The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  The sickly smell of a thousand fading blooms struck them as they walked in. “I must get rid of these flowers,” snuffled Lisa through the sobs.

  “Kitchen alright?” Peter asked the officer.

  “Fine,” he replied, still not giving anything away.

  “She’s dead isn’t she?” Lisa said as she slumped into the old wooden chair, finding neither comfort nor solace in its hard wooden arms.

  The policeman hesitated long enough to pull on his most sombre face, and his downcast eyes and shuffling shoes told a dismal tale. “No,” he began, “she’s not dead …” leaving the sentence ominously suspended.

  “But?” demanded Peter, knowing someone had to ask.

  Lisa’s face lit up. “Not dead?”

  The policeman’s solemnity remained, though his persistent nervous blink added a farcical tone, “She is very, very sick.”

  “How sick?” she shot back, with pleading eyes. “Tell me,” she screamed, wanting to throttle the words out.

  “Shall I put the kettle on Mrs. McKenzie?” said the young W.P.C. remembering her training school days. “I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”

  “How sick?” shrieked Lisa, blanking the young policewoman out.

  Peter McKenzie dropped to the floor at his ex-wife’s feet, clasped her hands in his, and looked up. “What’s happened?” he implored, seeking clues in the policeman’s face.

  “She’s on a life support machine,” he replied, his uplifted intonation managing to put a positive spin to the news. “They haven’t told me much but I understand she was found in some sort of cellar and couldn’t breath very well.”

  “Where is she?” exploded Lisa.

  “Watford General Hospital.”

  “We’ll go right away,” Peter said, standing up.

  “Will you be alright, Sir. Can you find it?”

  “Yes, we’ve only just got back from there,” he said, easing Lisa out of the chair.

  They had been in Watford all day, copies of the picture they believed to be Roger, clasped in their hands. Touring the suburban streets, scrutinizing startled strangers, enquiring in a hundred pubs, shops and restaurants. “Do you know him? Have you seen him?” Some had recognized him, they claimed, but no one came up with a surname or address. They had even been to the railway station refreshment room in the morning before the commotion caused by the detectives’ visit. The dumpy waitress had not recognized Roger’s boss, there was no reason why she should. He lived in Croydon and had never been to Watford.

  Lisa wasn’t finished. “What about Roger?”

  The policeman shuffled again, holding back the details, protecting his backside. “It seems he may have locked her in a cellar,” he said, then totally absolved himself from responsibility by adding, “but don’t take my word for it. That’s only what I was told.”

  “What sort of animal could do that?” spat Peter McKenzie. “And where is he?” Leaving unspoken, “I’ll kill him.”

  The animal in question was still asleep in the cabin of the trawler, his limp carcass flopped untidily onto the bench. On the floor beneath him was the trussed body of the deck hand. Although somewhere on the North Sea, his exact geographic location was difficult to determine, thanks to the skipper’s quick thinking earlier in the evening, at the time he was being dragged from the sea.

  “He’s smashed the bloody compass,” McCrae had shouted, diving into the wheelhouse to investigate the sound of a crash. Then the back of his hand had lashed across the old skipper’s face.

  “We’ll deal with him later, give us a hand with this fat lump now,” called Motsom, struggling to manoeuvre Roger’s heavy body from the deck down the narrow companionway into the cabin.

  With Roger dumped in the cabin, Motsom, McCrae, and Boyd returned to the wheelhouse. The skipper’s drawn face had lost its ruddiness, though the red welt of McCrae’s hand was beginning to blossom on his left cheek; but at least he’d ensured his survival, for awhile. Without a compass the three hoodlums could never reach land, and they knew it. But the old skipper didn’t need a compass. He’d fished the same waters for more than fifty years and could pinpoint his location by the stars, the run of the tide, the smell of the air, and the direction of the breeze.

  “I should shoot you, Granddad,” said Motsom, the barrel of his gun lodged in the skipper’s left nostril. The old sea dog half smiled but said nothing. Then his face clouded as Motsom continued solemnly, “But I think I’ll shoot the kid first.”

