Offshore

by Lucy Pepperdine

  Repeated failure to integrate into that closed section of society left his selection somewhat limited and meant if he wanted to pursue his experimentation he would have, reluctantly, to cast his net further afield, to the underclass, to ones he could practise on, to those who could disappear without a trace without anyone raising so much as an eyebrow.

  He would start at the bottom and keep it simple, that way he could cultivate trust among the sex and then work his way up through the ranks until he reached the porcelain skinned - blue blooded nobility he aspired to.

  Euterich found samples aplenty in the seedy district of Whitechapel, where the tarts and toots would lift their skirts and drop their drawers for him in exchange for a swig of gin and a handful of coins, and he considered he would be doing them a favour by putting them out of the misery of their low hopeless lives by slicing them open from gizzard to pubis, searching through them for something, anything to satisfy his need, even accused of taking two in one night. A coincidence. He’d only had time for the one.

  From each of his … he didn’t like to call them victims, preferring the term quarry, he had taken away parts on which to feed in private, but found them all to be sour and bitter; tainted bodies ravaged with venereal disease, their livers dirty and cirrhotic and with kidneys pickled with gin and brandy. Each specimen more disgusting than the other except for the last one.

  She was surprisingly different and would have been the ideal first step if it hadn’t been for the net closing in. His recent activities had not gone unnoticed and having a policeman on every corner curtailed him somewhat. He had to be careful, and being careful spoiled the mood.

  Mary Jane Kelly lifted his mood.

  A dainty young thing with lovely red hair and a delightful Welsh accent, she was poor and dirty, but chirpy and naive and eager to please for her pennies.

  She took him to her humble dwelling, a single room in a dirty yard called Miller’s Court where they had rough unsophisticated sex.

  Afterwards, as she sat on the edge of her tiny uncomfortable bed, easing a stocking over a milk white thigh, he took her from behind, drawing a scalpel-sharp blade across her throat, almost severing her head, cutting off her cheerful music hall ditty and soaking the bed and himself in a hot scarlet fountain.

  He disembowelled the delightful child, allowing himself a few choice pieces of her viscera and her dear fresh heart, savouring their unadulterated sweetness, looking forward to seeing her pretty elfin face looking back at him in the broken mirror over the wash bowl, to running his hands over the feminine swell of breasts and hips, when the harsh blast of a police whistle pierced the night, cutting short his venture, the shrill alarm forcing him to flee mid feed, leaving poor Mary’s lifeless corpse to be found next morning by her landlord’s messenger, sent to collect rent arrears.

  When news of the discovery of Mary Kelly’s dreadfully mutilated body reached him next day, via a headline in the daily paper, for the first time in his long life he felt real terror. Yes, he had killed her.

  Yes, he had eaten parts of her, but the rest, the despicable corruptions of her flesh described in the newspaper and displayed in the grainy photograph of the virtual ripping apart of her body, the flaying of her flesh and scattering of chunks of it around her room, her almost total exsanguination, those were not his work. He never did more than was necessary for his needs. This was the work of a madman and although he may be many things, mad he most certainly was not.

  The police alert had been a false alarm, a fight between gangs of dockers two streets away, but with the publicity, the increased police presence, and public awareness and suspicion racked up to hysterical fever pitch, he knew his time there was over. The longer he stayed, the more the odds were stacked against him. A good gambler knows when to quit.

  Time to give up on his quest for the female experience, to dismiss it as a silly frivolous whim. A dangerous whim. If he was meant to be female he would have been created that way, wouldn’t he? He would make good his escape while he still could.

  Two days later he boarded a ship for France and the far continent, and left the dreadfulness behind.

  He also left behind a legacy which would find its way into the history books, a legacy based on gossip, scandal and rumour, embellished out of all proportion, yet would endure to be discussed and dissected for the next 125 years by a group of scholars who would emerge to dedicate themselves to the study of the methods and motives of the bloodthirsty fiend who ripped open prostitutes.

