making to rise from his seat.
“Calm down, big fella,” said Reynolds, holding up his fork in capitulation. “I was just having a jape.”
“Well don’t, okay, unless you want your teeth knocking out the back of your neck.”
“Trouble guys?” Eddie Capstan’s voice carried from the next table over.
“No trouble, boss,” said Reynolds, keeping a wary eye on Euterich and his massive fist. “No trouble at all.”
They ate the rest of the meal in silence, after which the assigned kitchen hands took care of the clearing up before joining the rest of the crew as they girded themselves for a morning’s hard graft, accompanied by a chorus of tuneful belches and farts.
Chapter 12
It didn’t take long for Euterich to discover Lonny had not been employed for his quick wit or nimbleness with an electrical circuit, or his ability to make rapid calculation.
He was there purely for muscle power, for brute strength without thought, a grunt who would follow instructions without question at all times, and what started off as promising height and bulk and strength, soon paled. He found the large hands and feet clumsy and cumbersome, the mind slow and restricted, and the work assigned to him, routine, uninspiring … boring.
Now, after a week of occupying Lonny Dick’s skin, thoughts and memories, the prospect of having to keep up the act for another two and a half months stretched out before him like a long dark tunnel.
Time to put some thought into putting a light at the end of that tunnel.
As usual, at the end of this day’s shift, he showered, changed his clothes and ate his dinner. Today it was a spicy mix of chilli con carne and rice. Not a favourite. Chilli gave him gas, but it would have to do.
Well fed, if a little bloated, he sat in a chair apart from the others, thumbing through a men’s health magazine and brooding, all the while keeping the focus of his interest on the edge of his vision, as he had since the first minute he saw her. Lydia Ellis - tiny frame almost consumed by her deep armchair, legs tucked under her, comfortable, reading her book and sipping her coffee.
Relaxed. Natural. Unaware of being watched. He inhaled her tantalising scent with every breath, teasing himself with it.
After a while she drained her cup and yawned, closed her book and rose to leave, bidding her workmates, ‘Goodnight’. He allowed his gaze to follow her across the room.
She certainly was lovely. Small and slender, with intelligent eyes, her chestnut hair tied up in a practical ponytail which swung from side to side in
time with her step, flawless skin carrying the remnants of a summer tan, a tight neat backside and pert firm breasts. Faultless. Unlike this oversized unwieldy form he had lumbered himself with.
Euterich told himself over and again that beggars can’t be choosers and he should be grateful for Lonny’s turning up and saving him from a horrible slow death, but it came as no consolation. He could feel no gratitude, only resentment. He deserved better than this.
He was a product of ages - educated, refined, sophisticated, brutal. He liked to read, to think, to converse; been tinker, tailor, soldier, and spy. He had lived high and low; had loved and lost. He had killed often, sometimes without mercy, always with respect.
He enjoyed the finer things in life - a good meal, a fine wine, a night at the opera. He liked to travel, to indulge in discussions about art and philosophy, appreciated the sciences, understood them for the most part, and now those qualities were in danger of being irretrievably corrupted by low minded vulgarity and sheer thick-headedness.
And it wasn’t only his mind at risk. His well cultured urbanity went hand in hand with a healthy appreciation of a lovely lady companion; thousands of them throughout his long lifetime.
He’d made love to more than he could count, had lived and worked with them, slipping into the roles of their colleagues, their fathers, husbands, sons, lovers, brothers.
While he watched Lydia he considered that his many and varied incarnations, for want of a better word, had always been male, never female. At least … not yet. Maybe now was the time to put right that oversight.
Perhaps Lydia Ellis, who with her freckled nose and chestnut hair, with her merry laugh and soulful eyes appealed to his baser instincts, would provide him with the wherewithal to achieve this long buried, long neglected ambition.
But it wasn’t quite that simple.
He couldn’t just take her body and inhabit it like he had done with Lonny Dick. He would have to gain her trust, keep the fear level to a minimum, because fear induced surges of cortisol and adrenaline which tainted the flesh, making it sour and bitter. He had tasted it many times before. It was nasty. What was it the poem said about women - sugar and spice and all things nice? They certainly should not be bitter and sour like vinegar and lemon juice.
And the first step towards gaining that trust would be to get out of Lonny Dick’s body and into someone else’s, because she wouldn’t want to be alone with him for a minute longer than she had to. He didn’t blame her.
He didn’t even like to be alone with himself - unattractive to look at with his face like a cracked paving stone, lax with his personal hygiene, a sloppy eater who wore almost as much food as he ate. Even his name was a joke.
Worst of all, his unappealing nature went hand in glove with an unimpressive and unresponsive set of genitalia that even frequent and aggressive masturbation failed to arouse.
For certain, the big man had left this world the male equivalent of virgo intacta, and if he were condemned to remain in Dick’s body for whatever reason, his chances of having any kind of sex any time soon, particularly with a lady as lovely as the fair Lydia, rated at less than zero.
So, how to overcome this particular problem? Which one among his new comrades should he step into next? Who among this crowd, after ten days or so of getting to know each other, did she trust enough to be alone with?
If he had to choose her special favourite, the one she would have confidence in over all the others, his money fell on one outstanding candidate - Mister Eddie ‘I’m In Charge’ Capstan, in his fancy red look at me overalls and the annoying row of coloured pens in his breast pocket. Stiff, uptight, as dull as ditchwater, but she seemed to like him.
He remembered what Lonny observed the first afternoon they arrived - her and Capstan in close conversation by the book case, her touching his arm and smiling at him, and then the long time he spent with her down in sickbay when he took a trolley load of stuff down to her. They sat together at breakfast and dinner every day too.
