He observing Bull with a choleric expression, sneering at the shivering figure, coiled up at his feet, in his foil blanket. He studied his face – bloated and crimson from the exertions of the swim, fat swollen lips and panting heavily like a pub dog on a hot summer’s day. He had a vacant, gormless eyes, thought Andrew, reminding him of a baby harp seal prior to being clubbed to death by a Russian fisherman. Andrew wondered if the man was in shock or like him, just glad to be alive. Was he revaluing his life? Now was not the time for such luxuries, he thought. It was hard to tell his age - much younger than he was himself, but it was difficult to determine with modern western society’s obsession with cosmetic surgery – he could be a pensioner for all he knew. He examined the man’s head of long black hair. He remembered loosing his own hair – it hadn’t really bothered him - all men should have short hair anyway, he declared.
Andrew heard his wife’s voice resonate in his head, There you go again darling, making assumptions about people based on their appearance. It is pure, unadulterated presumptuousness and arrogance, and you know it. His mother’s voice interrupted Ashley’s moralising lecture. Her words were challenging and contradictory. At first an impotent Andrew welcomed the interjection, but then she would qualify her objections by offering excuses for her son’s behaviour. She made references to a young Andrew locking himself in the toilet for hours, being a loner and a fairly odd boy. Andrew’s deceased Grandfather interjected with a deep booming voice to put the two bickering women to flight, much to Andrew’s delight.
“We need to get him some medical attention,” said Bull breaking Andrew’s delusional mental ramblings, “or he’s going to bleed to death.” Andrew was startled. He struggled to control his nervous tick - it was like an impulsive reaction to every voice exploding in his brain. For the most part the voices would stay locked inside his mind, but occasionally they would escape. In times of acute stress he would say things out loud. He was confident the voices hadn’t broken free, not this time.
“Dress it with what?” replied Andrew refocusing his thought process, “the medical kit is missing along with most of the emergency supplies.” The unconscious man’s head swayed from side to side in time with the rhythm of the pulsing sea.
“He doesn’t look too good from here,” said Bull, his words sounding disjointed and his body shuddering with cold. Andrew drew his eyes across Bull’s semi-naked form. With a smirk he said,
“It’s just a matter of when we get rescued and then we can get him some medical attention, and hopefully get you some clothes.”
“You seem sure.”
“These ships are tracked by satellite and the authorities will be alerted. I’m sure of it. We just need to be patient.”
“I’ve got a library book I need to return, so let’s hope it’s soon.”
“A library book? There haven’t been libraries for years my friend.”
“It was just a joke. Something my dad used to say.”
“There will be a time for jokes, but only when we get rescued. Look on the bright side. You’re alive. Many others didn’t survive. I should know, I saw the bodies. We could have frozen to death by now but the life-raft was here to save us and I haven’t seen any other life rafts so far, so count your blessings my friend, God is smiling on us.” Bull raised an eyebrow in confusion. He stared into Andrew’s wandering eyes and said through chattering teeth,
“Yeah, it definitely feels that way.” He paused and then said,
“Do you know him? Was he on the raft when you got here?” Andrew was irritated by the sudden eagerness of Bull’s questions.
“No, I’ve never met him before, but I think his name is Malcolm. Why? Does it matter? By the way he’s dressed I would guess that he worked on the ship. He couldn’t have received the injury inside the raft, although how he made his way here carrying such a nasty wound is perplexing.” Bull sniffed the unconscious man and said,
“Well done Sherlock.” Andrew, his eyelids blinking replied,
“Sorry, what did you say?” Sherlock had been his designated moniker at school, on account of his surname, Holmes. Andrew became aware that he was frowning. His wife often pointed out that the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead would deepen when he frowned. She teased him that he possessed scowl marks instead of laughter lines. Andrew moved to the aperture to take a look out to sea. As he passed, Bull sniffed him before saying,
“It’s just a saying, you know, when somebody solves a puzzle.” Andrew grimaced and viewed Bull suspiciously. He wanted to know why Bull had sniffed both him and the unconscious waiter. He said,
“He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform with the ship’s logo on it, and has a name tag pinned to his lapel. I tried to look in his bag to see if there was any further identification, but unfortunately it’s locked. So it’s just simple powers of deduction.”
