Ocean Prize (1972) (3 page)

The Swedes all got up, drained their glasses and went out of the bar in a compact group.

Trubshaw finished his beer and stood up. “Come on then. Wotcher waitin’ for?”

“Crazy bastard,” Wilson said. But he stood up too.

The Swedes were waiting for them. When they got outside the Swedes turned and walked away up the street. They followed.

They were in the old part of the city and there were buildings with fire-escapes climbing up them like a kind of iron creeper. There were some signs by the kerb reading, “Ne stationnez pas”, and others which read “No parking”; and Wilson’s eye was caught by an advertisement for a brand of whisky that was new to him. The night was fine and cars went sweeping past, but there were few pedestrians. It was easy to keep the Swedish party in sight.

After about two hundred yards the Swedes stopped, glanced back to see that the others were still following, then turned off to the right. They seemed to know where they were going, so perhaps they had been in Montreal before. When the
Hopeful
Enterprise
party reached the turning they saw that the Swedes were some thirty yards ahead in a narrow street lighted here and there by lamps on tall iron standards. A moment later the men had disappeared as though suddenly swallowed up by the night.

“Now where’e they gone?” Trubshaw said. “They tryin’ t’give us the slip?”

But he had no cause for worry on that score. The Swedes were waiting for them in a kind of courtyard or small square on the other side of a brick archway between two tall buildings. The square was poorly lighted and was enclosed by four- and five-storey houses, probably used as apartments or offices. It was a good place for a fight; it was secluded and apparently deserted; they were not likely to be interrupted.

The Swedes had halted and were waiting for them. Wilson felt more impressed than ever by the sheer stupidity of the whole affair. What were they preparing to fight about? An argument over whether or not a man should drink a beer he did not want. Could anything have been more foolish? They were grown men, not children. Yet with drink in them they became like children; except that they were far more dangerous.

“Come on then,” Trubshaw said. “Let’s be gettin’ stuck into the bastards.”

He rushed at Jonsson, whom he had obviously picked out as his particular assignment, and aimed a vicious blow at the Swede’s stomach. Lawson and Moir closed in also, taking on Brondsted and Vigfusson respectively. That left Andersen for Wilson to deal with.

Wilson did not rush forward with the other three; he stayed where he was, about ten yards from the Swedes, and looked at Andersen. Andersen was a handsome man; he grinned at Wilson and said something unintelligible which might have been an invitation to come in and mix it. He seemed to be quite good-humoured about the whole business, unlike Jonsson and Trubshaw, who were both needled and in deadly earnest. Wilson had a feeling that, in different
circumstances, he could have got along very well with Andersen, and he wondered what Andersen would do if he offered to shake hands. Why shouldn’t the two of them stand aside and watch the others fighting it out? He had little desire to hit Andersen and even less to be hit by him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Jonsson and Trubshaw were on the ground and that Trubshaw seemed to be trying to grind his opponent’s face into the rough paving of the square. The other two pairs were slugging away at one another with the obvious intention of inflicting as much bodily damage as possible and with little regard for the arts or rules of boxing. It looked exactly what it was: a nasty, vicious, unscientific affray.

Wilson looked at Andersen as much as to say: “What are you and I doing in this set-up?”

Andersen said something else that Wilson did not understand, then walked towards Wilson, grinning and holding out his right hand. So he had the same idea; he also wanted to shake hands and let the others get on with the argument if they wished. With a feeling of relief Wilson held out his own hand and took a couple of paces towards Andersen.

Their hands met and clasped. Andersen had a powerful grip and, too late, Wilson discovered that he had fallen into a trap. He felt himself being jerked suddenly forward, and then Andersen’s clenched left fist struck him on the side of the jaw with crushing force. Something seemed to explode inside his head and for a moment he was blinded by stars. He staggered, but Andersen was still gripping his right hand and would not let him go. Instead, Andersen kicked him on the left shin.

The pain was agonising. He wrenched his hand away from Andersen and heard the other man laugh. Wilson burned with anger so hot that it almost drove out the pain.
It was a dirty way to fight, a dirty trick to play. And there was no reason for it. What had he ever done to Andersen?

He could hear the sounds of the fight that was taking place—cries, curses, thuds, gasps for breath; but he no longer had time to stand aside and observe; he was involved now, whether he wished to be or not. Now he had to fight.

He caught a glimpse of Andersen’s foot swinging at him again, and he swayed aside and caught Andersen’s ankle in both his hands. He gave a jerk and Andersen went over backwards and landed heavily. Wilson ran in and stabbed at Andersen’s throat with the toe of his right shoe. Two could play at that game.

