Sea Fury (1971)

by Pattinson, James

  She was just passing the door of his cabin when he arrived there. And seeing her, the idea leaped into his head. With the storm coming, with Captain Leach drugged with alcohol and himself in virtual command of the ship, there would be a certain piquancy in the situation. Her presence there at that moment was in a way providential, making up for the absence of the other woman; it would be flying in the face of fortune to neglect the opportunity. And why was she there anyway? This was not a part of the ship that she would normally frequent. So perhaps she had come for a purpose. He was vain enough to believe that he could guess her motive.

  He gave his charming smile, ignoring the slight pain of the cut lips. “Mrs. East. You wished to see me?”

  She looked embarrassed, like a child caught out in some escapade. Johansen thought the confusion added to her attractiveness. Maybe she was a better bargain than the other one; maybe she was at that.

  “I think I’ve come the wrong way.” she said. “I wanted to change this book at the ship’s library.” He saw now that there was a book in her hand. She gave a nervous laugh. “I ought to know my way round this ship by now.”

  “No need to go to the library,” Johansen said. “I got plenty books. Novels.” He pushed open the cabin door and switched on the light. “Take what you please, Mrs. East. I got better books than library.”

  She seemed reluctant to enter the cabin. She drew back a pace. “Oh, no, Mr. Johansen. There’s no need to bother you. And I must return this book.”

  “Is no bother,” Johansen said. “And I return book for you.” Before she could stop him he had taken the book from her hand and had a grip on her arm, light but firm, the charming smile still making him look young and boyish. “Come; I show you my library.”

  She made a half-hearted attempt at refusal, but his hand still gripped her arm and he had the book that she had been taking back to the ship’s library; and after all what harm could there be in borrowing one of his books? It would have seemed so silly to refuse.

  He noticed her indecision and increased the pressure on her arm. They always wanted to have their minds made up for them, and he was the man to do just that. “I have a book I think you like. Romantic. Come.”

  She allowed herself to be persuaded into the cabin. Johansen followed her in and closed the door.

  “You like this cabin?”

  She glanced quickly round it. “It’s very nice. Where are the books?”

  Johansen ignored the question. “Is small mebbe. You think is too small?”

  “No. Not really. I mean—”

  Johansen threw the library book down on the table on one side of the cabin. “Big enough for one man, you think? Mebbe big enough for one man and one woman?” He laughed, indicating that it was a joke.

  She did not echo his laughter. She was feeling uneasy. If Johansen had not been standing between her and the door she might have walked out there and then. But she would have had to push past him and he was a big man.

  “The books, Mr. Johansen.”

  “Carl. Call me Carl.”

  She was silent.

  “Go on. Say it.”

  She said slowly, “The books—Carl.”

  Johansen snapped his fingers. “Good, good. Is not so hard to say. Now what I call you? Not Mrs. East. Too formal. You and me, friends. So, I call you by first name too. What is your first name?”

  She hesitated, then answered with some reluctance, “Pearl.”

  “Pearl! That is fine. It suit you. You are a pearl. A perfect pearl.”

  “The books,” she said again, trying to bring him back to the subject. “You said you had some books.”

  “Books. Yes, sure. Plenty books.” He opened a locker, took out a handful of paperback novels and spread them out on the table. “You choose.”

  She glanced at them. The covers were frankly sexy, near-pornographic. The titles indicated the kind of literature that appealed to Johansen’s taste.

  “I don’t think this is quite what I’m looking for.”

  “Sure. Everyone looking for this. You, me, everyone.”

  She became aware of his arm round her waist, pulling her towards him. He was grinning.

  “No,” she said. “No, Mr. Johansen.”

  “Carl.”

  “No, Carl.”

  “Yes, Pearl.”

  She tried to free herself from his grip, but now his other arm was round her and he was too strong. He began to kiss her. She struggled but she felt weak; his arms were crushing her and his mouth was moving, questing.

  “No! Oh, no!”

  The ship rolled. It caught both of them off balance and they fell together on to the bunk. She could feel the hard edge of the side-board grinding into her waist. Johansen’s hands were moving, fumbling at her dress.

  She screamed. One of his hands clamped down on her mouth. She heard his voice and could detect the excitement in it, the roused desire.

  “Quiet. I don’t hurt you. You like it too. Don’t be fool. Now you be quiet, huh?”

  The hand eased from her mouth and she bit it with all the strength of her jaws. Johansen gave a cry of pain and anger, and then he seemed to go berserk. He hit her once, twice. On the second blow she lost consciousness.

  When she regained her senses she was lying on the bunk and Johansen was sitting on a chair watching her. He had a glass of gin in his hand and there was a little blood on the hand where her teeth had sunk into it.

  “You awake now? Good.” There was a note of relief in his voice, though he seemed to make an attempt to conceal it.

  She sat up and her head felt like lead and there was a stiffness about her jaw. She held her head in both hands and gave a moan.

  “You remember what happen?” Johansen asked.

  She looked at him with contempt and loathing. “I remember.”

  “The ship roll. You fall and hit your head on table. Knock you out.”

