He’d deliberately upset his mother in other ways too—unnecessarily staying out until three or four o’clock in the morning, knowing she’d wait up for him, worrying to death he’d been attacked or hurt in an accident.
What is she thinking now? he wondered, as he was tossed mid-ocean in the darkness.
She’s funny, he thought, his mind drawing a fuzzy picture of her: floury faced, heavily wrinkled—puckered almost—a large woman—not physically—she’d never been really big, but always managed to occupy more space than she should have done considering her size. As she had shrunken with age, she had seemingly grown larger and larger until she had taken command of the whole house. She’s definitely funny, thought Roger—though not in any humorous sense. Funny how she doted; fretting at the slightest sniffle of a cold, panicking if the train was late—phoning the railway station, expecting to hear there had been a crash. Yet, when it came to his appearance—”Puppy fat,” she called it when he complained about his diet of meat pies, chips, and chocolate.
“Mum, I’m thirty-one,” he had protested.
“What d’ye wanna be skinny for?” she retorted.
She knows why, he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to tell her. “I want a woman,” he longed to scream. “I want to know what it’s like to fuck a woman.” But he’d never said it, strangely finding it easier to lie about being gay than admit his true desires for a woman.
The computer had caused a major rift. While other obsessive mothers might be insidiously sabotaging relationships between sons and their wives or girlfriends, Roger’s mother picked a fight with his computer. The noise it made—”whirring like a maniac”—the space it took up, the electricity it used. She even complained it was causing interference on her television. “Snow,” she called it. “Shut that thing off,” she would shout up the stairs. “You’re making snow on my telly.” The television, “hers” through a jealously guarded remote, took precedence over real life and had been the leash she’d used to tie him to her side. “Don’t go out our Roger, your favourite program’s on tonight,” she’d say at the mere suggestion he was planning an excursion. But the computer had changed all that. Now he could go anywhere in the world without leaving his room, and without her.
Her resentment had led to petty sabotage: “Bit of an accident,” she claimed, when he’d left the computer on by mistake one day. He’d soon put a stop to that; protecting files with passwords, and locking the computer. He would even have locked his room if he could have summonsed the courage. “After all I did for you,” she’d whimper, alluding to the pain of childbirth, stretch marks, cellulite, saggy breasts, and a slumped backside. “And now you lock your door!”
Her insignia of suffering had been used to ward off several of Roger’s teenage insurrections, and now he lacked the strength to overcome the omnipotence of progeny guilt.
Roger was disappearing, and disappearing fast. Semi-conscious, and buffeted like a rubber duck in rapids, he’d withdrawn from the horror of his situation. He could do that: Switch off the rest of the world and reside only in the comfort of his mind.
“The lights are on but nobody’s home,” his father would mock.
But this time, his lights were going out. His will to survive was rapidly draining, and he was drifting toward death.
Everything aboard the ship had changed—so many lives shifted by a single thoughtless act. On the bridge, the captain was still in communion with his crew, even ordering hot chocolate and doughnuts for everyone. Most, dragged like he from the comfort of a warm bunk, were grateful for his consideration.
“Drink this in remembrance of me,” he could have said, as he passed a steaming cup, heavily laden with sugar, to the chief officer. “How far John?” he asked, in an informal way. Just a friendly enquiry. The simple action of handing over a cup of cocoa bringing an instant bond between the two men, changing their relationship from master and servant to that of friends. But the relationship could flip back, instantly, should it be necessary. And both men knew it.
“About another four minutes to point Alpha, Bert, if the computers are right. Although God knows what chance we’ve got of finding the poor bastard in this weather … assuming there is a poor bastard.”
Point Alpha—the spot in the vast ocean where, according to the computerized navigation system, Roger’s body should be found, alive or dead.
With a bridge resembling the flight deck of Starship Enterprise, the SS Rotterdam was equipped with all the latest aids: A satellite navigation system locked onto signals emitted by a dozen man-made moons; anti-collision radar tracked other vessels fifty miles or more away; and the auto pilot knew exactly where the ship was, where it had been, and where it was going. Apart from the intricate manoeuvres required to navigate congested harbours at each end of the voyage, the ship was perfectly capable of finding her own way across the North Sea. She could also retrace her steps, precisely, to any given point of the voyage.