But his balance and judgement of distance were not as good as they might have been, not with the amount of alcohol he was carrying in his system. He missed the throat and hit the shoulder. Andersen was hurt, but not nearly as badly hurt as he would have been if the kick had gone to the intended target. He was up in a moment, but his right arm must have been numbed by the shoulder kick, for it hung nervelessly and he retreated towards the far side of the square away from the entrance, trying to keep his distance from Wilson until the life came back into his arm.

Wilson followed closely, striking at Andersen with his right fist. But again his judgement of distance was at fault and he failed to make contact. Andersen, still retreating, was finally brought to a halt by a brick wall at his back. Wilson closed with him, got his left arm round Andersen’s neck and began driving in short, jabbing punches with his right. Andersen tried again to kick him, but this time Wilson was prepared for it and dodged aside. In so doing, however, he lost his balance and fell over, dragging Andersen down on top of him. For a while they struggled inconclusively on the ground, both breathing hard, each trying
to gain some advantage but without much success.

It could have gone on much longer if there had not been an interruption. The interruption brought the conflict to an abrupt conclusion. Wilson heard a car stop in the archway, blocking the entrance to the yard. A number of policemen got out and there were some more behind them, probably from another car.

Andersen jumped up and made a run for it. One of the policemen stuck out a foot, tripped him up and hit him with a night-stick. Andersen made no further attempt to get away.

The one who was apparently in charge of the police said in a tired kind of voice: “Okay, fellers, that’s enough. Break it up. You’ve had your fun.”

Wilson got slowly to his feet. Trubshaw and the others were between him and the police, and where he was standing there was a good deal of shadow. He pressed himself back against the wall, still panting from his exertions and feeling bad. He could see no way of escape; the entrance to the square was well and truly blocked and if there was an alleyway or anything of that kind on this side it was not visible to him. Behind him and on each side the houses loomed like cliffs.

“Come on now. Let’s have you, fellers,” the policeman said. “Nice an’ quiet now. You make no trouble, we make no trouble. Okay?”

Trubshaw gave a jeering laugh. “You want us to make it easy for yer? To ’ell wi’ that. Come on, boys; it’s time ter go.”

He made a rush at the police, head down like a charging bull. The others hesitated momentarily, then followed. In an instant police and seamen were locked together in a struggling mass just inside the entrance.

No one was paying any attention to Wilson and he had no intention of making himself conspicuous by joining in the struggle. Let Trubshaw and his pals and the Swedes, now united against the common enemy, work that one out for themselves. If only he could find a way out on this side of the square he might still manage to avoid arrest.

He was still thinking about it when he felt a hand tugging at his arm, and a woman’s voice, low and urgent, said: “This way, sailor. Follow me. Hurry now.”

W
ilson did
not waste time in futile questions; he allowed himself to be led to an unlighted doorway only a few yards to the right, stepped over the threshold into utter darkness and heard the door close behind him.

There was a faintly sour odour, as of damp timber. Wilson stood perfectly still like a man who fears that if he takes one step he may fall over the edge of an unseen precipice. He wondered who had called the police, but it was not important. He heard the woman’s voice again.

“There should be a light but it’s burnt out. Just keep close to me. There’s some stairs.”

The stairs were bare wood. There were banisters on the left and a wall on the right, as his hand discovered. He kept close behind the woman and they came to a landing. He heard a door creak open and the snap of a switch. Light flooded out from the doorway.

“Well, don’t stand there,” the woman said. “Come in.”

He went in and she closed the door. He saw that she was about thirty, maybe older, blonde, overweight, wearing a black skirt and a white nylon blouse. She had a wide mouth and a lot of eye shadow and imitation pearl earrings.

“You’d better tell me your name,” she said. “It’ll make things simpler.”

“Wilson.”

It was an untidy room, cheaply furnished, a television set occupying one corner. An inner door, standing ajar, gave access to a bedroom; he could see part of the bed and a dressing-table. There was a kind of alcove containing an electric cooker, a sink and cupboards.

“I can’t call you Wilson. You’ve got another name?”

“Charlie.”

“Well, hello Charlie. I’m Bobbie.”

It was, he thought, the kind of name she would have. But he said nothing. He was still feeling sick and his head ached. His jaw hurt where Andersen had hit it; his shin too.

“Like to tell me what it was all about?”

“Just a fight.”

“I heard it. And then the police came.”

“Then the police came.”

“They don’t like people to have fun.”

“It wasn’t fun.”

“No? You don’t like fighting?”

“There’s no point to it.”

She gave him a searching look. “I don’t think you’re feeling so good. Why don’t you sit down?”

“Thanks.”

The chair creaked under his weight. Bobbie stood with hands on hips, facing him. The skirt was tight, revealing the curve of her thighs.

“You’re English, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“And a sailor?”

“It’s what you called me.”

“It was a guess. You look like a sailor.”

“And you? You’re not French-Canadian?”

