Читать книгу Blood at Bay - Sue Rabie - Страница 8

He was standing in a quiet house, the furniture unfamiliar. The strangeness was due to the deep blue hue around him, as if he were underwater, as if the whole house were submerged.

He tried to take a step forward, only to discover that he was floating, suspended in water. Then he tried to take a breath. He couldn’t. He was choking. Drowning.

“Don’t!” David gasped as he awakened.

He was in his bedroom, half sitting on his bed. The sun was shining through the window. It was half past seven in the morning; the sheets were wrapped around his legs, the pillows on the floor where he must have swept them. Sweat was slick on his face. Not again, he thought. He sank back slowly, closing his eyes and groaning as he lay there. Then he cursed and pushed himself off the bed. He went through to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The smudges beneath his eyes were worse; his skin was paler, his face gaunt. He tried to remember the nightmare, but the only sensation that remained clear was that of drowning.

Was he going crazy? Was he losing it? No, he had just overdone it the day before.

It had been late when he got home from Dalton. He had parked the Mercedes van in its garage, ignoring the dark glare his neighbour had given him. He had been tired, and all he had wanted to do was get a good night’s sleep. He hadn’t. He had tossed and turned, unable to settle. And then when he had eventually dozed off, the nightmare had returned.

His head ached this morning and there was a fuzzy feeling in his mouth – as if he were suffering from a hangover. Great.

He was just about to get into the shower when the buzzer from downstairs demanded attention. He went through to the lounge and picked up the intercom handset. “Yes?” he asked wearily.

“DHL delivery, sir,” the intercom announced.

David cursed. This early in the morning? “Come up,” he told the man and buzzed the hallway door open.

He barely had a chance to smooth his sleep-tousled hair, when the man was knocking on his door. David opened to the delivery man holding a large DHL envelope and a clipboard.

The man held out the clipboard unceremoniously. “Sign here please, sir.”

David took the clipboard and signed, and then was handed the envelope. “Have a good day,” the man said.

“Thanks,” David replied as the delivery man turned and made for the lift.

David shut the door and opened the envelope: a set of keys and another envelope. He opened the second envelope. It took a few seconds for him to make out what the documents were: deeds to a yacht. Damn. He’d forgotten all about Julian’s favour. The keys must also be for the yacht. He tossed them and the deeds onto the dining-room table and went for a shower.

***

Durban was already busy with morning traffic as he drove the rattling Land Rover down to the Royal Natal Yacht Club. The streets along the esplanade were choked with cars and it took him at least twenty minutes to travel the mere five kilometres from Ridge Road to the Royal Natal.

As David walked from the parking lot with its rows and rows of yachts on one side, he began to appreciate the influence Julian Harper had at the club; somehow he had managed to arrange David’s membership almost overnight. David was sure the Royal Natal Yacht Club didn’t accept new members any old day. He arrived at the club to enquire where Julian’s boat was berthed, only to be asked by a secretary to wait a moment for the commodore. She dialled a number, spoke into the phone and then disconnected.

“If you would follow me, sir?”

She led him through a short passage to a cool lounge with a deck that opened out onto a pleasant garden with chairs and tables, a swimming pool, green lawns, palm trees and brightly flowering hibiscus. There was a magnificent view of the harbour. Several people sat at the chairs and tables having tea or late breakfast. Two children romped in the pool while a woman lounged in the sun nearby. There was a bar set in an alcove against the far wall of the lounge with two men leaning against it. They glanced up as David was led in, and one of them, a middle-aged, balding man, came across to him. He introduced himself as Bernard King. He had a wide smile and a warm handshake.

“Good to have you on board,” he said to David. The man was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved, open-necked shirt. He didn’t look like a commodore – not that David knew what a commodore should look like.

“Thank you,” David replied politely. He peered around the lounge and deck outside, at the nautical pictures on the wall, the flags, the honours boards and the bright upholstery on the cane loungers. “Nice place you have here.”

Bernard grinned broadly. “Thanks to new members such as you.”

David smiled to himself. Of course, Julian must have made a handsome donation to get his membership application noticed.

“Well, I suppose you’ll be wanting to have a look at Sea Scout?”

David stared at him.

“She arrived yesterday from Richards Bay,” Bernard told David as he handed him a small grey disc on a lanyard. “She was sailed in by two idiots who nearly crashed into the Isle of Capri.” David assumed the Isle of Capri was another boat and not an actual island. They left her in a bit of a state I’m afraid.”

David groaned inwardly. Julian had warned him about the neglectful owners, but surely they could have delivered the boat in a reasonably good condition?

