Sea Fury (1971) (12 page)

She smiled. The idea of Saul growing fat was too
fantastic
. Why, he was nothing but skin and bone; a breath of wind would have blown him away. It was as though the starvation of the concentration camps had put its mark on him for ever. On her also.

“I wish you would go, Saul.”

But he was adamant. “No. I stay here with you. There was a time when I could not be with you.” She saw his eyes cloud with the memory of that period in their lives, and this time it was she who pressed his hand. “So do not scold me, Sara, if I refuse to leave you now.”

She smiled at him, feeling a wave of tenderness for him. It was surely worth a little sickness to know that he still loved her so dearly.

Johansen left the dining saloon just ahead of Lycett. Lycett overtook him in the alleyway.

“I have a message for you, Mr. Johansen.”

Johansen stopped. He turned and faced Lycett. “Message? What message?”

“Do not wait up.”

“You speak in riddles. I do not understand. Explain the meaning please.” Johansen spoke impatiently. He was getting somewhat tired of this fat, pompous man who was so obviously jealous and so obviously impotent to do anything about it.

“The meaning is that tonight you will not have company.”

“That is the message? Nothing more?” There was a
mocking
note in Johansen’s voice. His smile was mocking.

Lycett was suddenly goaded beyond endurance. That this man who had seduced his wife should now have the
presumption
to laugh at him to his face. “You bloody bastard!”

He took a swing at Johansen with his right fist, and the very unexpectedness of the action took the mate off guard. Lycett’s fist struck him on the side of the mouth, smashing his lips painfully against his teeth.

This was too much for Johansen’s self-control; he lost his temper and hit back at his attacker. The mate’s blow was considerably heavier than Lycett’s; it struck him on the chest and flung him back against the side of the alleyway; his head made violent contact with a fire extinguisher in an iron bracket and he slid to the deck, feeling dazed, angry and sick.

Johansen, whose lips were bleeding slightly on the inside, might have worked off his spite by giving Lycett a bit more
punishment if Holt and Perkins had not at that moment
appeared
on the scene.

Holt stared at the fallen Lycett in astonishment. “Hello, what’s happened here?”

Lycett pointed an accusing finger at the mate. “That swine hit me.”

Holt glanced at Johansen. “Why did you do that?”

Johansen dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief. “Is he attack me first. I just hit back. Self-defence.”

“Pretty strong self defence,” Perkins said. He seemed to be enjoying the situation. “I don’t think you ought to treat a passenger like that. You could be in trouble, Mr. Johansen; you surely could.”

Johansen turned on him. “You shut your damn trap. Is not your business.”

Perkins stepped smartly back, as though fearing that the mate might be about to treat him in the same way as he had treated Lycett. “Okay. So it may be none of my business. But I still say you ought to watch it.”

Johansen still seemed in half a mind to have a go at Perkins, but the little engineer had prudently taken refuge behind Holt, and he thought better of it. He turned abruptly and strode off down the alleyway.

Lycett called after him savagely, “You won’t get away with this, Johansen. I’ll make you pay. You’ll be sorry you ever crossed swords with me. I’m warning you, you’d better look out. You’ve asked for it and you’ll get it.”

He was still spitting out threats even after the mate had disappeared from view.

Holt and Perkins helped him to his feet, and Perkins said insinuatingly, “I reckon you owe him more now, Major. First that other business, now this. Oh, yes, I’d say you really do owe him something now.”

But Lycett snarled at him, “Shut up, you sneaking little rat. I don’t want your opinion.” He brushed Perkins’s hand from his arm and also walked away, lurching slightly as the ship rolled.

“There’s gratitude for you,” Perkins said. “After all I’ve done for him.”

On the bridge Mr. Finch was feeling uneasy. He knew that dirty weather was on the way. Even if Mr. Johansen had not told him so, he would have guessed it for himself. You needed no weather reports to tell you that the glass was falling; and there was that nasty oily swell running, which made the ship roll and plunge; there was something evil and menacing about that.

The sounds of the crew driving wedges securely home on the hatch coamings did nothing to allay his uneasiness. If Mr. Johansen thought it necessary to have tasks like that carried out at this hour he must be expecting more than a mere squall, considerably more. Finch had not had a very wide experience of storms at sea, but he had had enough to give him a healthy respect for what the forces of nature could do to a ship, and even indeed a certain amount of fear. Oh God, he thought, as if I didn’t have enough on my mind already!

