‘Probably not. But he was Governor of New South Wales for a while so he could have spawned an Aussie Bligh bloodline that includes yours truly.’
‘I’ve seen the statue of him at The Rocks in Sydney. You do look a bit like him. The same cruel expression.’
‘Very funny. So, what are you looking forward to most, when we get back?’
Annie pursed her lips and appeared to consider the question seriously. She stopped working in the kitchen and came up next to me, her lovely face pensive. I noticed for the first time the faintest sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
‘Oh obvious things, I guess. Girly stuff like hot baths and manicures, lipstick and moisturising cream. What else? My special muesli in the morning and a cold pinot gris in the evening! My guilty secrets: Sex and the City and Coronation Street. And, of course, my clothes: especially clean underwear.’
‘Yes, it’ll be a relief to get my shirts back.’
‘Ha ha. But most of all, I think I’ll just enjoy getting back to some sort of normality. The last few weeks have been . . . well, you can imagine. Not just the . . . the beach, gruesome though that was. The Lady Vesper. Martin, Dani.’ Her voice trailed off.
‘But in all of this darkness, there’s been some light. You, for example. Saving me. Looking after me. Whatever happens, I will never, ever forget my knight in shining armour.’ With that, she slipped one arm under mine and snuggled in to my side as I gripped the wheel. I tried not to purr like Wagga who, not to be outshone, had jumped onto my lap.
‘Sometimes it’s like I was watching a film about someone who looked like me; someone familiar, but not actually me.’ She paused for a moment, then she looked at me with those great green eyes: ‘And what about you? What are you looking forward to?’
‘Aw, just blokey stuff: watching sport, going to the pub, eating meat. First chance I get, I’ll have a big, juicy steak. And fries. The biggest treat, however, will be having some decent company for a change.’
‘Oh, that’s cruel. Really cruel. Just like your ancestor Captain bloody Bligh.’
56
BACK ON the beach, BangBang saw that his men had retrieved one of the skiffs. It had been found at the other end of the bay, washed up close to the headland. They were repairing the fuel line, which had been deliberately cut. There was no sign of the other skiff. Anxious to get going, he ordered the men to board the remaining skiff and the inflatable. It was a tight squeeze but, before long, the two small craft bumped across the reef to the Crimson Tide.
One of the pirates told BangBang that they had discovered some evidence of recent human activity including a makeshift barbecue at a small lagoon on the other side of the cliff. No signs of an actual camp, but that would make sense because the boat would have sufficed for shelter.
‘You sure there no engine?’ he asked one of the crew again.
‘Yes, boss. The man was struggling to put up sail. If boat had engine, he use it. I think he use small boat to tow big one.’
‘How many people were there?’
‘Too dark to see. I think maybe someone else inside.’
He quizzed the man further but got little more information from him other than that the man was probably a westerner and that the boat looked big and new. When they reached the Crimson Tide, Mamat told him that he had seen the yacht go past just a hundred metres away on the port side, heading north. BangBang looked at the map. Two possibilities, he calculated. Either the dogs keep going north or they turn and go south. They can’t go west, there’s nothing out there but the vast open ocean. And the mainland to the east is just jungle. He smiled grimly for the first time since he had woken to gunfire earlier that morning. Without power, his quarry could not hope to escape the big-engined Crimson Tide, despite a few hours head start. Maybe things would turn out okay after all. He made his decision. Lighting a cigarette, he tapped Mamat on the shoulder and pointed north.
57
NOW THAT they were committed to a course of action, Annie felt better. In fact, she was beginning to feel surprisingly energised by the confident thrust of the sloop as it cut cleanly through the low waves. Maybe it’s because I’m on my way home – wherever that is now, she mused.
