by Stefan Mani
‘You open it!’ shouts Methúsalem, poking his rifle into the back of Jón Karl, who stands with his feet apart in front of the locked door.
The bow of a freighter is usually covered and that space is called the forecastle. The forecastle is a closed, separate space, but is considered the forward part of the A-deck or upper deck and is usually a storeroom of some kind. From there you can walk down to the bow thruster area. Down there you will also find boxes for the heavy anchor chains as well as the forepeak tank, which is a ballast tank.
The weather is now making it extremely dangerous to be above deck – sheer foolhardiness if not utter madness. The four men slide back and forth, lose their balance, get blown over and slam against whatever’s near them, lean every which way and hold onto anything they can possibly hold onto. They are either being thrown to the cold, wet deck or swinging loose several centimetres above it, since the ship is either falling through a vacuum into the trough of a wave or shooting like a rocket into the sky.
Satan leans forward at forty-five degrees with his left hand against the forecastle wall and loosens the hasps on the door with his right hand. The door is the same kind as the one that opens into the darkness of the hold, but the locks aren’t as stiff and Satan manages, with some effort, to open them one handed. As the third and last hasp comes loose the bow lifts right into the air, as if the ship is going to sail into the clouds. The forecastle door swings wide open and the heavy door throws Satan like a doll against Methúsalem; they both lose their footing and slam against the foremost hatch, which is high enough so they don’t tumble all the way to the wheelhouse and get washed overboard.
Big John manages to hook the middle finger of his left hand in a metal loop on the front of the forecastle, while the fingers of his right hand lock themselves round Rúnar’s left arm. Then they both dangle in thin air over the deck until the ship rights itself.
‘Everyone inside!’ calls Methúsalem the minute the ship reaches a pitch fairly near the horizontal.
Icy seawater floods across the deck from starboard to port. Satan and Methúsalem scramble to their feet and run inside the forecastle; Big John frees his middle finger from the metal loop and pulls Rúnar to his feet. Then they support each other to the forecastle door, climb over the high threshold and disappear into the gloom.
The hinges scream, the metal door swings back with great force and closes with a loud crash.
Boom!
Everything goes black inside the narrow forecastle, as if the dark were outer space.
Fear engulfs the companions in arms. They clutch their guns tightly and stare helplessly into the void. They’re trapped in a triangular iron box that bounces and shakes like a tin can on the back of a truck driving along a pitted dirt road; with them is a dangerous man, an invisible poisonous scorpion, and they don’t know where he is or what he’s doing.
‘Lights! Turn on the lights!’
‘Where’s the switch?’
‘By the door, port side!’
‘Methúsalem?’
‘Yes!’
‘Where’s John?’
‘I’m over here!’
‘I can’t find the fucking switch!’
‘Who’s closest to the door?’
‘Not me!’
‘Who’s me?’
The ship slams into a heavy wave, the forecastle vibrates like a drum, men slide about, gasp and fall flat over one another, then the bow lifts and the door opens wide again, letting the grey daylight in.
‘I’ve got it!’ shouts Rúnar as he jumps up and hits the light switch. A weak bulb lights up behind its dirty plastic cover above the door.
Rúnar holds onto a roof beam and looks at John, who is lying on his back in the corner to port, looking at the Methúsalem, who in turn is sitting on his rear at the front of the forecastle, his gun pointing at the prisoner. Satan is standing to starboard with his arms spread, loosely holding onto the edge of a long metal shelf.
John is clutching his shotgun to his chest with both hands, but Rúnar’s gun is sliding back and forth on the metal floor halfway between him and Satan, along with the chain and the water container.
‘Don’t even dream about it, mate!’ says Methúsalem, loosening the safety catch on his rifle.
‘Cool it, cowboy,’ says Satan with a mirthless grin. ‘You’d all be dead already, if I’d wanted that.’
He could, of course, just tell them who the saboteur was. Tell them that Jónas pretended to go to the toilet just as Satan came on the night watch, was away for a good half-hour and then did what he could to make Satan look suspicious in the eyes of the captain.