And there was another thing: Captain Leach had not put in an appearance on the bridge since the watch began. In the ordinary way Finch would have regarded this as a blessing, but in the present circumstances he would have welcomed the reassurance of Leach’s presence. Drunken old boozer though he might be, Leach had had vast experience; he had seen it all, been through it all. Finch feared and hated Leach, but in an emergency there was no man in whom he would have had greater confidence. So why did he not now make his usual visit to the bridge and lend the third mate the moral
support of his authority? Mr. Finch could not help thinking that it was sheer cussedness on the part of Captain Leach that was keeping him away.

“Damn him!” Finch muttered. “Damn him, damn him!”

And then he felt the first touch of wind on his face, warm and damp, like some giant’s breath flowing over him. He heard the halyards shiver as if with apprehension.

M
R
. J
OHANSEN
, after leaving Lycett, made his way to Captain Leach’s cabin. He was reluctant to do so after his earlier rebuff, but having turned matters over in his mind, he had finally decided that there were certain things Leach ought to know; one of which was that the radio was out of action.

Of course it was possible that Maggs had already reported this to the captain, but there could be no harm in making sure. It might be as well also to report what precautions he,
Johansen
, had already taken.

The door of Leach’s cabin was shut. Johansen rapped with his knuckles and waited. There was no answer. Johansen knocked again, again listened, his ear close to the door. From within he thought he could detect a faint sound, a sound that rose and fell with monotonous regularity. There had been no invitation to enter, but Johansen decided to take the invitation for granted. He turned the knob, pushed open the door and walked in.

He noticed at once the reek of spirits. The ship leaned over to starboard and a bottle, still with a little whisky swilling around inside it, rolled towards him and stopped at his feet. The mate braced himself against the slope of the deck
and gazed round the cabin. His eyes discovered Leach at once; the captain was lying on the settee, snoring heavily. It was this snoring that Johansen had heard from outside.

Johansen walked to the settee. “Captain,” he said. “Wake up, Captain.” And then more loudly: “Wake up, damn your guts!”

Leach did not stir. He was wearing drill trousers and a drill shirt, both garments crumpled and stained. His feet were bare and he was lying half on his side and half on his stomach, with one leg hanging over the side of the settee and touching the floor. Johansen gripped his shoulder and shook him. The snoring altered in pitch, rose to a kind of gurgle as if the man were choking on his own saliva, then returned to normal Leach’s eyes did not open; it was like shaking someone under an anaesthetic. He was dead drunk and it would take more than shaking to bring him back to consciousness. Johansen saw the futility of what he was doing and stepped back.

“Okay then, Captain. You sleep. You sleep damn good. Mebbe you never wake up no more. Mebbe damn good you don’t.”

He turned and went out of the cabin. The bottle rolled in pursuit and almost caught him before the ship returned to an even keel; then it began to roll back the other way.
Johansen
closed the door gently behind him.

She was just passing the door of his cabin when he arrived there. And seeing her, the idea leaped into his head. With the storm coming, with Captain Leach drugged with alcohol and himself in virtual command of the ship, there would be a certain piquancy in the situation. Her presence there at that moment was in a way providential, making up for the absence of the other woman; it would be flying in the face of fortune to neglect the opportunity. And why was she there
anyway? This was not a part of the ship that she would normally frequent. So perhaps she had come for a purpose. He was vain enough to believe that he could guess her motive.

He gave his charming smile, ignoring the slight pain of the cut lips. “Mrs. East. You wished to see me?”

She looked embarrassed, like a child caught out in some escapade. Johansen thought the confusion added to her attractiveness. Maybe she was a better bargain than the other one; maybe she was at that.

“I think I’ve come the wrong way.” she said. “I wanted to change this book at the ship’s library.” He saw now that there was a book in her hand. She gave a nervous laugh. “I ought to know my way round this ship by now.”

“No need to go to the library,” Johansen said. “I got plenty books. Novels.” He pushed open the cabin door and switched on the light. “Take what you please, Mrs. East. I got better books than library.”

She seemed reluctant to enter the cabin. She drew back a pace. “Oh, no, Mr. Johansen. There’s no need to bother you. And I must return this book.”