  Their expertise would be based on every kind of speculation, myth and conspiracy, the finger pointing eventually to fifteen suspects in all, from royalty to a fake American doctor, and all of them completely and utterly wrong.

  Euterich got away by the skin of his teeth, and in the time since that horrendous period had given little thought to changing sex again. It wasn’t worth it merely to satisfy a curiosity, considering the troubles it brought with it. He would stick with what he knew, with being male, and be satisfied with his lot.

  And he had, until he saw Lydia, and the madness of obsessive desire came upon him again.

  Chapter 17

  The ear bleeding honk of the klaxon in the dark and still of 3:15 am grabbed the attention of everyone. Whether sleeping, awake or in between, it pushed attentiveness to a hundred and ten percent, and scared the crap out of even the most experienced hand because it was the last sound anyone wanted to hear.

  Awooooooogah! Awooooooogah!

  The abandon rig alarm!

  From the first hoot of the electronic horn, the clock was ticking. Fifteen minutes to get to the lifeboat or you get left behind. Move your arse! In cabins the main lights activated automatically, waking their occupants, and in the corridors squares of fluorescent light blinked and brightened.

  From crow’s nest to waterline, from the depths of the stores to high up on the helideck, the siren wailed into the night, and every spotlight - fog light and nightlight, blazed into life, illuminating the entire platform like a monstrous funfair attraction.

  Not one member of the crew could fail to be aware of the alarm, and every one of them knew what to do; drop whatever or whoever they were doing without a second’s thought, and head for the nearest lifeboat. Driven into self preservation mode by the doom laden warning, the crew in various states of undress exploded from their rooms to stampede en masse down the corridors and stairs towards the locker room and their survival suits.

  To accompany the alarm other warning lights burst into life, spinning inside their glass bells and strafing the walls, ceiling, floor and faces with alternate flashes of red and dark, their meaning clear - action or death. Above it all an automated recorded voice played out over the public address system.

  Attention all hands! Immediate evacuation! proceed to nearest evacuation station. This is not a drill!

  Forget sleep, forget dressing, forget collecting valuables, only one thing mattered - getting to the lifeboat by whatever means possible.

  If it went without them, and it would if they didn’t make it on time, there would be no other alternative to plunging into the North Sea, where even in an immersion suit time to death from cold exposure could be measured in minutes. It was not an alternative anyone would willingly take.

  The warning blared again, in case someone failed to hear.

  All eight of the crew arrived at the locker room simultaneously and stumbled through the narrow doorway to grab their suits from the hangers.

  To the untrained eye it was a scene of organised chaos, but the drill had been rehearsed so many times it put each man on automatic pilot as he poured himself into his thermal undergarments, zipped himself into his suit, and checked the seals.

  Life jackets and rubber boots followed. Everybody had their own way of coping with the life threatening situation; McDougal mumbled a stream of impressive oaths, Brewer chanted out the periodic table, and McAllister resorted to reciting Mary Had A Little Lamb. Each man’s little foible concentrated his mind on the task at hand. />
  Only Reynolds/Euterich seemed unfazed by the furore.

  “Everyone got their passports and wallets on them?” said Eddie, his raised voice clamouring for a moment of their attention.

  There would be no levity, argument or dissension here, and without interruption to the flow of activity everyone looked to the presence of the clear plastic waterproof document package they carried around their necks at all times.

  Up rose a unified cry. “Yes sir!” Except a small light voice, one made conspicuous by its absence, one whose owner should have been filling the small suit still hanging limp on its hangar.

  “Where’s Miss Ellis! Has anyone seen Lydia Ellis?” called Eddie.

  The men paused momentarily, looked at each other and then at Eddie, their blank expressions and shaking heads making it obvious none of them had.

  “Shit!” The recording called out its instruction once more, as if anyone needed reminding. “Yes okay, I heard you the first time,” Eddie yelled at it.

  He grabbed Shaw by the arm and put his mouth close to the man’s ear, having to shout to make himself heard over the constant nerve jangling awoooogah of the klaxon.

