The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  How long might he have been asleep? A day and a night? Longer? And what kind of doomsday trip is he on?

  People had come into his cabin because he could hardly have added that extra safety rail himself. Maybe it was the guy who gave him a lift and brought him aboard the ship. Or the guy who brought him to this cabin. But they weren’t looking for anything – the gun and everything else are in their place. Which means that either they trust him or they are afraid of him, or they have no idea who he is. None of them has had any objection to him being aboard this ship. In fact, it was as if the ship and the crew had been waiting all evening and half the night for him to arrive. As if this whole shipping company outfit was all about Jón Karl, nothing and nobody else; about getting him on board and sailing with him to somewhere … somewhere.

  What should he do? Just act normal? Just go along with things and hope for the best? Or should he ask what the hell is going on? What he’s doing here, whether they know who he is and where this fucking ship is going?

  No, it’s probably best to feel around a bit before …

  A light!

  ‘I need a light!’ Jón Karl says to himself hoarsely and stares with red-rimmed eyes at the cigarette which is quivering like the needle on a seismograph between the swollen fingers of his right hand.

  No sooner has he spoken than there is a knock on the door.

  The ship rises and falls, the wave breaks and the blow pulses back along the ship.

  Boom, boom, boom …

  Another knock.

  Jón Karl blinks, straightens his back and tries to think clearly.

  Slowly his features harden; his eyes become focused and reclaim their usual, ice-cold expression; the cigarette stops quivering in his right hand and his left hand stealthily slips the hunting knife out from under the duffel bag before he invites the guest into the dimly lit room.

  ‘Come in!’

  IX

  Thursday, 13 September 2001

  In the seamen’s mess Rúnar, Sæli and Stoker sit at a square table with a high brim, covered with a green foam-plastic net, drinking coffee from white mugs labelled ‘Polar Ships’. In an old tape recorder is the same Doors cassette that has been circling there, round and round, since the oldest crew member can recall. It has long been a tradition that the seamen forget to bring replacement cassettes after shore time; ages ago they came to a silent agreement to forget that they were sick of it, and just let it go on turning for as long as it continued to do so. Not that they have stopped being sick of these songs they’ve heard again and again, tour after tour – rather, these fine song writers have become an unconscious part of their surroundings, just like the beating of the main engine; the rattle of the generators; the keening of the air-conditioning; the rolling, the rocking and the blows that come from the heavy kiss of the waves and pulse back along the ship like ripples.

  ‘Could you check whether Jónas is on the other side?’ says Rúnar, stirring sugar into his black coffee as Jim Morrison keeps singing about being strange. ‘I need to speak with him.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sæli replies. He stands up with his mug in his hand and strolls out to the corridor, past the infirmary, the computer room and the kitchen, over to the mess on the starboard side, where Jónas sits alone, seemingly deep in thought.

  ‘Why don’t you just come and join us, lonesome cowboy?’ asks Sæli, leaning against the doorframe. ‘Rúnar wants to talk to you.’

  Jónas slowly raises his head, looks at Sæli then nods and follows him over.

  The Doors’ song ‘Horse Latitudes’ starts.

  ‘Jónas!’

  ‘What?’ says Jónas, jerking out of a buzzing daydream in which sand mites the size of trout squirm about in the wet, black sand that fills his head and runs like syrup out of his eyes and down into the pitch-black coffee.

  ‘Hand me the bread, man,’ says Rúnar, who is not known for being cheerful or sweet-tempered in the mornings.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Jónas, handing him the tray of sandwiches.

  ‘Are you sick or something?’ Sæli says, smacking his lips on rye bread with meat roll. ‘You’re kind of pale and wan and somehow without that broomstick shoved as far up your arse as usual.’

  ‘No, I … don’t know.’ Jónas sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, which has grown cold in the mug. The remark about the broomstick is so old and meaningless that Jónas doesn’t hear it any more.

  ‘The winter darkness is getting to him,’ says Stoker, grinning evilly. ‘Darkness, depression … madness! The dark power overcomes even —’

  ‘No,’ says Rúnar, giving Stoker an extra-dirty look while he puts a slice of bread and liverwurst on his plate. ‘It’s probably some problem that’s affecting the family.’

