She climbed the ladder, aware of the
seamen leaning over the rail and looking down at her. It didn’t bother her: she
was used to it. The only problem was that the longer she did this job the
dirtier those looks seemed to get. Or perhaps that was just her getting more
sensitive to them. But she’d given up making it easy for them: at one time
she’d worn a sweater and an old pair of jeans when the weather was good enough.
But climbing a boarding ladder with a pair of size thirty-sixes swinging around
in front of you was just asking for trouble, seamen being what they are.
So now it was a thick, buttoned
pea-jacket and baggy woollen trousers, which did a lot more than jeans to keep
the fingers at bay: her backside been black-and-blue for the first few weeks.
Dressed as she was, they could peer all they liked, but they’d see nothing,
especially with the regulation life-jacket as extra covering. They could strip
her with their eyes, too, but they’d never guess that she was wearing some of
the most expensive lingerie that her salary could afford under that shapeless
clothing: low-cut bra, thong panties, suspender-belt and sheer black stockings:
it was her little joke. Get this tub berthed and it was back to the flat for an
evening with Verdi and a bottle of Chambertin while she lounged, naked. Perhaps
she’d masturbate, or maybe she’d call Ma Johnson and ask for a toy-boy. But
that was later; this was now: business. She forced her mind from pleasures to
come and concentrated on the gently-swaying ladder.
She reached the level of the rail. A
helping hand - strange, there were normally three or four - stretched, but she
ignored it and vaulted over lightly, her long blonde hair swinging. That they
could look at as long as they liked, as they could the twenty-six year-old
features and blue eyes that had caused more than a few fights. But the rest was
up to their imaginations, if they had any. A glance over the side told her that
the pilot cutter was disappearing into the gathering gloom, its navigation
lights bright. There was a flash of white over the day-glow orange of the
life-jacket as Harrison turned, his hand coming up.
‘Some bloody chance, jerk-off!’ she
sneered under her breath. Trying again tonight after she’d told him to get
lost; that she knew that he had a wife up north. Some of them just don’t get
the message, do they? The same as some of them just can’t get used to having a
female Pilot, especially one as good-looking as she was.
Which this vessel was, she thought,
looking round as she unfastened the straps of the life-jacket. Gull-grey hull
and white upper-works instead of the black and dingy amber that characterised
the bulk carriers she usually worked on. Very trim and neat, the deck looking
as if it had just been scrubbed, paint-work immaculate, brass gleaming. The
crew was smart and well turned-out, too: white trousers, deck shoes, blue
sweaters with a monogram of some entwined letters. Looked more like one of
those cruise boats than a real working vessel, but it made a nice change. So
did the fact that the crew kept a respectable distance: by this time she’d have
had to use her elbows on the freighter boys; these ones just stood there with
their hands clasped, watching her, though she had the uneasy feeling that she
was being appraised.
She shrugged that off as she did the
life-jacket; immediately, one of the seaman stepped forward and took it from
her. As he backed away, a figure with gold braid on his cuffs moved into vision
from the shadows. First Officer, she guessed, summing him up as she did men
worthy of attention. A crewman, unless he was a real Adonis, had no chance; nor
did most officers, who were young, pimply, uncertain, adolescent, brash, just
plain obnoxious or any combination of the six. This one wasn’t: about forty,
she judged; slim, fit-looking, his uniform tight over broad shoulders and slim
hips, white cap-cover spotless. Fine-featured face with wrinkles at the corners
of the eyes and a dash of distinguished grey hair on the side-burns. Straight
nose, slightly thin mouth, pointed chin, powerful eyes under brows that sloped
outwards. She felt herself tingle slightly, for once regretting the shapeless
bundle that her clothes made of her: this one had a dangerous look about him:
bad-dangerous. And like many beautiful women, Clare felt a strong attraction to
bad-dangerous looking men. Especially ones with eyes as compelling as this one.
He stepped forward, no hand offered.
“Welcome aboard, Pilot,” he said.
No arch surprise, no flowery
compliments. ‘Not bad,’ she thought. “Evening,” she said. “What do you draw?”
Straight to business: don’t give them time to start any funny business.
He didn’t blink. “Eighteen feet,” he
replied.
“Right. We’re due a dredge, but
there’ll be plenty clear over the bar. You’re late, though, so we’d better get
a move on or you’ll might have trouble berthing: the lighting’s under
maintenance.”
He took the hint and gestured her to a
companion ladder, following her as she ascended, not attempting to make
conversation. As more detail of the vessel became visible to her, the more
impressed she grew: there was money here, real money. And judging by the forest
of antennae, they could keep in touch with a moon-probe if they had to. What
the hell was a floating gin-palace like this doing in a place like Port Walton?
“What’s your displacement?” she asked
over her shoulder.
“Five thousand three hundred.”
Bigger than she looked, then.
“Engines?”