“Elementary dear boy,” retorted Bull through chattering teeth.
Andrew frowned again. He sized Bull up and said,
“So why were you naked, apart from your life jacket that is?
“Why does it make you feel uncomfortable?”
“No, I was just wondering.”
“I was showering when the accident happened,” lied Bull.
“Interesting that you use the word accident.”
“What else would it be, if it wasn’t an accident?”
“I don’t know but we know the facts. An accident would imply responsibility, fault, blame…” Bull coughed up some more seawater and forcing his head through the aperture, he spat it back into the ocean. He closed the flap, moved to the far side of the raft and rubbed his exposed legs, trying to prevent them shivering. Bull said, “Don’t you think we should try and turn the lifeboat around and pick up some of the survivors?”
“This is a life raft,” grunted Andrew, “there are no oars and the raft appears to be drifting away from the ship. The wind and the current are at work. If this was a lifeboat, that would be a different matter. They are usually equipped with several days’ worth of food and water, basic first aid supplies, oars, navigational equipment, solar water stills and fishing equipment, but these items are all missing on this craft. I’ve already checked.” Bull cusped his hands and breathed into them. He said, “No food? So what do we have?”
“These rafts are only designed as a temporary means of survival, until a rescue party can be assembled “What do we have then?”
“There are two foil blankets, three flares but they are wet and although we have a hand inflator, there’s no puncture repair kit. I hope we don’t spring a leak. The water bailer is also gone but there is this thing.” Andrew held up a polyester hood attached to a length of rope. “I think it’s a rain catch. We can collect rainwater from the raft’s cover. I think it drains into this bladder.” Bull took it from him and examined it. He put it on his head and said,
“Are you sure?” Andrew’s eyebrows narrowed in bewilderment.
“I don’t know. It might be important, so don’t mess about with it.”
“It will trap some body heat. I read somewhere that you lose...”
“I’d rather you didn’t wear it. We may need it later on.” Bull ignored his protests. “How come you aren’t wet?” asked Bull.
Andrew inspected his attire with a sense of intemperance.
“I am wet but this clothing is designed for survival situations. It is neoprene lined with a water repellent skin so it’s thermally insulated with fast drying qualities. It’s a Roy Beer endorsed Swazi tahr anorak. So are the trousers. Its standard army issue.”
“So were you in the forces?”
“You could say that.”
“I just did.”
Andrew sighed heavily and moved towards the aperture. He unzipped it and stared out. The mist had lifted and the strong ocean currents and winds had dragged the raft further out to sea. The St Kilda archipelago was now a faint wisp of land on the horizon, rapidly dissolving into the iron grey sky, until finally it was gone. The rugged shorelines, peppered
with grey misty cliffs had once appeared ominous from the superficial safety of the ship, but now the absence of land unnerved him. Even the sight of the ship’s upturned hull seemed to shrink behind the low slanting sun, reflecting its rays like shards of shimmering red glass. Andrew watched the troubled vessel appearing like a beacon on the horizon. Still no sign of any rescue services, he thought. The clouds gathered once more and snuffed out the illuminating display.
Andrew felt a knot in his stomach – the anxiety returning. He knelt upright, extending his body as far up as possible, groping around the roof of the raft until he came to the apex, where the satellite beacon was located. He examined the snarled remains of the unit and returned the rest of his body inside the raft and said to Bull,
“Look, it will be getting dark soon. We will need to rely on our own wits until a rescue attempt is made. It’s looking very bleak if I’m being honest. The satellite beacon is busted up.” Andrew stared directly into Bull’s eyes, catching him with a sincere look. Bull resented having his safety bubble burst so soon after finding his refuge. Once more he felt exposed to the natural environment. Andrew continued, “We need get rescued soon or we have merely traded a swift death for a slow one.”
