Whatever You Want

by Nicole Dere

  Misery, and rapidly worsening mal de mer , sends me into a trance-like numbness, from which I am roused by a shout from one of the crew up in the control cabin. M. Auguste is summoned up forrard. Suddenly alert again, I hear the distorted metallic tones of a radio, and four of the crew are out on the deck on top of the cabin, staring out at the sparkling sea ahead of us. A shout goes up, and I just catch a dying glimpse of a pale falling flare. The boat picks up speed and veers towards it, heading across the direction of the heaving swell now, which makes the motion even more uncomfortable, half pitching and half rolling. This and the sudden increased tension has a disastrous effect on me, and I lurch to the low side, close to where Wanda is sitting, and heave up my meagre breakfast, which does not take long. I remain doubled over, great, dry, shuddering heaves shaking me, the tears streaming, mucus streaming from my nose, until I feel fingers like talons grab me by the back of my neck, then my hair and yank me painfully upright. ‘I thought you Brits were all supposed to be natural born sailors!’ Wanda laughs scornfully. Then I feel her dark gaze boring into me as I wipe sheepishly at my mouth and chin. ‘Never mind. Looks like we’ve arrived at your new home!’

  The “your” doesn’t register with me as I glance up, and gasp with astonishment, my physical woes forgotten as I stare at a looming wall of rusted steel rearing up like a tower block right in our path. Standing out black against the pale sky is what seems to my untutored eye to be a vast ship. Its upperworks, once white, are as rusted as the dark plates of the hull below. The figures leaning over the rails are mere black silhouettes, dwarfed by the lofty height of the deck on which they stand.

  ‘This is it, ladies!’ M. Auguste grins, joining us once more in the low stern of Malaika , moving a little unsteadily, for our boat has cut its engine and is bobbing like a cork in the swell as it drifts close to the larger vessel. ‘Make haste! We must get you aboard quickly. We don’t want to risk being seen.’

  Already, a short metal arm is being swung out from the rail high above. It looks like one of those davits from which lifeboats are suspended, and a heavy coil of rope attached to it is flung down, to land with a loud splash in the rapidly diminishing stretch of water between the two vessels. My heart rate accelerates yet again as I visualise with horror having to struggle to climb up a swaying rope, a height greater than a house, and my brain freezes with terror. The blood feels as though it has drained down to my feet. My whole body is shaking violently, and I am startled to find that the low keening I can hear is coming from my lips.

  Our crew manoeuvre Malaika closer still, and one of them leans down with a boathook and captures the floating rope. With considerable difficulty three of them manage to drag it up onto the cabin top of the launch, water streaming from it, and I see that it is in fact a coarse net, with mesh like that seen on tennis courts.

  ‘You first, Crissie. Vite alors ! Quick! Quick!’ M. Auguste seizes me quite roughly and propels me towards this soggy bundle. His henchmen’s crude hands reach out to assist, and haul me unceremoniously into the middle of the net. They are not particular where they lay hold of me as they do so, but I am far too preoccupied to worry about such minor indignities. ‘Sit!’ M. Auguste urges, his hands pantomiming his instruction, and I crouch fearfully, then lower myself. The thin wet strands of netting cut coldly into my buttocks, and the soles of my bare feet, then, all at once, with a violent jerk which flings me on my back, I am dragged painfully from the tiny decking, then swung aloft, my feet up level with my head, and my whole body rotating, spinning rapidly, and I scream with fright, my fingers grabbing, poking through the net. Vaguely, somewhere in my reeling mind, I am aware of shame and embarrassment at the spectacle I must present, for the kikoi is already up around the top of my thighs, and threatening to flap open at the breast, but I daren’t for the life of me let go of the net. I hang there, squealing, and wriggling like a fish about to be landed.

