The Mariner (15 page)

Rebecca gave the table a celebratory slap and pulled another pile of coins in her direction. It looked like the evening was going well. For her, for him, for the way life sometimes picks up when you least expect it.

The fifth whiskey disappeared through his grinning lips. There was no burn now. The liquid felt as mild as milk. He held the empty glass up and soon had the barman by his side.

“Another glass sir?”

“Whatever my friend can afford.”

His waiter crept over to Rebecca and gently shook her from her trance. At first she appeared angry, but the fierceness faded as if adjusting from a dream awoken. She shook her head, said something and then handed the barman a whole handful of coins. He smiled, nodded and scurried back to the bar, returning promptly with a whole bottle of bourbon to set down on the Mariner’s table.

“The lady says this is for you.”

The Mariner mumbled a thanks and looked to Rebecca. There was no wink this time, her attention was solely upon the game. An uncomfortable notion made him wonder the nature of the gift, was this her way of celebrating greater victories, or was she making sure he wouldn’t bother her again?

No matter; time to drink the sixth.

He watched her play poker against four opponents. He was sure there had been more, they must have skulked off as their reserves evaporated. Perhaps they were in the shadows now, watching the game of chance taken as seriously as gladiatorial combat?

In the warmth of the candlelight, Rebecca struck the Mariner as one of the most desirable women he’d ever seen. True there hadn’t been many. Not of courting age. But outside fantasy she was above them all. He could see her profile side on, her face the very picture of confidence, green eyes lit up as she calculated the odds. He looked at her body, hidden conservatively in shirt and jeans, yet still her figure could be deduced. Breasts pushed beneath shirt buttons as she stretched. Hips swayed as she danced in her seat.

The Mariner wanted her. It had been a long and lonely time at sea. He thought he’d managed to drink his desire away for good, but now it was back. Perhaps he had the doctor to thank for that as well?

There was no eighth drink. The seventh would last all night. Gone were the glasses; the Mariner cradled the bottle in his lap, sucking deep as he watched.

After a while he found it easier to imagine fucking her if he closed his eyes. The result was as agreeable as the bourbon. Sordid images danced across his vision and he chuckled at them, coaxing them along. Once again the sounds and smell of the room became distant, a dim shadow behind his fantasy, a sexual playground that had no limits.

But suddenly he was abed. The sexual illusions gone. the images of copulation and sordid union – erased! He was unaware of such things; after all, he was just a boy, afraid and alone.

There was a voice, somewhere in the dark, sounding distant and muffled. He tried to discern the source as he wanted to call them forth from the darkness and speak with them, but for some reason he was silent and immobile. It was then he realised why they sounded so far away; there was something covering his face. Suffocating him.

Raw panic. He had to move, to push back or face death. But his limbs were weak and there was naught to do but wait.

He felt like he was drowning, being dragged deeper and deeper into the ocean. It was a fear he’d often felt in the midst of a storm, when lightning flashed overhead threatening to burn his ship in one quick blaze. The Mariner lived on the sea, and there was only one death suitable for a man like he.

Except none of that was real. It was nonsense.

There weren’t monsters or Mindless or empty ships that carried devils.

-Suffocating! I can’t breathe!

The world hadn’t splintered into a billion pieces adrift in an endless sea.

-Let me go!

He wasn’t a Mariner. He was just a boy.

Drowning!

Besides, thought the boy as he spiralled down into the darkness, the Mariner didn’t even have a name. So he couldn’t possibly be that man, because his name was-

The Mariner’s eyes snapped open to the reassuring gloom of the gambling den. The bourbon bottle lay in his lap. At some point it had slipped from his grasp spilling its contents down his leg. He didn’t mourn the loss, he’d drunk his fill for the night and then some. The smell, only hours before so welcome and sweet, now seemed rank and rotten. It made him want to hurl, but his body couldn’t muster the resolve. Instead a small pocket of bile climbed high up in his throat, just enough to coat his tongue, before skulking moodily back below.

“You think it’s about the fucking money?”

An angry voice. With several others growling in agreement. These are what had awoken him from his nightmare. He would thank them, if they were the sort who’d respond well to kind words that made little sense. Perhaps not, instead he would hold his tongue; there was a drunken meanness in that tone that the Mariner wanted no part of.

