Ю Несбё - Macbeth

Breakfast had been served, and those of the crew who were on duty had finished, it seemed. Time to clear away before they started making lunch.

Duff inhaled three stomachfuls of dubious air, got up and went out into the mess.

Four people were sitting at the nearest table. The speaker was a loud, slightly overweight engineer with hairy forearms, an Esso T-shirt stained with oil and sweat rings under his arms and a striped Hull City Tigers cap on his head. When he spoke he sniffed before and afterwards, like a form of inverted commas. What came between them was always denigration of those lower on the ladder. ‘Hey, Sparks,’ the engineer shouted to be sure everyone realised he was referring to the young boy with glasses at the end of the table, ‘hadn’t you better ask the new galley boy if he can heat you up some fish pie so you can stuff your dick in and enjoy the closest you’ll ever get to cunt.’ He sniffed before starting to laugh. This raised no more than short-lived, forced laughter from the others. The young radio-telegrapher smiled fleetingly and ducked his head even lower into his plate. The engineer, whom Duff had heard the others call Hutch, sniffed. ‘But judging by today’s breakfast I doubt you know how to heat up a fish pie, do you, lad?’ Another sniff.

Duff kept his head down, like the telegrapher. That was all he had to do until they reached the docks in Capitol. Keep a low profile, mouth shut, mask on.

‘Tell me, galley boy! Do you call this scrambled egg?’

‘Anything wrong?’ Duff said.

‘Wrong?’ The engineer rolled his eyes and turned to the others. ‘The greenhorn asks me if something’s wrong. Only that this scrambled egg looks and tastes like vomit. Your vomit. From your green, seasick gills.’

Duff looked at the engineer. The guy was grinning, and there was an evil glint in his shiny eyes. Duff had seen it before. Lorreal, the director of the orphanage.

‘I’m sorry the scrambled egg didn’t live up to your expectations,’ Duff said.

‘ Didn’t live up to your expectations ,’ the engineer mimicked, and sniffed. ‘Think you’re at some posh fuckin’ restaurant, do you? At sea we want food, not muck. What do you reckon, guys?’

The men around him chuckled their agreement, but Duff saw two of them keep their heads down in embarrassment. Presumably they played along so as not to become targets.

‘The steward’s on duty at lunch,’ Duff said, putting plates of food and milk cartons on a tray. ‘Let’s hope it’s better then.’

‘What isn’t any better,’ the engineer said ‘is the way you look. Have you got lice? Is that why you wear that hat? And what about those cunt pubes that pass for a beard? What happened, galley boy? Get your mother’s cunt where others got a face?’

The engineer looked around expectantly, but this time all the others were studying the floor.

‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ Duff said. Knowing he shouldn’t speak. Knowing he had promised himself he wouldn’t. ‘Sparks can stuff his wanger under your arm. That way he can feel what a cunt’s like and you finally get some dick.’

The table went so quiet all that could be heard was the noise of Duff putting the plates of cheese, sausage and cucumber onto the tray. No sniff this time.

‘Let me repeat the bit that might interest you most,’ Duff said, putting down the tray. ‘You finally get some dick.’ He stressed the consonants so that no one would be in any doubt as to what he had said. Then Duff turned to the table. The engineer had risen to his feet and was coming towards him.

‘Take off your glasses,’ he said.

‘Can’t see fuck all without them,’ Duff said. ‘See a fuckwit with them.’

The engineer wound back his arm, announcing where the blow would come from, and swung. Duff retreated a step, swayed and, when the engineer’s oil-black fist had passed, took two steps forward, grabbed the engineer, who was now off balance, by his other hand, forced it back against his wrist, grabbed the engineer’s elbow and let his momentum take him forward while Duff slipped behind. The engineer screamed, automatically bending forward to relieve the painful pressure on his wrist as Duff steered him into a wall head first. Duff pulled the engineer back. Rammed him forward again. Against the bulkhead. Duff pushed the helpless engineer’s arm higher, knowing that soon something would have to give, something would break. The engineer’s scream rose to a whine, and his fingers lunged desperately at Duff’s hat. Duff rammed his head against the wall for the third time. Was steadying himself for a fourth when he heard a voice.

‘That’s enough, Johnson!’

It took Duff a second to remember that was the name he had given when he signed on. And to realise the voice was the captain’s. Duff looked up. The captain was standing right in front of them. Duff let go of the engineer, who fell to his knees with a sob.

‘What’s going on here?’

Duff noticed only now that he was panting. The provocation. The anger. ‘Nothing, Captain.’

‘I know the difference between nothing and something, Johnson. So what is this? Hutchinson?’

Duff wasn’t sure, but it sounded like the man on his knees was crying.

Duff cleared his throat. ‘A friendly bet, Captain. I wanted to show that the Fife grip is more effective than a Hull haymaker. I might have got carried away.’ He patted the engineer’s shaking back. ‘Sorry, pal, but we agree that Fife beat Hull on this occasion, don’t we?’

The engineer nodded, still sobbing.

The captain took off his hat and studied Duff. ‘The Fife grip, you say?’

‘Yes,’ Duff answered.

‘Hutchinson, you’re needed in the engine room. You others have got jobs to do, haven’t you?’

The mess cleared quickly.

‘Pour me a cup of coffee and sit down,’ the captain said.

Duff did as he said.

The captain raised his cup to his mouth a couple of times. Looked down at the black liquid and mumbled something. Just as Duff was beginning to wonder whether the captain had forgotten he was there, he raised his head.

‘Generally I don’t consider it worth the effort to delve into individuals’ backgrounds, Johnson. Most of the crew are simple, with limited intellects; they have pasts best left unprobed and futures that won’t be on board MS Glamis . As they won’t be under my command or be my problem for long, I know it’s not worth getting too involved. All that concerns me is how they function as a group, as my crew.’

The captain took another sip and grimaced. Duff had no idea if this was due to the coffee, pain or the conversation.

‘You seem like a man with education and ambition, Johnson, but I won’t ask how you ended up here. I doubt I would hear the truth anyway. But my guess is you’re someone who knows how groups function. You know that there’ll always be a pecking order, and everyone will have their role in that order, their place. The captain at the top, the rookie at the bottom. As long as everyone accepts their own and others’ positions in the order we have a working crew. Exactly as I want it. At the moment, however, we have some confusion at the lower end of the pecking order on MS Glamis . We have three potential chickens at the bottom. Sparks because he’s the youngest. You because it’s your first time. And Hutchinson because he’s the most stupid and very difficult to like.’

Another sip.

‘Sparks will survive this trip as the bottom chicken. He’s young, intelligent enough and he’ll learn. And you, Johnson, have moved up the order, I’ve just seen, after what you did to Hutchinson. For all I know, it was a situation you initiated to achieve just this. But if I know Hutch, he started it. Like the stupid idiot he is, he set himself up for another fall. And that’s why he’s looking for someone to be under him. It’ll probably be some poor soul who signs on in Capitol, where we’re going to need a couple of new men as people sign off all the time. Do you understand?’