  “Matt, get up to the control room and see what the hell the alarm is all about. None of us did anything, so it needs checking out. It might be genuine, it might be a glitch. If it’s for real, take ten seconds to make sure the automated distress signal has been activated, and then get yourself to number one Duck pronto. Don’t stop for anyone or anything on the way, got it?”

  “Got it. And if it’s just a glitch?”

  “Then I trust you’ll let me know before Jock pulls the lever.”

  “Yes sir. Stupid question. Sorry sir.”

  “No matter. On your way mate. The clock is ticking.”

  “Yes sir.”

  When Shaw had gone, Eddie turned to McAllister, their appointed coxswain. “You up to this, Jock?”

  “You can count on me boss.”

  “Good man. You’re in charge of the Duck until I get there. Make sure everyone is properly strapped in, fire her up and keep your hand on that launch lever ready to go. If I’m not there in ten minutes flat, you go without me.”

  “I’ll wait for you, don’t worry, boss.”

  “The hell you will! Ten minutes, you go, that’s an order. Got it?”

  McAllister nodded reluctantly. “Yes sir. Where are you going to be?”

  “I’m going to find that bloody woman! We’ve lost one crew member already, no way am I going to lose anyone else, especially a female.” He clapped a friendly reassuring hand on Jock’s shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t turn into a farewell, turned and ran along the corridor as fast as his heavy rubber boots would carry him, each step taking him further from the lifeboat and safety.

  As he ran, he felt for the on/off switch on his radio, and nudged it into place. Shaw would be almost at the control room by now and he should hear from him soon, one way or the other. His imperative now was to find the errant medic and haul her sorry arse to the lifeboat, whether she wanted to go or not.

  He reached sickbay and burst through the door, the calling of her name drowned by the alert repeating itself. “Lydia!” He could not see her in the main room. “Lydia!” He headed for the office. “Lydia Ellis! You in here?”

  “Here I am, Eddie.”

  Thank God!

  He followed the voice to the couch behind the modesty screen where Lydia Ellis lay stretched out full length, wearing nothing but the tiniest plain white panties and matching bra, one arm tucked behind her head, the other lying against the flat of her stomach, chestnut hair loose over her shoulders as if she were posing for a portrait. She tented one leg and smiled demurely. “Hello Eddie.”

  Eddie gaped at her. “What … what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he squeaked, his voice falsetto with disbelief and anger.

  “What do you mean?”

  He jabbed a finger toward the klaxon blaring in the corridor outside. “That noise … those lights … we have to abandon the rig … NOW!”

  “Is that what it means,” she said, her calmness the polar opposite to his agitation. “It is very loud. I can feel the vibrations in my tummy. It tickles.” She snatched at his hand and pressed it to her belly. “Can you feel it?”

  Eddie yanked his hand free. “What? No! Hell’s teeth woman, stop buggering about and get dressed. We have exactly …” He glanced at his watch, “Seven minutes before Jock pulls the lever and launches the lifeboat. After that, we’re screwed. If the rig is going down, we’re going down with it.”

  “I don’t want to go,” she said. “I want to stay here. It’s comfy.”

  Sighing deeply, she smiled seductively as she moved her fingertips slowly over her right breast, over skin glistening with cold perspiration, eyes like shiny black buttons glittering from a face which was both pale yet flushed.

  Eddie’s eyes followed the hand’s progress across the swell of pale flesh and the small mouse’s nose of a nipple pressing against the crisp white cotton of her brassiere. He unconsciously licked his suddenly dry lips.

  “Like what you see, Teddy Edward?” she said. “Do you want it?”

  The uncomfortable rushing sound in his ears and the tingling in his groin answered for him - the initial rush of adrenaline combined with a quick silver flood of testosterone equalled a double whammy of unwelcome effects – an uncomfortably hammering heart rate and a rush of blood to his nether regions.

  Five minutes.

  “Sod this for a game of soldiers,” he said, regaining control of his reason and wrestling his long neglected libido into submission. He grabbed her arm, recoiling against the wet seaweed clamminess of her skin, tugging her to her bare feet. “Get yourself down to the locker room, get into your suit and get into the fucking lifeboat!”

