The Abigail Affair (2 page)

“Welcome to St Helen’s, the Great Small Island,” announced a large, but rather homemade, sign above the terminal building ahead of him. Toby swung his backpack on to one shoulder and fished his shades out of his shirt breast pocket.

He was going to make a success of this job, and enjoy it too. No more flaky Toby, running out of cash, getting fired from menial jobs, bumming around Europe or Asia. Apart from anything else, his parents would not fund any more drifting, and had said so. “You’re twenty-two now, Toby. You didn’t finish Uni, you can’t get through life on looks and charm alone ...” And so on and so forth.

“Reason for visit?” demanded the Immigration Officer inside the terminal. The man sat in full police uniform on a folding chair too small for him in front of a square wooden table.

“Joining a yacht as crew,” Toby said. He tried not to sound too cocky. “The
Amelia V
.”

The Immigration Officer looked up sharply. “That the Russian man’s ship?”

“Yes, Mr Krigov is the owner. But he’s not technically Russian. His ship flies a Russian flag, but he is Tsazakhstani.”

“Where?”

Toby puffed out his chest, delighted to be able to share his new geographical knowledge, culled entirely from Wikipedia. “Tsazakhstan is a landlocked independent republic in Eurasia, bordering Afghanistan and Kazakhstan, among others, newly wealthy thanks to its reserves of—”

“A’right, man, I get it. They all Russkies once. Was easier for us that way.”

“Mr Krigov has owned several mega yachts.
Amelia I
was his first, then—”

“T’ank you, suh, I does know de fella. They say he like to collect countries and prime ministers too, from what I hear.” The man rocked a rubber stamp from side to side on a red ink pad, raised his hand high, and brought the stamp down with a thump on Toby’s passport. “Take care how you go around the town now.”

Was this some sort of warning? Toby decided to say nothing further. Maybe there was some tension between the islanders and the big yachts that floated in and out of their harbours. Perhaps he wasn’t going to be swaggering around town in his
Amelia V
uniform gathering admiring glances, as he had imagined. That would be a bummer. He had counted on the uniform to help him pull.

He found a taxi, asked for the marina, and politely deflected the driver’s enquiries to avoid any further local disapproval.

He pulled out his new phone. It was a brand-new smartphone, a Christmas present from his parents only a few days old. It was already his pride and joy. It had a cool touch screen, multi-tasking apps, GPS—the works. The only thing it was short of was credit. It had come with £25 loaded, but Toby had spent much of that on Christmas Day morning on apps, ringtones and calls.

He had written his new number on a scrap of paper and taped it to the back of the phone. Toby found it hard to memorise numbers. And many other things, if he was honest with himself, except pub trivia. For some reason he was good at that. Totally useless facts seemed to crowd useful information out of Toby’s mind. But he was good at mixing cocktails. Those he could remember.

While he was admiring his phone, he remembered with a jolt that he had promised to phone his mother on arrival. Better do it. He scrolled through his contacts and dialled his home number. It connected right away and he heard the reassuring burr-burr of the British double ring tone.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Mum!”

“Toby darling! Are you at the ship?”

“Nearly there. Flight was great. I’ll be on board soon. Just checking in as per instructions.”

His mother’s voice echoed slightly on the line. “Toby, remember what we said. Make this job work out. We don’t want you back home with your tail between your legs again. Keep your wits about you. Forget about the girls for a bit. Try to make a good impression. And stick at it. Not just the first day.”

Toby held the phone away from his ear until his mother’s voice stopped. “You don’t need to keep saying it, Mum. I’m cool. I know exactly what I’m doing and my career is on course. I’ll have stripes on my shoulders within weeks. So stop worrying, right? And thanks again for the phone—it’s just the best. But I’m not supposed to use it on the ship, so don’t be surprised if I don’t call, and don’t try to call me. I don’t even know if phones work at sea. I’ve got to go, Mum—credit low.”

He was almost at his destination anyway.

The taxi slowed, turned off the main road, and drew to a halt. He got out, paid, and turned to walk up to the marina security hut.

“Don’ you want you’ backpack?” called the driver.

