A guilty, fear-stricken look flickered across Rumbuggery’s white-bearded face. ‘You can’t prove nothin’.’
Ann stood up. “Well if I’m joinin’ this crazy ship I need showin’ to my suite.’
The Skipper stared. ‘Suite? Oh, sure, suite.’
‘Yeah. I gotta powder my nose.’
‘Huh?’ The Skipper stared at Deadman, who closed off one nostril with his index finger in order to mime snorting up some powdered substance …
Ann stamped her foot. ‘I mean I want to take a crap, only I was too ladylike to say so, OK?’ She turned her back on Deadman.
‘Classy broad,’ muttered Deadman under his breath. Raising his voice, he added, ‘Skipper, maybe you could get someone to show Miss Darling to her suite.’
Rumbuggery staggered to the door and hailed a passing crewman. A young, well-muscled, long-limbed, lithe figure dressed in a tight-fitting sailor suit stepped into the doorway.
Rumbuggery introduced the seaman. ‘Roger the cabin boy.’
Ann eyed the creature standing before her. ‘Is that his name or an invitation?’ She turned to Deadman. ‘Things are looking up. Maybe this cockamamie cruise won’t be so bad after all.’ She gave Roger a full-on dazzling smile. ‘Hello there. Come on up to my place – wherever that is. Lead on.’ She gave Roger a pat on the backside. ‘I’m Ann, but you can call me Darling.’ She winked outrageously at Deadman. ‘Don’t wait up, mother, I’m going outside and I could be some time. If you hear me scream, stay the hell out.’
Deadman and the Captain watched Ann and Roger leave. Rumbuggery’s lips were pursed. ‘I still shtand by what I shaid – this is a foolhardy mission, based on the word of a mind-ravaged lost soul. Itsh dangerous and no place for a woman. A woman’sh place is in the home, peeling potatoesh, whitewashing the coal cellar and taking spidersh out of the bath.’
Deadman raised an eyebrow. ‘I think Miss Darling’s place is in a cat’s home.’
‘I don’t think much of women on shipsh.’ Rumbuggery took a long pull from his bottle. ‘Truth be told, I don’t think much of women at all. The love of my life ish thish.’ He tapped his bottle. ‘And my ship – better than a woman any day.”
‘How come?’
‘Shipsh never need yet another pair of shoesh. Shipsh never ask if their bow is too wide or if their rigging is sagging. You can rent a ship to others by the day and you can tie up a ship without it ever complainin’!’
Deadman shook his head. A leading lady with the morals of a degenerate baboon, a rum-sodden old sea-dog in command and a dresser more camp than a scout jamboree. He sighed. It was going to be a long voyage …
The ship rang with orders.
‘Cast off fore – cast off aft.’
‘Aye aye, Skipper.’
‘Let go the stays, Mister Decktennis.’
‘Ooh, thank you, sir – they were killing me.’
‘’Ware that bucket, Sloppy.’
‘If you insist, Skipper, but I don’t think it’ll suit me.’
‘Avast behind, Mister Hawsehole!’
‘Well, there’s no need to be personal.’
‘Weigh the anchor, Mister Obote.’
‘Five and a half tons, sir.’
‘That’s enough sarcasm from you, Mister Obote. Mister Dogsdinner, clear the harbour and steer sou’ sou’ east.’
‘Sho’ sho’ thing, Skipper.’
Coughing like a tuberculosis ward, the rickety vessel limped its way towards open water in a haze of black smoke. A spasm of foreboding crossed Captain Rumbuggery’s grizzled face. ‘And may God have mercy on us all.’
Deadman breezed onto the bridge. ‘So we’re under way at last, Skipper.’
The Captain gave him an unfriendly look. ‘Yes, though I can’t say I’m happy to be setting sail on this fool’s errand. This is an ill-fated ship with an ill-fated crew. I’m mortally certain there’s a curse upon us all.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘An albatross just crapped on my head.’ The Captain removed his filthy cap and stared mournfully at the newly deposited guano. ‘I’m going below. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in an alcoholic stupor.’
Deadman watched the departing captain out of sight and shook his head. The Skipper had the jitters: well, Deadman couldn’t exactly blame him. The voyage they had embarked on would be enough to try any man’s courage.
Still, there’d be no room on this ship for milksops and weaklings. Deadman squared his shoulders. It was time he checked on the crew.
The light faded as the movie man made his way into the bowels of the ship, along dimly-lit corridors whose walls glistened with moisture. The air throbbed with the arthritic beat of the engines; from behind the walls came the furtive scrabbling of rats and the less wholesome sound of off-duty crew members removing each others’ gold fillings. Deadman reached the crew’s mess. He stepped over the mess, wondering why a bunch of grown men couldn’t manage to make it to the can in time. Squaring his shoulders, he flung open the door.
Immediately he stepped back, gagging, as a wave of foetid air, redolent of spoiled gorgonzola, athlete’s foot and bus station rest rooms burst over him.
Dabbing at his streaming eyes, Deadman gazed around at the dregs of humanity occupying the stinking fo’c’sle. There was the usual collection of Lascars, mulattos, gimlet-eyed Shellbacks, Ancient Mariners and Flying Dutchmen. In one corner stood a painted savage shaving himself with a harpoon. A shrunken head hung from his waist, tied by its hair. At a rickety table, two old seafaring men – one blind, the other with a wooden leg and a parrot on his shoulder – sang an incomprehensible pirate ditty with the chorus, ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.’
Deadman raised a hand for quiet. The noises of sailors carving their initials on whalebone trinkets and each other died away into an ugly, brooding silence.
‘Men, I guess you know me. Carl Deadman, movie producer.’ Deadman scanned the hard-bitten faces that glowered at him from the dingy recesses of their stinking rat-hole. ‘I’m gonna be straight with you. When we reach our destination, the going could be rough. I’m going to need men with guts, men who laugh in the face of death.’
‘No probleme zere, m’sieu.’ The voice came from a hunted-looking individual wearing a striped shirt, a black beret and a string of onions round his neck. ‘Zere is not one of us on zis hell-ship who would not sell ’is life for a shot of rum an’ think it a bargain.’
‘Is that so?’ said Deadman. ‘And who might you be, sailor?’
‘Jacques-François Peep, formerly of the French Foreign Legion. In ze regiment, I was known as Beau Peep.’ The man’s eyes clouded with pain. ‘I joined ze legion to forget.’
‘Forget what?’
‘’Ow do I know? I’ave forgotten. Zat was ze ’ole point!’ The man stiffened, and his face turned pale. ‘Wait – now I remembair! I was an accordionist – ze greatest in all France! I ’ad a monkey – ’er name was Sylvia –