Standish opened a cabin door. It smelt musty and humid and he explained, ‘I gather this ship has been without a doctor for some time. But at least you’ve a cabin to yourself, and it’s not too far from the sickbay.’
He waited until the quartermaster had deposited the two cases on the deck, taking the time to get a good look at the newcomer in the brighter lights of the cabin. He was slim and willowy, almost as fair as Irvine but with the pale complexion of one fresh out from England.
Rideout crossed to the handbasin and turned the tap. ‘My God!’ He stepped back with alarm as the noisy juddering of the water system preceded the first spurting jet into the basin.
Standish watched as he lathered his hands very methodically, as if he was just about to perform a delicate operation.
‘There’s a party going on in the wardroom. I’ll take you there and introduce you when you’re ready.’
Rideout turned and looked at him. He had very pale blue eyes and it was hard to tell if he was really serious or merely mocking as he replied, ‘Thank you. That really is most kind of you.’
Standish tried not to watch him as he busily wiped each finger with a clean towel which he had taken from a suitcase.
‘Don’t go too much on first appearances, Doc. She’s an old ship.’ Strange how defensive he sounded.
‘It doesn’t mean much to me.’ Rideout looked at his hands and seemed satisfied. ‘As I have never been afloat before.’
‘Well, that’s all right then. But I expect you looked the Terrapin up as soon as you got your orders. I always did when I got a ship.’
The pale eyes flickered very slightly. ‘Did?’ Then he smiled showing a set of perfect teeth. ‘Actually I flew out here to an appointment at the base.’ He shrugged. ‘I had no idea I was coming aboard until the P.M.O. sent for me, almost before I had put down my cases. I gather that some captain by the name of Jerram requested the arrangement. It was all rather vague really.’
Standish felt that same sense of warning. ‘Been in the Service long?’
‘Two years. Here and there. I suppose this will be a nice change really.’ Rideout was obviously not one to part with information easily.
‘Were you at Haslar?’ Even the name brought back the bitter memories as strongly as before.
Again the gentle smile. ‘No, Chatham mostly.’ He frowned and examined the thumb of his left hand. ‘And a short while at Duncan House.’
Standish turned away, wanting to leave it right there.
Instead he asked quietly, ‘I’ve not heard of it?’
Rideout straightened his uniform and beamed. ‘Now lead me to the party!’ He seemed to realize that Standish had spoken. ‘Duncan House? Oh, it’s a Combined Services hospital.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘You know, for mental cases!’
9 Only Human
THE NIGHTMARE SEEMED to be reaching a climax. The main impression was of heat. The next that of complete helplessness. Flames were all around, but pointing inwards, like the petals of some hideous flower, the centre of which contained an obscene tableau of interlocked, writhing figures. Without seeing her face, Standish knew it was Alison, watched horrified while the bobbing, grimacing figures tore and probed at her naked body. He knew he was calling her name, could even feel the heat of the flames as he struggled to reach her side. Then, as the figures merged and swirled into a mist he saw her turning her head to look at him. Before she finally vanished he saw too that she was laughing. Laughing at him.
He rolled on to his side, fighting the sheet across his body and only then became aware that part of the light still remained.
But it was a shaded torch beam, and behind it he heard Wishart ask anxiously, ‘Number One, are you all right?’
Standish groaned and propped himself on one elbow. In the nightmare he had been burning, and he could feel his chest and thighs running with sweat. But unlike the dream, he was ice cold.
He raised his wrist to his eyes and peered at the luminous dial of his watch. It was three in the morning.
‘For Christ’s sake!’
Wishart crouched beside the bunk, his face pale in the torchlight. ‘I’m sorry about this.’ He sounded worried. ‘But the quartermaster called me. The captain came aboard just now.’
Standish sat up slowly, tasting the gin in his throat, feeling the pitiless hammers around his skull.
‘Oh, I see.’ He switched on a small reading lamp above the bunk and tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes. ‘Did he say what was wrong?’
Wishart shook his head. ‘Only that the captain came in a motor boat from the base and told him not to wake the O.O.D.’
