Blame The Dead

Forty-two

It was nine o'clock in the morning when I finally decided to admit I was awake and sit up. I wasn't too sure I'd ever been to sleep, except that I'd remembered waking up twice before: once when Kari got up to fill the stove again, and once when Nygaard's snoring almost unwrapped me from my blankets. And I remembered the stove glowing a dusky red and thinking of that first winter in the Army up at Catterick…

Kari, Willie, and David were already sitting at the table sipping coffee; Nygaard still down and out. I unwound myself, stood up, stretched, and took the cup Kari poured for me. Nobody said anything, though for a moment David looked as if he were about to.

The room had two small, dirty windows, and the day beyond them was thick and cloudy, the mountainside opposite fading into cloud a couple of hundred feet higher.

Kari said, 'It may snow, I think.'

Well, that would probably be warmer than a clear sky.

David asked brightly, 'D'you think we'll be snowed in up here, then?'

Willie looked at him sourly and lit a cigarette.

Kari said, 'They will clear the road right through up to Sinnes in a day or two. For the Easter skiers. Would you like some eggs?'

Willie said, 'Of course he'd like some eggs. What's a little frying to an atmosphere like this?'

'Stub out that mentholated bird-shit special and say that again. No, thank you, but I'll take a bit of bread and cheese.'

David's quiet dark eyes flicked from one to the other of us, an oddly wondering expression on his face.

Kari said sharply, 'You men must behave, please. Now: what happens?'

I said, 'Willie runs you down to pick up the boat and give it back. That's what you said, wasn't it?'

She nodded. 'Ja. The boat must be back for midday.'

Willie sighed and stood up. 'Well, I suppose it'll be a change of air, anyway. Are you coming, David?'

David looked at me. I said, 'There's nothing happening here. You may as well take the ride.'

Kari was looking down at Nygaard. He wriggled restlessly in the sleeping bag. 'Shall I – should I wake him, now?'

'Go ahead,' I said. 'I'll walk Willie down to his carriage.'

Willie looked at me suspiciously, but he put on his coat and led the way out. And itwas a change of air. Even the damp dull day smelled as fresh as tomorrow's daisies after that cabin.

When we reached the car, he turned and said, 'Well?'

'I'm glad I'm not married to you at this time in the morning.'

He glared, then grinned. 'Sorry, old boy. Getting soft, I suppose. Used to be able to get a dreamless eight hours under an armoured car in the rain, but now… What was it you wanted?'

'A short comprehensive lecture on marine diesel engines.'

Kari came down to the car a quarter of an hour later, glancing nervously over her shoulder. And not at David, who was just behind.

'He asked for a drink,' she said anxiously.

'It'll pass,' I soothed her. Which might even be true, for an hour or two.

'You won't let him have one? '

'I promise.' And that was certainly true.

I watched them off down the road, now turning sludgy as the temperature crawled above^freezing, then turned back slowly -almost reluctantly – for the cabin.

Nygaard was huddled at the table, a blanket slung around his shoulders, both hands locked on a mug of coffee that still trembled and slopped whenever he moved it. He watched me with eyes like small bullet wounds as I made myself a fresh cup, then sat down opposite him.

I said, 'My name's James Card.'

'I remember.' Probably that was true, though you hate to admit anybody could forget you anyway. But I just nodded, sipped, and waited.

We stayed there, quiet as two London clubmen, for a good fifteen minutes. Then he put down his mug, almost empty. I said, 'More?' and poured him some. We went on waiting. His hands actually were steadying up a bit.

Then I said, 'You did a good job on that diesel last night.'

He looked up vacantly, but nodded, pretending he remembered.

I said, 'What're the best diesels you've handled?'

'Almost only the Burmeister and Wain. Most ships in Norway have them.'

'Two-stroke?'

'Ja, now. No more four-stroke, not much.'

'Single- or double-acting?'

'For me, the single only.'

'You mean in the Skadi?'

'Ja, there. Two Burmeister and Wains.' The ship's name had gone past without a tremor.

'Good ones?'

'Very old, you understand? The engineer before, he had ground the – the valves, so much…" he shrugged.

'You had a lot of trouble?'

'With everything,¡a. With always the injector valves – and the cooling pumps, and the fuel filter also.'

I nodded sympathetically. 'What happened the last time? Cooling pump? Injectors?'

He got a look of cunning suspicion on his flabby face. 'Why you ask?'

'Sorry.' I sipped my coffee and didn't look at him.

More time went past.

Then he said, 'We had much trouble, then.'

'Like what?'

'The engine stop.'

'Why?'

He put his coffee mug down, though he still kept his hands on it. 'For beginning, we think perhaps an exhaust valve, it is with a broken spring/"

'Would that stop an engine?'

'At very slow, ja. Or very fast, it jam all the engine, crack-bang.'

'But it wasn't an exhaust valve?'

'No, we find no. So we think the fuel filter.'

'De Laval type? – centrifugal?'

']a, ja.'He looked a little worried.

'Was it that?'

'No. So maybe we think the… the injector pump.'

'And was it?'

'Ja, but very difficult. You understand? – the pump gives the fuel to each injector, just so much, like the… the…" He made a move like a hypodermic in his arm. I nodded. He went on, 'To each cylinder in turn. But it must be just so much fuel, just right, like the-' The hypodermic syringe gesture again.

Now he was really talking, and I sat back and listened. Some I didn't understand, some I got just because of what Willie had told me, but broadly I got a picture of a high-pressure pump that was a lot of hypodermic syringes squirted in succession by a camshaft, putting exactly the right amount of juice into each cylinder at exactly the right time… And the camshaft bearings had gone wonky so the pressure on the syringes varied so the cylinders got variable and unequal amounts of juice…

I asked, 'Was this repairable?'

He looked blank for a moment. Then, 'Oh, ja, ja. We were working on it.'

'How far had you got at the time of the collision?'

Now he looked cautious. 'Perhaps almost finished…'

'You'd had nearly forty-eight hours.'

'Ja, but…'

'Like some more coffee?' I tried to defuse him.

'Thank you, no.' He licked his lips, then rubbed them with the great stiff scar that was the back of his hand. 'It is time for another drink-?'

How such a face could look so plaintively hopeful.

I pretended surprise, looking at my watch. 'Not just yet, surely?'

'Ja, ja, sorry.' He acquiesced immediately. Ofcourse he didn't want a drink, he'd only been suggesting it because he thought maybe I wanted one and had been too shy to suggest it…

You bastard, Card.

'How did you get rescued from the Skadi?' I asked casually.

'Why do you want to know?'

'Sorry.' I poured myself the last of the coffee and didn't look at him as I drank it.

He said, 'On the… the Carley float. Raft.' He'd know the name from the war days, of course.

'Who cut it loose. You?'

'No, the other sailors I think. I… my hands…" He held up his crumpled claws. 'I just jump in the sea and swim and on to raft.'

'Alone on it?'

'Oh, ja.'

'Did you paddle it?'

'No. My hands.'

'Sorry. So what happened?'