  So that was to be his story. She looked at her dress. It was torn. Was the fall supposed to have done that also?

  Johansen followed the direction of her glance. “You catch the dress too. Pity. Nice dress. Mebbe you mend it. huh?”

  She got off the bunk, steadying herself with a hand as the ship rolled. She looked at Johansen. There was no doubt that he was worried. Perhaps he had never intended to go so far, but had lost control of himself. Perhaps he had expected to meet nothing more than token resistance, misled by past easy seductions. He was looking back at her covertly, possibly calculating what his chances were of getting away with this story. She noticed that the paperbacks had been cleared from the table.

  “You do remember falling, Mrs. East?”

  So it was back to Mrs. East, not Pearl any more. Did he really believe that his blows had obliterated her memory? Was that the straw at which he was clutching?

  “I remember.”

  He seemed to breathe a little more easily. “Such accidents will happen.”

  “You have had an accident too, I think, Mr. Johansen.”

  “I?”

  “Your hand.”

  She moved unsteadily to the door, opened it and left the cabin. As she walked away she heard the sound of breaking glass. Johansen had thrown his tumbler on the floor.

  * * *

  Moira was still lying on her bunk when Lycett returned to the cabin. He scarcely glanced at her. He went straight to the wash-basin, soaked a flannel in water and pressed it to the bruise on his head which had resulted from contact with the fire extinguisher. The spot felt tender and there was already a swelling. What he really needed was some ice; the water was tepid rather than cold.

  Moira turned on her side and looked at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He answered savagely, “Nothing’s the matter with me. Mind your own business.”

  “Have you knocked your head on something?”

  “If you must know, yes. On a fire extinguisher.”

  “How on earth did you manage that? Have you been drinking too much?”

  He
turned and snarled at her, “No, I haven’t been drinking too much. It was your lover boy. Johansen.”

  She looked surprised. “He hit you? Why?”

  “Because I hit him first. Split his lip.”

  “Well,” she said, “you do ask for trouble, don’t you, Morton?”

  “He’s the one who’s asking for trouble. And he’s the one who’ll get it. You bet your sweet life he will. He needn’t think he can play his little games with me. I’m not taking it, see. I’m not going to be made to look a fool.”

  “You’re making yourself look a fool,” she said irritably. This wretched seasickness and now his playing the idiot over that Johansen affair. Who would have expected him to make such a fuss? “Why don’t you let it drop?”

  “Let it drop!” He moved over to the bunk and stood looking down at her, the flannel pressed to his throbbing head. “I suppose that’s what you’d like. You don’t want him to get hurt, do you? That’s what it is—you’re afraid he might get hurt. Your fancy man.”

  “Don’t be such a clown, Morton. I’m not bothered about him. He can take care of himself. If anyone is going to get hurt, it’s likely to be you.”

  “And that wouldn’t bother you either, would it? Clown, eh? We’ll see who’s a clown. I think you underestimate me, my dear. You may be in for a surprise; a very big surprise.”

  She stared up at him through the nausea of seasickness. It was just talk of course. He would never do anything. Hitting Johansen in the teeth and getting slammed for his pains was about as far as he would go. That was his limit.

  And yet, could she be so sure? She had never seen him quite so roused. Perhaps when you reached his age it was even more necessary to assert yourself than it was in youth. Perhaps you held on more tenaciously to what you had and lashed out more blindly at any rival. Could he really be contemplating something violent—even criminal?

  “You’ll see,” Lycett said. “You’ll see.”

  “It’s getting rougher,” Menstein said. “There seems to be a wind rising.” He walked to the open porthole and peered out at the blackness of the night. A few drops of spray were flung in and he could taste the salt on his lips. “I think I had better close this.” He swung the plate glass in its hinged brass frame across the opening and tightened the wing-nuts.

  Sara watched him from her bunk. Even to that simple task he seemed to bring a delicate skill, handling the brass nuts as he might have handled forceps or a scalpel.

  “Do you think there is going to be a storm, Saul?”

  He turned slowly. He had to control himself because he was afraid, and he must not let her see that he was afraid. Yet he could not suppress his fear. He did not think he was a coward; in fact he was sure that he was not; he had faced torture and worse with fortitude. But the sea still had this power to frighten him. It was something he could not explain; something born in him.

  “No; it is nothing. A squall perhaps. It will have passed by morning.”

  He heard a wave break against the side of the ship; he heard the timbers complaining. Pray heaven it might be so. But he was still afraid.

  * * *

  Holt was telling Grade about Lycett’s encounter with Johansen. He thought it might take Grade’s mind off his seasickness.

  “You mean he actually hit Johansen in the mouth?” Grade said. “I didn’t think he had the guts. What triggered him off?”

  “I don’t know. When I got there Johansen had already knocked him down.”

  “Not difficult to guess what the argument was about. Ten to one the luscious Moira came into it.”

  “You think Lycett is jealous?”

  Grade swallowed some bile and managed to grin in spite of it. “Jealous as they come. I’ve had some talks with our Major and I know. If I were Johansen I’d watch my step.”

  “You’re not telling me you think Lycett would do anything really desperate?”

