Ship to Shore

by Peter Tonkin

  As the two men looked on in stunned disbelief, there came a gasp from behind them and the noise of a falling body. They swung round expecting to see Gina fainting to the floor—but it was Fatima. And it wasn’t just a faint. Salah caught her up at once and placed her on the ship’s operating table. Then, with gentle fingers, he traced the bruising down from her face to the collar of her shirt. He undid the buttons and opened the green material to reveal a mass of bruising on shoulder, breast and ribs. Niccolo was beside him at once—the First Officer was ship’s medic. ‘This is not good,’ said the Italian, pushing the shirt wider to find the edges of the bruise. On the upper slope of her left breast—at the centre of the damage—was a recently healed bullet wound. Niccolo sucked his teeth and said nothing more, his fingers probing gently. At last he returned his attention to her head and separated the puffy lids of her black eye. Only the white could be seen between them—but it was not white any longer. It was bright blood red.

  4

  Richard Mariner held up the glass of champagne and watched the bubbles fighting to reach the surface while he waited for the hubbub to die down. He was not a drinking man. He would do no more than wet his lips with the alcohol in honour of the toasts he was about to propose, then he would return to drinking Perrier. He had been a heavy drinker once; in fact he had come close to alcoholism after his supertanker Rowena, flagship of the Heritage tanker fleet, had exploded under him more than ten years ago, killing his wife and estranging him from Sir William Heritage, his boss, father-in-law and close friend. He had even left the sea, though exonerated by the court of inquiry, and set up his own company, Crewfinders. During the long, lonely nights and days he had begun to hit the bottle. His resumption of relations with Heritage, his return to the sea, and his marriage to Sir William’s younger daughter, Robin, had saved him. He saw himself as a smaller, weaker man than others saw him. He knew he was not the creature of rock and steel he was reputed to be, and so now he avoided alcohol, the most dangerous of all his enemies.

  Abruptly, he realised that silence had fallen and everyone in the great banqueting room at Heritage House was waiting for him to begin the toast. He cleared his throat. ‘Ha hum!’

  ‘Your attention, please,’ joked John Higgins, the bridegroom. ‘This is your captain speaking…’

  A ripple of mirth went round the big room; as most of the wedding guests recognised the inevitable opening to Richard’s invariable noon announcement aboard any ship he commanded.

  ‘Thank you, John. Now, ladies and gentlemen, before I launch into my carefully researched best man’s speech, John, and particularly his lovely wife Asha, have asked that I propose one special toast. I ask you to be upstanding for a moment, ladies and gentlemen, while we remember absent friends.’

  Asha Higgins drew herself up to full height, topping John by half a head, careful to control the folds of her wedding dress. She raised her tall flute of lemon and Perrier and thought of absent friends and more: of Salah Malik whom she would have moved heaven and earth to have had here to share the happiest day of her life; of her sister Fatima, like Salah for ever barred England’s shores because of her terrorist past and her current association with the PLO. Wherever they were, she was sure they were together, and she was sure they would be thinking of her and of John.

  The room rustled as the guests sat down again. Richard put his glass on the table.

  ‘Now, John,’ he said, ‘rather than giving a complete history of your childhood, education and training, or of our association, or of Asha’s childhood and past experiences, I thought I would simply tell a little story.’

  John groaned.

  ‘No, no. Don’t worry. It won’t be the story of the nightclub performer in Singapore who removed all your clothes on stage…’

  John covered his face.

  ‘…with her teeth. Nor the story of how your underwear was run up the mast of a certain SS Daphne, only to catch the eye of the captain’s wife who was heard to inquire, “Now what is John Higgins’s underwear doing halfway up the mast?” And we are definitely not going to ask how it was that she could recognise your underwear, even at that distance…’

  Most of the hoots of merriment came from those who knew John’s reputation as the shyest and most self-effacing of Lotharios.

  ‘No, I would like to tell a more recent story. The background to your courtship of, and proposal to, Asha. That will, I think, give everyone here a flavour of your romance…’

  *

  ‘Nice speech, Richard,’ said John an hour later as he and Asha prepared to leave for their honeymoon flight.

