The Fish Kisser (37 page)

“I'm sorry,” cried LeClarc now gaining control over his thoughts and faculties.

“It's perfectly alright, Mr. LeClarc,” said Motsom, who could have been a doctor tending a distressed victim of rampant diarrhoea.

“Have you found Trudy yet?” enquired Roger.

Trudy? queried Motsom to himself, but decided to play along. “No. Where is she?”

Roger tried sitting up, his head swimming, and grasped Motsom's arm pleadingly, “You must save her. She hasn't got a key, she can't open the door.” Suddenly alert, he scanned the little cabin suspiciously, fearing he'd been caught in some nightmarish time-warp: Curlededged calendars of 1950s pin-ups; coffee stained enamel
mugs and battered tin plates sitting in a fiddle rack; a faded pre-war watercolour of Delft Town Hall. “Where am I? Who are you?” he enquired lamely, then slumped back, exhausted, and was instantly asleep.

“How's the Fish Kisser?” Boyd asked as Motsom returned to the wheelhouse.

“Sleeping like a baby—he won't give us any trouble.” Then Motsom turned to the skipper's dark shadow, “Where are we now?”

The shadow shrugged. “Not too far.”

Motsom glanced at the radar screen and noticed the bright outline of the coast ahead, then his eye was snagged by the single blip behind them, close behind them. “That ship's getting closer,” he said, clearly expecting a response from the skipper.

“I said, that ship's getting closer,” he repeated, spelling it out.

The shadow shrugged again, but his eyes remained fixed ahead, his mind focussed on the future.

“Come here when I'm talking to you,” Motsom ordered, and the shadow moved toward him. Motsom stabbed an index finger at the dot on the screen, now less than a quarter of inch away. “How far?” he demanded.

“Look outside and you'll see,” said the skipper, barely concealing a grin.

Motsom catapulted himself across the wheelhouse and was on the deck in a second. “Christ, he's right behind us,” he shouted. “Sprat, get below and keep everyone quiet. If either of them farts, plug 'em.”

“O.K. Billy.”

Before Boyd could move, the hollow “boom” of a loudspeaker hit them, then it burst into life with an unmistakably English voice. “This is British fishery vessel,
Gladstone
… Vessel off the port bow, we are calling you on channel 37. Please respond.”

Boyd jumped down the hatch into the cabin and Motsom ducked back into the wheelhouse as a searchlight seared the deck.

“Faster,” Motsom shouted at the skipper.

“You're crazy,” he said guardedly, as he rammed both throttles forward. A ripple of power ran through the little ship and she shivered as the stern settled deeper and the propellers chewed at the water.

The deep “boom” hit them again, almost immediately. “Heave to. Heave to. You cannot outrun us. Turn your radio to channel 37 and heave to.”

The skipper caught Motsom's eye in the glare of the searchlight, his wide-eyed expression asking, “O.K. big-shot—what now?”

Motsom was thinking, planning, scheming. “Stop,” he shouted, then turned viciously on the skipper, his gun wavering under the old man's nose. “You say one word out of place and the boy will be dead in a second … Nod if you understand.”

He nodded, and pulled sharply on the throttles. The bow sank back into the water and the British vessel came alongside, as Motsom left the wheelhouse to stand on deck in the full blaze of the searchlight.

“Who are you?” shouted a figure hidden in the dazzle of the light.

“John Smith,” yelled Motsom, not realising the etiquette of the sea demanded the name of the vessel.

“Where are you from?”

“London.”

“Where are you bound?”

Motsom deliberated for a second. “Just fishing,” he replied.

“Standby,” said the voice, then a few seconds later, “We're coming aboard.”

The sea boiled into foam, tossing the trawler like
cork, as the powerful vessel came alongside. Two young officers in brass-buttoned naval uniforms jumped the gap. Motsom glued his feet to the deck and struck a pose.

“Are you the skipper, Sir?” asked one of the officers professionally.

“Sort of,” replied Motsom cagily. “Is there a problem?”

“Why didn't you answer the radio, Sir?”

“Broken.”

The officer gave him a cynical look. “Perhaps I could check it for you, Sir.” He took half a step toward the wheelhouse but Motsom replanted himself. “No problem, Officer. We'll get it fixed when we get back.”