She gave a laugh. “With this accent? Hell, I don’t even
speak French. I’m from Toronto. Surname, if you really want to know, Clayton.”

“Bobbie Clayton. Nice name.”

“Who are you kidding?” She was still gazing at him, as if weighing him up. “My, you’re lucky being a sailor.”

“What’s so lucky about that?”

“No ties. When you’re good and ready just pull up stakes and go.”

“Nobody’s bound to stay where he is.”

“Sure, that’s the theory. Doesn’t always work though.”

“You left Toronto.”

“And landed up here in this dump. You want some coffee?”

It was what he needed; his head throbbed and his jaw felt as though a good job of sabotage had been done on it. The Swede could certainly hit hard even if he did fight dirty.

“Thanks. I could do with a cup of coffee.”

“It’s what I thought. You had some drinks, I guess.”

“Some.”

She moved to the alcove and got busy with the coffee-making. Wilson wondered whether any of the others had got away. He doubted it. Perhaps, like the woman said, he was lucky. He didn’t feel lucky.

“I wonder,” she said, “why men always get so goddam violent when they’re drunk.”

“I don’t get violent.”

“You were fighting out there, weren’t you?”

“I was dragged into it.”

“Oh.”

He closed his eyes and lay back in the chair. He was almost asleep when he felt her hand on his arm. She had a steaming cup of coffee in her other hand, strong and black.

“No milk?”

“This will do you more good. And, boy, you need something.”

She left the cup in his hand and crossed to the other side of the room. She sat down on a sofa that looked as though it had taken a beating in its time and tucked her legs under her, kicking off the shoes as she did so.

“You want to stay the night here?”

Wilson sipped his coffee. “How much will that cost me?”

She gave a laugh and he could see her breasts shaking under the nylon blouse. “You’re a careful one. What was it worth to be rescued from the coppers?”

Wilson made no answer. He had nearly one hundred and fifty Canadian dollars in his wallet. He had drawn the money against his pay with the intention of buying a suit and other clothing in Montreal, but he had never got round to doing so. He had no intention of letting Bobbie Clayton know how well heeled he was.

“So that was why you brought me in from the cold.”

“Would you rather I’d left you to the cops?”

“Don’t think I’m not grateful,” Wilson said. “He drank some more of the coffee and thought about money. He put the cup down on the floor and took the wallet out of his pocket. He opened it and extracted fifty dollars. Bobbie was watching him. He hoped she could not see how much money there was left, but he was afraid she might have caught a glimpse of it. He put the wallet back in his pocket, got up from the chair, walked across to the sofa and laid the dollars on Bobbie’s thigh.

She looked up at him, smiling. “You’re a sweet boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Wilson said, and he sounded angry.

She picked up the dollars, folded the bills and stuffed
them down the back of the sofa. “You don’t like it?” She seemed surprised.

“I’m not a boy.”

“No,” she said. She caught his hands in hers and pulled him towards her. “I can see that.”

She released his hands, put her arms around his neck and drew his head down to hers.

He could smell the scent of her and his brain whirled with a new intoxication. Then she had brought their mouths together and her lips were moving on his. His heart was thudding in his chest like a hammer. She turned her head aside and he kissed her throat, her blonde hair brushing across his eyes.

“Take it easy,” she said. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. “No need to hurry. Finish your coffee. We’ve got all night, you know.”

Reluctantly he moved away from her, went back to his chair and drank the coffee.

“You want another cup?”

The fumes of alcohol were still floating round in his head and his stomach was queasy. Perhaps more coffee was what he needed.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll have another cup.”

This time she fetched a cup for herself too. She sat on the sofa drinking it and gazing at him with a trace of amusement in her eyes.

“What’s so funny?” Wilson demanded.

“I was just thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“It doesn’t matter. How old are you, Charlie?”

His head jerked. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. I just wondered. You look—”

“What do I look?”

“You look—well—young.”

He had been half expecting her to say that he looked like a boy. He might have hit her if she had. Perhaps she had read the warning in his face.

“I’m twenty-four.”

“That’s young.”

“It’s old enough.”

“Yes, it’s old enough.” She sounded regretful. “I’ll never be twenty-four again.”

“You’re not so old.”

She gave an ironical sort of laugh. “Well, thanks for the compliment.” She sipped her coffee. “When do you sail?”

“Tomorrow.”

“So soon? Looks like we shan’t be seeing each other again after tonight.”

“I could be back. You’ll still be here?”

She cast a glance round the room and answered wryly: “Sure, I’ll still be here. I’m not going places.”

She finished her coffee and put the empty cup on a nearby table. She leaned back against the end of the sofa and pushed the hair away from her face with a sweep of the hand. Wilson watched her and felt an overpowering desire to hold her again in his arms, and to be held by her. He set his own cup down so clumsily that it turned over in the saucer, spilling coffee.

