“Call the authorities yourself. You’ve got the phone.”
“You mean bypass Longdrift altogether?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“They won’t like it.”
Shaw said, “So what? In all honesty boss, they can go screw themselves. This is bigger than the company.”
Shaw was right. This was nothing to do with the company any more. Still, Eddie decided, he should give Skeffington the benefit of the doubt, give him chance to do the right thing for once and get things sorted. He would give him 24 hours and not one more. After that…
Alone with the mess of papers Eddie got to his knees, gathered them up, and sorted them once more into their neatly ordered piles.
Unfortunately, nobody told Oliver Skeffington he had a deadline.
At his rather splendid detached house in the Aberdeen suburb of Westhill, he hung up the phone on Eddie Capstan out on Falcon Bravo, and returned to his interrupted Sunday lunch with his friends and family. His wife had made his favourite dessert, apple strudel with vanilla custard, and he wasn’t going to let the hysterical ramblings of a lower order employee with an inferiority complex spoil it.
If a man was dead, he wasn’t going to get any deader was he?
Eddie Capstan’s inconvenient problem could wait until Longdrift opened up for business again after the long weekend.
Chapter 30
The oversized can of baked beans sat on the top shelf in the pantry, where only a tall man could have put it. “Thanks a bunch Lonny,” Lydia grumbled as she stretched herself on tiptoes, her fingertips scratching at the label. “Come here you bugger.”
Another pair of hands took hold of the can and lifted it down. “Let me get that for you, Miss Ellis. It’s heavy. Wouldn’t want you dropping it on your foot.”
She smiled, “Thank you, Mr Cameron. You are a gentleman.”
A flush of red showed in Cameron’s neck as he nestled the tin in the crook of his arm. “Well … erm … you know … couldn’t let you struggle.” Cough. “I’ll take it through for you.” He carried the tin to her workspace in the galley and set it on the counter. “Shall I open it for you?” he said.
Lydia followed him into the kitchen.
She liked Cameron. He had a ‘puppy dog’ quality about him that she found appealing, always eager to please, minded his manners and language in her presence, blushing and apologising if a curse slipped out, and now blushing because she had complimented him.
Crack that tough nut engineer’s shell and a real sweetie would tumble out. “No Mr Cameron, I think I can take it from here,” she said.
“Anything else I can do for you … to help, I mean?”
“Don’t you have something of your own to take care of?”
“Only the sausages,” he said. “They’re in the oven, nice and cosy.” He peered into the cooker to assess the food’s progress. “Won’t need to touch ‘em for at least another twenty minutes.”
“Potatoes?”
“Boiled. Just need reheating and mashing.”
“Gravy?”
“Last minute. Don’t want it going lumpy.”
“Dessert?”
“Ice cream.”
“Cutlery and condiments?”
“Sorted.”
Lydia opened the can, poured the contents into a stock pan, and set it on the hob to heat through.
“Looks like we’re pretty well organised,” she said, wiping bean juice from her hands onto a paper towel. “In fact, I think we might very well be ahead of time.”
“Yeah. We make a pretty good team.”
Awkward silence.
“So what do you want to do to pass the time?” said Cameron. “We can watch a DVD?”
Lydia leaned her back against the worktop. “I’d rather chat.”
“What about?”
“You. This is the first time we’ve spent any real time together since we got here, and I’d really like to get to know a little bit more about you.”
“Why?”
She turned down the heat on the hob. “Call me inquisitive.”
“Before we do, can I ask you something?” Cameron said.
“Sure.”
“Why do you always me Mister Cameron? It’s so formal. My name’s Duncan.”
“I know, but it didn’t seem right to use your first name in front of the others. It might smack of favouritism.”
“How about a compromise then? Folks usually call me Cam, short for Camshaft, because I’m a mechanic. Stupid I know, but it sort of goes with the job.”
Lydia faced him, “I don’t like nicknames. I think they are demeaning. I’ll call you Duncan, but only in private, and this is nothing to do with the job. It’s just us chatting.”
He gave her a narrow look. “If you’re going to be putting me under the microscope and scribbling notes like that nosey parker Brewer, you’ll be wasting your time. I have nothing to tell.”
“Let’s see shall we? For a start … how long have you been with Longdrift?”
“Nine years, for my sins.”
“Like it?”
“S’okay. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Pay’s not bad, but some of the bosses can be right royal wankers.”
A silent eyebrow rose.
“Ah, crap, sorry. I meant swines,” he said.
“I know exactly what you mean. I’ve known my fair share. You married? Family?”
“Not for much longer. It’s a tawdry tale. You wouldn’t be interested.”
He frowned, and Lydia thought he looked a little sad, regretful even. “I might, if it’s something you want to talk about,” she said.
Cameron shrugged, looked first at his boots and then at the ceiling tiles, and sighed.
Two minutes later Lydia knew all about the real reason he was out on Bravo - it put him well out of reach of his ever complaining, ever demanding, very soon to be ex-wife and her equally vindictive, cold as a witch’s tit mother. Thankfully no children were involved. Okay, so he’d had an affair, if it warranted such a description. Nothing more than a brief fling months ago, it meant nothing.