Even though it had been Jónas who was wet through, deathly pale and nervous as a chicken.
What are these men thinking? Can’t they add two and two?
Jónas killed that brother-in-law and now he’s trying to get to South America without the authorities making contact with the ship.
Isn’t it obvious?
But Satan doesn’t really care. All he wants, for the moment at least, is for this idiotic bunch of boy scouts to leave him in peace, even if that means an unjustified imprisonment in a cold iron box. When he gets tired of staying in the forecastle he’ll tell them who the guilty party is – if they haven’t discovered it for themselves by then.
Until then, he’s going to relax.
‘Here’s the heater,’ says Big John, pulling a little electric heater out of a wooden box tied to an iron column in the middle of the forecastle. He connects the fire to a plug in the column and sets it on low.
The ship pitches violently, the metal screeches, the hinges groan and the door shuts with its usual clang. Rúnar uses the opportunity to fasten one of the hasps from the inside.
‘So,’ says Methúsalem as he gets to his feet, ‘let’s get this over with before we all get trapped in here by the weather.’
Methúsalem aims his rifle at Satan while Rúnar tightens one end of the chain around his waist. He hooks the padlock through two links behind Satan’s back, sticks the other end of the chain through a metal loop on the starboard wall, hooks that end also onto the padlock and closes the lock.
‘Excellent!’ says Methúsalem, taking the key and putting it into his shirt pocket. ‘You just try to get comfortable, mate. We’ll leave the light on, of course.’
‘You make me laugh, you stupid seamen, for you know not what you do!’ says the still-standing Satan, laughing, as the three of them leave, slamming the door and replacing the hasps.
These imbeciles wrongly imagine that they’ve captured the evil in their little world and locked it in some sort of Niflheim when, in fact, they’ve made a little heaven for the stranger who woke up in the incomprehensible misery they live and work in, and have thus freed him from duties, responsibilities and the yoke of everyday life.
B-deck
Captain Guðmundur stands out of the wind on the port side of the wheelhouse, waiting for the trio to come back and walk up the metal stairs that lead from the weather deck up to B-deck. He’s clad in a parka, has a cap on his head and holds the pump-action Mossberg upright against his chest as he leans against a recess in the white-painted wall.
After a few long minutes the crown of Methúsalem’s head appears at the top of the stairs; next comes Rúnar and Big John brings up the rear. They’re holding their guns in their left hands and the railing with their right, their backs are bent to reduce their resistance to the wind and their grimacing faces are turned away from the salty sea spray.
Anger flares in the captain as he watches his shipmates of many years sneak about fully armed, having not only disobeyed his orders but also taken power into their own hands.
They are lawbreakers, traitors and rebels.
Guðmundur hides in the recess and watches every step. Methúsalem has reached B-deck; he holds onto the top railing and edges his way along. Rúnar steps up onto the deck and follows Methúsalem, while John is halfway up the stairs.
The back part of B-deck doesn’t have
an actual railing around it but, rather, a solid gunwale of black-painted steel.
The west wind whines, stirs up the waves and batters the ship; lightning flashes in the clouds and thunder rumbles in the distance; the wheelhouse bobs like a buoy and the black hull of the ship regularly disappears in seawater and salt spray.
When the ship straightens after pitching deeply the captain steps out of his hiding place, lifts his shotgun and strikes the first officer on the side of the face with the stock, then slams his right elbow deep into the bosun’s solar plexus.
Methúsalem drops his rifle and falls forwards on the deck while Rúnar drops to his knees without letting go of the top of the gunwale or his shotgun.
‘Don’t shoot!’ shouts the chief engineer, who throws his gun overboard then lifts his left arm above his head where he stands, on the top step.
‘I ought to shoot the lot of you!’ the captain responds, pointing the shotgun at each in turn as he fights to keep his footing on the wet deck, which is rising and falling and leaning every which way.