Yes. If there was any sure-fire way of getting to her, gaining her confidence, it was going to be through Capstan. However, diving straight into him would arouse suspicion, and forcing himself on her would frighten and spoil her. He would take his time, move slowly, using each one of the others as a stepping stone, making his move on her by degrees, eliminating the competition one body at a time until he occupied the one she trusted and accepted the most.
He would give her time to fall in love with him before joining with her in the best sex ever. And then, after they had copulated and were enveloped in post coital satisfaction and surging hormones, he would take her, and it will be like consuming a spoonful of syrup, assimilating with cotton candy. He would, at long last, fulfil his dream. The very prospect made him tingle with anticipation.
“Hey Lummox, get yer hand out of yer pants. If ye want to play pocket billiards, do it in the privacy of yer own room ye filthy perv.”
Reynolds’ abrasive interruption blew away his daydream like a haar before a breeze. With horrified disgust he realised he had been slumped in his chair with his hands deep in his overalls pockets, idly stroking his dick and balls through the fabric, bringing himself to an almost full-masted erection.
Fucking sodding hell! Why of all times did they choose now to co-operate? A furious flush burned his cheeks. He leapt to his feet and glowered at the guffawing Reynolds, before striding from the room wreathed in humiliation. Waves of vulgar laughter followed him down the corridor to his cabin.
He slammed his door against the sight and sound of the despicable cretin, his face creased into an animalistic scowl, heavy brow drawn over eyes filled with angry tears, nostrils flaring as he snorted out furious breaths.
With a howl of frustration he drew back and swung a massive fist, punching a hole in the partitioning drywall as if it were wet tissue paper. He withdrew his hand, scratching it on a sharp edge, drawing blood.
He sooked at the wound, savouring the bitter coppery taste, and deep in his stomach he felt an unpleasant gnawing. Anger, resentment, and the tang of haem on his tongue enlivened his appetite.
The decision as to who would be his first stepping stone toward Lydia all but made itself.
Chapter 13
He already knew everyone’s work routine off by heart.
Taking plenty of time, as would be expected of a slow-witted lump like Lummox, Euterich had studied the whiteboard on the control room wall until he committed every detail to memory, hoping it would stay there long enough to be of use.
Now he knew where everyone should be, what they would be doing and for how long, including himself, it would be easy for him to be first back to the cabins in order to prepare his ‘surprise’.
He cried off sick after lunch, claiming bad food and the change in water quality had upset his stomach and given him a nasty case of diarrhoea, not too far from the truth, leaving Brewer to take his place acting as a spare pair of hands for McAllister as he prepared his toy submarine for its first dive as soon as the weather stabilised. Those two would not return until 18:00 hours at the earliest.
Cameron and McDougal had just come off shift and were in the lounge, killing time watching TV before preparing the evening meal. Lydia would be playing doctors and nurses in sickbay with Capstan, unless he was with his new best friend, Shaw, in the control room, mapping the day’s progress on their petty little charts and going over the chores they had planned for everyone tomorrow.
Only they were going to be one man short and their tin pot little kingdom would be thrown into disarray as they searched the rig from flare to foundation for a missing man.
Lonny’s cabin, now Euterich’s, was next door to Reynolds’, which meant Euterich had been able to spy on his neighbour and get to know his off-shift routine too.
Today, Reynolds’ stint ended at 17:00 hours, after which he would take his shower, spend half an hour in his cabin reading, strumming on his guitar or napping to the company of the news on the radio, before dressing and slouching
around in the lounge until dinner time. The window of opportunity was brief, but Euterich felt it doable. He lay on his bunk to wait, half dozing, letting his natural senses take over.
In contrast to the average human’s, his were as high functioning as any cat or dog’s - taste, smell, hearing, sight - including night vision - a dozen times more advanced, and his enhanced hearing picked up Reynolds’ approaching tread long before he entered the habitat zone proper, following his progress to and into his cabin by sound alone - the door opening and closing, general moving about; Reynolds letting out an audible groan with relief as he stripped his dirty overalls from tired overworked muscles, the shower starting up, Reynolds urinating and farting brazenly, the lavatory flushing.
The sounds then muffled as Reynolds closed the bathroom door.
Give him a couple of minutes to settle in.
To pass the time Euterich smoothed out the sleeping bag, plumped the pillow, and gave Lonny’s cabin and bathroom a final tidy around.
He should have had long enough by now.
Euterich cracked open the door and peered into the empty corridor beyond. Everywhere was silent bar the gentle hum of the warm air heater and the muted chatter of the television in the lounge.
He slipped from the room and sidled the eight feet to Reynolds’ door, grinning to himself at the thought of the crew, including himself, oozing concern for appearances sake only, searching every nook and cranny, alcove and bucket store tomorrow, and coming up empty handed. He tested the handle of Reynolds’ door. Not locked.
A slight turn, the door opened and Euterich slithered inside, closing it silently behind him. The room was foggy and stank of cigarettes. Reynolds had been smoking in here, so why had the ceiling detector not picked up on it?
Because he had worked out that covering the smoke detector with a plastic bag and securing it with a strong elastic band to seal in a tiny pocket of clean air left him free to smoke in his cabin with impunity, putting them all at risk.
Crafty sod. Cunning though, because it meant that when he took over this cabin as his own Euterich would be able to enjoy Lonny’s illicit cannabis stash in comfort. No more sneaking down to that filthy workshop.
Offshore Page 7