Stefán Máni - The Ship

No. The thing is he won’t phone. Or will he?

Did he take the gun onto the ship because he’s afraid of death?

Or was it because he longs to die?

Life is nothing but a hopeless dance on a high wire and we all lose our balance sooner or later and fall into the empty abyss.

Everything goes black for a few seconds and…

The first officer slams against the black hull of the ship, his mouth gaping and his lungs sucking in air; the briny seawater runs out his nose and his salt-filled eyes open wide. The fingers of his right hand clutch the lowest bar of the railing and the flaming pain in his arm fills his head like a choir of angels.

He’s hanging on by a thread of his own flesh.

What a pleasure it is to feel how the steel pulls his body, presses the skin and bones of his fingers, stretches his nerves, muscles, joints and sinews and conjures up suffering.

Methúsalem swings his body forwards and manages to get both hands on the railing. While the ship rolls to port he hangs there unsupported and half submerged, wriggling like a mouse that’s trying to get out of a galvanised washtub. He grits his teeth and waits for the ship to right itself and roll to starboard. When that finally happens he climbs up to the gunwale, slides under the railing and onto the deck.

‘Great God in heaven!’ he cries, crawls on his hands and knees to the stairs and hugs the bottom steps.

In the infirmary Ási and Big John are standing by the bed of Jónas, who’s blinking and appears to be regaining consciousness.

They gave him a shot of morphine before they checked him over and attended to his injuries on Friday. His left arm is broken at the wrist, his left ankle is cracked or broken, as is his left knee and probably his hip besides. He’s badly bruised on his back and the back of his neck, but as for any smaller broken bones, or any internal bleeding, they can’t tell.

The second officer is lying on his back with splints and bandages on his left limbs, a collar bracing his neck and a cold cloth on his forehead.

‘Water!’ he whispers, licking dry lips.

‘Yes, we’ll help you, mate,’ says Ási removing the wet facecloth that has become warm after only a few minutes on Jónas’s hot forehead.

John helps the second mate sit up a bit while Ási puts a glass to his lips and helps him sip the cold water.

‘There, not too much,’ says Ási and he puts the glass down before drying Jónas’s lips with a clean cloth.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ says Big John, letting Jónas sink slowly back down on the bed. ‘You’re pretty seriously injured.’

‘What happened?’ asks Ási when Jónas opens his eyes properly and looks around the white-painted room.

‘He pushed me,’ says Jónas slowly. ‘He pulled me out and threw me down onto D-deck.’

‘Who?’ asks Big John.

‘Satan,’ says Jónas with a grimace.

‘You could have died, man!’ says Ási, drying sweat off the officer’s forehead.

‘He meant to kill me!’ says Jónas with a tearful look at his two mates.

‘Why?’ asks John.

‘He was threatening me… I knew who he was,’ says Jónas, closing his eyes. ‘But I couldn’t keep quiet any longer… Not after he cut the wires. I had to expose him! That’s why he tried to kill me.’

‘Take it easy,’ says Ási, stroking Jónas’s cheek. ‘He’s been locked up.’

‘That’s good,’ says Jónas with a weak smile.

‘When did he push you over?’ asks John, scratching his beard. ‘After lunch?’

‘Yes, I…’ Jónas clears his throat.

‘It must have been,’ says Ási, patting Jónas on the head like a little kid. ‘He ate some fish with me and then went up at about twelve-thirty.’

‘That doesn’t fit,’ says John with a shake of his head. ‘The guy had told us who he was. So why should he silence Jónas?’

‘He just attacked me,’ says Jónas with a sigh.

‘The man is obviously insane,’ says Ási, wetting the cloth before again laying it on the second mate’s forehead.

‘Yes, but it still doesn’t fit,’ says John, shuffling his feet by the bed. ‘When you went up after lunch we were just about to arrest the guy – if we hadn’t done it already. When did he have time to push you off the deck?’

Jónas moves his lips as if he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t make a sound until he produces a long, drawn-out moan which at first is reminiscent of mental anguish, but then turns to the familiar sound of physical pain.

‘Easy, pal! Easy,’ says Ási, trying to calm the officer. ‘You’ve got broken bones here and there. I’ll give you another shot.’

‘I’ll look in on you around noon,’ mutters Big John and starts to head for the door.

‘Have you spoken to Methúsalem?’ Ási says as he unpacks a fresh syringe.

‘No. Why?’ asks John, looking away.

‘Haven’t we dropped the plan of killing the engines?’ asks Ási, fishing a fresh needle out of a tin box. ‘I mean, what with the weather and—’

‘Ási!’ says John, stomping his foot and nodding his head towards Jónas, who’s breathing fast and open mouthed and appears to be asleep.

‘Oh, sorry!’ says Ási quietly, putting the needle on the syringe. ‘What I meant to say was something sort of general about engines and maintenance and things like that, not—’

‘Ási?’ says John, opening the door.

‘What?’ asks Ási, waving the empty syringe.

‘I’m off.’

‘Would you mind making me some coffee?’ Ási says as he draws the morphine solution into the syringe.

‘Yeah, no bother,’ murmurs John and he hurries out before Ási sticks the needle in his patient.

Out in the corridor John runs across Methúsalem, who has just come in, soaking wet.

‘Look at you, man!’ says Big John, staring open mouthed at his shipmate. ‘What’ve you been doing?’

‘Just checking the weather,’ Methúsalem says, snuffling rain and seawater up his nose. His face is red and his left cheek swollen after the captain’s punch. His left eye is sinking into his head, the skin on his cheekbone is blue-black and the teeth in his upper gum ache.

‘Shouldn’t you be up in the bridge by now?’

‘Yeah, I’m on my way up.’ Methúsalem pulls the hood of his raincoat off his soaking head. ‘I’m just going to hang up my wet-weather gear downstairs.’

‘Do that,’ says John and steps into the mess. Then he stops and calls to the first officer.

‘Hey, Methúsalem!’

‘Yes?’ Methúsalem turns around on the staircase leading down to A-deck.

‘This foolishness is all over, isn’t it?’ asks Big John with a scowl.

‘What foolishness?’ asks Methúsalem, his salt-reddened eyes wide.

‘All that gun shit,’ says John with a hefty cough. ‘Now we change course and try to make friends with the Old Man – right?’

‘I guess so,’ mutters Methúsalem, avoiding the chief engineer’s accusing look.

‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ says John, sighing. ‘But from now on I’m not taking part in any fucking mess-ups! If we get laid off, then we protest it in the traditional and legal way and fight for our rights with the help of the union. Understood?’

‘Yeah, understood,’ says Methúsalem, his head hanging. He carries on down the stairs and Big John disappears into the mess.

After hanging up his gear down in the storeroom and turning his boots upside down on the boot stand, Methúsalem makes his way up the stairs, his feet soaking, his thighs, back and chest all wet.

He’ll have to put on some dry clothes before he relieves the captain on the bridge.

Methúsalem Sigurðsson’s steps are heavy and he looks nothing like his usual forceful self. He is, after all, weighed down by thoughts as dark as the storm that rages around the ship.