“Is no bother,” Johansen said. “And I return book for you.” Before she could stop him he had taken the book from her hand and had a grip on her arm, light but firm, the
charming
smile still making him look young and boyish. “Come; I show you my library.”

She made a half-hearted attempt at refusal, but his hand still gripped her arm and he had the book that she had been taking back to the ship’s library; and after all what harm could there be in borrowing one of his books? It would have seemed so silly to refuse.

He noticed her indecision and increased the pressure on her arm. They always wanted to have their minds made up for
them, and he was the man to do just that. “I have a book I think you like. Romantic. Come.”

She allowed herself to be persuaded into the cabin. Johansen followed her in and closed the door.

“You like this cabin?”

She glanced quickly round it. “It’s very nice. Where are the books?”

Johansen ignored the question. “Is small mebbe. You think is too small?”

“No. Not really. I mean—”

Johansen threw the library book down on the table on one side of the cabin. “Big enough for one man, you think? Mebbe big enough for one man and one woman?” He laughed, indicating that it was a joke.

She did not echo his laughter. She was feeling uneasy. If Johansen had not been standing between her and the door she might have walked out there and then. But she would have had to push past him and he was a big man.

“The books, Mr. Johansen.”

“Carl. Call me Carl.”

She was silent.

“Go on. Say it.”

She said slowly, “The books—Carl.”

Johansen snapped his fingers. “Good, good. Is not so hard to say. Now what I call you? Not Mrs. East. Too formal. You and me, friends. So, I call you by first name too. What is your first name?”

She hesitated, then answered with some reluctance, “Pearl.”

“Pearl! That is fine. It suit you. You are a pearl. A perfect pearl.”

“The books,” she said again, trying to bring him back to the subject. “You said you had some books.”

“Books. Yes, sure. Plenty books.” He opened a locker,
took out a handful of paperback novels and spread them out on the table. “You choose.”

She glanced at them. The covers were frankly sexy, near-pornographic. The titles indicated the kind of literature that appealed to Johansen’s taste.

“I don’t think this is quite what I’m looking for.”

“Sure. Everyone looking for this. You, me, everyone.”

She became aware of his arm round her waist, pulling her towards him. He was grinning.

“No,” she said. “No, Mr. Johansen.”

“Carl.”

“No, Carl.”

“Yes, Pearl.”

She tried to free herself from his grip, but now his other arm was round her and he was too strong. He began to kiss her. She struggled but she felt weak; his arms were crushing her and his mouth was moving, questing.

“No! Oh, no!”

The ship rolled. It caught both of them off balance and they fell together on to the bunk. She could feel the hard edge of the side-board grinding into her waist. Johansen’s hands were moving, fumbling at her dress.

She screamed. One of his hands clamped down on her mouth. She heard his voice and could detect the excitement in it, the roused desire.

“Quiet. I don’t hurt you. You like it too. Don’t be fool. Now you be quiet, huh?”

The hand eased from her mouth and she bit it with all the strength of her jaws. Johansen gave a cry of pain and anger, and then he seemed to go berserk. He hit her once, twice. On the second blow she lost consciousness.

When she regained her senses she was lying on the bunk
and Johansen was sitting on a chair watching her. He had a glass of gin in his hand and there was a little blood on the hand where her teeth had sunk into it.

“You awake now? Good.” There was a note of relief in his voice, though he seemed to make an attempt to conceal it.

She sat up and her head felt like lead and there was a stiffness about her jaw. She held her head in both hands and gave a moan.

“You remember what happen?” Johansen asked.

She looked at him with contempt and loathing. “I
remember
.”

“The ship roll. You fall and hit your head on table. Knock you out.”

So that was to be his story. She looked at her dress. It was torn. Was the fall supposed to have done that also?

Johansen followed the direction of her glance. “You catch the dress too. Pity. Nice dress. Mebbe you mend it. huh?”

She got off the bunk, steadying herself with a hand as the ship rolled. She looked at Johansen. There was no doubt that he was worried. Perhaps he had never intended to go so far, but had lost control of himself. Perhaps he had expected to meet nothing more than token resistance, misled by past easy seductions. He was looking back at her covertly, possibly
calculating
what his chances were of getting away with this story. She noticed that the paperbacks had been cleared from the table.

