Читать книгу King Dong - Edgar Ragged Rider - Страница 8

The ship rang with orders.

‘Cast off fore – cast off aft.’

‘Aye aye, Skipper.’

‘Let go the stays, Mister Decktennis.’

‘Ooh, thank you, sir – they were killing me.’

‘’Ware that bucket, Sloppy.’

‘If you insist, Skipper, but I don’t think it’ll suit me.’

‘Avast behind, Mister Hawsehole!’

‘Well, there’s no need to be personal.’

‘Weigh the anchor, Mister Obote.’

‘Five and a half tons, sir.’

‘That’s enough sarcasm from you, Mister Obote. Mister Dogsdinner, clear the harbour and steer sou’ sou’ east.’

‘Sho’ sho’ thing, Skipper.’

Coughing like a tuberculosis ward, the rickety vessel limped its way towards open water in a haze of black smoke. A spasm of foreboding crossed Captain Rumbuggery’s grizzled face. ‘And may God have mercy on us all.’

Deadman breezed onto the bridge. ‘So we’re under way at last, Skipper.’

The Captain gave him an unfriendly look. ‘Yes, though I can’t say I’m happy to be setting sail on this fool’s errand. This is an ill-fated ship with an ill-fated crew. I’m mortally certain there’s a curse upon us all.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘An albatross just crapped on my head.’ The Captain removed his filthy cap and stared mournfully at the newly deposited guano. ‘I’m going below. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in an alcoholic stupor.’

Deadman watched the departing captain out of sight and shook his head. The Skipper had the jitters: well, Deadman couldn’t exactly blame him. The voyage they had embarked on would be enough to try any man’s courage.

Still, there’d be no room on this ship for milksops and weaklings. Deadman squared his shoulders. It was time he checked on the crew.

The light faded as the movie man made his way into the bowels of the ship, along dimly-lit corridors whose walls glistened with moisture. The air throbbed with the arthritic beat of the engines; from behind the walls came the furtive scrabbling of rats and the less wholesome sound of off-duty crew members removing each others’ gold fillings. Deadman reached the crew’s mess. He stepped over the mess, wondering why a bunch of grown men couldn’t manage to make it to the can in time. Squaring his shoulders, he flung open the door.

Immediately he stepped back, gagging, as a wave of foetid air, redolent of spoiled gorgonzola, athlete’s foot and bus station rest rooms burst over him.

Dabbing at his streaming eyes, Deadman gazed around at the dregs of humanity occupying the stinking fo’c’sle. There was the usual collection of Lascars, mulattos, gimlet-eyed Shellbacks, Ancient Mariners and Flying Dutchmen. In one corner stood a painted savage shaving himself with a harpoon. A shrunken head hung from his waist, tied by its hair. At a rickety table, two old seafaring men – one blind, the other with a wooden leg and a parrot on his shoulder – sang an incomprehensible pirate ditty with the chorus, ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.’

Deadman raised a hand for quiet. The noises of sailors carving their initials on whalebone trinkets and each other died away into an ugly, brooding silence.

‘Men, I guess you know me. Carl Deadman, movie producer.’ Deadman scanned the hard-bitten faces that glowered at him from the dingy recesses of their stinking rat-hole. ‘I’m gonna be straight with you. When we reach our destination, the going could be rough. I’m going to need men with guts, men who laugh in the face of death.’

‘No probleme zere, m’sieu.’ The voice came from a hunted-looking individual wearing a striped shirt, a black beret and a string of onions round his neck. ‘Zere is not one of us on zis hell-ship who would not sell ’is life for a shot of rum an’ think it a bargain.’

‘Is that so?’ said Deadman. ‘And who might you be, sailor?’

‘Jacques-François Peep, formerly of the French Foreign Legion. In ze regiment, I was known as Beau Peep.’ The man’s eyes clouded with pain. ‘I joined ze legion to forget.’

‘Forget what?’

‘’Ow do I know? I’ave forgotten. Zat was ze ’ole point!’ The man stiffened, and his face turned pale. ‘Wait – now I remembair! I was an accordionist – ze greatest in all France! I ’ad a monkey – ’er name was Sylvia – she danced while I played, oh, ’ow she danced, like a small ’airy angel! But one day when I woke up, ze apartment was empty, Sylvia was gone!

‘I searched ’igh and low for ’er, I wandered ze streets of Paree without rest, I could not eat or sleep. Zen – I found ’er. She was with a man ’oo was playing ze barrel-organ.’ Jacques-François clenched his fists and his lips became flecked with foam. ‘She, ’oo ad danced to the music of my accordion, ’ad left me for a cochon with an ’urdy-gurdy. Quelle vulgarité! In my agony, I cried to ’er “Sylvie! Cherie! For what do you prostitute yourself with zis animal?”