As she prepared a makeshift lunch for the two of them, she thought back to her earlier sailing experience on the Lady Vesper. It had been a nightmare, even before the pirates had attacked. When that squall had hit them she had almost been as sick as Dani. Of course, the pirate threat still hovered over her like a menacing cloud. But being at sea felt more positive now, more purposeful. Perhaps it was because of Jonno; perhaps it was the smooth performance of The Scoop. Instead of a white horse, my gentle knight has this beautiful boat and he’s carrying me off to a new life. She smiled. What tosh! I sound like a Mills and Boon tragic. But as the faraway sky began to lighten, heralding the new day, she did feel different, less consumed by recent events, more optimistic that she could take hold of the future with both hands. Surviving the morning’s dangerous escape had only served to heighten that feeling.
But does that future include this big, complicated, lovely man, Annie asked herself. And anyway, why would he want me after everything that’s happened? I’m damaged goods after all, she told herself again. But, in her heart, she knew he cared for her, and not just out of pity – she saw the way he looked at her and how he responded when she touched him. And, anyway, he had had his own issues to contend with, hadn’t he?
Yet the thought of being with a man in that way still seemed alien, unimaginable, after what happened. She shivered. It would be easy to hate all men after that, but she knew that would be stupid, unreasonable. They’re not all bad. She thought of her father, who had had such a positive influence on her life; Jamie, her little brother, whose warm, bright personality always delighted her. And Pascal. Her eyes suddenly glistened. He had been such a lovely boy. And now here was Jonno. How could she possibly hate him? She owed him so much. Whatever happens when we get back, I want him to be in my life in some way, she decided.
After lunch, pleading exhaustion, Annie went for a nap while Jonno held The Scoop on its southern course. As she closed her eyes, her mind drifted back to her first amour, Pascal. She pictured him – the handsome hippy – in their flat around the corner from Belsize Park tube station. They had been so happy there. The place belonged to an art dealer friend of his French papa, Julien Marchand, who was a celebrity chef with restaurants in both Paris and London.
Later, when she met the charming Julien for the first time, he had kissed her extravagantly three times on her cheeks – right, left, right – before standing back to admire her. ‘Elle est superbe, Pascal! Mademoiselle, you look just like my friend Sophie Marceau,’ he said to her. Later, Annie had Googled the French actress and was thrilled by the comparison. She had never considered herself a ‘looker’ but Pascal told her she was beautiful so often that she had almost come to believe it.
She had been so naïve about so many things when she left her sheltered home life for uni; Pascal had opened her eyes to many new, sophisticated ideas and places; to books on philosophy and eastern religions; to foreign travel. Her mind drifted to the time he had taken her to France to visit his father’s historic hometown, Perigueux in the northern Dordogne. They travelled on his ‘bloody bastard motorbike’, touring the south-west of France, sampling the local food and wines and the rich culture of the Bergerac and Bordeaux regions.
Waking up in a sweat less than two hours later, one dreamlike scene was stuck in Annie’s mind. She and Pascal were having dinner in Julien’s upscale restaurant in Chelsea. But when she looked across the table, it was not Pascal sitting there. It was Jonno.
58
I WAS just letting the anchor down by hand when I heard noises from the rear of the boat. Muffled shouts and dull thumps. Shit, must be the injured pirate, I thought; when I had checked earlier he had still been unconscious.
The Scoop was bobbing in the lee of a small island, one of the most southerly, I was sure, of the Mentawais. It was
too dangerous to sail in the dark and so we had sought shelter for the night. The island screened us from any traffic (including the pirates) on the ocean side. We were facing the dark mainland, there did not seem to be any sizeable towns on that stretch of coast, and no distant lights either. Tomorrow there would be mostly open water as we headed south parallel with the mainland.
I finished dropping the anchor and made my way to the stern. I flinched as I noticed the scars that The Scoop wore as a badge of honour from our battle with the pirates. As well as the rips in the sheets, the decking looked like a dartboard . . . it was pitted with angry marks everywhere; the curved windscreen was starred in several places and chunks of fibreglass had been gouged out; and one of the two helm consoles in the cockpit had been shot to pieces. The next time I go on a sailing adventure, I thought, I’ll buy a decommissioned navy corvette.