“Four steam turbines, two geared
shafts. About forty thousand shaft horse-power.”
Forty thousand? Hell’s teeth! That was
enough for a bloody destroyer! This little lady would take watching.
Entering the bridge was like walking
into the control cabin of a space-ship: screens everywhere, the muted buzz of
powerful electronics going about purposeful business. She almost stopped and
gaped: it was a wonderland after the bare functionality of the bulk carriers:
there was even a carpet! She fought down the impulse to act the hayseed and
strode to the short, stout, bare-headed figure who stood in the centre of that
imposing array, looking out through the wide expanse of glass. As she
approached, he turned.
“Ah! Pilot!” His hand came out.
She took it: the grip was dry and firm
without the tendency to impress with its strength. Though short than her five
feet nine, he had a quite air of professional competence; about fifty, she
judged, but still with a full head of hair; fine features, a hint that they’d
been weather-beaten, but had softened a little since. They would, if he spent
his time in here.
“You’re for Commercial Docks Five, I
understand, Captain?”
“Correct.” Flawless English, she
noted. But it wasn’t his native tongue, she was sure.
“Do you have a good man on the wheel?”
“I do indeed.”
She lifted her binoculars and did a
quick scan then stepped to the radar display and examined it. Nothing.
“I normally say ‘slow ahead’,” she
said. “But you’ve got rocket engines in her, I understand. Will you give me
turns for five knots and steer two-seven-five, please?”
The Captain spoke quietly, almost
inaudibly, but almost immediately there was the faintest of trembles in the
fabric of the vessel and the bow began to swing.
“She’s a beauty,” she breathed to
herself.
He had good ears. “She is,” he said
proudly.
“Are you private or commercial?”
“This is a private yacht.”
“Yacht? “ She looked round. “I’ve
known smaller aircraft carriers.” Bloody glitter-box gin palace, just as she’d
thought. What a bloody waste!
He smiled. “Can I offer you some
refreshment?”
“No thanks,” she said, beginning to
dislike the ship and the people in it; she was a bit of a bolshie about private
wealth: it offended her, especially flaunted like this. “You’re a couple of
degrees off that heading. Two-seven-five, please.”
He was still looking at her. “Nothing
to drink?”
“No,” she replied, an edge in her
voice. Because she’d seen what he, apparently hadn’t: the ship’s head was
swinging to starboard. “Watch your heading!”
“Pity,” he said. “You’ll have a bit
more of a headache this way.”
She stared at him. “What? Look,
Captain! You’re well off the…”
Something circled over her shoulders,
moving fast; she caught a glimpse of white from the corner of her eye before
something clamped over her nose and mouth. Something that smelled pungent and
heady, that had her head swimming within the first few fractions of a second.
She’d been grabbed and mauled several
times, once having the strap of her brassiere snapped. But those had been
half-playful encounters, though she’d reacted hard with knee and nails. This
was different: it was fast, hard… professional. And utterly unexpected, here on
the bridge as she was going about her job.
The shock of it cost her precious
fractions of a second and when she did react, she did entirely the wrong thing:
she opened her mouth and took a deep breath to scream, planning to lash
backwards with her heel and elbow. She never got past the breath before a black
curtain dropped.
Algar eased her to the carpeted floor
with his hands under her armpits, hearing the Captains expelled ‘whoosh’ of
relief. He looked up to the strained face. “What’s up Karatides? You enjoy
using them often enough; what’s wrong with helping to collect one?”
“I’m paid to drive this thing, sir.
Cargo’s not my job!”
Algar grinned. “Right! Let’s see what
we’ve got here. I just hope that friend Henderson wasn’t exaggerating… Oh,
that’s very nice!” He’d unbuttoned the pea-jacket and pushed up the sweater she
wore beneath it to reveal her well-filled lacy bra. He looked up at the
Captain. “Well, what do you think?”
The short man’s tongue came out and
over the lips. “Wonderful! What about…?”
Algar grinned. “We’re not going to hit
any rocks, are we?” he asked, taking off the uniform cap and tossing t to one
side.
The Captain shot a look through the
bridge windows. “All automatic,” he said.
“Good. Then let’s take a look at the
rest of her.” He unfastened the button of the First Mate’s jacket and took it
off. “Never did care for uniforms,” he said, half to himself. Then he leaned
over the recumbent figure of the woman and loosened the trousers, the Captain
helping to pull them down. They looked at each other.
“She’s dressed like a tart!” snorted
the Captain.
“Certainly not for heavy work. Let’s
have a little peek, shall we?” Algar pulled aside the thong to reveal a
neatly-trimmed pubic bush. Lifting it to one side, hampered by the suspender
straps, they could see the beginnings of the vagina. “What do you think?”
Again the tongue came out. “If you
don’t want her,” said Karatides. You can leave her in my cabin.”
Algar laughed. “Without training she’d
half kill you, my dear Captain. Or she would according to what that Henderson
character says. But I think he’s earned his money, don’t you?”
