* * *
She listened to the late news on the drive home – this time with pleasure. There were two main topics. The presenter interviewed a security expert on how difficult it would be for the robbery gang to smuggle fifty bars of gold bullion out of the country when every airport and sea crossing was crawling with police.
The expert speculated that the bars would have to be very cleverly disguised.
Next there was a discussion about the amazing sale of Josie’s sculpture. One thing in particular seemed to puzzle the panel of pundits. Why had she called the piece: Follow the Yellow Brick Road?
They’d asked her of course, but a true artist never explains her work…
A Rum Tale
A sudden lewd cackle made him jump. Scanning the teeming twilight-bathed dockside, Sly Jake immediate saw the source of the licentious laughter and broke into an envious smile. A drunken sailor was clumsily groping a giggling harlot, both swaying like square riggers in a gale, narrowly avoiding being mown down by a thundering cart speeding over the cobbles.
Spinning round, Jake saw the whole noisy waterfront was packed with similar scenes. Mariners and trollops; all inebriated beyond reason, all barely able to stand. Three ships of the line had moored that afternoon and their crews – deprived for months of grog, girls and decent grub – were making up for lost time.
Grinning, he scratched his unshaven cheek with the iron hook where his right hand used to be. He knew sozzled sailors were a soft touch, always ready to stand a drink for a friendly, ingratiating stranger. And Jake hadn’t tasted spirits in days. Not since he’d gambled away his last piece-of-eight at poker – discovering that it was possible for your opponent to win with five aces; if he had a unique interpretation of the rules, a loaded blunderbuss and the meanest accomplices in the Caribbean.
Jake swallowed hard at the memory and at the dryness in his throat. He desperately needed a drop of rum. So, there was only one solution – find a gullible audience.
But which inn? Musing momentarily, he remembered that he hadn’t been thrown out of The Admiral Jericho for a while. It was just around the corner.
The sawdust-floored tavern was so packed Jake had to shove his way through the heaving, hedonistic humanity. The smells of roast pork, stale ale, pipe smoke and piss assailed his nostrils. Jack Tars from HMS Respite had taken over the place. They filled every corner, every nook, lounging on upturned barrels where there were no chairs; laughing, singing, cursing and arguing. The racket was deafening.
Looking over to the bar-top he spotted the ship’s bosun, uniform askew, balding head buried deep in barmaid Betsy’s generous cleavage. The three pink domes bobbed up and down like buoys, making it difficult to tell where bosun ended and bosoms began.
“Hey, me lads, listen up,” Jake said, fighting to be heard over the din. “This be yer lucky night.”
No-one paid any attention.
“Boys, be quiet and lend me your ear,” he said, speaking louder. ”I’ve got a rollockin’ delight in store for ye.”
The reaction was the same. If anyone heard, they gave no sign. This was no good, Jake thought irritably, and grabbed an empty pewter flagon from a nearby table.
He brought it crashing down as hard as he could.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
That did the trick. The place went instantly quiet, all eyes swivelling to stare, curious at who had disturbed the revels and doing little to hide their seething annoyance.
He cleared his throat.
“Shipmates, good friends, fellow seadogs. Let me introduce myself. I be Captain Jake Pritheroe – former privateer and pirate – known to most as Sly Jake. At your service.”
He bowed theatrically.
“For twenty and five long years I’ve sailed these here high seas, voyaged to exotic lands, survived hair-raising adventures and seen ungodly sights ye’d not believe in your wildest nightmares. And for a small libation, I’ll recount one of my most terrifying adventures – a story to chill your vitals; a cautionary tale of fiendish forces, dark doings and drooling hell-fire creatures of the night. What ye say, lads?”
A grizzled man in an eye patch leant forward and spat noisily. “I’d say we should cut out your tongue and be done with it,” he hissed. “We’ve all heard your fancy fools’ tales before, Lying Jake.”
“That’s right,” a voice rang out. “Like the one where you had a night of passion with a mermaid…”
The revellers sniggered.
“Or the time you sailed to the land where the inhabitants were just eight inches high.”
“Yeah, and let’s not forget the unforgettable occasion when you were turned into a goat by a sea witch.”
The teasing mirth had a nasty undertone. Drawing in his breath, Jake studied the room. It could go either way.
“All righty, all righty, mates. Maybe, perchance, I have… sometimes… let me imagination run a little wild before the trade winds,” he conceded. “I may have exaggerated a teensy detail here and there but I ain’t never set out to deceive. And tonight, I promise ye I’ll be telling this esteemed gathering the God’s honest truth.”
He looked beseechingly at the barmaid. “All I ask is a flagon of ale and a tot of rum to wash it down and I’ll tell ye how I lost this…” He waved his hook above his head, “…to a monstrous, howling demon from the bowels of Hades itself!”
The balding bosun groaned wearily, but Jake knew he’d succeeded. The audience was curious. They leant forwards, aghast.
Gesturing to Betsy to give the storytelling seadog what he’d asked for, Eye Patch told Jake gruffly to get on with it.
“But this better be good, you old twister,” he warned, “or I promise you’ll lose the other hand.”
Slurping down the welcome beer and letting it slosh coolingly against his throat, Jake made his voice soft and deep, with just the right edge of menace.
“It all happened on an eerie evening just like this,” he began slowly, motioning them to draw close. “There was a ghostly galleon moon high in the heavens, and we’d been at sea for five, interminable, tormented, soul-sapping months…”
An Ugly Way To Go - and other Quintessentially Quirky Tales Page 11