  ‘The family … problem?’ Jónas repeats, blinking bloodshot eyes that are rolling like marbles in their sockets between his purple eyelids and the dark blue circles under them.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Sæli, shrugging. ‘Your brother-in-law still hasn’t shown his face.’

  ‘Ha … really? I’d forgotten …’

  ‘Haven’t you gone to check on him?’ says Rúnar.

  ‘No … I ...’ murmurs Jónas, who seems totally confused, as if he understands neither heaven nor earth at the same time as he’s lost somewhere between these two worlds.

  ‘I thought you’d keep an eye on the guy!’ says Rúnar with a shake of his head.

  ‘You’re the bosun,’ says Jónas, slumping down in his seat as if paralysed.

  ‘He’s your brother-in-law,’ says Rúnar.

  ‘He was all busted up, man,’ says Sæli, taking a doughnut.

  ‘Busted up?’ Jónas says, blinking hard.

  ‘Yeah, he was rear-ended,’ says Rúnar, pouring himself and Sæli more coffee. ‘His car was off the road and half in a ditch.’

  ‘But Kalli doesn’t have a car.’ Jónas straightens his back.

  ‘No, not any more,’ Rúnar says with a grin.

  ‘We have to check on the guy,’ says Sæli, looking at Jónas and then at Rúnar, who nods.

  ‘I don’t know what car he can have been driving,’ says Jónas, getting more confused with every passing minute. ‘But he doesn’t own a car … not himself … I think.’

  ‘Well, of course he owns a car!’ Rúnar laughs coldly into the ghostly face of the second mate. ‘Otherwise you’d have had to take him with you in your goddamn Jeep, no?’

  ‘He didn’t ask me for a lift,’ mutters Jónas, staring down into his coffee mug and turning it round with trembling fingers.

  ‘Goddamn Jeep … goddamn Jeep!’ says Stoker, grinning. ‘Like in the movie Christine … The car was possessed, but in the book it was driven by a ghost. The ghost of a former owner who ’ ’

  ‘Shut up!’ Rúnar barks at Stoker, waving his fist.

  ‘Take it easy,’ whines Stoker, wiping the devilish smile off his face and shrinking in his seat. Usually he keeps in the background in the presence of the bosun, who doesn’t hesitate to beat him like a cur.

  ‘Shall we go check the guy out?’ asks Sæli, clapping the bosun on the back.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Rúnar, swallowing the rest of his coffee. Then he points an accusing finger at Jónas. ‘And you’re coming with us!’

  ‘Yes, but … I …’ Jónas seems to have no idea what they’re talking about, or what he’s saying himself, for that matter.

  ‘No buts!’ say Rúnar forcefully.

  The old tape recorder gives a click as the cassette comes to an end, stops, and starts turning counterclockwise. More ‘Strange Days’.

  Up on D-deck Rúnar opens the door onto the landing behind the wheelhouse. Wind and rain slam into the three men. They look out on dark clouds, iron-grey waves the size of mountains and a churning wake that stretches into the turbulent darkness like a river of boiling milk.

  ‘Christ, but it’s black!’ Rúnar screams into the wind as he tries to control the heavy door.

  ‘Shut the door, man!’ shouts Jónas, who seems to have co
me back to life and shields his eyes from the pounding rain.

  ‘We won’t be working outside much today!’ Sæli says loudly, poking his head out the doorway.

  ‘Nope!’ Rúnar answers with a laugh and shuts out the wind and rain again. ‘And me with plans to scrape away rust and spot-paint the railings on the way south.’

  ‘It’s not worth the trouble, fixing this godless tub,’ Jónas says, shuddering from the cold rain that’s running down his bony face and under the collar of his shirt. ‘It’s nothing but a tin can with a wheel and an engine that’s tossed around by wind and weather.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rúnar says with steel in his voice. He walks right up to Jónas, who avoids the bosun’s sharp gaze and retreats until his back hits the fire extinguisher on the wall.

  ‘You’re talking just like that fucking Stoker!’ says Sæli, throwing his hands up. ‘What sane sailor would talk such crap?’

  ‘Good question,’ says Rúnar, waving his fist in the second mate’s face.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ asks Jónas, who takes to rubbing his hands together like an old man. ‘I was just saying. Didn’t mean anything by it. I take it back, okay?’

