Stefán Máni - The Ship

‘Of course,’ says the captain, his face turning red with anger, but he grits his teeth as he takes the mug.

Damn him!

‘Two sugars and a dash of milk,’ says Satan, leaning back more comfortably and pushing with his feet so the leather creaks.

Guðmundur Berndsen is speechless at the rude and demanding manners of this street kid. Isn’t he meant to be a grown-up? The captain almost loses control of his temper, but with an effort he manages to swallow his rage and, with it, his pride. He sighs deeply, shakes his head and counts up to twenty in his head while he pours the coffee into the mugs.

Not today. He’s not going to get angry today. Not the same day that four of his crew have been murdered and another one vanished. Not the same day that he murdered a man for the first time…

The memory of the killing pours over the captain like cold tar. He grabs the edge of the sink with both hands, takes a deep breath, holds it, and then exhales calmly. He hasn’t slept a wink since he killed that man.

‘Are you getting that coffee?’

Guðmundur opens his eyes and straightens his back. Spots dance before his eyes and hot winds whirl in his head.

Could it be that he understands this, this underworld man? Could he have taken a life before? Could he maybe tell him how…

‘Coming,’ says the captain and he picks up the coffee mugs, carries them across to the middle of the bridge and hands one to Satan. ‘Here you go.’

‘I asked for milk and sugar,’ says Satan, looking into the black coffee and then at the captain, who takes a seat on the chair by the port side window.

‘I have something that belongs to you,’ says the captain as he pulls a white package from the side pocket of his jacket. It’s the handgun, loosely wrapped in a handkerchief.

‘It’s empty,’ says Satan, then blows some smoke rings.

‘I know.’ The captain puts the gun down on the window ledge.

‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have let me have it back, right?’ asks Satan. Or, more precisely, declares.

Silence.

‘Had you already, um, you know…’ mutters the captain. He looks out the port windows – the only windows on the bridge that are intact.

‘Killed a man?’

‘Yes. Exactly. Killed a man.’

‘Are you feeling blue about that thug you popped?’ asks Satan with a grin as he taps ash from his cigarette onto the floor.

‘Maybe.’ The captain hesitates. ‘It gets to you, I won’t deny it.’

‘It was either him or you, don’t forget that.’ Satan sticks his cigarette in his mouth and sucks smoke into his lungs.

‘Yes, I know, but the thing…’ The captain sighs. ‘What I’m thinking is… isn’t it better to die innocent than to live with…’

‘Are you crazy, man? If you can’t be grateful you’re alive, you should have the guts to hang yourself instead of whimpering like a spoiled kid!’

‘Yes, no… sorry!’ fumbles the captain. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Sorry?’ says Satan with a laugh, blowing smoke out his nose. ‘Do I look like Jesus?’

‘No, I just—’

‘I know how you feel, man! That was quite a rush last night. A hell of a lot going on. You popped a guy and… you know, all blood and frenzy! Now it’s just over, quiet and that… but in your head the frenzy is still at full steam, see? Anger, fear, hate, speed, everything that happened is still there inside and happens over and over… boom, boom, boom! And then all of a sudden that’s over too, man… I’m telling you: life just goes on… as if nothing had happened.’

‘Yes, maybe. If you say so.’

‘I’m telling you, man!’ Satan takes a drag on his cigarette before letting the stub fall into his coffee. ‘After blood come the blues, but no-one wants to be blue forever… it’s just too fucking boring!’

Silence.

‘You didn’t answer my question just then,’ says the captain.

‘You didn’t give me any sugar and milk in my coffee,’ Satan retorts.

Silence.

‘I don’t know whether you know this,’ says Guðmundur, straightening his back and raising his voice, ‘but the chair you are sitting on is the captain’s chair, and the captain is the highest-ranking officer on board the ship.’

‘Right,’ says Satan with utter indifference, then he yawns like a lazy cat. ‘Listen, I need some clean clothes. Do you think that big engineer could loan me something? He’s the only one on board who wears grown-up sizes.’

18:45

When Satan enters the engine room there is no-one to be seen, but he knows that Stoker is in there somewhere.

It’s pretty dusky down there: only the most vital lights are on. It’s warm as a good summer’s day and the rumble of the generator communes with its own echo in this greasy-smelling metal box.

After walking through the empty control booth, Satan strolls across the platform at the front of the room and into the machine shop to port, where the door is wide open. He sees Stoker standing barechested on a footstool, peering into a large pot that sits on a small electric hotplate up on the work surface. Stoker is holding the lid with his left hand while, with his right, he fishes for something in the pot with a piece of bent wire. Steam rises from the pot and the smell filling the workshop is disgusting, to say the least.

Satan stands in the doorway, holding his nose and breathing quickly through his half-closed mouth while he watches Stoker, who drags the wire out of the pot and knocks bits of hair and shreds of something off it before replacing the lid.

‘I sure as hell hope that’s not supper.’

Stoker is so startled that he falls backwards with the bent wire in his hand, and comes perilously close to hooking one handle of the pot and dragging it with him as he falls. He knocks the footstool out from under him and screams like a little kid when he lands flat on the hard metal floor. Cans, flasks and spare parts fall from the shelves under the counter, and the pot spits dirty water which runs onto the hotplate and turns into black smoke.

‘ Johnny? ’ cries Stoker and he blinks his eyes as he rolls over onto his belly.

No, this isn’t Johnny. Of course it’s not Johnny – but…

‘ You’re wearing Johnny’s clothes! ’ shouts Stoker, standing up and examining Satan.

‘Yeah,’ says Satan, closing the door so the noise from the generator drops by several decibels. He’s wearing a blue-checked cotton shirt, dark blue trousers made of some synthetic material and tightly laced military boots.

‘What are you doing down here?’ says Stoker, pointing at Satan with the bent wire. ‘Nobody has any business down here, nobody but—’

‘Shut up, man!’ says Satan, grimacing at the smell that issues from the pot. ‘I just need something to cover the broken windows in the bridge – plywood or a sheet of aluminium or plastic or something. What is that god-awful stink, man? What the fuck are you boiling?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ mutters Stoker, backing towards the pot with arms outstretched as Satan steps forward. ‘Just want to get some oil and junk off… off something.’

‘Goddamn liar!’ says Satan, trying to force a grin, but the smell is so disgusting that he’s feeling seriously nauseated.

‘There’s some plywood out there, up on the shelf above the sink,’ says Stoker, backing all the way to the counter. ‘You can use it for the windows. And there’s a saw on the hook beside it.’

Stoker knocks his left heel into a can of axle grease, which hits an empty turpentine container that falls over and rolls out on the floor, and then Satan sees brown fingers on the floor below the shelf under the counter.