“Just take it all, please, I was playing for fun, I don’t even want it.” A woman’s voice. Scared. Threatened.

“So you think you’re above us? Our goods no good?” Another nefarious voice, not as gruff as the first, but slyer. Not the alpha male, but a member of the same pack all-right. A coward suddenly feeling bold.

“Of course they are!” Crying now. The sound of prey cornered by wolves. “But I’d rather we just went our separate ways, and forget this happened at all.” Dead already. “Please, I’m not well, I need to get back to the clinic.”

The fog fell from the Mariner’s drunken head. It was Rebecca! The room swam into focus; the game had gone sour and her opponents had cornered her, four in total. Her back was to the table whilst they stood around, blocking retreat.

Not that retreat looked likely, even if she managed to bolt past them, entrapment seemed certain. The Mariner glanced about the room. Drinking and chatter in the dark recesses had stopped, all eyes were now on the central altercation. Anticipation in the air. They were in a beasts’ den. How had he not seen it before?

Rebecca gathered her chips together in her hands and offered the bounty, though they didn’t even elicit a glance, not even when the coins caught the light and shimmered; cold eyes were too busy sizing up their victim, planning how to violate her first.

The Mariner knew he had to act. The thugs thought he was passed-out, dead-drunk, and that was fine by him. They could go on thinking that until he put a bullet through each of their heads, but he had to be careful. No doubt they would be keeping an eye on him as her accomplice. When he made his move, he had to do it fast and without warning.

In the corner of his eye he could see the barman making his way to the den’s front door. Any hope of the large man calling for help or rousing whatever served as the local peace-makers was short-lived. With a well-practised motion he placed a wooden beam across both door panels, sealing the room shut.

“If y’struggle, we’ll just fuck y’worse,” said the alpha. He stepped forward, closing the gap between her and him, imposing even more with his great height. It made her drop the coins and they scattered across the the floor beneath. None bent down to pick them up; poker chips were no longer the focus of their desire. “And if we can’t trust you, we’ll have to remove your teeth.”

“De-fang the fucking bitch!” cried one of the others, a scrawny weather-beaten rodent of a man. Sniggers came not just from the jackals, but the carrion birds who watched from the side.

“Now that would be a shame.” Alpha held out a large hand to take Rebecca’s chin, but she pulled away. Shaking, she backed up against the table so hard it juddered momentarily, letting out a screech that echoed off the walls. The sudden noise made her scream and the men pounce, the whole scene suddenly set in motion.

The Mariner moved his hand slowly to his side. He had a gun there, hidden beneath his coat. It was a vicious little device that could spit out bullets in quick succession, unless it jammed, which it was oft to do. The boy who’d traded him a full case-load had told him they were Mausers, though that seemed a strange name for a gun. Sounded more appropriate for a dog.

Whatever the name, the Mauser might just spew enough bullets to take down the gang and whoever felt gutsy enough to move from the shadows. Did any of them have guns? The Mariner had no idea. The ocean was endless and some he met had never seen a gun, others had them falling out their arse.

A quick punch to the stomach sent Rebecca double, her scream going silent as the wind was knocked from her lungs. Further blows pushed her against the table, her head striking the wooden edge with such force an ugly red gap opened on her forehead.

“Hold her down,” Alpha commanded one of his underlings. Both he and a second grabbed Rebecca by the arms and pulled her across the poker table. Face down against the hardwood she once again found her voice and begun to scream. Blood formed a pool in front of her eyes, the gash upon her head making her hair form thick scarlet clumps. Several pairs of hands gripped her trousers and pulled with such force her legs were lifted clear off the ground. Buttons, torn free, dropped to the floor, mingling with the discarded chips. As the garment disappeared down her legs, it revealed pale white skin, eyed lustily by the onlookers.

The Mariner watched as the Alpha pushed both her legs apart, her muscles spasmodic with terror. He had his hand on the Mauser now, it would take less than a second to draw it and put a stop to this horror. The Alpha too reached for his weapon, eyes fixed on Rebecca’s buttocks as she struggled under the gangs grasp. Just like the Mariner, Alpha’s was primed and ready to use. He took Rebecca’s underwear in hand and tore it to the side. The item didn’t fall free completely, but hung around her waist, misshapen and loose. The whole gang watched intently as the Alpha moved his erection between her legs, ready to penetrate.

