Edgar Ragged - King Dong

‘Funny thing, romance.’ Deadman gave Indiana a shrewd look. ‘You and Ann, Ray and you. Who’s Beauty and who’s the Beast? It ain’t always safe to make assumptions. I guess, like the song says, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. One thing I do know: when Beauty comes in the door, the Beast starts thinking with his cojones and he’s fixin’ to wind up with his ass in a sling. Think about it, Indy.’ Ignoring Indiana’s spluttering attempts to protest his innocence, Deadman continued, ‘Anyhow, that’s not why I called you up here. We’ve reached the coordinates I gave the Skipper. Time you all found out where we’re headed.’

Indiana followed him into the dog-house where the Skipper was trying to focus his bloodshot eyes on a chart. ‘Here we are, Deadman,’ he slurred. ‘Right where you shaid. 7 degreesh north, 06 degreesh west.’

‘What?’ Deadman stared at the Skipper. Then he grabbed at the chart. ‘You’ve got it upside down, you old fool.’

The Skipper blinked. ‘Sho I have. I wondered why India wash to the south and pointing upwards.’

Rolling his eyes, Deadman spun the chart and jabbed with an index finger. ‘This is where we are – 2 degrees south, 90 degrees east.’

‘But we’re in the middle of nowhere,’ protested Indiana.

‘Sure, that’s what everyone thinks … but they’re wrong. According to my information, there’s an uncharted island just to the south west of here. A mysterious land hidden in a bank of fog which defies meteorological explanation, and which has unaccountably failed to arouse the interest of the hundreds of experienced mariners and explorers who have criss-crossed these waters for centuries and surveyed every inch of the sea-bed.’

‘An island?’ The Skipper’s wandering attention had caught up with Deadman’s opening remarks. ‘What short of island?’

‘This sort.’ Deadman took a much-thumbed paper from his inside pocket. He unfolded it and spread it out on the chart table. ‘Here it is – Skullandcrossbones Island. That native I told you about – he roughed this out before he died.’ He pointed. ‘The only approach to the island is through an inadequately charted reef, whose razor-sharp rocks are easily capable of ripping the keel out of any ship foolhardy enough to attempt the passage. Then there’s this isthm … itshm … strip of land here, next to this sandy cove.’

‘Sandy Cove?’ The Skipper gave Deadman a bleary-eyed stare. ‘Is he there?’

‘What?’

‘My old pal Sandy Cove, bo’sun of the Saucy Mrs Truscott out of New Orleansh, used to be a ship-mate of mine.’

‘No, I mean this sheltered bay.’

‘Shelta’d Bey? The Turkish envoy to Rangoon? I met him in the Ninetiesh.’

‘No, no, no, this minor haven.’

‘Mina Haven? Lovely girl, Nautch dancer from old Bombay.’

‘… this handy landfall …’

‘Andy Landfall? Ish he there ash well? Funny, I thought he wash dead.’

‘Oh, it’s no good.’

‘Noah Goode? Haven’t sheen him in yearsh.’

‘Look here, Skipper …’

‘Luke Earskipper? Last of the Fighting Earskippers.’

‘Skipper!’ roared Deadman. ‘I’m not reminiscing about old friends of yours. I’m trying to tell you about this lousy island.’

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