‘Easy, man!’ shouts the bosun and slides his shotgun through the gutter at the bottom of the gunwale and overboard.
‘What are you doing?’ the first officer yells at his mates and stands up. At the same moment the ship pitches and he loses his footing and is lifted onto the gunwale.
‘Methúsalem!’ shouts the bosun, throwing himself towards his shipmate and managing to grab one of the officer’s ankles before he tumbles overboard.
‘Everybody inside! Everybody inside!’ says Big John, stepping up onto the deck and feeling his way along the gunwale. ‘Everybody inside before someone ends up overboard!’
Methúsalem crawls back along the ship on hands and knees, managing to grab the rifle before it slides back to the stern, while John helps Rúnar back to his feet and steadies him with his left hand on his back.
‘Let go of that gun!’ roars Guðmundur when Methúsalem stands up with the rifle in his left hand, but then he slips and hits the gunwale in front of Rúnar. Rúnar grabs the captain, who accidentally pulls the trigger of the shotgun, sending a shot up into the inky sky.
‘Are you trying to kill me?’ yells Methúsalem, waving his rifle like a battleaxe.
‘Everybody inside! Everybody inside!’ John tries again, but Rúnar can’t go any further because Guðmundur doesn’t move.
‘Throw that gun in the sea,’ Guðmundur snarls, aiming his shotgun at Methúsalem, who grinds his teeth in fury, eyes bulging and nostrils flaring.
‘Get going,’ Rúnar exclaims, pushing at Guðmundur, who doesn’t move.
‘Nobody is going inside until that gun hits the water,’ the captain responds.
‘Take it easy!’ shouts Methúsalem, pressing his right elbow hard against the gunwale, then holding the rifle vertical with his left hand as he loosens the bolt from the magazine with the fingers of his right hand.
‘What are you doing?’ yells Guðmundur, whose mouth is dry and his throat sore from all the screaming.
‘This gun is a museum piece,’ Methúsalem replies forcefully as he lets the bolt fall onto the deck, then kicks it towards the stair and over the edge of the deck. ‘Now it’s undamaged but useless. It’s not going overboard!’
‘Everybody inside!’ John pushes Rúnar, who slams into Guðmundur.
‘All right! For fuck’s sake,’ roars Guðmundur, locking in the safety on the shotgun. ‘Everybody inside!’
They creep along the gunwale, past the big winch to port and back to the stern. There Methúsalem seizes the opportunity to leap in three bounds over the watery deck to the wheelhouse and through the door to the B-deck corridor. He puts down his rifle and holds the door open for Guðmundur, who makes a run for it, falls on one knee when a wave slams the ship but makes it all the way in the end.
‘Come on!’ Methúsalem calls to Rúnar, who is watching the ship’s motion to find the right moment to run.
Too much wind … Too much roll … Too much sea water …
‘Look!’ John shouts in Rúnar’s ear just as he’s about to let go of the gunwale and run for the door that Methúsalem is holding open.
‘What?’ Rúnar shouts, grabbing the gunwale with both hands as the stern presses down into the sea, like a whale diving for the depths.
‘It’s Jónas!’ John cries, pointing with a trembling hand to the second mate, who’s sliding around the deck on his back, between the big winch and the starboard gunwale.
‘Is he dead?’ yells Rúnar, motioning over to starboard.
‘I don’t know,’ John says and gives the bosun a push. ‘Come on! We’ve got to get him inside!’
The forecastle
Satan pulls on the chain to see how much he can move. He can touch the metal pillar in the middle and that’s it. The door might as well be light-years away.
Down on the floor is an open plinth course reaching from the front of the forecastle on each side and ending at the stern. On the port side it contains buoys and net-bulbs but on the starboard side, by Satan, it’s full of painting overalls, bottles of turpentine, paint pots, rollers and brushes. Above the plinth courses, at shoulder height for the average man, are shelves on which there are big bolts of burlap and canvas, dirty overalls and various other things, all kept in place with a green fishing net stretched over the shelves with little hooks.