“That tag will get you through the security gate at the entrance to the jetty without the guards bothering you.” Bernard pointed to the disk on the lanyard. “And Bobby Baumann asked me to tell you that he’ll meet you today to discuss her refitting.”

“Bobby Baumann?” David asked.

“Contractor,” Bernard explained. “He’s quite good, very reliable. If anyone can sort out your boat in a hurry, it’s him.” David wanted to correct him about the boat, but didn’t have the time. Bernard was already waving him towards the marina. “Go down the middle jetty,” he told David. “She’s the big one at the end.”

In the distance David could see big cargo carriers, container ships, small yachts and ski boats. The port, with all its cranes and warehouses and docks, shimmered in the sharp light. Along the wharf as far as the eye could see was uninterrupted activity with bustling loading and offloading of containers. Closer in to the marina a narrow strip of white in the middle of the harbour revealed a long sandbank. It was low tide.

The small-craft harbour itself consisted of three sections. Against the southern wharf, where the club, restaurant and parking lot were situated, the visiting international yachts were berthed. They were huge, mostly catamarans and pleasure cruisers lined up along one side of the causeway. One yacht was a smaller, sturdier boat that looked like it might be on a round-the-world trip. Its decks were loaded with additional storage containers, its sails were being aired on the walkway and its crew, a couple with sun-bleached hair and sea-faded T-shirts, were halfway up the masts rerigging with professional ease.

David watched them for a while, taking in the fresh air and sunshine. He started to relax as he admired the little craft and its air of adventure. The middle jetty of the marina was double the length of the international causeway, with rows of yachts stretching along both sides. To the north was a shorter jetty and then the other embankment where more boats were stored on dry land, in cradles or on boat trailers, waiting for their weekend owners to pay them some attention.

David let himself through the security gate and greeted the guard sitting in his booth; then he went down the ramp towards the walk-on and the first of the boats.

They started small, ski boats and day cruisers and other fishing boats. As he walked further along the floating causeway the vessels became bigger. They had names such as Endless Summer, African Queen and Lazy Spirit. They were blue and white, spotlessly maintained, their sails folded away under matching navy covers. David imagined he could smell the money that floated in this marina.

There were very few people about. Faint music was coming from a large catamaran on his left, and a little further along a middle-aged couple in swimming costumes was hosing down the deck of their yacht. David greeted them and continued down the causeway until he could go no further.

Sea Scout was waiting for him at the very end. She was larger than he had imagined. In fact she was huge. She looked in good condition, her hull a pristine white, her name painted in crisp royal blue on her bow. But that’s where his expertise ended. He couldn’t tell that her sails were badly furled on the booms and inadequately tied down. He couldn’t tell that her fenders were barely holding her away from the rough abrasions of the jetty.

He walked along her length toward the stern, which jutted out into the water, and searched for a place to climb aboard. Her boarding steps were lying on the jetty in front of him, half in and half out of the water. He was about to bend down to lift them up when someone called out behind him.

“Mr Roth?” A darkly suntanned man in his mid-thirties strode up. “Need help with that?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, the man stepped around David and effortlessly hauled the boarding steps from between Sea Scout and the jetty. He fitted the steps to the side of the yacht before turning and extending a large, calloused hand towards David. “Bobby Baumann,” came the introduction.

David shook his hand. “David Roth,” he greeted.

“This is quite a boat you’ve got here.” Baumann gestured with his free hand. “Impressive,” he added. David released the firm handshake but was interrupted before he could explain the details of ownership. “Pity about those two you got to sail her from Richards Bay. They don’t know a boat from a boat race.”

“Pity,” David echoed.

“Well, that’s what you get when you employ amateurs,” Baumann replied over his shoulder as be climbed up the boarding steps. He kicked at a loosely tangled pile of hosepipe and ropes which should have been neatly coiled on the deck as if to confirm his statement; then he lowered himself fluidly into the wheelhouse. David followed more carefully.

Sea Scout’s upper deck consisted of the foredeck with its shorter foremast midway along, and a long, elegant bow ending in a slightly raised bowsprit. The cockpit was situated three-quarters of the way along the deck, the rear section ending in a raised poop deck. The wheelhouse was deeply set with its cockpit well protected from the elements. It had a broad Perspex-enclosed instrument panel consisting of a rev counter, oil pressure gauge, temperature gauge and generator charge indicator. There were several other instruments along the cabin top: a throttle, a wind indicator, a compass, a rudder indicator, bow-thruster toggles and GPS. There was also a large old-fashioned wheel that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an ancient man-of-war.