  Richard smiled affectionately at this man who had started out as his most trusted lieutenant and was now his most trusted and respected senior captain. He put a brotherly arm across John’s shoulders. ‘Got everything? Tickets? Passports?’

  ‘Yes. And we’ve plenty of time to get to Gatwick too. You’ve organised it like a dream, Richard. I really can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘No problem. Here comes Asha now. Let’s try and get you out without too much noise and litter pollution.’

  It was a nice idea but doomed to failure from the outset. John and Asha’s car pulled up festooned with balloons and inscribed with the traditional ‘JUST SPLICED’. They ran towards it through a blizzard of rice and confetti. They settled into it, shaking grain and paper out of their hair, and John started the engine. Immediately, another blizzard of confetti blasted out of the air-conditioning system. Pulling slowly away, he revealed a noisy tail of old boots and tin cans which they dragged gamely down Leadenhall Street towards the Bank of England and London Bridge. They stopped at the first convenient rubbish bin and got rid of the greatest excesses before proceeding towards Gatwick. They got as far as the Oval, on the A23 heading south, before their engine died on them.

  *

  ‘Good speech,’ said Robin sleepily. Richard’s wife sat back in a glow of cloth-of-gold, golden ringlets, golden tan. She was just coming up to her sixth month of pregnancy. That, too, made her glow when it was not making her sick.

  ‘Thanks, darling. How’s the baby?’

  ‘Either practising ballet or getting ready for the rugger scrum.’

  ‘Well, if she’s going to play rugby, maybe we’d better get her name down for the school…’

  They were driving through the early Friday-evening traffic towards Windsor, where they were booked into an hotel for the weekend. Richard’s story of the courtship of John and Asha Higgins had been one of kidnap and piracy, of terrorists and terrible dangers, of high stakes and higher risks. It had also been the story of Richard and Robin’s last, ill-fated, attempt at getting away from it all, and how it had met with such limited success that all of them were lucky to be alive. Now they were going to pamper themselves well away from work and all other responsibilities. Robin suddenly felt full of fun. She hadn’t quite got used to the sudden mood swings caused by her advancing pregnancy but this was one she could handle. She sat up and looked across at Richard’s profile illuminated by the lights from the dashboard. Full of love and longing for him she said, ‘Do you mind driving Daddy’s Mulsane?’ He hadn’t complained, but she knew he missed his old E-Type Jaguar, which was far too low-slung for her to sit in now. Her father Sir William Heritage had lent them his car for the weekend instead.

  ‘How could anyone mind driving a Bentley? Idiot!’

  She wriggled back into the hide seat, luxuriating in the feel of its contours against her back, bottom and thighs. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He looked so distinguished. So handsome. Longing washed over her, and a sense of mischievous fun never far from the surface at the best of times. She lifted her left hand and studied the rings she wore; then, with a girlishly impulsive movement so typical of her, she slipped the hoops of gold and diamond off and popped them into her evening bag. Languidly, she considered her naked fingers, the ghost of a smile playing round the corners of her mouth. Then she picked up the handset of the Bentley’s car phone and dialled.

 
Richard noticed none of this; he was concentrating on the road. It came as a complete surprise to him when he heard her throaty voice say, ‘Hello, is that the Royal Court Country Hotel? Good evening. I am phoning for Mr and Mrs Mariner. I’m afraid they wish to cancel their booking of the Prince’s Suite for this weekend.’

  ‘Robin! What on earth are you up to?’

  ‘Sssh! Yes, I’m still here. Of course I understand the deposit is not returnable. I’m sorry if I have put you to any inconvenience.’

  ‘Robin! We’ll be there in five minutes! What has got into you?’

  She hung up the phone and undid the top two buttons of her dress. Her ripening breasts gave her the sort of cleavage she had only been able to dream about before she became pregnant.

  ‘I have a cunning plan,’ she whispered, making the words sound like the most licentious proposition imaginable.