  “No. He’s only a boy. Please don’t …”

  “O.K. Granddad, let’s do a deal. You get us back to Holland in two hours …” he paused, sensing the alarm on the old man’s face, “O.K. make that three hours, and I won’t shoot the boy. Alright?”

  “I … I can’t,” he stumbled, frantically searching for a plausible reason.

  “Fine,” said Motsom making a move, “then I may as well shoot him now.”

  Motsom was half out of the door before the skipper stopped him with a pleading look. “I can’t … because we don’t have enough fuel,” he said, his voice quavering with fear.

  “He’s lying,” said McCrae, idly picking at the shattered remnants of the compass.

  Motsom scanned the utilitarian instrument panel. “Where’s the fuel gauge?” he said, more to himself than either of the others. There wasn’t one. A long dipstick on the engine room bulkhead was all the skipper needed to test the depth of oil in the tank, and he had no intention of telling Motsom about it.

  The cold hard nozzle of Motsom’s gun jabbed into the side of the skipper’s head. “Which is the fuel gauge?”

  “I don’t have one. I know how much fuel I have and we can’t get back to Holland.”

  “Where can we get to?”

  “England … maybe,” he replied with deliberate vagueness.

  “Get the boy,” shouted Motsom, making them all jump.

  A few seconds later Boyd dragged the deck hand into the wheelhouse and propped him against the chart table.

  “I was just telling the skipper,” started Motsom conversationally, “I want to get back to Holland in three hours.”

  The skipper tried to interrupt, “I told …”

  “Shut up,” snapped Motsom, with a crooked snarl. “Like I was saying,” he continued to the boy, his pleasantness instantly restored, “I want to get back in three hours or …” he paused, “I will have to shoot you.”

  Motsom grasped the bundle of dirty rags that McCrae had stuffed into the boy’s mouth, and wrenched them out. The boy coughed and spluttered and Motsom gave him a few seconds, then he seized him hard around the neck and stared him straight in the eyes. “Your friend doesn’t think I’ll shoot you.”

  The skipper tried again, “Leave …”

  McCrae smashed his gun into the old man’s ribs. “Belt up.”

  Without breaking his stare Motsom continued, “Tell him you don’t want to die, boy.”

  “I don’t want to die,” the boy whispered obediently.

  Motsom stamped his foot, shouting, “Louder.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Louder,” screamed Motsom, his face not an inch from the boy’s.

  “I don’t want to die,” he squealed as loudly as he could.

  “Did you hear that old man?” Motsom said without taking his eyes off the boy.

  “Yes,” said the skipper calmly, his spirit apparently broken.

  “Good. Now take him below,” he said, as his hand on the back of the boy’s neck propelled him toward Boyd. “Hurt him if you want to.”

  The skipper scowled.

  “Only joking, Granddad. Right let’s get going. Holland—three hours.”

  Boyd was half out of the door with the deck hand when Motsom added, “Call me if that fat turd LeClarc wakes up.”

  “O.K. Billy.”

  Temporarily out-flanked, the skipper eased the throttles ahead and spun the heavy wheel. Responding with a shudder, the trawler slowly picked up speed, and the last light of the
day faded from blue to mauve behind them as they steered into the approaching night.

  An hour later, now surrounded by darkness, the skipper glanced at the radar screen watching for the approach of familiar landmarks. A small blip, directly astern, caught his attention. Ten minutes later it was still there, closer if anything. Motsom, gun dangling, stared expectantly into the night ahead, searching for the first signs of land.

  Fifteen minutes later a plethora of bright blips dotted the edge of the screen twenty miles ahead. The skipper recognized the cluster, not yet the low undulating coast, but ships lying at sea anchor awaiting cargoes, their owners saving money by not having them tied up in expensive berths. And the single blip of a small ship was still there, tagging behind, closer if anything.

  “What are you staring at?” said Motsom, looking over his shoulder.

  “Just checking we’re going in the right direction,” he replied with controlled nonchalance. And, turning back to the controls, did a song and dance routine with the wheel, spinning it first one way then the other with exaggerated gusto. The little ship corkscrewed through the water for a few minutes before resuming its previous course.