Working backwards from the moment of King’s arrival on the bridge, the navigation officer had calculated the moment Roger was believed to have disappeared overboard. The on-board computers turned that time into a location: Point Alpha—a mere pinpoint on the ocean’s surface, yet a point defined with more accuracy than the distance between one wave and the next. Finding a needle in a haystack would have been child’s play for this computer. Finding a fat man mid-ocean was well within its capability.
Many of the passengers were up; woken by the violent movements, which contrasted so sharply with the gentle sway, that lulled them to sleep just a few hours earlier. Few knew what had happened. Most remained in their cabins, a nasty surprise awaiting them in the morning when, at daybreak, they would peer out of the porthole expecting to see the familiar green landscape of Holland only to find a dirty, rolling sea. A few passengers, forced out of their cabins and onto deck by heaving stomachs, were surprised to find a large number of crewmembers hanging over the rails, studying the wave tops.
Searchlights lit the area around the sides of the ship, clearly illuminating each green wave as it smashed against the hull and climbed high up the superstructure before losing power and dropping back, only to be picked up and thrown back again by the next one. The ship, now almost stationery, rolled like a giant metronome marking time with the hellish cacophony created by the rising wind and crashing waves. Wave after wave attacked the ship, flinging spray high into the air, stinging the faces of the exhilarated passengers and disgruntled crewmembers lining the rails. But beyond the fringe of lights, the rest of the world had dissolved into the blackness of outer space.
Below decks, in the Calypso Bar, an alcoholic duo of detectives were still aggravating the barman. Nosmo King had been wrong in thinking they were en-route to a boozy goodwill convention. Their task, they believed, was almost complete and, in a few short hours, their Dutch counterparts would take over the mission and relieve them of responsibilities for the following thirty-six hours. A day and a half they planned to spend seeing the sights of Amsterdam.
“Hey. Barman. Whash your name anyway,” slurred one of the detectives.
“It’s Len, Sir.”
“Yeah, Len, baby. Uh, what’s happening. Can’t you keep this bloody boat still.” Detective Constable Doug Smythe, with many years of drinking under his belt and a maze of flamboyant capillaries on his nose, was sober enough to realize the swaying motion was not just in his head. But the other detective, a younger man with brush cut hair, and a goatee, which he believed fashionable, had flopped forward against the bar and wound his arm around a stanchion to prevent himself from sliding off the chair.
Sergeant Jones had ventured to the washroom, and was now making his way back across the deserted dance floor, waltzing back and forth in tune to the reeling of the ship. Sickness had left its mark—slicks of mucous stained his shirt and right trouser leg, and a large dollop of vomit perched on the toe of his right shoe.
The obstacle-free dance floor presented no real challenge to Jones, other than remaining upri
ght with nothing solid to grasp. But the stairs, tables, and chairs of the bar area were an entirely different terrain, yet to be conquered. The Calypso Bar occupied the entire aft section of the ship—a cavernous auditorium of six semi-circular terraces overlooking the dance floor, each terrace reached from the one below by a wide flight of eight stairs. The bar itself was almost five decks higher than the dance floor, and only a ship’s architect with an outrageous sense of humour could have placed the bar at the top of the incline and the washroom at the bottom.
Jones fell as he climbed the steps to the first terrace and was catapulted into a table by a particularly violent pitch. Grabbing a chair, he held on, bracing himself against the next lurch. Seconds later the ship slammed into another wave. “Hold tight!” he shouted to himself, grasping the chair tightly, but it was unattached and crashed with him down the eight steps to the hardwood floor below.
“Buggerin’ ell!” he screamed, his words lost in the vastness of the almost deserted auditorium. He tried the stairs again, only climbing three before being shaken off balance, then lying on his back on the dance floor, swearing at the ceiling fifty feet above, unaware his left wrist had been shattered in the first fall.