  “For that woman,” Grade said, “I think he’d commit murder.”

  On the bridge Mr. Finch was feeling more and more uneasy as the hours of his watch passed. The wind was strengthening; no doubt about that; and the sea was beginning to toss the ship about quite a lot. And still Captain Leach had not put in an appearance.

  Finch could not keep still. He walked into the chartroom, had a look at the charts, came out again, glanced over the helmsman’s shoulder at the compass, peered out through the wheelhouse windows and could see very little, went out on to the port wing, came back, went through it all again. Now and then he thought about the girl who might be making love to other men in Hong Kong.

  He was thinking about her when the radio officer appeared on the bridge.

  “There’s going to be a storm,” Maggs said.

  “So you got a report at last?”

  “No, I didn’t. I can see for myself, can’t I? I can read the signs as well as the next man. It’s going to be bad. Oh, yes, real bad.” There was an exulting note in Maggs’s voice that puzzled Finch. There seemed to be no reason for it.

  “I can’t understand why there’s been no warning on the radio.”

  “Well, there may have been, mayn’t there? We wouldn’t hear it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t the mate tell you? Radio’s fallen by the wayside. Gone on strike.”

  “You mean it’s out of action?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Mr. Johansen didn’t tell me.” Finch sounded aggrieved. Did the mate think it was of no interest to him?

  “Well, you know now.”

  “Can’t you repair it?”

  “D’you think I haven’t tried? You can’t make bricks without straw.”

  “Can’t you transmit either?”

  “No.”

  “So you couldn’t send out a distress signal?”

  “Now why should we want to do that?” Maggs asked.

  “It could happen.”

  “Oh, yes, it could happen. We could be in a lot of distress. But from now on, Finchy, we’re like the bird with B.O.—we’re on our own.”

  Finch could not for the life of him understand why Maggs sounded so happy about it. It was as though he were taking a personal delight in the situation and contemplating with intense satisfaction the possibility that the ship might be in need of assistance and unable to send out a Mayday call.

  Sometimes Finch wondered whether Maggs was not a bit of a nut case, he really did.

  Lycett’s mind was in a ferment as he stepped out on deck. He hoped that the fresh air would clear his head, help him to decide what to do. One thing he could not do in his present state was climb into his bunk and sleep. Sleep! He wondered whether he would ever sleep soundly again.

  The air that met him was like a warm, damp blanket; it was so saturated with moisture that everything he touched was wet. He walked to the after end of the promenade deck and leaned on the rail, staring down at the shadowy deck below. He had a sudden urge to go to the poop where he could see a light shining. It was as though he felt the need to put as much distance as possible between himself and his problem.

  Johansen! What malicious fate had ordained that that man should be thrown in his path? Well, was it not the way things had always gone for him? Nothing had ever turned out well. Even when he had thought himself on to a good thing, it was all a deception; he was just being led on to the inevitable crash. He had been an unlucky devil—always.

  He walked to the head of the ladder leading down to the afterdeck. He went down backwards with one hand on each rail, carefully, the ship doing its best to throw him off. When he reached the foot of the ladder he turned and saw that a thick rope stretched away aft at about shoulder height, disappearing into the gloom. He had never noticed this rope before and he could only conclude that it had been rigged up because bad weather was expected. Even now it would be a help in crossing the afterdeck.

  He gripped the rope with his right hand and began to walk aft along the shifting deck. He was wearing rubber-soled shoes and the wet iron was slippery
underfoot; he would certainly have fallen had it not been for the life-line.

  When he came to the gap between the hatches he found that the rope had a thinner line attached to it; this line ran off at right angles and was made fast to the mainmast, taking up the slack. The ship rolled so heavily at that moment that water slopped over the bulwarks and rushed across the deck before gurgling away down the scuppers. Lycett hung on with both hands and felt the water flowing over his ankles. Then he went on.

  There were some dim lights in the after-castle but no sounds of life came from the crew’s quarters. Lycett went up the ladder to the poop and walked to the stern. He could hear the thumping of the propellor and the sound of churning water like the flow through a millrace, and looking down he could see the white foam of the wake fanning cut astern.

  He leaned on the taffrail and the foam below seemed to hypnotise him. He could not drag his eyes away. He leaned out further and yet further; the thunder of the churning water roared in his ears and seemed to fill his head, beating, beating, like a million drums.

  Suddenly he knew that he was falling. He turned half over as he fell and hit the water with his back. The shock of it cleared his brain, but it was too late. He began to struggle, but the stream carried him away, away into the impenetrable darkness of the night.

  No one had seen him fall; no one had heard his despairing cries for help. The ship went on and left him.

  NINE

  Middle Watch

  FINCH WAS glad when Mr. Prior relieved him at midnight. By then Finch knew that there was something really bad coming. In the north the stars had been completely blotted out by a black mass of cloudy illuminated now and then by flickers of lightning. Finch could hear the distant rumbling of thunder and another sound that he found both puzzling and disturbing, like a kind of wailing and moaning. He experienced a tingling in his spine and his scalp prickled, as though he had heard the weird voices of banshees.