“I'd like to take a look in your hold,” the officer said coldly, dropping the “Sir.”

“It's empty.”

“I'd still like to take a look.” This wasn't a request.

“We haven't started fishing yet.” This wasn't an acceptable answer and the other sailor was nosing behind Motsom, peering into the wheelhouse. “This is a Dutch vessel. Why did you say it was registered in London?” he asked sternly.

Motsom laughed nervously and scratched his chin, “I'm sorry, I thought you meant where did I come from.”

“And just why would I ask that, Sir?” the same officer enquired, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“Stupid of me. Anyway, thanks for stopping, but we're fine and we'll manage without the radio.” Motsom's conversation was over. “Goodbye and get off my effin ship,” were the only words missing, but the officers made no attempt to leave. “Was there something else?” he queried, then wished he had simply faced them down.

“Yes, Sir, I want to check your log book and your record of catches,” said one, “Shall we go in?”

The second officer was already sliding the wheelhouse door open forcing Motsom to enter ahead of them. The smashed radio stared accusingly at him as he walked through the door, and the two officers were looking straight at it.

“It'll take more than a new transistor to fix that,” one of them said, eyeing the bullet hole.

“Bit of an accident,” muttered Motsom, without any hint an explanation was forthcoming. “These gentlemen want to check our books,” he continued quickly, addressing the skipper. “Show them please.”

The skipper smiled nervously at the two officers, his leathery skin, sun-dried and pickled by a lifetime of salt spray, creasing into deep folds. “Yes, Sir,” he replied, and drew the men toward him as he reached the books from a rack above his head.

For several minutes the two officers poured intently over the logs, while Motsom turned his back and engaged in nonchalant business, as he flipped switches, studied maps, scratched his ear and scanned the radar screen. Please don't ask me any questions, he implored inwardly, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“Everything appears in order,” said one of the officers eventually. “Thank you for your co-operation, Sir. Sorry to trouble you.”

“That's alright, Officer,” replied Motsom, turning around, breathing easier, managing an imitation smile.

“If we could just check the rest of the vessel now, Sir?”

He dropped the smile and choked, “Of course …” then froze. Ideas rocketed around his brain, but none made sense. Shoot them—and what about the rest of the sailors—they were bound to be armed; take them hostage—but the old trawler could never outrun the patrol boat, and the tiny cabin was already overflowing
with LeClarc; pray—it had never worked before. Ten seconds of tense anticipation followed—ten seconds of heart stopping anxiety, as Motsom stood absolutely motionless, a glazed stare in his eyes.

“Just the fish hold, Sir,” the officer continued, as if there had been no hiatus. “Perhaps you'd escort us.”

Motsom took another breath and three minutes later, the empty hold checked, they were apparently satisfied as they thanked Motsom and apologized again for any inconvenience.

“No trouble, Officer,” replied Motsom as he escorted them on deck and watched as they leaped back to their own ship. Remaining on deck, shivering slightly in the cool breeze, he waited as the other vessel crept stealthily ahead, then lifted its bow and roared off into the night. Motsom's lungs deflated with a huge sigh of relief, then he stepped back into the wheelhouse and nearly fainted. The smashed compass binnacle was staring him straight in the face. He had forgotten all about it.

“They must have seen it,” he was explaining to McCrae and Boyd two minutes later in the wheelhouse. The skipper had been bundled below and trussed alongside his deck hand and, without a hand at the helm, the little trawler was wallowing in the lazy swell. “They couldn't have missed it,” Motsom continued. “One of them was leaning right against it.”

“So why didn't they say nothing?” asked Boyd.

“'Cos they knew something was up,” replied Motsom his patience wearing thin. “That kid must have sent out a message before you got to him this morning,” he added, giving McCrae a killing stare.

“It wasn't my fault,” McCrae shot back angrily. “I stopped him as soon as you told me.”

“'Course it was your bloody fault, you're always ballzing things up.”

“Oh yeah. Well who lost the f'kin Fish Kisser in the first place. If you hadn't…”

“Stop bloody arguing,” interjected Boyd. “We've got to do something.” He paused for thought then his face brightened, “Why don't we just do what you told them; fish for awhile and hope they didn't notice the compass. In any case they might think it was an accident.”

