Esther said nothing, but put her hands on her hips and stared out to sea.
But Matthew had no intention of stopping the lecture. ‘Year and a half back, an ABS who decided to take a jaywalk across an open hold full of grain while the hatches were still open in port, fell in. Okay? Crew thought he’d jumped ship, done a runner, when he didn’t show up for his watch. So they sailed, they thought, without him. Found his body at the bottom of the grain at the next port. Care to think about what drowning in raw, unhusked wheat must feel like? No? Well try thinking about how drowning in a big pile of shit might be for laughs, because believe me, honey, that’s what would have happened to you if you’d gone ass over tit.’
Esther looked at him. He was genuinely angry, breathing hard, his eyes lit with indignant fire. She held up restraining hands. ‘Yeah. Okay. Sorry.’
Matthew turned and looked out to sea himself now, as though trying to calm himself. ‘Man, you shouldn’t even be out here without a hard hat. It’s a bulk carrier, not the QE fuckin’ 2.’
Esther was getting annoyed. This, after all, was the drunk who could barely stand upright yesterday, and even though she was grateful he got her on board, he was hardly Captain Kirk.
‘Yeah, well it doesn’t look like “shipshape” means much out here anyhows.’
He snapped his glance back to her. ‘Meaning?’
She pointed down at the hardened slime trail beneath his feet. ‘I got curious as to what that was.’
Matthew looked down, and followed the trail with his eyes from hatch cover to ship’s rail.
She watched the slow wit of the perpetual drunk try to work it out and fail, and pity returned. ‘But I guess I was out of line. Sorry.’
Matthew was still staring at the trail. ‘Yeah.’ He said it absently, obviously still perplexed.
‘Can I finish my run?’
He turned back to her, his hand stroking the nape of his neck in thought. ‘Huh? Yeah. Go on. You heard me out.’
She held his gaze for a beat then turned and sprinted for the bow.
Matthew watched her absently for a second then turned and walked along the trail to where it left the deck and slipped beneath the rail. He leant over and stared down at the stained hull of the ship. There was nothing to see except the oily blue-black of an insanely deep ocean and the virgin white of its foam.
By the time Esther had come around again, he was gone, but the third and last circuit saw her nearly run into two cadets wandering on deck with buckets and mops.
Although she didn’t know why, Esther was pleased they were coming to clean it up. Very pleased.
The captain’s door was closed, which Renato knew signalled he was either in the shower or asleep. But it was already gone eight-thirty and neither possibility was very likely for a man of such regular and early rising habits as Lloyd Skinner. As he paused by the closed door and pondered what to do, he was joined by Pasqual the radio officer, clutching a piece of paper and yawning.
‘Taking a dump is he?’ said Pasqual in their native tongue, secure in the knowledge that even if the captain was on the other side of the door, the words would be meaningless. That, of course, was the great advantage of sailing with American top brass. At least usually it was. Although the captain had picked up a word or two of Filipino, enough to say please and thanks, the crew could largely talk amongst themselves in front of Skinner without the threat of being pulled up for verbal insubordination. Unless, of course, you were a rating and second officer Renato Lhoon heard you. Then you were in big trouble. Cotton however, required more caution. His Filipino was pretty strong for an American, as was his Spanish. But since Cotton was mostly drunk the crew could afford to relax when discussing him in his earshot. Anyway Cotton wasn’t here. They could say what they liked.
‘Yeah, well we all got to go sometime, Pasqual.’ Renato knocked lightly on the door.
‘Come.’
The captain’s voice revealed that he was indeed on the other side of the door, sounding, by Renato’s familiarity with the master’s quarters, as though he were merely seated at his couch and chart table.
The men entered, and Renato was rewarded by having his theory proved exactly right. The captain’s quarters consisted of an office that was joined by a closed door to his personal suite of rooms, no more than a larger version of the officers’ cabins with a slightly bigger shower room. In the office that the men entered, a large desk covered with papers was fronted by a seating arrangement of three cheap block-cushion sofas pushed together to make a C-shaped fortress of foam, surrounding a low table designed to be exactly the correct size to accommodate a standard navigational chart. Skinner was seated at the table, his hands cupping a knee, nothing on the table more sinister than a chart of the area they were currently sailing and a mug of coffee. He looked up at the men with the mild irritation of someone who has been disturbed.
‘Gentlemen?’ Skinner said shortly, as though they’d walked in on him naked.
The two men exchanged glances. ‘Eight thirty-four, captain.’
Skinner blinked at Lhoon, then looked down at his watch. ‘Ah. Right. Sit.’
The radio officer held out the paper. ‘Just delivering this, sir. Two messages from company for you, and one for purser.’
Skinner took the paper, and Renato sat down on the ungiving couch opposite his captain.
‘Thank you, Pasqual.’
Looking down at the paper without reading it, he spoke casually, absently avoiding eye contact with the man.
‘Eh, yes. Make a reply in a couple of hours. You can let me know when will be convenient for me to use the radio room alone. Confidential ship-to-shore.’ He scratched at his neck and added, ‘Nothing urgent.’
Pasqual nodded. ‘Sure. No problem.’
The radio officer left them, stifling a yawn again. He hadn’t slept well last night as a result of eight hours of fierce half-waking dreams and half-conscious anxieties, an unusual occurrence for him, and now it was taking its toll. No matter. After he’d got his morning watch out of the way, maybe he would slip back to the cabin and catch up. After all, the sea couldn’t be calmer and everything on board was normal to the point of tedium. He left the captain’s door open as he exited, the way shipboard etiquette said it should have been when he’d entered.
Renato coughed into a fist, then clasped his hands in front of him ready to deliver his routine daily report. ‘Quiet watch, captain. All’s well. Only action, First Officer Cotton opened hatch doors round eleven-thirty. Thinks there might be risk of methane. Weather looks like being okay to leave them for now.’
Skinner raised an eyebrow, then nodded. ‘Methane. Yes, well.’
‘Third officer on duty now, and he knows to keep an eye on weather fax to close them if it blows above force four.’
‘Good. Right.’
‘Anything for today, sir?’
Skinner looked casually at the radio officer’s communication again. ‘Eh. Maybe some routine inspection. Down in the engine rooms and in the cofferdams.’
‘I can organize that.’ Renato held out his hand for the paper.
Skinner looked up at him, and there was nothing absent or distracted about the piercing gaze he fixed on the man. It took his second officer by surprise.
‘That won’t be necessary, Renato. This is my duty.’
The man nodded, withdrew his hand self-consciously, then waited. The captain continued. ‘The bosun briefed for the day?’
‘Sure.’
Skinner