‘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 – she danced while I played, oh, ’ow she danced, like a small ’airy angel! But one day when I woke up, ze apartment was empty, Sylvia was gone!
‘I searched ’igh and low for ’er, I wandered ze streets of Paree without rest, I could not eat or sleep. Zen – I found ’er. She was with a man ’oo was playing ze barrel-organ.’ Jacques-François clenched his fists and his lips became flecked with foam. ‘She, ’oo ad danced to the music of my accordion, ’ad left me for a cochon with an ’urdy-gurdy. Quelle vulgarité! In my agony, I cried to ’er “Sylvie! Cherie! For what do you prostitute yourself with zis animal?”
‘She turned, she saw me, and she laughed. Zey both laughed! Naturally, for the sake of my honour, I ’ad to shoot zem. Ze judge acquitted me because it was a crime passionel. So I joined ze legion, an’ aftair ten long years in ze fearful ’eat an’ desolation of ze desert, I ’ad forgotten ze ’ole tragic affair, until you forced me to remembair … and now I shall nevair be free of ze memory – nevair …’ The man’s voice choked off. His body shook with uncontrollable sobs.
‘There, there, Jacques-François. Don’t take on so – you’ll get wrinkles.’ The cut-glass tones betrayed the speaker as an Englishman of the upper classes. He patted the quivering Frenchman on the shoulder and eyed Deadman censoriously. ‘All of us on this ship have a similar tale to tell. Mine involves the Rajah of Ranjipoor, his favourite concubine, a polo stick and a bucket of ghee – I prefer not to talk about it.’
‘Yeeesh, that eesh sho.’ A small, pop-eyed man with a pronounced Hungarian accent leered up at Deadman. ‘Een my cashe, eet wash thee Black Bird …’
‘Ze Czarina of oll the Russias,’ contributed a man with a monk’s habit, a long filthy beard and the eyes of a maniac.
‘Thee seex-fingered man who slew my father,’ hissed a leather-doubleted Spaniard. ‘And when ah find heem, I weel say to heem –’
‘Hello,’ chorused every one of that desperate crew in a weary sing-song. ‘My name ees Indignant Montoya. You keeled my father. Prepare to die.’
Montoya’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Well, ah weel!’ he said petulantly. ‘When ah find heem, ah weel keel heem!’
‘Of course you will, my friend.’ The speaker sported a scarlet-lined opera cloak and impressive dentistry, particularly in the canine department. ‘You see, Mr Deadman? This is a ship of lost souls. Who are we? No one. Where are we sailing? Nowhere. Do we even exist? Who knows?!’
‘Right.’ Deadman backed slowly away, feeling for the door handle. ‘Good. OK. Point taken. I’ll – er – catch up with you later, OK? Good, er, fine.’
His questing fingers having at last found the handle, Deadman yanked the door open – and Ann Darling sashayed in.
‘Why, Mister Deadman.’ Ignoring the sudden silence and the lascivious moans of the crew who, having been without a woman for very nearly two and a half hours, were ready