  ‘What is it?’ His voice was just trembling on the edge of laughter.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Mariner don’t want the Prince’s Suite for the weekend. But Mr and Mrs Smith do. Mr and Mrs Smith whom no one will be able to contact or disturb. Mr Smith is so good-looking he turns heads wherever he goes, and the beautiful, mysterious Mrs Smith wears no wedding ring. Are they film stars out on some secret liaison? Will the truth of it all appear in the gossip columns on Monday? Is there any end to the wicked, wicked things they’ll get up to in the meantime?’

  Her eyes picked up the first of the brightness from the welcome lights of the hotel’s driveway, and glowed like huge grey cats’ eyes in the shadows of the car. She would have been utterly irresistible even had he felt like resisting.

  As she had predicted, they turned heads in the reception area, she in her gossamer cloth-of-gold and he in his immaculate morning suit. Slowly, they walked through the stunned silence to the tall mahogany counter.

  ‘Can I be of service, sir? Madam?’ The receptionist fought to be urbane, then surrendered as Robin leaned forward conspiratorially and enveloped him in a cloud of Chanel. ‘We want a room,’ she whispered, her voice a gravelly alto. ‘No. We want a suite. Immediately!’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Any suite will do. It doesn’t matter how large.’

  ‘Madam, I…’

  ‘Or how expensive.’

  ‘Sir, I…’

  ‘But we must have it immediately, do you understand?’

  ‘Perhaps if you talk to the manager.’

  ‘The Prince’s Suite,’ cooed Robin. ‘I’ve always had the most burning desire to—’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re unlucky there, madam.’

  ‘I beg your—’

  ‘It was booked for the weekend, but our clients cancelled…’

  ‘Perfect!’

  ‘…so I gave it to that young couple over there not five minutes ago. They were actually standing here when the cancellation came through. They took it at once. I’m really most dreadfully sorry.’

  ‘And that was the last available suite?’ asked Richard quietly, his eyes just failing to meet Robin’s.

  ‘If you could just speak to the manager, sir. Perhaps madam would like to wait in the private lounge…’

  *

  Robin paced like a caged tigress in the elegant little lounge, close to tears. Matters were made worse for her by the fact that it seemed to have been carefully and cunningly decorated to resemble the campaign headquarters of a French general on a desert expedition, all swathes of brocaded silk, overstuffed cushions and Louis Quatorze chairs. She found the rich sensuality of it tinglingly exciting. In a masochistic rage she picked up a pamphlet from a fine-legged walnut occasional table and began to read about the sport and leisure complex on offer to residents. The gymnasia. The heated swimming pools. The golf courses in the grounds which reached to the margin of Windsor Great Park (and please beware of the deer on the tenth fairway of the eighteen-hole course). The Jacuzzis in all the suites…

  The door whispered open and the receptionist actually bowed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs, ah, Smith…’

  Richard towered behind him with the most devilish look behind the sapphire of his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, but they have absolutely nothing left . .

  Robin, a senior executive and full ship’s captain with all the papers to prove it, actually stamped her foot.

  ‘…except the Bridal Suite.’

  *

  The call came in at midnight and the same receptionist took it. ‘Royal Court reception, can I help you? Captain and Mrs Mariner? No, I’m afraid we have no one of that name staying here…Yes, they were booked into the Prince’s Suite but I’m afraid they cancelled. No, I’m certain. No one of that name here at all…Yes, of course I’ll take a message but…Heritage House, yes…Extremely urgent…Could you repeat that?…Salah Malik, yes…Ship Napoli, I understand…Certainly. Of course I will tell them if I see them but I do assure you, madam, we have no one called Mariner staying here.’

  5

  ‘Isiah. Nuffin’ I can do in that time, guy. It’s knackered.’

  ‘If I leave it here for you to work on, can you tell me where we could get transport to Gatwick at once?’

  ‘Well, right here, guy. You’re lucky in that at least. This isn’t just a garage and repair shop, it’s the headquarters for all the black cabs in south London. It says so over the entrance there. See? Black Cab Company.’

  ‘Right. We can still make the flight, then. Is that all right with you, darling?’