“Oh, gosh, wow, yes, thanks.” Toby turned back, opened the rear door and retrieved his rucksack. Almost a Toby cock-up and he hadn’t even arrived.
Keep your wits about you!
His mother’s words seemed to echo in his head.

He approached the security hut, where a guard slept soundly, his head lolling forward on his chest. On a shelf beside him, a small radio blared a tinny Reggae beat.

“Don’ mind him—come on in, brother!”

The voice came from a young local man about Toby’s age, who wore a garish knitted Rasta cap and pushed a trolley containing bits of scrap plumbing and half-used reels of electrical wire along the main jetty.

Toby sauntered through the gates.

The marina was large, but somewhat tired-looking. He walked past a row of little boutiques selling souvenirs, books, and swimsuits. Some of the windows were decorated with spray-on snow and garish plastic Santas. He passed by a group of local men who sat in a shady corner on upended concrete blocks, playing dominoes on a piece of plywood balanced between them. They looked up and nodded at Toby as he passed. Everyone was friendly enough so far, apart from the stuffed-shirt Immigration Officer.

There was no need to ask directions to the
Amelia V
. It was hard to miss 160 feet of luxury private mega yacht. There she was, alongside the pier nearest the harbour mouth. Toby felt his heart rate pick up with excitement. Were they really going to let him walk up the gangway and join this high-speed floating hotel? It was almost as big as a cruise liner. Then his mouth suddenly went dry. Would he be able to handle this? Was six weeks’ training really all it took to get you aboard and working on a vessel worth so many millions of dollars or pounds or roubles?

As he approached the yacht, he realised that it—no, get it right, Toby,
she—
was
even bigger than
she
had seemed at a distance. While he was still some way off, the low afternoon sun disappeared behind some large piece of superstructure carrying satellite comms and spinning radar transmitters, and he was in shade. The ship rose above him. How many decks were there? Three or four? He couldn’t remember. How much else had he forgotten? They had spent a lot of time on COLREGS—the international maritime collision avoidance regulations. But surely as a junior steward and deckhand, he wouldn’t actually be tested on this knowledge—or need to put it into practice? For a moment he couldn’t even remember whether the port side was left or right and what its colour code was, and his heart seemed to skip a beat. Then the mnemonic came back to him: “There’s no red port left.”

Steady as you go, Toby lad. You’ll be fine.

He walked past a big opening in the hull of the ship just above sea level. A huge hatch like you got at the back end of a cargo plane was open, and a ramp led from the dock up to the inside. Toby walked halfway up and peered in. He saw a pair of cool Yamaha jet skis in iridescent colours. Next to them were two identical rigid inflatable boats in pure white, with matching white leather seats and white steering wheels. The yacht’s tenders. Just behind was a Hobie Cat sailing catamaran, lashed down with wide webbing straps. Wet suits hung limply on a rail like black animal pelts, and diving tanks lined the wall to one side, next to a submarine-style door with a wheel labelled Emergency Exit.

This was where the water toys lived. It was all too exciting. Toby felt a thrill of anticipation. With any luck, he would be out and about in these craft before long, showing the guests how to do it, maybe even doing some scuba diving.

He retreated back to the pontoon and carried on towards the ship’s gangway, which sported varnished handrails and stainless steel railings. Toby remembered his instructor, Jock’s, warning. “This business isn’t about lying back with a drink in the sun, young man. The owner and his guests do that. You just scrub decks, varnish wood and polish stainless steel. Scrub, varnish, polish, scrub, varnish, polish—day after day. That’s the deckhand’s lot. And the guests won’t even see you. They’ll look right through you like you don’t exist, even a pretty thing like you.”

Toby hesitated at the bottom of the steps. He looked up and around. He saw a cleaning cradle suspended way up.
Bet I’ll be in that before long,
he thought.

There was no sign of any life. Should he just go up? They were expecting him, surely? He tried to remember the crew etiquette lecture.

“Don’t just stand there. Come up, you silly bastard!”

The voice issued from a loudspeaker mounted on a post at the end of the gangway. Toby looked around again, but still no one was visible. He stood up straight, gripped the handrail and stepped up.