The forward companionway to the right of the wheel was locked. At the rear of the wheelhouse a second companionway led aft, just right of the main mast that towered far above. It, too, was locked.

“You got the spare keys?” Baumann asked with his hand out.

David fished in his pocket for the spare set of keys Julian had couriered down to him and handed them over.

“You should have these locks changed. The two idiots who delivered her still have the originals.”

David nodded.

“You got the list?” Baumann asked.

David fished again to find the list.

Baumann scanned the page. “Let’s inspect the engine room first, shall we?”

He unlocked the aft companionway, took the wooden splash board out of its housing and slid the polycarbonate cover back. They both recoiled in disgust.

“Bloody hell!” Baumann swore.

“Damn!” David echoed. “What’s that smell?”

“The heads.”

“The what?”

“Toilets.”

David grimaced as Baumann started down into the darkness. He was reluctant to enter, the stench holding him back.

“You coming?” Baumann called from below.

David sighed and started down. The saloon, when he had carefully negotiated the steep, narrow steps and accustomed his eyes to the gloom, was a mess. Empty beer bottles and tins covered the large central table of the once stately saloon, along with dirty plates, coffee mugs, broken glasses and cutlery. The stained and sandy upholstery was strewn with litter and torn magazines. The swift escape of cockroaches darting beneath the debris drew David’s attention to the floor. The caulked teak footsole was smeared with spilt beer and dried beans that had leaked from a can rolling back and forth across the wood. Overhead, the cream-padded ceiling was splattered with red tomato sauce. Or what David hoped was tomato sauce.

“Access to the engine room is through here,” Baumann beckoned.

David stared at the spilt coffee and sugar in the recessed work area beside the steps and then ducked through the narrow passageway that led to the galley and the forward cabins. Baumann was already past the mess that had been left in the small kitchen area. The inside of the built-in microwave was splattered with crusty sauce, and the sink was full of dishes, cardboard wrapping and uneaten food. More broken glasses and plates jutted from the debris. The smell from the heads got worse.

David tried to breathe shallowly as he followed Baumann into the navigation alcove. The forward-companionway steps led down to the chart table, and David wished Baumann had unlocked that hatch as well to help alleviate the stench. The passage stretched forward into darkness and, while Baumann took away the steps beneath the forward companionway and wrestled with the engine-room hatch, David investigated the gloomy passageway. On his left was the main cabin, boasting a double bunk with cleverly fitted recesses for storage and cupboards in every conceivable nook and cranny. The cabin was a mess, and so too was the en suite bathroom.

David backed out and went to the next cabin. It also had a built-in double bunk, but was smaller, messier and had no en suite. The forecabin had three bunks fitted along the hull, each bunk with a small space for storage against the bulkhead. The crew quarters were full of litter and debris.

David backtracked, opening a small door on the right that turned out to be another storage locker. The next door was the crew bathroom. The heads.

He reeled back as he caught the full blast of the reek that flooded out. He caught a glimpse of the toilet overflowing with urine, faeces and vomit before he shut the door and backed away. He leant back against the wood panelling and tried not to breathe.

“Bad hey?” Baumann shouted to him from inside the engine room. “It’s better in here.”

David held his breath and made as quickly as possible for the small opening into the bowels of the boat. He ducked down through the forward-engine-room hatch and took in a grateful gasp of diesel fumes. Baumann was right. Anything was better than the stench of the heads.

“She’s fine down here,” Baumann told him. “No leaks. You’ve got a diesel Perkins ninety-five horsepower engine and a five-kilowatt genset. They’re in relatively good condition. Your gel batteries look good. You’ve got two electrical circuits, a two-twenty-volt AC and a twelve-volt DC for your lighting and instruments.”

“Right,” David said, not knowing what else to say.

“Needs a service and clean-up maybe, but other than that everything’s in place.”

“That’s a relief,” David muttered.

He followed Baumann out, watching him replace the hatch to the engine room and steps before returning to the saloon.

“I’ll check the rigging and sails later,” Baumann told David. “That’s a bigger job.”

David nodded and waited for him to climb up the aft companionway towards the cockpit. He turned as he heard a sound. At the rear of the saloon was a small door he had barely noticed before. It led to the stern. This was in the raised poop at the rear of the boat that could be used as a cabin or as extra storage. He picked his way through the clutter towards the door, trying not to disturb any more cockroaches as he went, and opened the door cautiously.

The place was a mess. Loose equipment had tumbled everywhere: old canvas, frayed ropes, life jackets, dirty fenders. It all lay in a jumbled heap. But staring out from beneath the mound was a face.

It was tiny. Black and white. A kitten.