‘She turned, she saw me, and she laughed. Zey both laughed! Naturally, for the sake of my honour, I ’ad to shoot zem. Ze judge acquitted me because it was a crime passionel. So I joined ze legion, an’ aftair ten long years in ze fearful ’eat an’ desolation of ze desert, I ’ad forgotten ze ’ole tragic affair, until you forced me to remembair … and now I shall nevair be free of ze memory – nevair …’ The man’s voice choked off. His body shook with uncontrollable sobs.

‘There, there, Jacques-François. Don’t take on so – you’ll get wrinkles.’ The cut-glass tones betrayed the speaker as an Englishman of the upper classes. He patted the quivering Frenchman on the shoulder and eyed Deadman censoriously. ‘All of us on this ship have a similar tale to tell. Mine involves the Rajah of Ranjipoor, his favourite concubine, a polo stick and a bucket of ghee – I prefer not to talk about it.’

‘Yeeesh, that eesh sho.’ A small, pop-eyed man with a pronounced Hungarian accent leered up at Deadman. ‘Een my cashe, eet wash thee Black Bird …’

‘Ze Czarina of oll the Russias,’ contributed a man with a monk’s habit, a long filthy beard and the eyes of a maniac.

‘Thee seex-fingered man who slew my father,’ hissed a leather-doubleted Spaniard. ‘And when ah find heem, I weel say to heem –’

‘Hello,’ chorused every one of that desperate crew in a weary sing-song. ‘My name ees Indignant Montoya. You keeled my father. Prepare to die.’

Montoya’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Well, ah weel!’ he said petulantly. ‘When ah find heem, ah weel keel heem!’

‘Of course you will, my friend.’ The speaker sported a scarlet-lined opera cloak and impressive dentistry, particularly in the canine department. ‘You see, Mr Deadman? This is a ship of lost souls. Who are we? No one. Where are we sailing? Nowhere. Do we even exist? Who knows?!’

‘Right.’ Deadman backed slowly away, feeling for the door handle. ‘Good. OK. Point taken. I’ll – er – catch up with you later, OK? Good, er, fine.’

His questing fingers having at last found the handle, Deadman yanked the door open – and Ann Darling sashayed in.

‘Why, Mister Deadman.’ Ignoring the sudden silence and the lascivious moans of the crew who, having been without a woman for very nearly two and a half hours, were ready to leer suggestively at anything with legs, Ann favoured the slavering cut-throats with her most beguiling smile. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your … friends?’

‘Well, I … er …’ Deadman got no further. Howls of fury and screams of agony indicated that a fight for Ann’s favours had already broken out. Knives were drawn, blackjacks and knuckledusters brandished. A nose flew by. The air reverberated with the shrieks of men having their ears bitten off.

Deadman glared at Ann. ‘See what you did? I’m going to end up with half my crew murdered before we’ve cleared Ellis Island.’

‘Why,’ simpered Ann, ‘can I help it if the boys are fighting over li’l ol’ me?’

‘You started this, you finish it, or no movie.’

Ann pouted. ‘OK, OK.’ She put her thumb and forefinger to her lips and gave a piercing whistle. ‘Hey, youse bums, knock it off before I nail your cojones to the wall with my hairgrips!’

There was a sudden shocked silence.

‘That’s better,’ said Ann. ‘Now, what’s goin’ on here?’

The peg-legged cove Deadman had noticed earlier adjusted his parrot and stepped forward with an ingratiating air. ‘Well, missy, me an the boys was drawin’ lots, all friendly like, to see who’d ’ave first chance to get you into ’is ’ammock, an’ Blind Pugh ’ere was palmin’ the black spot …’

‘Whaaaaaat?’ Ann was furious. ‘You were drawing lots for me? What kind of goil do you think I am?’

The parrot cackled. ‘Piece of ass! Piece of ass!’

The peg-legged man swiped at the bird, which fluttered away, squawking angrily and shedding feathers. ‘You’ll ’ave to excuse Cap’n Flint,’ he told Ann. ‘He meant to say, “pieces of eight”. I reckon ’e’s a mite confused.’

‘I say what I see,’ squawked the parrot. ‘When I say “ass” I mean “ass”!’

Ann looked the peg-legged man up and down. And then halfway up again. Her eyes widened with concupiscence. ‘Say, big boy, what do they call you?’

The rascal leered at his disappointed shipmates. ‘They call me Long John Silver, missy.’