In a moment, he was inside a sort of receiving area inside the hull of the yacht. More varnish, more stainless steel. There was red spongy carpet beneath his feet with a repeating pattern in gold, and in front of him was a lift, or elevator as they called it out here. The doors chimed and parted. Toby stepped inside.

This was it. Lift-off for his new career.

The elevator car was air-conditioned and didn’t seem to move. However, after a moment, the doors opened silently to reveal a brightly lit service area. A shortish, stocky and unsmiling white man in officer’s tropical uniform stood just outside the doors. Before Toby could say a word, the officer said, “Come with me,” in a heavy South African accent, spun on his heel and marched off.

The officer led him to a small office with a desk in gunmetal grey, fluorescent strip lighting and no porthole. “Sit,” he commanded, and shuffled his way behind the desk to plant himself heavily on a swivelling typist’s chair.

As if Toby didn’t exist, the officer surveyed the desk in front of him. It was covered with papers, some of them in bundles with rubber bands around them. Two filing trays overflowed with more paper. He shuffled some stacks around. He found what he was looking for, a packet of cigarettes, a South American brand as far as Toby could tell. The man took a cigarette and put it between his lips, bent down, opened a drawer with a metallic clang and retrieved a disposable lighter. He lit the cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke pretty much straight at Toby, who sat rigid.

Toby was gasping for a ciggie himself.

“Passport.”

Toby unzipped a pocket on his backpack and handed over his passport.

“Robinson, Toby Charles. Age twenty-two. Height 1.8 metres, which I calculate is a little under six foot. Blond hair, blue eyes. Distinguishing marks? Do they put that on these flimsy Brit passports any more? Seems not.” He looked up at Toby. “Anyway, you clearly have none. Distinguishing marks, that is.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “What were the captain and the Boss thinking of?” Then, under his breath but clearly audible to Toby, he muttered, “They send me a teenage milk-skinned moffie boy when I need a crew of experienced men.”

Toby didn’t know what a “moffie boy” was, but he was sure it was unflattering. He felt the colour rise in his cheeks. “I have a certificate as deckhand. I’m keen and willing to learn and I’m sure I’ll be a credit to the
Amelia V
, sir.”

“Lit me see your peepers from the Sea School.”

At least, this is what it sounded like to Toby, who said after a moment, “Sorry, come again?” Perhaps the man had addressed him in Afrikaans as an initiative test.

The man sighed histrionically a second time. “Peepers. P-A-P-E-R-S. Do you not have Ee-nglish as your first language?”

“Oh, papers! Papers. Right you are, yes sir, OK, not a problem, sir.” He reached into his backpack and handed over a sheaf of reports in a plastic wallet.

The officer leafed through them. “ENG-1 fitness certificate ... Deckhand certificate of competence, or more likely
incompetence
in your case... STCW-95 seafarer’s basic course ... elementary first aid ... fire fighting ... personal survival techniques. God knows you’ll need those. Average to poor marks all round. Let’s see what they really thought of you.” He turned to the tutor’s report at the back. “A willing student who found the practical aspects of the course easier than the paperwork and theory. Toby had to work hard to master COLREGS. He is frankly not of academic bent, and this showed in all his written papers. However, he more than compensated with his positive attitude and versatility. Toby will make a useful addition to any yacht crew. His people skills make him ideal for work involving guests. He is an accomplished angler and can teach fishing. He is also an excellent swimmer and snorkeller, holds PADI Open Water Diver certificate and is keen to go on to instructor level. Personable, reliable, well groomed, well spoken, polite, blah, blah, yada, yada.”

“Is it all in order, sir?” Toby asked brightly.

The officer sighed. “I guess. I still can’t believe they chose you. Do you have a cell phone?”

Toby hesitated.

Best to be honest.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll have it. Give it over.”

Reluctantly, Toby reached into his backpack and handed over the phone.

The officer raised his hand and smashed the smartphone down on the corner of his metal desk. The touch screen shattered and bits of glass sprayed out. The man raised his hand again and smashed down another three times until the casing split. He ripped out the battery. He unclipped the SIM card and flicked it over the desk towards Toby like a tiddlywink. He then tossed the phone and battery into his waste paper bin and swept the bits of glass in after it with a sheet of paper.