“I think your mate needs a hand,” said Len, watching from his perch at the bar, giving D.C. Smythe a poke.
“Oh shit,” he replied, dragging his younger colleague with him to the sergeant’s aid.
With the detectives no longer at the bar, Len seized his chance to escape and in less than thirty seconds ripped the cash drawer from the till, flicked off the lights, slammed and locked the bar grill, and was on his way to bed.
Disappointment awaited him at the purser’s office, where he went to pay in the evening’s takings.
“All hands on deck mate,” the assistant purser said. “Didn’t you hear the call? Some poor sod’s gone for a swim.”
He hadn’t heard; didn’t want to hear. Working late into the night wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t done a day shift for his mate, a kitchen fitter, the previous day. Just for a second he considered sloping off to bed, figuring he’d not be missed, but the assistant purser, with more years at sea than he wanted to remember— waiting for a pair of dead purser’s pants, according to his wife—saw the intention spread across Len’s face.
“I’ll tell the deck officer you’re on your way then,” he said, pointedly, as he picked up a walkie-talkie from the desk.
“Fuck you,” Len muttered, ambling disgruntledly toward the boat deck.
“This is the centre of the search area,” the deck officer was explaining as Len joined a group of crewmembers sheltering from the storm under one of the larger lifeboats. An audience of curious passengers were hanging about in the shade of the boat, listening to his performance, so the officer tuned his voice to a high pitched whine, sounding like a 1950s BBC radio announcer. “We believe the man should be somewhere in this area …”
“Sounds as if someone’s fallen overboard,” relayed one of the passengers to his wife, shielding herself from the gale behind a storage locker.
“I hope we don’t miss our train.”
“He might drown.”
“They’ll be ever so disappointed if we’re late for the wedding.”
“Luv, there’s a man missing!”
“I know … but he’s our only son … sometimes I think you don’t care.”
“The weather’s deteriorating rapidly,” continued the officer, “so we must find him quickly. There’s no description— report anything you see in the water. Any questions?” He paused long enough to scan the group—twenty men in fluorescent sou’westers hunching against the rain and spray, not an ounce of enthusiasm among them.
“Questions …” he repeated, raising an eyebrow, pausing. “No? Good. We are relying on each and every one of you to do your best.”
“Who does he think he is: Lord Nelson?” whispered a first-class waiter, but heard by many.
“Is there a problem?” shouted the officer in response to the gale of laughter, triggering more laughter.
“O.K., men. Go to your stations.”
“Full of piss and self-importance,” mumbled one of the engine room greasers, unhappy at being dragged from the warmth of the engine room and even more upset to discover his lookout station, on the starboard side, faced directly into the prevailing wind.
Detective Inspector Bliss, coming out onto the upper deck just as the men were drifting away, was unaware of the search, or its cause, and introduced himself to the deck officer. “D.I. Bliss, Metropolitan Police Serious Crime Squad. Can I help?”
“Oh Inspector … Yes. We think there’s a man overboard—perhaps you could help keep watch?”
Bliss jumped. “Man overboard.” His eyes flashed wide. “Who is it? When was this? What happened?”
“Hang on officer, I don’t know, you’d better speak to the captain. Let me just make sure everyone is at their post and I’ll take you along to the bridge.”
“Please hurry. I think I might know who it is.”
Since leaving the others in the bar, Bliss had scoured the ship for Roger. His first stop, the purser’s office, to locate Roger’s cabin number had proved interesting.
“No one of that name,” said the assistant purser, quickly running his finger down the passenger list, paying little attention.
“Let me look,” said Bliss snatching the book from under his fingers. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, Sir,” continued the assistant purser, grappling the book back with an air of certainty.
Bliss relinquished his grasp. “How can you be sure?”
“Never forget a name, Sir … could tell you the name of everyone who’s got a cabin, all two hundred and seventy-eight of ’em.”
Bliss scanned the list and found the total. “Two hundred and seventy-eight,” he breathed.