  ‘Whatever you say, John. You’re my lord and master now.’ Asha smiled serenely at the garage mechanic who was observing her, wide-eyed, and went outside into the providentially dry November dusk to sit on her cases and wait for the cab.

  Five minutes later, John had sorted everything out as far as he could and came striding towards her across the forecourt as a black cab detached itself from the shadows behind him. She was much less serene than she seemed; in fact she was blazingly angry and unsure whether his calm acceptance of the outrage was making things better or worse. Worse, at the moment, on balance. ‘Don’t you ever lose your temper?’ she hissed as he reached her.

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Sometimes. Too often, in fact. But it wouldn’t do any good now. And who is there here to be angry with?’

  ‘You don’t have to be angry with anyone. You can just be angry!’

  ‘Ah. That’s just it, you see. I can’t. I have to be angry with someone or it just comes out as though I’m being grumpy.’

  The cab pulled up beside them and the cabby leaned out of the window. ‘Give you a hand with them bags, Chief?’

  ‘Yes please. We’re in a hurry. Our flight from Gatwick closes in two hours.’

  ‘Should be able to get you there in plenty of time, Chief,’ said the cabby amiably, climbing out.

  ‘It’s captain,’ snapped Asha.

  ‘How’s that, miss?’

  ‘My husband isn’t a chief, he’s a captain. And I’m not a miss, I’m a doctor!’

  The cabby paused, a case in each hand, and considered the flaming woman. Then he smiled dazzlingly. ‘Right you are, Doc. Just leave those there, Cap’n. I’ll get them in the back.’

  *

  They were beyond Croydon before the atmosphere in the back began to cool. John sat quietly, waiting for Asha to calm down, knowing her well enough to know that her display of temper would not last long. He wondered what her marriage to Giles Quartermaine had been like, for the journalist was famous for his artistic temperament and impatience. Sparks must often have flown in the Quartermaine household, he thought. Well, things would be quieter chez Higgins. Wherever chez Higgins was going to be. He had a yacht in the harbour at Peel in the Isle of Man where he had been born and raised. That was the closest thing he had to a home apart from his tanker commands. Asha had no roots in England either. For the foreseeable future, the master and the ship’s doctor of Prometheus II, flagship of the Heritage Mariner fleet, would simply share the Captain’s cabin and call it home. It would be everything he had ever dreamed of.r />
  John had never wanted anything other than to be a sailor. Of Irish/Manx descent—by no means an uncommon combination on the island—he had grown up on and around the sea. James Higgins had been captain of a trawler going after the herring which became Manx kippers after smoking at Peel and his mother had been one of the Quiggin family of shipwrights, related to the Quirk family of chandlers. John had spent his childhood on that mountainous little island halfway between Barrow and Dundrum, growing up in the hurly-burly of a big family half of whom were Quiggins, Quirks and Qualtroughs and half of whom were Higgins, Hursts and Hacketts. He had cousins spread west from Bride to Ballyconneely, from Maughold to Mallin Beg. No sooner had he come to terms with the dour grey waters of the Irish Sea than he found himself in Donegal wrestling the epic rollers of the great green Atlantic. And it was love. There never was a time, it seemed to him, when the sea had not filled him with almost uncontrollable emotion. Awe, at the sheer size of it. Fascination with the mysteries it contained. Respect for the unfeeling, dangerous power of it. Hatred for the grasping, unforgiving greediness which took his father’s trawler and all her crew a week before his thirteenth birthday.

  ‘If we miss the plane, that will be that, will it?’

  It took him a moment or two to come back to the present. This was Asha, calming down.

  “Fraid so. It’s one of those package deals. Fabulous price, ruinous small print. But we shouldn’t miss the plane. Excuse me, driver, but how long will it be?’

  ‘Just coming down on to the M23 now, Cap’n. Twenty minutes should do us, as long as there’s no trouble with the M25 interchange.’

  ‘Thank you. There, darling, you see? There’s nothing to worry about. We have more than an hour before the flight closes. That’s plenty of time to check in the luggage and decide about the duty-free.’