  ‘Do you know something I’m not supposed to know?’ Rúnar says, poking Jónas in the chest.

  ‘No,’ replies Jónas, his eyes desperate as he faces the bosun. ‘Such as what? Nobody tells me anything!’

  ‘Maybe,’ mutters Rúnar, taking two steps back.

  ‘Do you know something?’ Jónas asks in confusion.

  ‘About what?’ Rúnar asks him back.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jónas says with a shrug. ‘About the ship, I suppose. Or the company. Maybe they’ll cancel the contract?’

  ‘You’re not as dumb as you look,’ says Rúnar darkly. ‘But if they give up the ship, then we’re let go too. Right?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jónas sighs.

  ‘No, you don’t know anything in your born-again head!’ says Rúnar, shaking his own head. ‘Have you lost both your mind and your faith?’

  ‘So, shall I knock?’ asks Sæli, clearing his throat loudly to break up the argument. He hesitates in front of the cabin door of the deckhand, holding up his fist as if to knock.

  ‘Yeah, knock,’ Rúnar replies, snuffling rainwater up his nose and turning his back on the second mate.

  ‘Heathen,’ murmurs Jónas and brushes imaginary dust off his shirtsleeves.

  Sæli knocks but nobody comes to the door.

  ‘Try the doorknob,’ the bosun orders.

  ‘It’s open.’ Sæli pushes it into the darkened cabin that exhales hot, smelly air into the faces of the three men. ‘Hello! Is anyone in there?’

  ‘Come on – get in there, lad!’ Rúnar pushes Sæli, who stumbles ahead of him into the cabin. The bosun turns on the light and stands blinking while they get used to it.

  ‘What the hell!’ he says when he sees what condition the deckhand is in.

  Jón Karl is lying naked on the floor by the bed, pale, cut, scratched and covered with palm-sized bruises. He is gaping like a fish and the whites of his eyes stare up at the ceiling.

  ‘Is he dead?’ whispers Sæli.

  ‘I certainly hope not,’ says Rúnar with a deep sigh. ‘Come on, let’s get him into the bed.’

  Rúnar lifts Jón Karl’s shoulders and Sæli grabs his legs. Then they take hold of his body with all their strength but only just manage to lift him off the floor.

  ‘Jónas!’

  Little by little they lose their grip on the naked body; the damp flesh slips from their hands and Jón Karl’s head slams against the floor. Cuts open and blood runs out.

  ‘Jónas! For Christ’s fucking sake!’

  Rúnar, crimson with fury, clenches his sinewy fists as he screams at the second mate, who is standing by the bathroom door as if turned to stone and staring at the man lying naked on the floor of the cabin.

  ‘Are you going to give a hand here?’

  This isn’t his brother-in-law. Where’s Kalli? What’s going on? Has Jónas gone mad or …?

  ‘Have you finally gone mad or what?’

  But Jónas does know who it is. He knows who’s lying there on the floor of Kalli’s cabin. He recognises the face from pictures of crooks in the gossip magazines. He remembers that Gothic ‘S’ tattooed on the muscular chest. He doesn’t know the lowlife’s name but he can well remember what name he’s known by in the underworld. The name is particularly disagreeable, but extremely descriptive of the man’s character.

  ‘Hello?’

  But what is this human devil doing aboard the Per se?

  ‘Jónas!’

  And where is Kalli. What’s going on?

  ‘What’s going on with you, man?’ Rúnar screams as he steps over Jón Karl, strides up to Jónas and slaps him hard on the left cheek.

  ‘Huh … What?’ Jónas straightens up, with a shaking hand on his reddening cheek, his lower lip trembling and unmistakable panic in his eyes.

  ‘Help us, you motherfucker!’ Rúnar yells in the mate’s ear and grabs his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, I …’ mutters Jónas and follows the bosun to the bed.

  ‘One, two and …’ says Rúnar once they all have a good grip on Jón Karl, who is coughing with one leg twitching. ‘Now! And give it all you’ve got, lads!’

  They manage to lift Jón Karl halfway onto the bed frame and then roll him like a barrel onto the mattress, where he ends up on his back with his left shoulder squeezed against the bulkhead under the window.

  ‘Christ, what a hulk,’ says Rúnar as he catches his breath.