Now! Whilst they are distracted! No-one will notice. Put the gun to their heads and shoot!
If he acted, it may just be in time.

Alpha pushed his hips forward.

Rebecca’s scream found new depths of agony.

The Mariner watched as the beast enjoyed himself, goaded on by his accomplices, each relishing the thought of their own turn. Rebecca still screamed, but now through gritted teeth. It was difficult to see the precise expression upon her face through the mask of blood, tears and snot, but the Mariner could guess. It was one he was sure he’d seen before.

Why hadn’t he saved her? He’d wanted to, what was happening was monstrous, a crime beyond comprehension, but he’d been unable to act. Was it the drink? Could he blame the bourbon? No, that would be a lie. Some part of him had wanted to put a stop to the rape, but another part, a far bigger part, had wanted to watch. The same part that now enjoyed the show, just one of many other leering gargoyles.

With a grunt the Alpha ejaculated, his body going rigid as he emptied himself inside her. The act seemed to jolt the Mariner into action. Unnoticed, he stood, striding forwards, closing the gap. Alpha’s sweaty head only turned slightly when the cold barrel was gently placed against it.

The gun did not jam. Six quick blasts sent hot lead through the heads and throats of each member of the pack, blood showering the bar behind in wide crimson arcs. The flashes of the gun lit up the room, showing seedy faces the Mariner was sure had looked just like his own.

Shocked silence descended upon the den, broken only by a vague murmuring from one of Rebecca’s rapists. He lay on the floor, the top of his head broken open by a passing bullet, and muttered senselessly as his life departed. Visions unknown to the rest haunted the dying man’s vision as his eyes read invisible books.

Using his free hand the Mariner pulled Rebecca up against his chest, trying to support her limp body. He swung the gun wildly, making it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any movement. His action served another purpose too, it kept his crotch away from the girl, afraid the hardness hidden there would give away his darkness inside.

“Open that fucking door,” the Mariner growled at the barman, who raised his arms in surrender. He trembled, but made no move towards to exit. The Mariner, in no mood to be resisted, shot the man in the face. His body, head caved in where the nose used to be, jolted back till it hit the wall and then slowly slid to the ground, twitching erratically.

“You,” the Mariner said, pointing the Mauser at another shadowy spectator. “Open it.”

Guilt followed Jesus as wolves do the lame. He had failed Judas. Instead of finding forgiveness, as his own preaching taught, Jesus had succumbed to revenge. He needed to repent.

The Road Messiah no more, Jesus fell onto his knees and asked God for guidance. He had travelled the world preaching and he had travelled the world punishing, and neither had saved mankind from its own wickedness. Neither had saved him.

But God didn’t answer.

So Jesus boarded a small rowing boat and took himself out to sea. For forty days and forty nights Jesus rode the waves without food nor drink, hoping to be granted the sight to save his fellow man.

It was during this time the Devil came to tempt Jesus.

“Jesus. You’ve been ten days out at sea. Are you not hungry? Let me feed you.”

“No,” said Jesus. “I will eat when God wills me. Not you.”

“Jesus. It has been twenty days out at sea. Are you not thirsty? Let me refresh you.”

“No,” said Jesus. “I will drink when God wills me. Not you.”

“Jesus. It has been thirty days out at sea. Is there nothing you desire? I can give you anything, any yearning born of heart, guts, or loins. See what I bring you?”

And then the Devil showed Jesus a great many sights designed to lure him away from his rowing boat and into the depths, but Jesus refused them all.

“Devil, leave me be. I do not want your promises. They do not convince me. I do not want your bribes. They do not tempt me. I do not want your love. It does not warm me. Only God’s forgiveness will make me leave this boat.”

On the fortieth day Jesus still had not received God’s forgiveness nor his guidance. “I have not suffered enough,” he declared to the heavens. Taking a knife from his pouch, Jesus plunged it through both feet and both palms, mirroring his disciples’ wounds. Blood flowed freely from the cuts and as the first drop hit the ocean the sky turned dark.