Ian McGuire - The North Water

“It int true, sir, no,” he says. “I am as red-blooded as the next man over.”

“Joseph Hannah was sodomized before he was killed. I suppose you know that already.”

“That is what all the fellows in the forecastle are saying, sir, yes.”

“Did you kill him, McKendrick?”

McKendrick frowns as though this question makes no sense.

“ Did you?”

“No, that int me, sir,” he says placidly. “I int the one you seek.”

“He is a plausible fucking liar,” Cavendish says. “But I have half a dozen men who will testify to his well-known reputation as a buggerer of young boys.”

Brownlee looks at the carpenter, who seems, for the first time since the questioning began, less than comfortable.

“It will not go well for you if you are found to be lying, McKendrick,” he says. “I warn you now. I will be severe.”

McKendrick nods once, then scans the cabin ceiling before replying. His eyes are gray and fidgety, and there is something like a smile playing about his narrow lips.

“It hant ever been boys,” he says. “The boys int to my taste.”

Cavendish snorts derisively.

“You really expect us to believe you are so very particular about whose arse you lay siege to. From what I hear, after a pint or two of whiskey you would fuck your own granddad.”

“It int a matter of laying siege to anything,” McKendrick says.

“You are a fucking disgrace,” Brownlee says, jabbing his forefinger in McKendrick’s face. “And whether you are a murderer or not, I should have you whipped.”

“I int a murderer.”

“You are a proven liar though,” Brownlee says. “We have established that beyond a doubt already. And if you lie about one thing, why will you not lie about anything else?”

“I int a bloody murderer,” McKendrick says again.

“If you allow me to examine him briefly, Mr. Brownlee,” Sumner says, “there may be indications one way or the other.”

Brownlee looks quizzical.

“What indications would those be?” he says.

“The boy had a slew of sores around his arse, if you remember. If the sores are venereal, which is likely, the culprit may have them too. There may also be some soreness or abrasions on the culprit’s penis. A child’s fundament is quite narrow, after all.”

“Oh fuck me,” Cavendish says.

“Very well,” Brownlee says. “McKendrick, remove your clothes.”

McKendrick doesn’t move.

“Do it now,” Brownlee says, “or I swear we’ll do it for you.”

Reluctantly, slowly, McKendrick undresses in front of them. His legs and arms look strong but scrawny; between his dark red nipples there is a small, whiskery patch of light brown hair. For such a slight and colorless man, he possesses, Sumner notices, as he begins his examination, an unusually large and gaudy set of genitalia. The balls are heavy, dark, and pendulous; the yard, although not abnormally long, is thick as a dog’s snout, and its end piece is as broad and shiny as a kidney.

“No visible chancres,” Sumner reports. “No signs of soreness or abrasion either.”

“Perhaps he used a gob of lard to ease his entrance,” Cavendish says. “By any chance, did you check Hannah’s arsehole for signs of lubrication?”

“I did, and there were no residues to speak of.”

Cavendish smiles.

“Precious little gets past you, Mr. Sumner,” he says. “I swear to God.”

“No fresh cuts or scratches on the arms or neck as might be caused by a struggle either,” Sumner says. “You may put your clothes back on now, McKendrick.”

McKendrick does as he is told. Brownlee watches silently as he dresses himself and, when he is finished, instructs him to wait outside in the mess cabin until they call him back in.

“There is your murderer, right there,” Cavendish says. “Whether his cock is chafed or not, he’s the guilty one, I tell you.”

“It’s possible, but we have no convincing proof,” Sumner says.

“He’s a self-confessed sodomite. What further proof do you need?”

“A confession,” Brownlee says. “But if he won’t confess, I’m minded to put him in irons anyway and let the magistrates deal with him when we get back to port.”

“What if he’s not the one?” Sumner says. “Are you content to have the actual murderer walking free around the ship?”

“If it’s not McKendrick, then who the fuck could it be?” Cavendish asks. “Exactly how many sodomites do you think we have crammed aboard this vessel?”

“I would be surer of his guilt if someone had seen the two of them together,” Sumner says.

“Put McKendrick in irons for now, Cavendish,” Brownlee says. “Then let the rest of the crew know we wish to speak to anyone who has seen him talking to Hannah or paying the boy any sort of attentions. Sumner is most likely right. If he is guilty, there will be a witness.”

In the wardroom, Drax listens as the others talk. They are talking about the boy again, even though the boy is dead and gone. This afternoon they wrapped his body up in canvas and dropped it over the ship’s stern; he watched it sinking under the water. The boy is nothing now. He is not even an idea or a thought, he is nothing, but they are talking about him still. On and on they go. On and on. What is the fucking point of that? Drax chews his boiled beef, drinks deeply from his mug of tea. The beef is salty sour, but the tea is sweet. He has a bite mark on his forearm a half inch deep. He can feel it throb and itch. It would have been quicker and easier, he knows, to cut the boy’s throat, but a knife was not to hand. He doesn’t plan these things. He only acts, and each action remains separate and complete in itself: the fucking, the killing, the shitting, the eating. They could come in any order at all. No one is prior or superior to the rest. Drax lifts his dinner plate up in front of his face like a looking glass and licks it clean of gravy.

He listens.

“It’s McKendrick,” Cavendish says. “For sure it is, I know a murderer when I see one, but Brownlee thinks he needs more proof.”

Drax knows McKendrick. He is a feeble, girlish, blood-shy fellow who could not kill someone if you put a pistol in his hand, pointed it for him, and offered to pull the trigger yourself.

“Why McKendrick?” he asks.

“Because he’s an infamous sodomite. You can see him in the dockyard taprooms every night, buying arse and giggling with the other pansies.”

Drax nods. McKendrick will be his stand-in then, he thinks, his scapegoat. He will dangle from the rope end, while Drax stands and watches and applauds.

“What kind of proof does Brownlee look for?” he asks.

“He wants a witness. Someone who has seen the two of them together.”

Drax rubs the crumbs from his beard, grumbles out a fart, and then reaches into his pocket for his pouch of negro-head tobacco.

“I’ve seen them together,” he says.

The others look at him.

“When?” Sumner says.

“I seen them standing by the deckhouse late one night. McKendrick mooning over the boy, cooing and billing, paddling his neck, trying to give him little kisses. The boy didn’t appear to like it much. ’Bout a week ago that was.”

Cavendish claps his hands together and laughs.

“That should do it,” he says.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Sumner asks. “You were there when the captain asked us all what we had seen.”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Drax says. “My wits are not quite so sharply tuned as yours are, Mr. Sumner, I suppose. I’m the forgetful type, see.”

Sumner looks at him, and Drax looks back. He feels easy and qualmless. He knows the surgeon’s kind too well — he will quibble and ask questions all day long, but he will never dare to act. He is a talker and not a doer.