“You don’t have to throw it around even if you don’t want it,” Bobbie said.

He did not answer. He got up from the chair and walked over to the sofa. He went down on his knees in front of it and put his arms round her waist. He pulled her towards him and buried his face in the soft hollow between her breasts.

He felt her hand touching the back of his head, fingers
gently stroking his hair. There was a constriction in his chest as though an iron band were tightening about it. For some reason that he could not understand he wanted to cry like a child, and a few dry sobs shook him, tearing free of that constricted chest.

The fingers continued to caress his head. “There, now,” she said, and her voice had an unusual gentleness in it, as though she were indeed speaking to a child. “There, there.”

He awoke in the night and his mouth was parched. He had been dreaming and the dream was still in his mind, the vision of it still not wiped out by the reality of waking. It had been a nightmare of fire at sea, a recurrent fear that he had. The fire had driven him to dive from the ship, but it had followed him, oil burning on the surface of the water, searing his throat. Then he had awakened, sweating and dry-mouthed, not knowing where he was or how he had got there.

Then gradually the nightmare faded and he remembered. He remembered where he was, whose bed he was lying in, all that had happened the previous evening. He lay on his back, eyes closed, thinking of the woman, of Bobbie, of how good she had been to him. What did it matter that she had done it for money? He believed that there was more to it than that; he wanted to believe so, to believe that she had some real feeling for him beyond the purely mercenary aspect.

Wilson had never known his father or mother, only a variety of foster-parents. Perhaps he was still searching for the kind of affection of which he had been robbed in childhood, prepared to find it anywhere, even in the most unlikely of places. It made him vulnerable.

He rolled over on to his side and stretched out his left
hand, searching for the woman. The bed was still warm where she had been lying, but she was not there. Wilson opened his eyes and became aware of a light in the room, a dim, shaded light coming from below the level of the mattress. He twisted across the bed and peered over the edge.

It was the lamp from the bedside table and it was standing on the floor with the flex trailing. There was a black nylon slip draped over the shade in order to dim the light, but there was enough shining through to reveal to Wilson what was going on.

Bobbie was crouched down by the chair where his clothes were piled and she had something in her hand. When he saw that it was his wallet and that already she had opened it and was in the act of pulling out the remaining hundred dollars he did not want to believe it. It smashed everything, every illusion he had had. That was what hurt; he would have given her the money rather than have this happen. He wanted to hold on to the belief that she really had some genuine affection for him, however small. She had made him think that, but he could see now that it had been nothing but a sham; all she had ever wanted was his money.

“Damn you!” he said, and it was more a groan than a cry. It came from the bitterness of his disillusionment.

She looked at him, still crouching there, naked; still with the money in her hand and the blonde, disordered hair hanging down over her shoulders.

“You should have stayed asleep, Charlie. It would have been better.”

There was a trace of annoyance in her voice, as though she were accusing him of some lack of consideration, blaming him for any embarrassment the situation might cause. She appeared to have no feeling of shame at being
discovered in the act of stealing, nor did she show any sign of fear.

“Yes,” he said bitterly. “I should have, shouldn’t I?”

Her coolness served only to increase his anger, and he felt sick in the stomach.

She stood up. “I hope you’re not going to do anything silly. After all, it’s only money.”

“If you’d asked me I’d have given it to you. You didn’t have to steal it.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, Charlie. You wouldn’t have done that. Not you.”

“I would. You had only to ask.”

Light and shadow fell on her naked skin. Wilson stared at the voluptuous curves of her body and felt a sudden overwhelming impulse to hurt her, to punish her for what she had done to him. He clenched his fists, grinding the nails into the palms of his hands, striving to control himself.

She stared back at him mockingly. “Well, I’m asking you now. Can I have the money?”

“It’s too late,” he shouted. He would not have her laughing at him, taunting him. “Damn you! Can’t you see it’s too late?”

He flung back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his face working. At last she seemed to have a suspicion of the demon she had aroused in him and to feel afraid. She stepped back a pace.

“No, Charlie. Don’t be a fool.”

He leaned forward and slapped her on the left cheek. The blow made a sound like a whip cracking, but she did not cry out.

“Okay,” she said viciously. “Take your goddam money if it means so much to you.” And she flung the wallet at him.

Some of the dollars came out and fluttered to the floor. The corner of the wallet hit Wilson in the eye, then fell to the floor also. The sting of the impact served to inflame his anger even more. He reached out and gripped the woman’s neck with both hands, pressing his thumbs into her throat. She made a choking sound and tried to straggle free, beating at his face and chest with her clenched fists.

Wilson scarcely felt the blows. It seemed as though a gong were reverberating in his head. Bobbie’s face was distorted, her mouth open, eyes bulging. His thumbs still pressed relentlessly into her throat.