It is almost ridiculously hard to stay on your feet up here in the forecastle, but by keeping the chain at the stretch, his feet well apart and at least one hand on the shelves, it isn’t impossible.
Satan starts to pile up the painting things in the bow end of the course, then he loosens the net from the shelves and stretches it over them. Once that’s done he makes himself a lair inside the plinth course by spreading canvas and burlap on the bottom.
Now the plinth course has become a deep bed.
Satan lies down on his back in the lair and hooks one link of the chain over a metal hook in the wall right above the course. This ensures that he won’t fly up and out onto the floor in the worst of the turmoil.
The bulb over the door throws a dull yellow glow over the contents of the forecastle. The heater slides around on the floor as it blows out hot air.
‘Could be worse,’ mutters Satan as he digs a crumpled cigarette packet out of his right trouser pocket. Then he peels the bandage off the ampoule, the syringe and the needle.
He puts the needle on the syringe, pushes it through the rubber membrane on the ampoule and pulls the liquid morphine into the syringe. Then he waits calmly while the ship ascends another wave. As soon as it stops, still at the top of the ridge, he clenches his left fist, sticks the needle into a vein in the crook of his elbow and pumps in the stuff with his right thumb, firmly and calmly.
The ship pitches forwards off the wave, Satan gets butterflies in his stomach and drops into the dark abyss.
XXIV
Saturday, 15 September
Methúsalem is holding on with both hands as he makes his way along the portside gunwale towards the front of the ship, towards the stair that leads down to the weather deck. It’s almost eighteen hours since they locked the supposed terrorist in the forecastle and the storm is still raging. Methúsalem is dressed in a dark-green raincoat and black rubber boots and is holding onto the iron railing with his bare hands as he backs down the steep staircase. He steps carefully onto the weather deck, which he can’t even see in the foaming seawater and blinding spray.
The first officer is looking for the bolt from his rifle but isn’t that optimistic about finding it after all this time.
But he couldn’t get here any sooner.
Guðmundur sent him directly to the bridge watch after they had carried the unconscious Jónas to the infirmary, and he didn’t get off the watch until ten in the evening. Then it was too dark to go looking for such a small object in such a large area, especially out on the weather deck in a storm.
As long as Jónas is unconscious, the captain and the first officer will have to take alternating watc
hes on the bridge. This means that they take eight-hour shifts. The captain relieved the first officer at ten in the evening and was on watch until six in the morning. Then he should be free until two o’clock.
It’s already six o’clock, actually, but Methúsalem isn’t going up to relieve the old man until he’s found the bolt from his rifle.
He has to find that fucking bolt!
Just as Methúsalem lets go of the railing the ship pitches and rolls to starboard. He loses his balance, falls on his belly and slams into the last hatch, then the ship rights itself, the deck is filled with seawater and Methúsalem is washed over to the port side, under the railing and overboard.
‘NO!’
Everything goes black, the icy sea fills his senses and for a few moments he can neither see nor hear.
As if he were sinking, falling, turning in circles and disappearing into a dark emptiness …
What’s he doing? Why did he go and search for the bolt from his rifle? Because the gun’s a museum piece? No. Why did he bring the gun on board? To balance the power? To challenge? Was it because of his fear of losing his job? He will not go on the dole! What’s wrong with being on the dole? Couldn’t he get a job on another ship if he wanted to? A man with all his experience? Why is he so afraid of losing his job? Is it because he’d lose money? Is it pride that’s getting him all mixed up?
Or is it the fear of finally losing control of his drinking? The fear of having all the time he needs to drink himself to death? Why should he drink himself to death?
Because he knows it’ll happen and he can’t stop it. But of course he can stop it. Just phone the AA helpline.
No. The thing is he won’t phone. Or will he?
Did he take the gun onto the ship because he’s afraid of death?
Or was it because he longs to die?
Life is nothing but a hopeless dance on a high wire and we all lose our balance sooner or later and fall into the empty abyss.