We Float Upon a Painted Sea (3 page)

“I
suppose
I’m ambivalent Saul, but you must admit, the Russians have had this coming. They opened up the old gulags in Siberia just to process the amount of detained greenies, so the animosity between them has been brewing.” The Commandant appeared anxious. He exhaled loudly and then said,

“The Russian Government doesn't concern me. I need to know what happened in British waters. I want to know how can MoDs conduct search and rescue operations when the satellites are down?”

“They’re relying on good old fashioned radar I
suppose
.” Finally, the Commandant took the bait. He grimaced and raised both his hands to make a quotation sign and said,

“You don’t get paid to
suppose,
Mac. Find out what they are up to.

“As you instructed, Jansen and Lennox have taken a cutter up to Loch Ghlinne to see what they're up to, but they haven’t reported back yet.”

“What about your contacts for frick sake - you used to work in Communications, didn’t you? Isn’t your brother some Government big wig? Do some more raking about. Get me some answers!”

McIntyre turned away from the Commandant and walked to the window - he didn’t want him to see his face flush with irritation. He resented his elder brother, Raymond being brought into the conversation. He hadn’t heard a word from him in eight years, and then last week he received a message requesting he contact him. He ignored it. McIntyre rubbed the temples of his head with his forefingers to alleviate the pressure. Finally, he turned to the Commandant and said,

“Another thing. The MoDs communications centre up on the hill is being mothballed again. They tried to keep it hushed up, but you know how these things leak out.”

“I thought with all the recent developments there would be a reprieve? This is a mess.”

“I’m
presuming
that the MoDs new satellite network will be up and running again, so there is little use for ground surveillance.” The Commandant paused for a moment and straightened his tie. He said,

“So we’re hanging around like farts in a trance! I’ve seen this before. Funding redirected to pay for enforcing more frickin curfews and anti-terrorism personnel? We’ve already got Islamic fundamentalist running amuck, don’t get me started on those beggars, but now we have frickin hedge monkey terrorists getting in on the act.”

“Yeah, religious fundamentalist’s Saul? The world would be a better place without them telling everyone to do as they say, but not as they do. It’s all repent or burn in hell with those guys. I
presume
they’re still doing that?” The Commandant took a bible from his satchel, held it in his hands, caressed it and said,

“A wave that can destroy on this scale cannot be the making of man. These are the days of retribution Mac. HE has seen society’s morals decaying before him and once again HE has returned, HE lives amongst us again and HE has sent a flood to destroy all life. It was predicted by the Good Book thousands of years ago.” The Commandant opened the Bible and pointed to a page. “Genesis, chapters 6-9, it’s happened before and it will happen again!” McIntyre stared aghast and then said,

“What shall we do Saul? Build an arc? World of Timber are doing a discount on illegally imported tropical hardwood.”

“Make jokes Rob, but one day you’ll see things differently – you’ll see the world the way I see it and then you won’t be laughing. They sneered at Noah then God sent the flood and Noah laughed last.”

“Aye,” sighed McIntyre, “That story always makes me laugh too. It can't be climate shift due to solar activity or the beginning of a new glacial epoch, or God forbid, humans upsetting the balance?”

“Save me your agnostic doctrine Rob. You islanders are all the same; so haughty and arrogant.” McIntyre shrugged his shoulders,

“Its not agnostic doctrine Saul, its scientific evidence, but much better to distract the gullible masses by throwing them a bone called religion and watch them fight over it?”

“It is God’s word. You should read it – it has the answers to the questions you and all mankind seek.”

“I think you might be right Saul,” said McIntyre sarcastically, “I’ve always wondered how much I should pay for my slaves and why menstruating women are unclean or why homosexuals should be stoned to death – but much more than that, I really want to understand why insects have four legs when clearly they have six and what God has against creeping things that
creepeth
, birds of prey and rabbits when, he supposedly made them in the first place! I think your Bible throws up much more questions than answers, Saul.”

“So you have read the Bible!” exclaimed the Commandant excitedly.

“My beliefs are personal Saul, but if you are going to ask me to believe in something that changes my life so dramatically, I’d like to see better evidence than a two thousand year old manuscript written by unenlightened men to justify their own means.”

McIntyre tried to remember when the Commandant evolved into a radical Christian. He knew he had always been religious but in recent years he had become more vociferous with his beliefs. Maybe it was a reflection of the uncertain times facing the world. McIntyre thought back to the time when the Commandant’s son died in a boating accident. The
Lords of the New Church
specialised in targeting bereaved family members and furtively recruiting them, even offering to pay for the funeral. They believed that the
messiah
had returned, living in secret and under guard by the
Select Few,
until he reached an age where he could start his work and bring about the apocalypse. In their opinion man’s redemption could only be achieved by purification, which effectively meant the destruction of modern civilisation.

The Commandant cheeks were flushed with anger. He said,

“I could have you put on a charge for insubordination.”

“For disagreeing with your extreme religious beliefs? Surely not? I think the disciplinary panel would take a dim view of that Saul.” The Commandant shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then an look of calm settled on his face. He said,

“For your information, I’m acquainted with several members of the panel, but I don’t want to be dragged into a theological debate with you – we will only have another falling out. Let’s get back to work shall we?” The Commandant played with a coin for a moment and then dropped it into the swear jar. McIntyre said,

“I didn’t hear you curse, Saul.”