It passed a few hot and steamy nights in a lonely one horse oil workers’ shanty town in the depths of the Brazilian rainforest. His wife wasn’t meant to find out, but she did, from the man occupying his bed in his absence.
Quid pro quo.
Yet somehow it all seemed to be his fault.
She claimed he had driven her to seek solace in the arms of another. She wasn’t a nun and she had feelings too. He’d swanned off the other side of the world and had his fun, abandoning her, neglecting her needs, could he blame her?
Yes, he could, especially as she gave her lover presents bought with his money.
It all got very nasty. Accusations flew – as did a lot of crockery and ornaments and expensive legal bills, all in his direction.
Her lawyer advised her to change the locks on the marital home, barring him entry, and so he, homeless and penniless, sought refuge on an isolated platform in the North Sea.
“I wasn’t all my fault,” he moaned. “A man’s got to … you know.” A brave smile. “I finally got that threesome I always wanted. Both my wife and her lawyer fucked me.” He shrugged and looked at the floor, his face so downcast that Lydia felt compelled to make him smile again.
She stood close to him, touched his arm. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Lydia said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”
He shrugged again. It said a lot.
“Come here.” Lydia stood on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. She then kissed him gently on the cheek. “Life really can be a pile of shite can’t it?” she said.
Cameron harrumphed and the corners of his mouth twitched in the parody of a smile, serving only to enhance a hangdog expression too much for her to bear. He really did need some cheering up.
“Come with me,” Lydia said, and took him by the hand and led him into th
e pantry at the rear of the kitchen.
“Is there something else I can do for you? Something you want off the shelf?”
She closed the door, shutting them in the small, cramped space. “No, but I think there might be something I can do for you.”
In the pitch blackness Cameron could not see his hand in front of his face, or what Lydia was up to, until he felt the button on his jeans pop and the zipper being undone.
Small slender fingers cupped his dick and balls through his boxers, massaging gently before easing their way past the elasticated waistband to take a proper hold, skin to skin.
Immediately his heart-rate picked up, and his breathing, ragged and irregular, sounded inordinately loud in the small space, and he felt the tell tale prickling in his groin.
“Miss Ellis – Lydia … I don’t think you should … ooooya …”
“Want me to stop,” she said.
“N-no-no … please don’t …”
She squeezed gently. “Don’t stop what?”
“That … don’t stop that … aaaahh!”
She got down on her knees and tugged at his jeans and underwear, freeing his rapidly burgeoning erection from its cotton constraint.
He reached out for something to hold on to, his fingers clamping onto the edge of the canned goods shelf while this delicate woman played with his cock with her fine cool hands and her warm wet tongue.
“Jeez Lydia … aaarrgh!” After bringing him to full mast and its accompanying deep warmth in the pit of his abdomen, she urged him down onto the pantry floor with her.
There was hardly room for him to stretch out, he had to keep his knees bent and pressed his feet flat against the door. It would hold it closed against intrusion if nothing else.
He lay there while she performed the perfect fallatio on him, and just when he though he might explode there and then, he felt himself encased in wet heat as she slid herself over him and was now riding him in a graceful undulating motion, her rippling interior massaging his cock from the inside.
Overwhelming. Intense. Sensations.
“Oh. My. God!”
She kissed him full on the lips and then braced herself between the shelves of bottles and cans. He grasped her thighs, holding her in place as they fell into a synchronous rhythm, tempo increasing as mutual excitement mounted.
Faster. Harder. Deeper.
Bottles and jars rattled on the shelves.
Then like a wave it hit. He arched his back as hot pulses raced from deep within his balls, through his cock, to erupt into her.
“Ahhh-haaaaa-haaaaa!”
His expulsions of pleasure ended in a feeble squeak, every last atom of air forced from his lungs.
Duncan inhaled deeply and sank back onto the cold floor, the tingle of orgasm sparking in his fingers and toes, his limbs turned to water.
“Bloo-dy hell!”
Euterich could smell it on them before he saw them, and it turned his stomach.
All the trouble he had gone to, to assimilate with McAllister, to take on his educated mind and strong muscular body to appeal to Lydia, to impress her and lure her away from that oaf Capstan, and how did she repay him? By having sex with that other ignoramus, Duncan fucking Cameron.
When she presented him with his plate of sausages and mashed potatoes, it was all he could do not to throw it back at her, and when Cameron offered him baked beans and gravy, he felt a cinder of fury burn in him, the desire to snatch that stainless steel ladle from his hand, to smash open his skull with it, to scoop out his brains and serve them up as a side dish smothered in ketchup, almost irresistible.
He barely restrained himself from diving over the counter, grabbing the man by the throat, and slowly and painfully squeezing the very breath of life from him, treating him to a very up close and personal death.
No. Not here. Not now.
Cameron’s time would come soon enough. Instead, Euterich fixed a benign smile on McAllister’s face and helped himself to a cup of tea and a slice of bread.
He carried his tray to the table and took a seat as far from the others as he could manage. With everyone served and eating, Lydia and Cameron brought their own meals to the table.