“You do remember falling, Mrs. East?”

So it was back to Mrs. East, not Pearl any more. Did he really believe that his blows had obliterated her memory? Was that the straw at which he was clutching?

“I remember.”

He seemed to breathe a little more easily. “Such accidents will happen.”

“You have had an accident too, I think, Mr. Johansen.”

“I?”

“Your hand.”

She moved unsteadily to the door, opened it and left the cabin. As she walked away she heard the sound of breaking glass. Johansen had thrown his tumbler on the floor.

Moira was still lying on her bunk when Lycett returned to the cabin. He scarcely glanced at her. He went straight to the wash-basin, soaked a flannel in water and pressed it to the bruise on his head which had resulted from contact with the fire extinguisher. The spot felt tender and there was already a swelling. What he really needed was some ice; the water was tepid rather than cold.

Moira turned on her side and looked at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

He answered savagely, “Nothing’s the matter with me. Mind your own business.”

“Have you knocked your head on something?”

“If you must know, yes. On a fire extinguisher.”

“How on earth did you manage that? Have you been drinking too much?”

He turned and snarled at her, “No, I haven’t been drinking too much. It was your lover boy. Johansen.”

She looked surprised. “He hit you? Why?”

“Because I hit him first. Split his lip.”

“Well,” she said, “you do ask for trouble, don’t you, Morton?”

“He’s the one who’s asking for trouble. And he’s the one who’ll get it. You bet your sweet life he will. He needn’t think he can play his little games with me. I’m not taking
it, see. I’m not going to be made to look a fool.”

“You’re making yourself look a fool,” she said irritably. This wretched seasickness and now his playing the idiot over that Johansen affair. Who would have expected him to make such a fuss? “Why don’t you let it drop?”

“Let it drop!” He moved over to the bunk and stood
looking
down at her, the flannel pressed to his throbbing head. “I suppose that’s what you’d like. You don’t want him to get hurt, do you? That’s what it is—you’re afraid he might get hurt. Your fancy man.”

“Don’t be such a clown, Morton. I’m not bothered about him. He can take care of himself. If anyone is going to get hurt, it’s likely to be you.”

“And that wouldn’t bother you either, would it? Clown, eh? We’ll see who’s a clown. I think you underestimate me, my dear. You may be in for a surprise; a very big surprise.”

She stared up at him through the nausea of seasickness. It was just talk of course. He would never do anything. Hitting Johansen in the teeth and getting slammed for his pains was about as far as he would go. That was his limit.

And yet, could she be so sure? She had never seen him quite so roused. Perhaps when you reached his age it was even more necessary to assert yourself than it was in youth.
Perhaps
you held on more tenaciously to what you had and lashed out more blindly at any rival. Could he really be contemplating something violent—even criminal?

“You’ll see,” Lycett said. “You’ll see.”

“It’s getting rougher,” Menstein said. “There seems to be a wind rising.” He walked to the open porthole and peered out at the blackness of the night. A few drops of spray were flung in and he could taste the salt on his lips. “I think I had better close this.” He swung the plate glass in its hinged brass
frame across the opening and tightened the wing-nuts.

Sara watched him from her bunk. Even to that simple task he seemed to bring a delicate skill, handling the brass nuts as he might have handled forceps or a scalpel.

“Do you think there is going to be a storm, Saul?”

He turned slowly. He had to control himself because he was afraid, and he must not let her see that he was afraid. Yet he could not suppress his fear. He did not think he was a coward; in fact he was sure that he was not; he had faced torture and worse with fortitude. But the sea still had this power to frighten him. It was something he could not explain; something born in him.

“No; it is nothing. A squall perhaps. It will have passed by morning.”

He heard a wave break against the side of the ship; he heard the timbers complaining. Pray heaven it might be so. But he was still afraid.

Holt was telling Grade about Lycett’s encounter with
Johansen
. He thought it might take Grade’s mind off his
seasickness
.

“You mean he actually hit Johansen in the mouth?” Grade said. “I didn’t think he had the guts. What triggered him off?”

“I don’t know. When I got there Johansen had already knocked him down.”

“Not difficult to guess what the argument was about. Ten to one the luscious Moira came into it.”

“You think Lycett is jealous?”