  Motsom was none the wiser. “Can’t we go any faster?”

  “Not if you want to get there. The faster we go the more fuel we use. It’s up to you.”

  Motsom tried to look at his watch in the darkness but couldn’t make out the figures, so held it over the radar screen. “You’ve got an hour and a half left or the boy will die,” he said, making it clear he had every intention of carrying out the threat. “What’s that?” he questioned, his eye drawn to the single dot behind them.

  “Nothing,” the skipper shrugged, without bothering to look. “Just a coastal freighter I expect, heading for port same as us.”

  “How far away?”

  “Couple of miles.”

  The wheelhouse door slid open and the cool night air crept in ahead of Boyd. “The Fish Kisser’s coming round,” he said with a smirk.

  “Keep an eye on him,” replied Motsom, wagging his gun at the skipper. “I wanna have a word with the slug.”

  Roger LeClarc drowsed as Motsom descended the ladder into the cabin. A full bladder had driven him to consciousness but his mind was still adrift. “Where am I?” he asked vaguely, his painfully swollen eyelids refusing to open properly.

  “Get the boy out of here,” Motsom hissed to McCrae and, as the deck-hand was being dragged up the ladder. He affected a snooty accent. “So, my dear Mr. LeClarc. How are you feeling?”

  “I need a piss,” said LeClarc indelicately, putting first things first.

  There was no toilet on the boat, few skippers saw little need when they were already floating on the world’s biggest cesspool. Roger tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t carry his weight, and he crumpled to the floor and wet himself where he lay, the warm liquid dribbling into a puddle at Motsom’s feet. Stepping carefully to avoid the steaming fluid, Motsom shoved him back onto the bench.

  “I’m sorry,” cried LeClarc now gaining control over his thoughts and faculties.

  “It’s perfectly alright, Mr. LeClarc,” said Motsom, who could have been a doctor tending a distressed victim of rampant diarrhoea.

  “Have you found Trudy yet?” enquired Roger.

  Trudy? queried Motsom to himself, but decided to play along. “No. Where is she?”

  Roger tried sitting up, his head swimming, and grasped Motsom’s arm pleadingly, “You must save her. She hasn’t got a key, she can’t open the door.” Suddenly alert, he scanned the little cabin suspiciously, fearing he’d been caught in some nightmarish time-warp: Curlededged calendars of 1950s pin-ups; coffee stained enamel mugs and battered tin plates sitting in a fiddle rack; a faded pre-war watercolour of Delft Town Hall. “Where am I? Who are you?” he enquired lamely, then slumped back, exhausted, and was instantly asleep.

  “How’s the Fish Kisser?” Boyd asked as Motsom returned to the wheelhouse.

  “Sleeping like a baby—he won’t give us any trouble.” Then Motsom turned to the skipper’s dark shadow, “Where are we now?”

  The shadow shrugged. “Not too far.”

  Motsom glanced at the radar screen and noticed the bright outline of the coast ahead, then his eye was snagged by the single blip behind them, close behind them. “That ship’s getting closer,” he said, clearly expecting a response from the skipper.

  “I said, that ship’s getting closer,” he repeated, spelling it out.

  The shadow shrugged again, but his eyes remained fixed ahead, his mind focussed on the future.

  “Come here when I’m talking to you,” Motsom ordered, and the shadow moved toward him. Motsom stabbed an index finger at the dot on the screen, now less than a quarter of inch away. “How far?” he demanded.

  “Look outside and you’ll see,” said the skipper, barely concealing a grin.

  Motsom catapulted himself across the wheelhouse and was on the deck in a second. “Christ, he’s right behind us,” he shouted. “Sprat, get below and keep everyone quiet. If either of them farts, plug ’em.”

  “O.K. Billy.”

  Before Boyd could move, the hollow “boom” of a loudspeaker hit them, then it burst into life with an unmistakably English voice. “This is British fishery vessel, Gladstone … Vessel off the port bow, we are calling you on channel 37. Please respond.”