She chatted with Eddie Capstan, having dragged him away from his telephone vigil to eat, while Cameron fell into conversation with Shaw.
Both acted as if nothing had happened.
Euterich’s hand shook with rage as poked at his mashed potatoes with a fork.
He stilled it, transferring his agitation to a rapid pistoning of his left leg beneath the table.
“ … Mr McAllister?” He continued to idly push his food around his plate.
“Mr McAllister?”
He looked up, and realised Lydia had stopped talking with Capstan and was now addressing him, holding him with an expectant gaze, awaiting a response to a question he had not heard.
“Sorry. What?”
“Are you alright, Mr McAllister?”
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You’re not eating. Is there something wrong with the food?”
“Food’s fine,” he said stiffly, adding a strained yet polite, “Thanks.” She continued her discourse with Capstan while Euterich concentrated on the mess of tinned beans, glutinous potatoes and mechanically recovered meat tubes, all coated in a tacky brown liquid. It was very far from fine.
He forced a morsel into his mouth. It tasted like diesel and ash, but he made a show of working his way through it; stab, chew, sulk.
As soon as he practically could he excused himself from the table, slammed his dirty plate on the servery, and stamped his way to McAllister’s cabin.
Once behind the closed door, he allowed his barely pent up anger to vent. He snatched up the sleeping bag from the bed and as though it were made of nothing more substantial than wet tissue paper, ripped it to shreds, scattering its nylon filling over the room like a fresh fall of snow.
He tore at every scrap of material until his fingers cramped, all the while sobbing out the most vehement curses his demented mind could conjure, calling down all the plagues of hell and damnation onto Eddie Capstan and Duncan Cameron, who between them had soiled and corrupted the innocent object of his desire with their foul and filthy bodily fluids.
Dirty filthy stinking bastards!
Time to make another selection from his now limited options. To wipe out the bespoilers one at a time before any more damage could be done. But who first?
An easy decision.
The next one who had slightest cause to upset, anger, or cross him. He dearly hoped it would be Capstan or Cameron.
It was neither.
He stood at the hob, idly stirring a stock pot of soup, all the while watching Brewer and Lydia at work in the mess hall, papers spread over a table top, notebooks open, pencils poised. What were they talking about so cosily together, the medic and the nosey parker psychologist? Birds of a feather flocking together to compare notes?
Brewer cast a momentary glance in his direction, leaned forward and said something to Lydia. She looked over her shoulder, threw him the briefest of smiles and returned to business. The pair laughed.
They were talking about him. Making fun of him. He continued to stare, willing Brewer to catch his eye one more time and admit his guilt. When it came, the connection lasted a mere second.
It was enough. Selection made.
Chapter 31
It didn’t take Euterich long to work out what he was going to do to Doctor Brewer, when, and where.
He had the ideal place in mind. Cool, dark, and with a drainage hole in the centre of the floor; ideal for disposing of unfortunate spillages. As for the when, Eddie Capstan himself had handed him that opportunity on a plate.
A little re-jigging of the schedule due to the current staff shortage, and tomorrow he and Brewer were scheduled for kitchen duty together. It could not have been more perfect if he’d worked it out for himself.
When everyone retired for the evening, he set about gathering the n
ecessary bits and pieces, and making a few preparations for the next day’s work.
Alone with Brewer, clearing up after breakfast service next morning, Euterich discussed with the good doctor the possibility of lifting the crew’s spirits a little by making something special for dinner. Something, he said, which did not require the opening of a tin.
“Excellent idea,” said Brewer. “How about fish? I think there’s a few portions in the freezer.”
“I was thinking of something more substantial,” said Euterich, steering the conversation.
“Such as?”
“Steak pie?”
“I didn’t think we had enough meat.”
“Oh, there’s plenty.”
“What about pastry? Pie’s got to have a crust.”
“Leave that to me.”
“Okay then. You’re the boss,” said Brewer.
“We’ll need to get the meat on to slow cook,” suggested Euterich. “It needs to be tender. I’ll go get it. You get the pan.”
Whilst Brewer rummaged in the cabinet for suitable cookware, Euterich made his way towards the cold store, surreptitiously claiming the steel headed meat mallet on the way.
Euterich’s warm breath formed clouds in the chilly air as he spread out a carpet of clear plastic over the cool-room floor, covering the drain hole in the centre.
There he opened up a slit in the plastic, pushing the edges into the drain like a funnel. He then fitted himself with a plastic apron and a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, and pulled the door closed against the switch which would out the light.
In the dark he pressed himself against the inside wall, feet apart, right hand around the mallet’s handle, left hand extended for balance, and called for Brewer.
“Hey prof! You got a minute?”
“What’s up?” came back.
“Come and see.”
Twenty seconds later an unsuspecting Brewer yanked open the door, tripping the light switch and stepped into the suddenly bright space.
“What’s the matt–?”
The deeply textured mallet-head struck him at the base of the skull, shattering the bone and driving a shard deep into his brainstem, shutting it down. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Euterich immediately set to work.
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