“As well as the radio!” exclaimed Motsom.

“You never know,” continued Boyd, “Anyway as soon as they are out of the way, we make a dash for the coast, grab a car, and get the fat freak to Istanbul.”

It sounded simple and, as McCrae asked rhetorically, “You gotta better idea?”

“O.K.,” said Motsom, his features softening slightly. “That sounds reasonable. I always fancied a spot of fishing.”

“We might even catch something to eat,” said McCrae. “I could kill a kipper, I'm starving.”

Two hours later, they were still there, steaming slowly back and forth as the net dragged the seabed. Normality had apparently returned. The skipper was in his in wheelhouse, his smouldering pipe clogging the atmosphere. The young deck hand was on the aft deck controlling the winch that held the steel hawsers which snaked down into the water and dragged the trawl. But nothing else was normal. Below in the tiny cabin, LeClarc still slept fitfully. His exhausted body refused to let him wake, but his cold wet clothing irritated his skin, making him twitch and turn. McCrae and Boyd both shivered on deck, carefully watching the deckhand, while Motsom stared at the radar screen. “Mac,” he shouted to McCrae, “come here.”

“What Billy?” he answered, entering the wheelhouse.

“They're still there,” he said, his finger glued to a bright spot on the screen. “Every time we turn,
they turn. The bastards are onto us. This ain't going to work.”

“We're going to run out of fuel soon,” mused the skipper, stoking the flames.

Motsom glanced at his watch in the light of the radar screen, then shot the skipper a look. “You said that eight hours ago,” he muttered, then turned to McCrae. “Find the fuel tank and see if you can work out how much we've got left.”

Ten minutes later McCrae was back. “We've got tons of fuel. The auld bugger was lying. The tank's still half full.”

“Right. Get the net up,” instructed Motsom. “Let's try something different.”

McCrae gave him a curious look, “What?”

Motsom swept his finger across the radar screen to a busy area ten miles further east. “Look,” he said, as if he'd worked it out for himself. “These are ships at anchor. If we get in amongst them they might lose us, or end up following something else. We can get out the other side. Here,” he continued, pointing to the far side of the mooring ground. “Then we'll only have a few miles to go to the coast.”

“What are we goin' to do with this?” McCrae asked, his eyes roaming around the wheelhouse.

“There's plenty of fuel,” replied Motsom with a twisted smile.

McCrae's eyes lit up as he breathed, “It'd make a great bomb.”

“Shhh!” hushed Motsom, pointing to the skipper.

McCrae's shrug inferred, “So what?” as he asked quietly, “And the fatso—what are we going to do with him?”

Motsom clasped his hands together, then exploded them apart as he discharged a mouthful of air with a
“Poof!” “We'll have to let him go,” he said as if he were discussing the lay-off of a faithful servant. “Poor Trudy.”

“Who the hell is Trudy?”

“His bird I guess,” replied Motsom, chuckling. “He was rambling about her—reckons she's lost her door key. Big deal.”

Trudy's door key, the one to her mother's apartment, was not lost. It was with the pathetic bundle the nurse had tried to give to Lisa McKenzie shortly after her arrival at Watford hospital.

“Perhaps you'd like these,” the nurse had said, offering her Trudy's purse and smashed watch. Lisa erupted in a burst of grief at the sight of the familiar items and couldn't bring herself to take them. To do so would have meant acknowledging the finality of the situation: especially the wrecked remains of the watch, a poignant reminder of her sixteen- year- old daughter whose time on earth had all but ended when the hands stopped.

“I'll take them,” said Peter McKenzie.

“It's her things the ambulance men brought in with her,” the nurse explained. “Her clothes were a bit messy,” she continued euphemistically, “and the police took them. I hope you don't mind.”

“No, that's alright,” he mumbled.” Anything the nurse said would have been alright, all they cared about was Trudy, their little girl.

“Trudy is in very poor condition,” the skinny young doctor had said as they surveyed the comatose figure at the centre of a spider's web of wires and tubes. “Physically she's not too bad, mainly cuts and bruises, they'll heal quite quickly.” His voice became graver, “The problem lies with her mind—clinically speaking she was dead when the police found her.”