Death of a Supertanker by Antony Trew Read Free Book Online Page A

the sternsheets and he couldn’t see who the troublemakers were. ‘I like sleep with the ladies,’ announced a cheerful but drunken islander. There were cheers, more scuffles, followed by a hoarse, ‘Yes, you like do that, Gomez. You not good Catholic, hey?’
    A deep throaty voice which Jarrett recognized as that of Fernandez, the senior quartermaster, delivered a rebuke in Portuguese and the chief officer’s heart warmed to the sound of the blow which followed. Fernandez was one of the old hands, a God-fearing man with whom the chief officer had sailed before. The mouthers of the obscenities fell silent and the singing began again, this time a fisherman’s song. It stopped when the hull of the tanker loomed up above them like some great mountain growing out of the sea and the launch bumped alongside the foot of the gangway.
    Jarrett nudged Foley, spoke in a low voice. ‘Let the crewmen go up first. No good standing on ceremony with these drunks around.’
    The second officer agreed, whispered to the others, and the crewmen clambered out, struggled up the steep gangway, shouting and laughing. They were followed by the two engineers, then Jarrett, Foley and the catering officer and their wives. As Jarrett got towards the top he heard shouting. He reached the floodlit maindeck to find the way aft blocked by men who’d formed a ragged circle round a fight. He watched for a moment, saw one man fall and lie huddled on the deck as his opponent kicked him. Jarrett forced his way through the circle and grabbed the kicker. The prone man struggled to his feet, drew a knife and staggered towards them.
    ‘Stop him,’ shouted Jarrett sharply, but the onlookers showed no desire to become involved. The chief officer hesitated, pushed aside the man he was holding, and kicked the knife wielder in the groin. The man grunted and let the knife go as he fell. His adversary at once jumped forward and began booting him in the face. Once again Jarrett pulled him back. The man broke loose, swung round and struck him. Jarrett, rugged, powerful, shook his head, measured the distance coolly, and let fly a left hook which lifted the man off his feet and landed him on the deck. There he lay, flat on his back, twitching and groaning.
    The chief officer picked up the knife, threw it over the side andturned to the onlookers. ‘Get those men to their cabins and see there’s no more trouble. I’ll deal with them in the morning.’ A trickle of blood came from his mouth.
     
    Jarrett reached the lift to find the Foleys and the catering officer and his wife waiting there. Jarrett was holding a handkerchief to his face.
    ‘You all right, Mate?’ asked the catering officer.
    ‘Okay,’ Jarrett breathed heavily. He took the blood-stained handkerchief from his mouth and examined it. ‘Serves me right. Should have seen it coming. Especially from a drunken man.’
    ‘You’re not all right,’ said Sandy firmly. ‘That’s a most awful gash on your lip.’
    ‘Come on,’ Foley said irritably. He was in the lift, his finger on the ‘Open Door’ button. ‘Let’s get moving. It’s late.’
    His wife gave him a withering look as they got in. ‘You must let me look at it, Freeman,’ she said. ‘We’ll bathe it with disinfectant. Put something on. You may need stitches.’
    ‘Well, if it does, you can’t do them for him. That’s for sure.’ Foley grinned with satisfaction.
    ‘I’ll see to it,’ said the catering officer. ‘No problem.’
    ‘It’s nothing,’ said Jarrett quietly. ‘Just a split lip.’
     
    When she got down to the cabin Foley was already in bed. He turned on his side, looked at his watch with affected concentration. ‘Well, well‚’ he said. ‘So you’re back at last.’
    ‘What exactly does that mean?’ she challenged.
    ‘You’ve been in Freeman Jarrett’s cabin for more than half an hour.’ He paused, glared at her. ‘Why did you have to make all that fuss about his lip? If it needed attention the