‘Well, that’s it then.’ Standish felt unreasoning anger welling inside him, alongside the vague pictures of the wardroom party which had finally dissipated itself in the mixed attitudes of drunkenness.
‘Is that all?’
‘No.’ Wishart sounded less certain under Standish’s angry stare. ‘That is, I thought you ought to know. The captain’s on the bridge. He didn’t turn in, and the Q.M. thought I should be told about it.’
‘God.’ Standish stood up and steadied himself against the bunk. ‘I’d better see what’s up.’
He tried to grin and then caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was naked, and he knew Wishart was staring at the patches of discoloured flesh where the grafts had been taken from his thighs and upper arms.
He said savagely, ‘For Christ’s sake leave me alone! If you can’t cope with your duty then let me get on with it!’
As Wishart shrank back towards the door he pulled a shirt over his head and added quietly, ‘Forget it, Sub. It’s not your fault. Just forget I spoke.’
Wishart turned and looked him full in the face. ‘I’m sorry, too. I’d heard you had a bad time.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘How you managed to do what you did in the Cornwallis after all you’d suffered before, I can’t begin to think.’
Standish ran a comb through his tousled hair. In the mirror he could see the look on Wishart’s open features, the expression of complete wonder. Like that of someone privileged to share a precious secret.
He said shortly, ‘It’s surprising what you can do on the spur of the moment. Frightening, too.’ He dragged his cap from a hook. ‘Now hop back to bed. All hell will be breaking here in a few hours. The tugs are taking us into dock at eight bells, so one of us at least should be wide awake when that happens.’ He placed one hand on Wishart’s shoulder. ‘And thanks.’
It felt very cold on the upper deck and he walked briskly towards the bridge, letting the keen air clear his head, conscious of the paling sky, of the other ships nearby sleeping at their moorings.
The upper bridge was deathly quiet, like that of a ghost ship, the instruments and the gratings empty of life. Even the cold steel felt clammy to the touch. It was hard to think of the ship as a moving, vital thing at moments like these.
He thought he heard a sound and then noticed a patch of light showing from the chartroom scuttle. He raised his hand to the door and paused. He could hear Dalziel murmuring to himself, the scrape of feet as he moved about the small compartment with hardly a pause.
He turned the clip on the door and heard Dalziel say sharply, ‘Who’s that? Get out whoever you are!’
Standish stepped into the chartroom and closed the door quietly behind him.
‘So, it’s you, is it?’ Dalziel rested both hands on the table and peered at him fixedly. There was only the plot table’s small light switched on, so that his features looked accusing and more angular. ‘What do you want?’
Standish replied, ‘The Q.M. reported you were back aboard, sir. I had already left word I was to be informed.’ The lie came easily but Standish felt far from calm as he watched the other man across the table.
Dalziel had taken off his jacket and the front of his shirt was patchy with sweat. Or from the smell it could be whisky. His tie lay beside his cap on the deck, and his eyes looked bright, even wild.
‘Well, in that case.’ Dalziel did
not finish the sentence. Instead he stared down at the table, and Standish saw that there were several charts and coloured maps spread there, one on top of the other in a disordered pile.
‘Is anything the matter, sir?’
Dalziel stared at the topmost chart, his hands around the Gulf of Thailand as if holding it for himself. He muttered vaguely, ‘I made it clear enough surely. Even a mental pigmy like Jerram ought to be able to understand.’
His usually immaculate hair was awry, and one piece had fallen across his eyes and shone in the light like a polished quill.
He looked up sharply and glared at Standish. ‘I told them. I talked and talked until I was blue in the face. They listened of course. Nice and polite as always. Polite and bloody stupid, the lot of them!’
Standish waited. Any word from him now might really make Dalziel crack wide open.
‘Only saw the C. in C. for a few seconds. I realize his appointment could not wait.’ The scorn in his voice was bitter. ‘Dinner with some visiting Minister is far more important than dealing with communist aggression in the Far East!’ He beat one palm slowly and regularly on the edge of the table. ‘He handed me over to three of his staff. They must have been told what to say. How to react.’ He pushed himself away from the table and walked to the door of his sea cabin. ‘I did my double-damndest to make them understand. I even took my own map along to show them. I’ve spent days outlining my ideas.’ He vanished into the other cabin. ‘Might just as well have thrown it all in the bloody drink!’ He reappeared suddenly, a bottle in one hand and two cups in the other.