  Boyd jumped down the hatch into the cabin and Motsom ducked back into the wheelhouse as a searchlight seared the deck.

  “Faster,” Motsom shouted at the skipper.

  “You’re crazy,” he said guardedly, as he rammed both throttles forward. A ripple of power ran through the little ship and she shivered as the stern settled deeper and the propellers chewed at the water.

  The deep “boom” hit them again, almost immediately. “Heave to. Heave to. You cannot outrun us. Turn your radio to channel 37 and heave to.”

  The skipper caught Motsom’s eye in the glare of the searchlight, his wide-eyed expression asking, “O.K. big-shot—what now?”

  Motsom was thinking, planning, scheming. “Stop,” he shouted, then turned viciously on the skipper, his gun wavering under the old man’s nose. “You say one word out of place and the boy will be dead in a second … Nod if you understand.”

  He nodded, and pulled sharply on the throttles. The bow sank back into the water and the British vessel came alongside, as Motsom left the wheelhouse to stand on deck in the full blaze of the searchlight.

  “Who are you?” shouted a figure hidden in the dazzle of the light.

  “John Smith,” yelled Motsom, not realising the etiquette of the sea demanded the name of the vessel.

  “Where are you from?”

  “London.”

  “Where are you bound?”

  Motsom deliberated for a second. “Just fishing,” he replied.

  “Standby,” said the voice, then a few seconds later, “We’re coming aboard.”

  The sea boiled into foam, tossing the trawler like cork, as the powerful vessel came alongside. Two young officers in brass-buttoned naval uniforms jumped the gap. Motsom glued his feet to the deck and struck a pose.

  “Are you the skipper, Sir?” asked one of the officers professionally.

  “Sort of,” replied Motsom cagily. “Is there a problem?”

  “Why didn’t you answer the radio, Sir?”

  “Broken.”

  The officer gave him a cynical look. “Perhaps I could check it for you, Sir.” He took half a step toward the wheelhouse but Motsom replanted himself. “No problem, Officer. We’ll get it fixed when we get back.”

  “I’d like to take a look in your hold,” the officer said coldly, dropping the “Sir.”

  “It’s empty.”

  “I’d still like to take a look.” This wasn’t a request.

  “We haven’t started fishing yet.” This wasn’t an acceptable answer and the other sailor was nosing behind Motsom, peering into the wheelhouse. “This is a Dutch vessel. Why did you say i
t was registered in London?” he asked sternly.

  Motsom laughed nervously and scratched his chin, “I’m sorry, I thought you meant where did I come from.”

  “And just why would I ask that, Sir?” the same officer enquired, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

  “Stupid of me. Anyway, thanks for stopping, but we’re fine and we’ll manage without the radio.” Motsom’s conversation was over. “Goodbye and get off my effin ship,” were the only words missing, but the officers made no attempt to leave. “Was there something else?” he queried, then wished he had simply faced them down.

  “Yes, Sir, I want to check your log book and your record of catches,” said one, “Shall we go in?”

  The second officer was already sliding the wheelhouse door open forcing Motsom to enter ahead of them. The smashed radio stared accusingly at him as he walked through the door, and the two officers were looking straight at it.

  “It’ll take more than a new transistor to fix that,” one of them said, eyeing the bullet hole.

  “Bit of an accident,” muttered Motsom, without any hint an explanation was forthcoming. “These gentlemen want to check our books,” he continued quickly, addressing the skipper. “Show them please.”

  The skipper smiled nervously at the two officers, his leathery skin, sun-dried and pickled by a lifetime of salt spray, creasing into deep folds. “Yes, Sir,” he replied, and drew the men toward him as he reached the books from a rack above his head.

  For several minutes the two officers poured intently over the logs, while Motsom turned his back and engaged in nonchalant business, as he flipped switches, studied maps, scratched his ear and scanned the radar screen. Please don’t ask me any questions, he implored inwardly, carefully avoiding eye contact.

  “Everything appears in order,” said one of the officers eventually. “Thank you for your co-operation, Sir. Sorry to trouble you.”