“That coin was for impure thoughts. Look, when Jansen and Lennox return, I want you to take the cutter to Rockall Bank and see what the MoDs are up to. When you are done, report straight back to me, clear? We’ll talk about last nights drinking session when you return.” McIntyre left the office and walked towards the boathouse. In the village, a small gathering of islanders had collected by the floating dock. Some were fixing
frack off
placards on the lampposts and others were pointing out to sea and towards the gas flares on the horizon.

Chapter 2: Sink or swim

He lay naked, watching the sea from his bunk. From the porthole, he looked at the grey pulsing mass running to the horizon to meet a grey sky. A featureless, monochrome scene, so different from the colourful but fake image surrounding him in his cabin, he thought. Judging by the time, he knew the islands of St Kilda would be close and his journey would soon be over. He recalled his mother's saying that you can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one, and decided that he wanted to arrive at his destination with a new perspective, strong and centred.

He listened to the words of a recording through his earpiece, promoting the tranquil properties of the sea. The relaxation technique was part of a audio therapy session to overcome his fear of water, but the remedy wasn’t working. The alternative was taking the pills that his doctor suggested, but he didn't want to subscribe any more than he had already, to the pharmaceutical cartel gravy train. Perhaps moving to an island, so soon after nearly drowning was an ill-conceived idea, he thought. Initially, he believed confronting his fears by facing the daily sight and sound of the vast ocean would produce a familiarity that would help suppress his anxiety. He was having second thoughts.

“There’s a rhythm to the sea,” said the voice in a softly spoken mid-Atlantic accent, “it isn’t immediately noticeable but after a while you become aware of its seamless beating pulse. The human heartbeat duplicates the timing, running in tandem and often creating an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity.” Once more, he looked through the porthole. Outside, the sea spat foam up at him as if to help justify his decision to turn the recording off.

He had put five months behind him since that fateful day, and although the headaches and amnesia had stopped he had never really felt the same. Something had changed, he thought. Something mental as well as physical. There was his hypersomnia, the sudden light-headedness and loss of balance, and his recent inability to concentrate his thoughts. His mind would drift and then brought back to reality with a jolt. It was as if his mind had left his body. He was absorbed by an emotion he described as waiting on the edge of a precipice, counting down the days to an unknown event. Even thinking about it now, he felt the anxiety rise again. It didn’t help that the air inside the cabin was becoming unnaturally thick and heavy.

His brain was sinking into the slow folds of sleep and the onset of a dream, when a noise roused him back into full consciousness. The sound reverberated from deep beneath the ship, down in the bowels of the earth. It was detected in his internal organs, rather than the ears. The metal hull vibrated liked a plucked guitar string, sending a shudder the length of his body. He lay flat and motionless, as if gripped by the cold steel jaws of a vice. The tremor passed. Silence descended like a comfort blanket to dampen his rising fear. He savoured the moment of relief. Unusually for him, a seed of serenity was germinating from within, and then an alarm bell sounded out in the corridor. The ship suddenly veered off course. He felt a heave in his gut and his chest bulged, as if recoiling from the crushing influence of a dead weight being lifted from his torso. He sat up and peered across the cabin to the porthole. He heard a thunderous noise from outside and then the natural light was snuffed out.

He felt his naked body falling - like tumbling down an infinite spiral staircase and then darkness. When he regained consciousness he found himself face down and submerged in water. Panic consumed him. His fingers groped thin air, desperately trying to find an anchor point, something fixed to hold on to –  he pushed himself up to his hands and knees and gasping for air, he tried to regain his balance. His cabin was consumed with darkness but using his fingers he groped his way towards the door and opened it. A torrent of seawater swirled around his legs and into the cabin, forcing him to hang onto the door frame. Fighting the dizziness in his head, he kicked his way through the slanting, flooded corridor and towards the dim light at the foot of the stairwell. At the top, he stopped to take his breath. He felt his way along the deck until he found a hatch door. He opened it.

A welcoming burst of daylight greeted him but curiously a mist had engulfed the ship - like stepping out into the middle of a swirling cloud. The brightness dazzled his eyes and the cold, salt laden wind strummed against his exposed flesh. For a moment he cursed the reality of the situation, wishing for the dramatic experience to be a dream or part of a virtual therapy session that had gone tragically wrong. He half expected to be roused by a flashlight probing his dilated pupils and a succession of taps on the cheek, but instead it was the reality of the situation that dawned on him. He stood on the deck, his mind a negated vault, unable to provide reasonable or logical explanations to current events - a disorientated brain trying to make sense of a hopeless situation.

He felt an intense pain in the back of his head. He reached round with his fingers and found the lump where the blow had been received when falling out of his bunk. There was some blood and although not enough to become alarmed, he could feel an oncoming migraine. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. Strangely, there didn’t appear to be any other survivors fleeing from the ship. No hysterical characters being slapped across the face and told to stay calm, no lifeboats full of sobbing mothers holding their children close, no crew in high visibility jackets directing passengers to safety and enforcing a regime of calm sensibility - no string quartet playing reassuringly until the final moments. He assumed that the lifeboats must be on the side of the ship, he could see no other reason for the deserted scene. The ship was listing heavily so there was no way of making it to the other side without jumping into the sea.

He edged further along the upper deck, holding onto the rails, until he found a spot where he could safely fix his eyes to the water below. A paralysing fear consumed him. The height of the jump and the perceived temperature of the water raised its own levels of concern, but right now the intrinsic fear of water itself swamped his rationality. As he approached the bridge he came across the empty pod of a life raft. The interior was streaked with blood. Instantly he was consumed with a feeling of wretched helplessness. He was convinced that the ship was at least mocking him and at worst was trying to kill him.