Standish said, ‘Anyway, you tried, sir.’ It sounded stupid, but he had to say something. Just to stand and watch Dalziel’s anger and disbelief was more painful than he could have imagined.
Dalziel filled both cups almost to the brim and said, ‘I tried to push home the lesson of experience. They weren’t interested.’ He stared at Standish, his eyes dazed. ‘Would you believe it?’ He tossed the cup to his mouth, some of the drink spilling down his shirt.
Then he said flatly, ‘But my report stands. They couldn’t shake me on that! They’ll have to take all of it in bloody Whitehall. The recommendations I made about patrols, the full evidence of the work done by young Wishart on his first boarding job.’ He paused and looked sideways at Standish, his eyes clouded. ‘And of course about what you did.’ He raised his hand to touch Standish’s arm but overbalanced and cannoned against the bulkhead, the whisky splashing over the charts. ‘Sod it!’ Then he smiled. The effort made him look incredibly sad. ‘We’ll show ’em, eh? Teach the mealy-mouthed bastards a thing or two!’
He busied himself with the bottle again and then remarked, ‘Sorry ’bout the party. Got tied up. All go off all right?’
Standish thought of Hornby being sick in a wastepaper basket. Of Pigott and Irvine duelling with broken chairlegs while Caley drank himself scarlet with glass after glass of beer. And on top of that punch. Even the memory made Standish feel close to vomiting.
He replied slowly. ‘Quite well.’ He watched the whisky going down. The way Dalziel kept turning to stare glassily at the charts. He added, ‘A doctor has joined the wardroom, sir. A Surgeon Lieutenant Rideout.’
There was no sort of reaction at all. Dalziel said thickly, ‘Rideout? That’s a bloody stupid name if I ever heard one.’ He banged his chin with the cup. ‘Still, I got a doctor for the old Terrapin. There’s some spark of hope for those lamebrains yet.’
Standish bit his lip, judging the moment. ‘He seems a good chap, sir. He’s only done hospital work so far and no sea-time at all. He says he spent a short time at Duncan House.’
Dalziel swallowed hard and rubbed one hand across his stomach. ‘Never heard of it.’ He swallowed again and swayed against the lockers. ‘So long as he’s a doctor, that’s all I care about.’
As he turned towards the light Standish saw that his face was shining with sweat.
Dalziel said between his teeth, ‘A hand, Number One! Give me a course to steer for my quarters, eh?’ He closed his eyes tightly as Standish guided him towards the door. Dalziel was leaning more heavily against him every second. How in God’s name would they get down three ladders without falling and rousing the watch?
A figure moved in the gloom of the signal bridge. It was Wishart in his pyjamas.
‘I thought you might need me.’ He seemed to expect a rebuff and hung back by the ladder.
Standish whispered fiercely, ‘Take his other arm. Never more glad to see anyone in my life.’ Dalziel sagged between them, his voice muffled in vague, indistinct mutterings.
‘Is he ill, Number One?’
‘Not ill, Sub.’ They staggered backwards towards the top of the ladder. ‘Drunk I know, and tired out from arguing too by the sound of it.’
Later, after an agonizing journey along the brightening deck and down to Dalziel’s sleeping cabin, Standish said, ‘Keep this to yourself. Captains are human, like the rest of us. But it sometimes pays off to forget that fact.’
Wishart followed him along the passageway, his slippered feet noiseless as he replied firmly, ‘You can rely on me.’
Standish returned to his own cabin and stared at the crumpled sheets with distaste. It was hard to know who you could rely on, he thought.
* * *
Surgeon Lieutenant Rideout seated himself carefully at the small table and beamed at his companions. ‘So this is the Planters’ Bar? Really fascinating!’
Standish wedged his legs under the table and tried to catch the eye of a passing waiter. The bar was attached to a modern, air-conditioned hotel, and to give some weight to its name had been extravagantly adorned with masses of imitation palm fronds and mock bamboo screens, as well as large areas of bright plastic leather.