  “No!” She dug in her heels and stood her ground, and so began a fruitless tug of war. “I want to have sex,” she said. “Right here, right now.”

  “What?!”

  “And you do too. I can tell.” She thrust her hand into his crotch to feel how much he wanted it. “Yes you do.”

  Yes he did.

  He removed her hand. “Another time, maybe, when we’re not staring Death in the face. Now move.”

  “Is that a promise?” She tilted her chin. “I shan’t go unless you promise–”

  Eddie gritted his teeth. “For the love of Christ woman, I won’t tell you again, move-your-arse, or I’ll–”

  “You’ll what? Move it for me?”

  “Don’t make me–”

  “You wouldn’t dare–”

  “Wouldn’t I just?”

  “No!”

  “Right! You asked for it!”

  He yanked the half naked woman to him, tossed her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s lift, turned and stamped his way at a brisk pace through the swing doors, down the corridor to the stairwell.

  She battered her small hands against his back. “Put me down right now Eddie Capstan or I’ll have you for kidnap and sexual assault. I’ll–!”

  “Shut yer yap!” She writhed and fidgeted, her damp flesh slippery against his suit. He held on tighter. “Keep still you stupid woman or I’ll drop you.”

  She wriggled ferociously. “Then put me down!”

  A full handed slap against the round of her buttock made her squeal and stilled the frenetic squirming. There then followed every variation of foul mouthed promise of how she was going to separate him from his wedding tackle with a rusty blade, most of which, thankfully, were drowned out by the continuing klaxon blare.

  Four minutes.

  The steep stairs presented a problem.

  Eddie could not hold onto Lydia and the rail, and if her sweaty fidgety state unbalanced him, both of them would end up at the bottom with broken necks. Reluctantly he set her on her feet, grabbed her by her wrist and half dragged her, resisting all the way, down the steps and the rest of the way to the locker room.

  Three minutes remaining and still no word fro
m Shaw. No matter. He knew the drill, he had his instructions; he would have to take care of himself.

  They reached the locker room. Not stopping to catch his breath Eddie seized Lydia’s suit off the hanger, practically lifted her into it and zipped it up to her throat. No time to spare to fit her thermals.

  Threats of violence and retaliation continued to rattle from her like a verbal Gatling gun, and he’d had enough of the ranting.

  “Sit down and shut yer gob!” he ordered, and pushed her down onto the slatted bench.

  “Don’t shout at me you horrible man,” she said, bobbing back to her feet. “I’m going to report you for manhandling me and for swearing at me. You, sir, have a dirty fucking mouth–”

  “SIT!” He pressed her shoulders, forcing her back down. There she sat in furious silence, her face contorted into the frowning cat’s bum pout of a petulant child as he fastened her into her boots. “Come on,” he said, jerking her to her feet again.

  She swayed slightly, her ghostly white face carrying high spots of colour on her cheeks, and an expression of utter contempt. “I’m going to file a complaint to your superiors,” she slurred. “You’ll be lucky not to end up in jail–”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Eddie grabbed her by the hand. “Shift yer carcass. We’ve got about a minute left.” Once more they were on the move and this time, thankfully, without her babbling.

  One minute to take two flights of stairs to the lifeboat deck, and sprint the fifty yards of gangway and down the ramp before Jock McAllister sealed the hatch and released the boat from its moorings to free-fall sixty metres nose first into the sea.

  They weren’t going to make it.

  He ran, towing the stumbling orange form behind him. When she fell over her own boots, he hardly paused in his stride, hauling her to her feet and dragging her along.

  “Come ON!”

  And there it was - the hatch, and safety. His radio crackled at his shoulder.

  “Guv! You there? You haven’t gone yet have you?”

  “Get in!”

  He pushed Lydia through the rear door of the lifeboat and she disappeared into it like a rabbit down a hole. He then took up his radio, yelling into it over the continuing cacophony. “Where the hell are you, Matt? What’s going on? Over.”