  Whatever dangers may lie ahead here, I have never been more relieved than when I feel myself swung dizzily inboard, and rough hands reaching for me at the end of that perilous ride. I am dumped on the trembling, hot deck, spilled out of the net just like that helpless fish, and sprawl stunned, gazing up at the grinning forms that surround me. A hearty cheer goes up, and I realise why when I glance down to see my breasts tumbling free, perhaps more attractively than I have just done. I clutch at the gaping piece of cotton, and hastily restore at least a modicum of decency, tucking the folds tightly about my tits and squirming it down over my behind, which has also been given an involuntary airing during my brief, hectic ride. I am further embarrassed by my discovery that I am doing a kind of soft shoe shuffle, caused by the heat of the throbbing deck plates burning my tender soles.

  But before I can properly take in my novel surroundings, further powerful distraction takes place. The net which transported me up to the deck has already been lowered again, and I stand by the rail with the others, awaiting the arrival of Wanda, whom, I freely admit, I am now longing to see. In fact, I can see her, standing there in the stern, with M. Auguste’s squat figure still on the cabin top, urging her forward. She stands very straight, then suddenly mounts the little shelf-like seat at the very back of the launch. Time suddenly seems frozen in that instant, as she rips off her kikoi and flings it from her, so that it flutters like a leaf in the wind and drops into the water. Then she turns, rises on her toes like an Olympic contestant – I can see that poised, naked beauty clearly in my mind even now – and with a little spring upward, dives into the sea, the pale soles disappearing with scarcely a ripple.

  For another long second, everyone is motionless, staring at the spot where she has vanished, waiting mesmerised for what seems an eternity, until she finally surfaces a good ten metres away from the Malaika and almost at the stern of the vastly bigger vessel. She cuts expertly through the heaving sea and is hidden behind the stern before the launch is able to restart its engine and back away from its giant neighbour before swinging round and starting off in pursuit.

  I begin to think I am forgotten. Most of the motley crewmen who made up my welcome aboard party set off at a run aft, but one stout individual, in a grubby vest and what look like ragged cutaway jeans ending at the knee, catches hold of my wrist in his grimy paw and hauls me after him. It’s hard to tell whether his complexion is brown by pigmentation or by exposure to the sun, or maybe the layers of dirt encrusted beneath the sheen of sweat, which gives off a ripe aroma. My anxiety about Wanda gives me courage enough to make a protest. ‘But my friend! Please! I want to see if–’

  ‘Move!’ He tugs me so hard I have no option but to follow. I do so at a trot and he runs me across the short area of filthy deck and into the sudden gloom of what I later learn is the big block of superstructure in the stern, which houses the galley and most of the accommodation space, its whole width at its upper front comprising the bridge, the chief control point of the ship. But I don’t know where the hell I am or what’s happening as I stumble in this ape’s wake through a series of steel doorways, all of which have a lethal sill about six inches high across their feet, and on the first of which I bang my shin agonisingly. My yelp extracts the first sign of humanity from my captor, who grunts appreciatively at my cry. We also climb a bewildering number of ladders, which although they are stepped rather than runged, play havoc with the soles of my bare feet. For these ascents, the order is reversed, and I am allowed to go first, assisted by a hand the size of a dinner plate on my bum. I also suspect that my private parts are all too plainly in view, given the inadequacy of their scanty cover and their elevation over the gaze of my warder. It’s a relief when we finish our climb, to emerge into dazzling light. The glassed-in frontage of the bridge stretches ahead of me, giving excellent views of the open deck towards the bows, and the seascape both ahead and to either side. There are two other crew members on duty up here, both of whom stare with curiosity and delight at my emergence, like a stripper from a party cake. But my companion gives neither them nor me chance to get further acquai
nted. With a last heft on my bum, he directs me towards a door close by on my left, through which he ushers me, and then steps back. ‘Don’t move!’ he growls, and shuts me in.

  I am surprised at the spaciousness and comfort of the cabin in which I stand. A large sloping desk, such as you would find in a drawing office, stands to one side, on which is spread a map or, rather, chart, with various drawing and measuring instruments on a flat table beside it. A number of rolled-up charts stand upended in a series of wooden slots, underneath several bookshelves attached to the wall. A number of large tomes stand on the deepest, bottom shelf, and other less imposing books, including a good number of paperbacks, cluster thickly on the upper spaces.