“Does pessimism come naturally to you or is it something you bottle up for special occasions?” grunted Bull.
“I’m just stating the facts of our predicament.”
“So, according to you, we have no chance of survival unless a rescue comes quickly – well that’s just fucking brilliant Sherlock!”
“I’m not saying we have no chance. I’m just assessing the situation as a means of identifying how best to improve our chances of survival.”
“We’re likely to die slowly…”
“This is a normal reaction – seeing yourself as a victim.”
“No, you said we are likely to die slowly – that’s what you said, didn’t you?” Andrew ignored Bull’s question. He was busy recanting script from his military survival handbook. He continued,
“The effects of the adrenalin in your bloodstream are wearing off, leaving you with the debilitating emotion of being trapped with an eroding self-belief.”
“There’s nowt wrong with my self-belief. I’m just cold and hungry, and I wouldn’t mind getting home at some stage.” Andrew was becoming frustrated that his own amateur attempts at field psychology weren’t working. He so desperately wanted to convince Bull that his experience and training endowed him with skills that were going to lead all three of them to safety. Moreover, he needed to be in control, this way his mind would be occupied and focused, extinguishing the inner voices that were ignited by his anxiety. First and foremost, Bull would have to acknowledge that there was a pecking order - so far, he was hopelessly off course with his strategy. Andrew stated,
“Slowly but surely, you are becoming more conscious of the notion that you are a fatality of an uncontrollable event, and that you have been cast off into an unfamiliar environment.”
“The sea? What of it? I was floating on the sea, inside a passenger ferry and now I’m still floating on the sea but inside a life raft.”
“Yes, but when you think that all that lies between you and a mile of deep cold water, is a piece of reinforced black plastic.”
“Have you ever been asked to talk someone off a ledge?”
“No.”
“Somehow, I didn’t think so.”
“My words may sound harsh but part of the survival process is examining what one is up against.” Andrew wanted to build the calm persona of a man who was in control of his own destiny, regardless of the harsh reality of his environment. He called upon his military training, remembering that overcoming stress was one of the primary obstacles to survival. Stress, thought Andrew, impaired the cognitive process. It increased the chances of making fatal mistakes and it sapped energy levels. Stress was their main enemy. Second on the list was complacency, which his companion seemed to be experiencing. He needed to be reminded of the perils they faced. Bull said,
“It sounds like this isn’t your first time waiting to be rescued?” Andrew felt a flicker of accomplishment rise from inside. He tried to offer a smile, but his lips curled into a painful sneer. He said,
“You’re presumption is correct. I’ve had experience of these situations. I know what you’re thinking and you would be right.”
“I was thinking you’re a jinx,” blurted Bull. Andrew’s eyes narrowed for an instant. Bull unzipped the aperture and looked out. His eyes settling on the surface of the ocean. He considered the dense body of saline water, descending a mile to the ocean floor. Suddenly, Bull noticed a suitcase floating near the raft. He pointed out to the grey sea. When Andrew joined him, he couldn’t detect the object. His eyes squinted and darted between the swells, and then, without any hint of emotion in his voice he said, “Let’s get it. There may be something inside that will help us survive. We don’t have any oars but you can paddle with your hands. Come on man!” Bull hesitated. He didn’t like the master and servant tone of Andrew’s voice. “Please?” said Andrew unconvincingly.
They paddled with their hands, but with little success. Bull’s muscles had seized up in the cold. He was moving with difficulty.