“He will have if you can train her to
be like the others. She’s damned near as good-looking as some of them, and
that’s saying something!”
Algar let the thong snap back into
place and looked up with a smile. “She’ll be trained, don’t worry about that”.
He patted the bare stomach with his palm, looking down at her face. “Well, my
sweet,” he said. “You’re an unconventional catch, but I think you’re going to
be well worth it.” He climbed to his feet. “Can you get her taken below? I’ve
got something waiting for her.”
Henderson put the receiver down with a
trembling hand. Two hundred thousand dollars! All that for a couple of hours’
work! And the beautiful part was that no one could trace it to him! The stupid
bitch had come without protest when he’d called her and told her that there was
an unexpected job. She always did; called it professional pride. Well, now
she’d see where that professional – and private – pride had landed her! There’d
been no job, no calls to the coastguard or anyone else; no trace of anything to
link her disappearance to him. Turn him down, would she? With two hundred thousand in cash he could
ditch that frigid bitch of a wife and buy the best whores going! And he had an
invite to that floating palace once they’d trained her; he’d insisted on that.
Nothing… nothing… was going to stop him being there!
She awoke fuzzily to pain. A headache,
fierce and pounding behind the eyes, spearing down through the sinuses. Mouth
tasting foul, as dry as if something had sucked the moisture from it. Her jaw
ached, neck, shoulders, back, elbows wrists, and hips. Pain all over. God! It…
A blurry thought… headache? ‘You’ll have more of a headache…’
Consciousness bloomed; her eyes
fluttered and light exploded into them; they clamped shut to give her at least
that small respite from all the wrongness’s that her body was feeling and that
her memory had simply presaged. She squeezed her eyes tight, fighting the
headache and the greyed-out edges of her brain. Take stock: headache; all
right, headache, but you’ve had them before. But this wasn’t a morning-after
headache, it…
She remembered. On the bridge, the
Captain had made that odd remark and then something had been over her mouth.
Bang! Blackness. So… She shook her head; something tugged at her hair painfully:
she couldn’t move! Panic started, but she fought it back: you can’t be the only
qualified female pilot on the coast if you panic every time something goes
wrong. But there’s wrong and wrong, and this wrong… this series of wrongs that
she was sensing was…. all bloody wrong.
Damn the headache! Why couldn’t she
breathe through her mouth? Because there was something in it, that’s why;
something that had her jaws forced open. She explored it with her tongue: a
ball? What? Then another impulse that had been nagging forced its way to the
surface: her skin felt… Her skin!
Now her eyes shot open despite the
glare and pain that that brought. She was naked! Her head went down to see, but
once again she couldn’t move it: something was tied to her hair, holding her
head back! Sweat broke out on her brow as she found that her hands and feet
were immobile, too. Naked. Gagged. Tied. Drugged. Oh, God! Don’t panic! Think.
Think. She forced herself into a fragile calm. Her arms were pulled back over
some sort of bar that thrust under her armpits. It felt as if the forearms up
to the elbows had been pulled together into some sort of tight-fitting sleeve
and that this had been pulled tight behind her. Hence the pain in her
shoulders.
Her hair had been bunched and tied,
too, by the feel of it, possibly back to the same place as her hands. Then…
then there was a bar or something pressed into the small of her back, pushing
it and her hips forward. Her knees were spread wide; she couldn’t close them,
while her ankles were pulled back and tied as well. God! She was naked and
displayed like something on show! And then the sweat broke again, because she
realised that that’s precisely what she was, if she wasn’t mistaken: on show.
Time passed; she had no way of knowing
just how much. But she knew that the aches in all her stretched joints just
kept on getting worse and worse until her entire body screamed. Her haw seemed
locked in place; she could feel uncontrollable dribble oozing out of the
corners, running down her chin and dripping on to her breasts. God, they must
be standing out a mile! The headache subsided, but all she could see was a
pale-green wall; entirely featureless.
Two senses gave her clues: she could
hear, dimly, the faint hum of machinery and feel its tremble. So she was still
on board the ship… what was it? Messalina, that was it. Correction: she was on
a ship, not necessarily the same one. But there aren’t that many steam-turbine
powered vessels around outside of navies, so the chances are that it was the
Messalina.
A new and even more depressing thought
suddenly hit her. If it was the Messalina: it wasn’t a standard, routine
pilotage job: Henderson had called her out, hadn’t he? ‘Urgent, unexpected
job.’ He’d said. He… he and she had been alone on the pilot cutter. A dread
chill took her; no one knew that she come out to the ship except Henderson. And
she’d turned him down flat more than once; the last time with some well-chosen
words, including a few that even modern ladies aren’t supposed to know. Christ!
He’d had her bloody shanghaied. Oh, Christ! Now the sweat ran from her armpits;
it felt as cold and clammy as her heart.