Reaching the transom, I opened the lazarette. The stench nearly blew me overboard. I almost gagged. His wounds must be infected. I had done my best to clean the head injury that old Oscar had inflicted on him but he urgently needed more professional attention. The trussed-up pirate looked up at me with pain-filled eyes. He seemed small and pathetic . . . a far cry from the murderous marauder I remembered. His dark skin was mottled and unhealthy looking. I reckoned he was Thai or Malay. His mouth opened, showing a mix of black, brown and yellow teeth. He was trying to talk, his eyes bright, burning holes but I had no idea what he was saying.
Probably wants some water, I reckoned. I went inside to get some. Annie asked what was going on and I told her to stay inside. It would not be a good idea for her to confront one of the men responsible for her ordeal. I knelt down, one hand over my nose, and cut the rope around his hands so he could hold the flask of water. He drank greedily and I turned around to look at the open sea, checking in the dying light for any sign that the pirate’s colleagues had caught up with us. As I turned back to him, I felt, rather than saw a dark blur come towards me and the next moment something smashed into my head and I keeled over.
When I came to, Annie was kneeling over me, her face a mask of concern. She was holding a damp cloth to my head where the pirate had bashed me. With Cody’s kayak paddle, I saw. It was lying a metre away on the transom.
‘Are you okay?’ Annie said. ‘I was so worried that he might have killed you. You might have concussion.’ She held up three fingers and asked me how many there were.
‘Stop it, I’ll be fine. Where is that bastard? Where’s he gone? Did he threaten you in any way?’ I sat up, holding my head in both hands.
‘No, no. I was in the saloon as you said. I heard a commotion and I came running out. I saw him go over the back there.’
‘The stern. I told you, it’s called the bloody stern.’
She laughed. ‘It didn’t take you long to get your sweet disposition back, Mr Grumpypants. Anyway, he’s gone. I presume he’s going to try to swim to the shore.’
Good luck with that, I thought to myself. The state he’s in, he’ll be lucky not to end up as a shark’s supper.
‘Ah well, saves us the problem of having to put up with him until we get to Jakarta,’ I said. ‘He was beginning to stink the place out.’
The sky was adorned with sparkling stars, like a black velvet dress studded with rhinestones. A half-moon cast its radiance on the gently rippling sea. The only sound came from the bucking of the boat against the anchor chain, thanks to a strong current. We were sitting on the foredeck, gazing up at the heavenly vista, marvelling at its dark majesty and chatting quietly about our time on Rehab Island.
So far so good, I thought. There had been no sign of pursuers and the weather had been kind to us. Enough wind to keep us moving steadily at around twelve knots, the sloop’s sails still holding fast despite their increasingly ragged appearance. It had been extremely hot in the afternoon and, but for the strong breeze, would have been stickily oppressive. Some rain had come in just before dusk, a desultory discharge from charcoal-smeared clouds that felt like being mugged by a bucket of warm soapy water. I realised I didn’t smell too good. Not as bad as that pirate, but I should have had a swim, I thought. But I had been too tired and my head hurt. Luckily I was upwind of Annie.
‘You know, despite the lack of steak and live sport, I’ll miss Rehab Island,’ I said. ‘It was much better than one of those Betty Ford places with the Twelve Steps and bloody people in white coats asking you how you feel all the time. I don’t know how Percy put up with all that AA shit.’
‘I know I’m going to have to talk to a white coat when we get back,’ Annie responded.
‘After everything that’s happened, you seem incredibly sane.’
‘Thanks, but I know it’s the lull before the storm.’ She squeezed my arm: ‘You won’t want to be around me when I finally confront my own demons. I’m going to have to focus all of my attention on what’s ahead of me and it’s going to be ugly.
‘Nonsense, you won’t get rid of me that easily.’
Our luck didn’t hold; as we headed south the next morning, the wind dropped, the sails sagged and my hopes sank faster than an Admiralty anchor. We were virtually stalled, a slight swell our only form of propulsion. I had already been fretting because of the enforced overnight stoppage; I knew the pirate ship would keep on coming, day and night. Frustrated, we sat in the cockpit hardly talking. Even Wagga looked pissed off as he pawed a piece of rope without much enthusiasm. At last, a few hours later, the wind freshened and our spirits soared with it. Annie gave me a thumbs up as I increased sail and suddenly we were back on track, running alongside the smudgy grey–green coastline like a white gazelle. We were sailing on a full reach – sixty degrees off the wind, a perfect tack.