But for Irvine’s insistence it was unlikely they would have got a table at all, for the place seemed crammed to overflowing and the noise almost deafening. The people around the tiny, circular tables were mostly tourists, British and American, with a sprinkling of French and German engineers and businessmen for good measure.
Irvine said dryly, ‘When you do a tour, Doc, you really do it.’
Standish seized a waiter by the sleeve and shouted, ‘Four iced beers!’ Then the man had gone, his eyes glassy from work and the din around him.
Standish was still not sure why he had agreed to accompany the others on a tour of the city’s highspots. Perhaps he was still afraid there could be some link between Dalziel and Rideout, a connection from the past which might be exploited if the doctor was left alone with Irvine.
It had been a difficult day, starting with the moment when the tugs had warped Terrapin into dry dock and all the business of inspection and estimating the damage had got under way.
If Dalziel recalled anything of the previous night he gave no sign of it. When Standish had finally found time to introduce him to the new doctor Dalziel had been pleasant, if a trifle distant, but there had been no sign of recognition on either side.
With the ship in the hands of the dockyard workers and most of her company ashore there seemed little way of avoiding Rideout’s suggestion of an evening ‘seeing the sights.’
Standish had visited Singapore several times throughout his service but never like this before. Rideout had not only acted like a tourist, he was a tourist. Between their feet beneath the the table was a great bag of souvenirs which he had bought regardless of advice or warning, ranging from brass ashtrays to crudely painted figurines, most of which had originated in Birmingham.
They had followed him down side alleys, sampled a dozen mixtures of food from pavement stalls and had dropped in at several bars which were normally frequented by the more doubtful of Singapore’s citizens.
Now, jammed between Irvine and Wishart the doctor appeared to be finally content.
The waiter reappeared with the beer and Irvine said firmly, ‘Bring some champagne!’
The man said, ‘It’s German, sir.’
Irvine groaned, ‘Bring it anyway.�
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Rideout smiled. ‘What a scene! Wait until I tell my mother about it. The meeting place of the seven seas.’
Standish sipped the iced beer and eyed him thoughtfully. Rideout seemed simple enough. Not very forthcoming perhaps, but there was little sign of any guile either.
Above the bobbing heads of the people around him he saw a tall sweating half-caste in a white dinner jacket and pink cummerbund jerking his head in time with a small orchestra as he crooned breathlessly into a microphone. It sounded like, ‘Ahdunnawah ahluvyah lakkadu!’ As his ear adjusted itself above the din Standish realized he was in fact singing, ‘I don’t know why I love you like I do’. He thought of Rideout’s description and smiled. The meeting place of the seven seas.
Irvine said, ‘It sounds as if we’ll be out of dock before the paint dries.’
Standish nodded. Either Dalziel had some influence with the dockyard manager or someone higher up was even keener to get rid of the Terrapin again. It had been agreed that the work would go on for most of the night, which was, to say the least, unusual.
‘I’ll not be sorry to leave.’
Wishart turned to watch a striking looking blonde on the arm of a plump escort as they pushed past on their way to the hotel lobby.
Irvine said softly, ‘He’ll be all right with that one, I should think.’
Wishart flushed. ‘It might be his daughter. She looked a nice girl to me.’
Irvine glanced at Standish and winked. ‘Ah, the innocence of youth!’
Rideout leaned forward to watch the waiter pouring the first of the champagne. Then he raised his glass and said cheerfully, ‘I think I’m really going to enjoy my stay on the Terrapin.’
Irvine grimaced. ‘In the Terrapin.’
Rideout looked at him curiously. ‘Pardon?’
‘Forget it.’ Irvine sipped the glass and then licked his lips. ‘Not bad.’ He glanced at the doctor again. ‘Well, tell us about yourself. What great store of experiences have you brought to brighten our little monastic world?’
‘Oh, I’ve just done all the usual things. But after a few months barrack duty, inspecting sailors’ private parts for V.D., I had a go at the old head-shrinking bit.’
The Greatest Enemy Page 16