‘And why do they call you that?’

Long John leaned forward and whispered into Ann’s ear.

Anne giggled. ‘You don’t say? In that case, why don’t you come up and see me sometime.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t be comin’ near the officer’s cabins, missy.’

‘Well then, any time you want me, just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you, Johnny? You just put your lips together and … blow.’ Ann winked at Silver and swayed towards the door. Deadman, belatedly remembering his manners, opened it and followed Ann through. He closed the door, leaned against it and mopped his brow.

‘Well, that’s just great.’ Deadman glared at Ann, who was examining her nails with an elaborate show of unconcern. ‘We’ve only just set sail and you’ve already got the crew at each others’ throats.’

Ann pouted. ‘Can I help it if men find me attractive?’ She set off down the corridor, swivelling her hips. A crewman, eyes glued to her oscillating caboose, fell down an open hatchway. A scream of agony echoed from the hold.

Deadman shook his head. This voyage was going to be even longer than he’d thought.

Three weeks later the Vulture was anchored off the coast of Africa.

The ship had wheezed its way across the Atlantic, producing as much smoke as a middling-sized iron foundry and twice as much noise. Storms had battered the leaking vessel. Many of the crew had been prostrated by seasickness – and, Deadman suspected, many more by his leading lady. In fact, apart from Deadman himself, the only members of the ship’s company who had remained immune to the ravages of the voyage were Captain Rumbuggery (who was too blasted to notice the movement of the ship) and Ann, whose self-obsession was such as to be immune to the whims of a mere ocean.

Now Deadman and Ann were leaning on the rail staring at the palm-lined coast of the Dark Continent and chewing the cud about days past.

‘You never did tell me how you got into the crazy world of movie making,’ said Deadman.

‘I was in Hollywood for a screen test. Afterwards the producer said it would take an Act of Congress to get me into the movies, so I thought what the hell! I’ve been acting and congressing ever since …’

Their reverie was interrupted by a high-pitched, effeminate voice. ‘There you both are, sweeties.’

‘Oh hello Ray, haven’t seen you for days.’

‘I know, I know,’ minced Ray. He turned to Ann. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been dancing attendance; my dear, I haven’t been feeling myself.’ He gave a squeal of a laugh. ‘Well, maybe once or twice, to pass the time. I’ve been laid low, drained, positively overwhelmed with mal-de-mer. Still, I’m feeling better now this beastly boat has stopped bouncing up and down in that alarming fashion.’ He gave Ann a sly wink. ‘And rumour has it, that’s not the only thing that’s been bouncing up and down.’

‘If I want any crap outta you I’ll squeeze your head.’

‘Oh, bold!’ Ray’s mouth twisted into a little moue of distaste. ‘Anyway, I’ve been cutting, sewing and embroidering like a thing possessed to get Miss Darling’s costumes ready.’

He was interrupted by a hail from the bridge. ‘Hi, Deadman! I’m shending in the boatsh to fill up the scuttlebutts.’ Captain Rumbuggery waved a half-empty whisky bottle at Ray. ‘That crazy fella has used all our drinking water for dyeing hish goddamn costhtumes.’

‘Philistine!’ Ray gave the Captain a savage glare and minced off, his wobbling derriere attracting almost as much attention from certain members of the ship’s company as Ann’s.

‘Boatsh away!’ Captain Rumbuggery turned his wandering attention back to Ann and Deadman. ‘You two want to come along for the ride?’

‘Sure!’ Deadman waved back, and turned to Ann. ‘Coming?’

But Ann had spotted a sun-tanned young deck-hand with oiled skin and rippling muscles. ‘I think I’ll stay here and take in a little local colour.’

Deadman followed her stare. ‘Riiiight. Be sure not to take in too much.’

Fifteen minutes later, three of the ship’s boats were pulling in an uncoordinated fashion for the shore.

They had almost reached the surf-line when Sloppy, the ship’s cook, stood up and pointed. ‘Hey, look at that.’

A rider had burst out of the forest, galloping hell-for-leather along the beach. He was a white man, wearing a battered fedora and carrying a bullwhip coiled in one hand, with which he was belabouring the flanks of his foundered horse, urging it to greater efforts.

Behind him, a war party of black-skinned warriors burst from cover. They were wearing leather loincloths and carrying buffalo-hide shields and vicious-looking short spears. They pursued their quarry with dreadful purpose, uttering savage war-cries, brandishing their spears with fearsome intent and thirsting for blood.

The rider stood in his stirrups and waved frantically. ‘Hey – you down there! Help! They’re gonna kill me!’