  There are a couple of armchairs and a two-seater settee arranged around a low coffee table and, against the far wall, a wooden dining table and four chairs. Such civilised order shocks me. I stand on the threshold like a trespassing savage, my toes curling into the stout strip of coco matting. I’m too sick with fear and worry over Wanda to get my reactions into any sort of order. I try to tell myself she is bound to be all right. Where on Earth can she go? She can’t swim back to land! The launch will have picked her up by now. It was just her typical pigheaded defiance making her do something crazy like that, an instinctive protest against her helplessness, like her furious onslaught over in the long hut, when they had kept us chained like animals.

  I become miserably aware of the physical effect of my anxiety in the ever-more urgent need to relieve myself. I try the door behind me through which I have just passed. It is as I feared locked. Should I call out, hammer on it? I know there are two men out there. It’s either that or an even more embarrassing accident here where I stand. Frantic now, I glance wildly about me, searching for a receptacle – a waste paper basket, anything! Then I see the two doors opposite me, on the other side of the large cabin: one to the right, one to the left. I choose the one to the right, claw at its awkwardly recessed little handle. It opens and there, in miraculous answer to my pressing need, I see a small lavatory pedestal, with a small wall basin beside it, and a narrow shower stall. I dive for the loo, lift the white plastic cover and squat with a whimper of relief, followed by a gush of even stronger relief, as I pee, with a force that makes my eyes water. And suddenly that relief turns to renewed alarm. I can’t stop! On and on I stream, then spurt, then dribble, until I am convinced someone will come while I sit here. But no one does, and eventually the seeming river runs dry, and I dab and flush, pausing to try to recall when was the last time I was able to use such a convenient convenience. And now my mind is free to resume its former torment of uncertainty and fear for Wanda’s welfare.

  I recall my shock at the urbane M. Auguste’s unexpected punishment for her former fit of violent protest. What would he do now that he had something to get really steamed up about? He had indicated how urgently he wanted the transfer to this ship to take place. He would be furious with her for causing this delay. And why did she do it? She must have known there was no possible chance that she could actually escape. There was nowhere she could swim to. If they simply abandoned her, she would drown, there was no way she could reach land, or even survive afloat until she was rescued. Once again, I am forced to accept that it’s just her volatile nature – a kind of craziness in her that makes it impossible for her to accept the reality of our helplessness. She has to hit out, however futile it might be. Reluctantly, I acknowledge my admiration of her courage, but also my anger at her recklessness, which will probably make the situation far worse for both of us. Selfish cow!

  How often these past weeks have we wished for a watch or a clock, instead of that dreary, fierce old sun for our timekeeper. And now there’s a neat, small wall clock marking every second for me, and it’s pure torture as I watch minute after minute tick by without anyone coming near me. I’m full of scorn for my own cowardice as, time after time, I return to that outer door and raise my fist to beat at it, tense my throat muscles to cry out, then let my hand drop, and make no other sound than a low moan. Why the delay? Why no dripping, exhausted Wanda and fury-spitting M. Auguste?

  I hear sudden movement outside, several feet moving, voices, orders barked, a telegraph bell ringing. The low humming which I have heard and felt beneath my feet changes pattern, becomes loud, a thumping beat like a heart deep below, and all at once I am aware of movement, this solid, comfortable room reminiscent of the world I was plucked from so long ago, it seems, suddenly trembles, then starts to sway, a strange rocking rhythm, and I realise with a shock that we are getting under way. Where is Wanda?

  I picture her chained again, as she was before, her naked body still gleaming wet, and the squat figure of M. Auguste wielding a whip. But this time it will not be for sadistic amusement, as it was ... when? Was it really only yesterday? Oh God! You fool, Wanda! A part of me – the meanest part – can’t help thinking vindictively, serves you right!

  The beat of the engines grows steadier, the movement settles to a gentle, regular sway. The voices and bells are heard, less definitive now. The vessel has settled into a rhythm. And still I am left alone, and still I can’t pluck up the courage to go to the door, knock and raise my voice. Instead I sit on the sofa, then lift my feet and curl up in its narrow embrace. I realise I’m shivering, in spite of the warm current of air I can feel on my bare limbs and shoulders.

