Stefán Máni - The Ship

‘That was a question, not an answer,’ says Jón Karl through clenched teeth.

‘Save the jokes,’ says Óðin as he sniffs at the spout of the burner, then throws it to the floor. ‘It’s empty!’

‘I didn’t know…’ says Jeckle, stiff with fear.

‘Shut up!’ Óðin shoves him against the wall by the door. ‘Hand me the fucking bore!’

‘Here,’ says Jeckle, giving his boss a battery-driven hand bore with a steel bit in the chuck.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ says Óðin when he pulls the trigger on the bore; it groans and turns the blood-covered bit a few times before stopping altogether with a sorry-sounding squeal.

Óðin throws it on the floor and punches Jeckle so hard in the stomach that he collapses, unable to breathe.

‘You guys wait here while I go and get a new gas canister,’ says Óðin to Heckle, who is still sitting holding his gunshot wound.

‘Can’t we just use a knife or the gun?’ asks Heckle. ‘Or cut off some fingers or toes?’

‘Tonight I’m going to fry,’ Óðin responds calmly and pats Heckle’s head.

‘But I need to get to a doctor!’ wails Heckle, showing his employer the bloody palm of his left hand.

‘Not until I’ve extracted the bullet.’ Óðin opens the door. ‘Hang tough. I won’t be long.’

Óðin slams and locks the door on the outside with a padlock. A moment later a car door slams, a starter motor turns, a fanbelt screeches and an eight-stroke engine roars in the dark outside. Gravel rattles under wide tyres and the thunder of an engine fades into the distance.

‘Goddamn him!’ groans Jeckle, who is lying doubled up on the floor. He’s breathing in short gasps, his face a mask of pain.

‘Shut up, man,’ Heckle says tersely to his partner.

‘Sorry!’ says Jeckle, stumbling to his feet.

‘He’s not coming back,’ says Jón Karl with a cold grin.

‘Just shut your fucking mouth!’ says Heckle, bunching his fist in Jón Karl’s face. Heckle’s face twists from the pain of this gesture.

‘Yes, he will come back,’ mutters Jeckle. He collapses onto the tool chest by the door. ‘Of course he’ll come!’

‘Do you see that envelope there?’ says Jón Karl, nodding towards the contents of his duffel bag that are scattered over the floor. At the top of the pile is a cream-coloured envelope, still swollen from the million crowns it contained.

‘What about it?’ Jeckle says, looking first at the envelope, then at Jón Karl.

‘Don’t listen to him!’ says Heckle, stamping his foot.

‘Smell the inside of it,’ says Jón Karl, staring calmly into Jeckle’s irresolute eyes.

‘ Do not smell it ,’ says Heckle, determined.

‘I know,’ Jeckle rejoins, giving Jón Karl a searching look.

‘There were five million crowns in that envelope,’ says Jón Karl, smiling through blood and bruises. ‘Óðin stuck them in his jacket when you weren’t looking. The envelope probably still smells of money. It was all new 5000-crown bills.’

‘Why should we believe you?’ Jeckle asks, narrowing his eyes.

‘Why should I have an empty envelope?’ Jón Karl leers.

‘He’s fucking with us, man. Don’t listen to him!’ Heckle says, then gives Jón Karl a dirty look and addresses him: ‘If you don’t shut up soon, we’ll have to shut you up.’

‘He’s not coming back.’ Jón Karl looks paternally into the face of Jeckle, who clearly no longer knows whom to believe. ‘He’s already got what he was looking for. There is no gambling joint. What gambling joint is it supposed to be? Do you know?’

‘You know perfectly well what gambling joint!’ says Heckle, his voice trembling with rage and doubt. ‘You do the collecting for them.’

‘No, I do not,’ says Jón Karl, sounding upbeat. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Shut up!’ Heckle looks at Jeckle, who shrugs and then reaches for the envelope, cautiously smelling it before bunching it up and tossing it away.

‘What?’ asks Heckle, sounding irritated.

‘Smells of money,’ Jeckle says softly, starting to rock to and fro.

‘What did he promise you?’ asks Jón Karl coolly.

‘None of your business!’ says Heckle.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ mutters Jeckle, clearing his throat.

‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ says Jón Karl with a sneer. ‘’Cause you’re getting zilch, nada , diddly-squat, you idiots.’

‘Make him shut up!’ says Heckle to Jeckle.

‘Should we wait for Óðin to come back?’ Jeckle says uncertainly.

‘Yes, we’re waiting,’ says Heckle, annoyed. ‘I can’t take the risk of believing this clown.’

‘Christ, what a pair of pansies!’ Jón Karl spits blood on the floor. ‘That’s what you are.’

‘Shut the fucker up,’ says Heckle, groaning with pain.

‘Yeah,’ says Jeckle, standing up with the rubber truncheon in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. ‘It’s about time.’

‘Devil, Lucifer, Prince of Darkness,’ Jón Karl says softly as he grits his teeth and stokes his inner fires of hate, anger and hellish thoughts. ‘Combine in me!’

Jeckle gives Jón Karl such a blow to the face with the truncheon that blood spurts from Jón Karl’s mouth. Jón Karl jerks, makes a rattling noise in his throat, rolls his eyes up and drops his head on his right shoulder. Jeckle puts down the truncheon and pulls out a good length of tape. He bends over Jón Karl and prepares to stick the silver tape across his mouth.

Just before the strong-smelling tape is about to touch his lips, Jón Karl opens wild eyes, throws his head forward with his mouth wide opens and fastens his teeth on Jeckle’s left hand.

‘ No! Help! ’ screams Jeckle, dropping the tape and watching the bloody teeth sink into the back of his hand. He hits out with his right hand and jumps on Jón Karl, who snaps backward at the same moment.

‘ No! No! No! ’ screams Heckle, standing up to watch, horrified, as the chair collapses under the combined weight of Jón Karl and Jeckle.

Jón Karl lands on his back, lets go of the broken hand and manages to kick Jeckle up and over behind him. Then he forces his tied hands down below his butt and to the front of his bent legs and the broken chair legs. He leaps up and jumps on Jeckle, driving him into the floor. Jeckle’s ribs break like uncooked spaghetti, his joints pull apart and his head is crushed so badly that only the bloodshot whites of his eyes can be seen.

When Jón Karl turns around he finds that Heckle has his revolver in his shaking and bloody right hand. Before he can manage to aim and shoot, Jón Karl head-butts him in the face, kicking him to the floor and taking the gun off him.

Devil, Lucifer, Prince of Darkness…

Jón Karl growls and twists around in a frenzy, snorting blood and mucus through flaring nostrils. He still sees only red, still hears the fire roaring in his head, smells ashes and blood. He continues kicking Heckle and Jeckle, has trouble calming himself down to think clearly.

Combine in me.

But once the firestorm calms in his head, Jón Karl starts cutting off the plastic bands with his hunting knife. When that’s done he puts the army boots on his bare feet, fastens the ankle holster and gets himself, with difficulty, into his black T-shirt, which has a torn neckline and sleeve. He collects the torn passports and his extra clothes, and shoves his possessions back in the duffel bag – everything except the pistol, which he keeps in his right hand.

‘Hey, idiot!’ says Jón Karl, giving Heckle a blow to the head with the handle of his pistol. Heckle jumps, opens his eyes and crawls, snivelling, to a wall.

‘What?’ Heckle says tearfully, and then Jón Karl grabs the chance to shove the barrel into his mouth.