“That’s right, Sir.” said the officer, keeping his focus firmly on Bliss. “Starts with Adnam, ends with Yannus, and there’s eight Smiths—but there ain’t no LeClarcs, not tonight anyhow.”
Bliss, impressed, awe-struck even, believed him. “I was sure he’d have a cabin,” he muttered, starting to turn away, unsure what to do next.
But the assistant purser wasn’t finished. “Ah … It is possible that he’s got a cabin, Sir …” he began, nervously shuffling the list.
“How? I don’t understand. You said his name wasn’t on the list.”
“You didn’t hear this from me, but … well maybe he paid cash and someone forgot to take his name.”
“I bet they forgot to put the money in the register as well,” said Bliss, quickly catching on, thinking it was an easy way for a crewmember to make a few extra quid every trip. He’d been in Serious Crimes long enough to know that whenever cash transactions took place, you could bet someone was taking a cut.
Without a cabin number, he turned his attention to the sleeping lounges. Hundreds of sweaty bodies, fidgeting on reclining chairs, formed a thick smelly carpet of humanity as he fought his way up and down the darkened aisles in between the rows—the stale odour of sleepers alternating with the stink of cheap perfume and the stench of an occasional fart. Backpacks, suitcases, even cardboard boxes stuffed with the belongings of the poorest passengers created an obstacle course in the tight aisles, tripping him repeatedly. Passengers, rudely awakened by his thrashing arms as he tried to steady himself, cursed him in a dozen languages. At the end of one row, between the last seat and the wall, he fell over a body lying on the floor. Pulling himself upright he began apologizing then, to his astonishment, saw he’d fallen over a young couple clearly engaged in oral sex. The woman, an attractive long-haired blond, on top of the young man, looked up with a fierce expression, as if to say, “Piss off,” and carried on, quite unperturbed.
He quickly found the deck steward, a badly shaven unmade-bed of a man, with rotten teeth and a grubby red coat, slouched in the bright area between the two dimly lit lounges.
“There’s a couple bon
king in there,” he said disapprovingly.
“I’ve seen worse mate,” replied the steward, only half opening his eyes, making no attempt to move.
With the feeling that he must have led a sheltered life, Bliss walked away, shaking his head.
Bliss had been deep in the vessel’s bowels, examining Roger’s green Renault, while the ship had been turning around and had not noticed the change in direction. Brushing aside the sign warning of the danger of entering the vehicle deck during the voyage he’d slid open the heavy steel door and had been met by the acrid mechanical odour of engine oil, rubber, and hot metal.
Roger LeClarc’s Renault, nestling amongst a raft of flashier models, was locked. He tried both doors, and the trunk, then peered through the driver’s window and was surprised to see a suitcase and several smaller bags on the back seat. Maybe he doesn’t have a cabin after all.
The small green car was familiar, very familiar. Bliss and the other officers had been keeping tabs on it for more than a week. They’d lost him a few times— round the clock surveillance of a target could be incredibly difficult, if not impossible. A moment’s inattention, a little bad luck, or a run of red traffic lights was all it took for a vehicle to disappear, seemingly without trace. But, on each occasion, a quick analysis of Roger’s regular pattern of behaviour enabled him to be located, either at his mother’s or at the little terraced house near Watford railway station where he often spent his evenings before returning home in the early hours.
Details of his impending trip to Holland were well known. Roger, something of a celebrity in the computer world, had been invited to address a symposium of world leaders in The Hague: “Communicating in the Third Millennium,” a two-day exposé of modern telecommunications, extolling the advantages of globalization and convergence. Ostensibly, Roger was an independent delegate, though few of the attendees would have been surprised to learn that he was the cyber-star of an aggressive multi-media equipment provider hell-bent on cornering the market.
Following Roger from his mother’s house in Watford on the northern outskirts of London, to the ferry port had been straightforward. With the exception of a ten minute stop at the tiny terraced house on Junction Road, he’d poodled the Renault along at a modest pace to north Essex, sticking to main roads, avoiding bottle-necks.
The Fish Kisser Page 3