For two whole days, we had much of the same weather – feast or famine, wind-wise. Hours of doldrums punctuated by strong bursts of favourable winds that swept us steadily south. Finally, through binoculars, I saw the outline of an island on the starboard side that I believed, according to the charts, to be called Enggano. I may have passed it several weeks ago on the ocean side on my way north but I was probably too screwed up to notice at the time.
If so, it meant that we were about halfway home. By my estimate, it was about another two hundred kilometres to the Sunda Strait and then a quick hop and a skip to Jakarta. I shouted from the cockpit wheel station to Annie in the saloon: ‘Good news! See that island over there? That says we are nearly home and dry. All being well, we’ll reach Jakarta in another two days, three at most.’
I spoke too soon. Just a few hours later, as I was looking back at the distant Enggano through the glasses, I noticed a tiny blemish on the horizon to the far north-west of the island. Fuck, that looks like a ship, I thought, my guts clenching.
59
BANGBANG WOKE with a start at the wheelhouse chart table, unconsciously wiping a snail trail of drool from his jawline with the back of his hand. He realised Mamat had been nudging him.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he demanded. He had hardly slept in the last couple of days, grabbing naps when he could, looking anxiously out to sea most of the time, drinking thick, dark Java coffee and smoking.
Mamat said nothing, instead he handed BangBang the binoculars and pointed forward through the pilothouse window.
The slight speck on the ocean would have been impossible to see but for the high-precision quality of the Canons. ‘You think it’s them?’ BangBang wiped his jaw again and quickly calculated. If it is those fuck dogs, we can probably catch them later today, tomorrow morning at the latest. Most likely they’ll try to find anchorage before dusk and that’s when we can get on top of them.
Mamat shrugged. ‘Only few hours of light left,’ he said. ‘Probably they head towards coast soon and we not able to find their shelter. But tomorrow!’ And with that, the old Malay chopped his right hand down hard on the top of the large wooden wheel and grinned to reveal a few brown-stained teeth like rotting hulks in a marine graveyard.
BangBang lit yet another spicy Gudang Gara
m and shook off the feelings of cold dread that had gripped his guts since leaving that damned island. The Crimson Tide had charged north for a few hours before he reluctantly decided that their quarry must have doubled back after all. It was no surprise but it had further enraged him. He had remained in the pilothouse ever since, shouting ‘faster’ constantly to Mamat, knowing full well they were already running at top speed, the turbocharged diesel engine sounding like a chainsaw chewing up a redwood. ‘But now I’ve got you, you bastard monkeys,’ he whispered as he looked through the binoculars, ‘and I’m going to make you pay. Whoever the fuck you are. I look forward to meeting you . . . and killing you.’
In a sudden wave of uncharacteristic excitement, BangBang clapped the old man on the back and shouted again, ‘Faster, faster!’ just as he used to do when he sat on the back of Yuda’s motor scooter as they trawled the streets of Jakarta looking for tourist prey.
60
I DREADED telling Annie what I’d seen, decided to wait until the smudgy shape became a bit clearer. In case it was nothing. Could be anything, I told myself: a rainstorm, a pleasure cruiser, maybe even a cargo ship, although I knew most merchant vessels would use the Malacca Strait. But after an hour or so, Annie eventually noticed me constantly looking sternwards with the binoculars and said calmly: ‘What is it? What do you keep looking at?’
I swallowed hard. ‘There’s something back there. I can’t make it out yet.’
‘But it could be them?’
‘Could be anyone,’ I said. But we both knew the chances were it was the pirates. Her face fell but there were no tears this time. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘All we can do is head for the mainland and hope like hell we reach it before whoever it is can catch up. Then we can find a safe spot to anchor, hopefully hidden enough to stop them finding us in the dark.’
The Scoop Page 17