  ‘Definitely more than a hundred kilos,’ says Sæli, wiping sweat off his forehead.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jónas, who really has no idea what to say, think or do. Should he let them know about this stranger on board? Should he phone ashore and ask about Kalli? Or should he just act as if he knows nothing and hope for the best?

  What if Kalli suspects his sister is lost or dead? What if Kalli goes to the police?

  ‘Is he a weightlifter or what?’

  Are Kalli’s absence and this stranger’s presence just a whim of fate, pure coincidence or the intervention of a higher power?

  Whims of fate are an invention of the superstitious and coincidence is nothing but denial of the relationship between cause and effect in the nihilism of the Western world, which means that the hand of God has …

  ‘Jónas?’

  ‘The Lord is my shepherd …’ says Jónas mechanically, blinking in the bosun’s face.

  ‘The Lord shepherd what-the-fuck?’ says Rúnar, snapping his fingers in Jónas’s face.

  ‘Ha … what?’ says Jónas, gasping as if he’s just been pulled out of water.

  ‘Goddamn but you lose contact a lot, man!’ says Rúnar. ‘You’re worse than a mobile phone outside the service area.’

  ‘Am I?’ Jónas says, coughing a little.

  ‘Yeah!’ says Sæli, grinning. ‘I think there’s something seriously wrong with your head.’

  ‘I just need to rest a bit,’ says Jónas, sitting on the bed by Jón Karl, who is still staring out at the world with only the whites of his eyes.

  Jónas contemplates this muscular replacement for his brother-in-law, sighs and silently rejoices that he won’t have to look his wife’s brother in the eye on top of everything else that’s weighing on his mind, keeping him from sleeping and hollowing out his heart as a worm hollows an apple.

  ‘You just rest, friend,’ says Jónas, laying a paternal but trembling hand on the deckhand’s boiling-hot forehead. ‘We’ll talk when you …’

  Jónas is silenced when Jón Karl suddenly sits up in bed and, without any warning, head-butts him in the face.

  ‘Rúnar!’ calls Sæli. He grabs Jón Karl’s right arm, which throws him like a wet cloth onto the couch.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ says the bosun, and he jumps on Jón Karl, grabs his shoulders and forces him back down onto the bed.

  All three of them jump on Jón Kar
l and manage to hold him down, until he gives in and stops struggling. Blood is pouring from the nose of the second mate, who sits snivelling on his attacker’s legs.

  ‘Okay,’ says Rúnar. ‘Let’s try letting go of the bugger!’ He releases the deckhand’s neck.

  ‘Is your nose broken?’ asks Sæli after they’ve let go of Jón Karl and moved a safe distance away from his bed. Rúnar takes the safety rail from under the bed and puts it in place, so the seaman won’t fall out of bed again.

  ‘I think it is,’ whines Jónas as he feels his swollen nose and snuffles up blood.

  ‘Come on, we’ll have a look at it down in the infirmary,’ says Rúnar, putting his arm around Jónas’s shoulder. ‘This brother-in-law of yours can stay here and rot, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I’ll check on him later today,’ says Jónas. He looks over his shoulder at the stranger before they close the cabin door. ‘I’d better be the one to look after him.’

  ‘Up to you,’ says Rúnar, slamming the door behind them.

  Boom, boom, boom …

  The slam echoes deep inside Jón Karl’s head. He jerks around as if an electric current were running through his nerves, lets out a rattling cry and slams his right fist into the wall above his bed with all his might.

  X

  Jónas is empty inside. Cold and empty. Like a ghost ship that drifts, powerless, into a night that will never again turn to day.

  Five years ago he had been head over heels in love with María, lost in her eyes, hypnotised by her laughter. Just seven months after he first saw her she was standing beside him at the altar, dressed in white and vowing to be his, before God, his parents and their friends. A year later their first child was born, a weepy son who adored his mother. Two years later came their daughter, the apple of her father’s eye.

  Then, without understanding when life in heaven ended and hell took over, he was suddenly rushing through the ice-cold night with María’s dead body in the boot of his car. The dead body of his wife. The dead body of his children’s mother. The woman Jónas loved was dead. Murdered by the man who had pledged her lifelong loyalty, in sickness and in health. Until death did them part. And now death had parted them.