“This is hopeless,” he said. He removed his jacket and then his Aran knitted jumper and finally his boots. He slipped into the sea and cut a swathe through the water, stopping every so often to check his bearings. He grabbed the suitcase and made his way back towards the raft, swimming with the object in his arms like he was cradling a drowning child. “A little help wouldn’t go amiss,” shouted Andrew, as he came close to the raft and held onto one of the grab ropes.
Bull heaved the suitcase onto the raft and immediately fumbled with the lock. Andrew crawled back to his original spot, wheezing and coughing. He redressed. Andrew put his hand inside his trouser pocket and withdrew his multi-tool. He passed it to Bull who struggled with shaking hands to withdraw one of the blades. Finally, he succeeded and the lock opened. He rifled through the contents.
“I wonder who this case belonged to,” said Bull.
Andrew sat up and pulled on his jumper. He was impatient for Bull to reveal the hidden treasures of their find.
“It doesn’t matter who it belonged to,” said Andrew, “the main thing is that we now stand a better chance of survival. There’s sure to be something we can use to help us survive. At least some warm clothes for yourself.”
“Yes, you might be right. This will come in handy,” said Bull, holding up a large black brazier. Andrew frowned.
“Joke all you want man, but there may be articles within this bag which could save your sorry life.” Bull draped a bath towel over his shivering shoulders. Curiously, his eyes focused on a label on the towel - stolen from Lustrum Budget Hotel. Andrew crept closer and looked inside the case. He extracted a cotton underskirt and started ripping it into strips.
“What are you doing?” said Bull.
“I’m making bandages for the waiter,” replied Andrew.
“He has a name, it’s Malcolm.”
“Well whoever he is, there’s a nasty head wound that needs tending.”
Bull removed his life jacket and wrapped a shawl around his torso. He made a makeshift sarong for the lower half of his body and draped himself in a white fur coat, held in place by the use of a belt hooked around two button holes. An impromptu turban was created from a scarf and finally, he stuffed other smaller garments under the coat to further insulate the top half of his body. He was warmer now but the water collecting on the floor of the raft made his body feel perpetually wet. He separated the brazier into two and used one of the cups to bail water out the bottom of the raft. “We’re in luck,” he said, looking up in mock delight, “she was a D cup.” Andrew cast Bull a disapproving look but he was gladdened that he was at least able to contribute.
They had come across some food and drink in the suitcase - there was a bag of soft prunes, a bannock cake, a bottle of mineral water and a bottle of Talisker si
ngle malt whisky. Andrew had also come upon a pair of opera glasses. He used them to survey the sea for signs of life or more floating luggage. In the distance, he watched as the Andrea Starlight finally sunk. It was getting dark but for a short time the grey patchwork quilt of cloud fractured, allowing the setting sun to cast its rays across the sea. The last embers of sunlight flickered behind the clouds on the horizon and with the ship’s protruding hull now gone. He knew there was no going back to the vessel but the sight of the ship sinking left him feeling vulnerable, as if the last link to civilisation had been removed.
The wind shifted the raft, bringing the setting sun into view. Andrew wondered why they were travelling west, further out to sea when the prevailing winds would be expected to blow them back towards the mainland. It dawned on him that the ocean currents would be at work and bemoaned the absence of a sea anchor and then he stopped, frozen with a stark realisation. His eyes darted towards Bull. He was no longer wearing the hood they believed to be a rain catch.
“The plastic cone you had on your head? Where is it?” he said.
“It must have fallen off when I was hanging over the side of the raft paddling. Was it important?”
“It was a drogue. A type of anchor to stop the raft drifting. And where's your foil blanket?” Andrew reminded himself that mistakes in a survival situation can be fatal and imagined his sorrowful tale being retold in a melodramatic documentary. He attempted to draw inspiration from the books he had read by Roy Beer on survival techniques and conjured up pictures in his mind of what he would do in this situation. Both men stared out of the aperture in silence. Bull contemplated the sunset and how he and Saffron would watch from the Necropolis as the changing light signalled the end of the day. In her arms he felt the most content.
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 6