  I leap upright at the sudden opening of the door, my hand clamped to the thin cloth covering my breasts. A tall figure in white short-sleeved shirt, black tie and black trousers stares at me. He is dark brown, a much darker shade than Wanda, and his greying hair, clipped short but rising to a peak at the centre of his high forehead, consists of tightly kinked natural curls. His features are almost severely thin, with a long, sharply chiselled nose, and high, prominent cheekbones. A small beard covers just the lower part of his chin, with a thin line of moustache on his upper lip. These are also flecked with grey. His looks remind me of the Masai warriors Simon and I saw when we were on safari on the mainland, staying at one of the game lodges. (Later I learn that he is Somali.)

  ‘I am Captain Abdi. You’re in my custody now. You will be OK as long as you do exactly as you are told. Understand?’

  I nod, clear my throat. It’s hard to find my voice, and it comes out in a feeble croak. ‘My friend – Wanda. Is she all right?’ His black eyes are piercing, and seem to bore right through me as he stares for long seconds without answering. I feel the hot tide of colour flooding up from my curling toes, and my wisp of a sarong is no cover at all. His tone is a deep bass rumble as he speaks at last.

  ‘I’m afraid M. Mazarin and his men could not find her. We could wait no longer. It’s too dangerous for us to hang around in these waters. We had to get underway.’

  ‘But ... but ...’ I stare unbelievingly, the blood pounding in my ears, thundering from my heart.

  The narrow face shakes, the eyebrows flicker upward eloquently. ‘They searched for a long time. Too long! She was a crazy girl to finish herself like that.’

  I stare at him, still unable to take it in. The room starts to swirl, the deck shifts with new violence under my feet and my knees buckle. I start to fall and he steps forward, catches me in his long arms as my kikoi falls away from my body and I pass out in his secure hold. It seems the best thing to do.

  Chapter Twenty

  RELUCTANTLY I RETURN TO awareness to find I am lying on a bunk attached to the wall of what I soon deduce is the other room leading off from the main cabin. It is hardly bigger than the toilet and shower compartment I have already visited. I manage to stop myself from murmuring the trite phrase, Where am I ? I realise that only seconds have passed since the captain scooped me up and swept me over the threshold of what is undoubtedly his bedroom. I also realise I must have almost lost my kikoi , which he has placed loosely over me when dumping me on his narrow bed, and which falls from my upper body when I struggle to sit up. I claw it back over my breasts and hold it there. Then the import of what he has just told me – that Wanda is d
ead – hits me again, and I fall back, shaking my head, muttering my useless denial. ‘No, no! She can’t be! She’s a fine swimmer. I’ve seen her. They’ve got to keep looking.’

  He holds my wrists with gentle firmness, while I stare up through the blur of my tears, observing his long, princely face. He shakes his head. His dark, liquid eyes, the whites smokily yellowed, seem filled with understanding. Suddenly I want his arms about me, holding me again. The feeling shocks me.

  The deep, calming voice rumbles again. ‘The launch searched a long while. And my men kept watch from the boat. There was no way we could have missed her.’

  I let myself go, give way completely to my grief, my frame racked with the violence of my weeping, while he remains silently at my side, gently holding my hand. My distress is compounded by my guilt at recalling how bitter my former resentment has been towards her, as well as my deception in the role I have been playing for Simon. And at once my thoughts turn to him, and the disastrous way her loss will affect him. By her insane and fatal action, she has destroyed all his hopes for retrieving his own fortune. And now sorrow, and guilt, clash with my love for Simon, and worry for both of us caught by this predicament.

  With a great effort, I fight to conquer my convulsing sobs, raising a corner of my kikoi to dab at the flow of tears. ‘What will happen now? Where is M. Auguste? Is he here? Can you tell him–’

  ‘No, he’s not aboard. He’s gone back to shore. We had to leave. We cannot stay in these waters, it’s very dangerous for us.’ He grins, and I note his fine, even teeth, pale against his dark complexion. ‘We are pirates, you know. Famous now, on this coast.’ The smile fades, his high forehead furrows. ‘Too famous! Too many people looking for us around here now. There’s a French navy boat in the area. We must head further out to sea and make our way north.’