Theresa hadn’t been buried in a coffin, a waste of scarce wood. Instead, an old cloth had been stitched about her. It hung closely, the tailor keen to use the minimum material possible. It pulled about her like a mask, stained and bug-ridden. The Mariner brushed off as much dirt as he could. Stitches proved weak as he ran a knife along the seam and like a pod, the death-shroud popped open, revealing the peas within.
The girl couldn’t have been dead for longer than a day. She was a pretty young thing, no more than seventeen at the most. Her hair, protected from the earth by the shroud, was a rich golden colour that shimmered in the moonlight. It brought a little light to her pale face, milky skin that descended into darkness as it reached her throat, for the throat was coated with dried blood from the long slit that reached from ear to ear.
No guilt. The girl was dead; if there was anything left of her, it wasn’t here. This was just flesh. It would either be eaten by worms, or by his devils, it mattered not to her.
The Mariner swung the dead body over his shoulder and without bothering to fill in the grave, headed for his boat. First the Neptune’s devils, then his own. This was the deal the Mariner promised himself as he carried young Theresa’s corpse, her flesh stiff under his grasp.
The dock was quiet. In the distance the Mariner could hear the sound of a wake, merriment and sorrow breaking out in equal measure as each tried to cope with reality as best they could. How would they react, he wondered, if they saw their beloved being feasted upon by the dozen or so monsters? Her body laid out like a delicious feast?
Once upon the Neptune the Mariner sighed with relief, realising just how nervous being away from his vessel made him. There was a safety in his floating tomb.
He dumped the body and waited. Small dark bodies scurried out of the shadows, their flanks trembling with anticipation. Without a grunt of thanks they began to feast, noisily scoffing mouthfuls of torn flesh. The Mariner didn’t flinch, he’d witnessed them eat from people before and this time he had the luxury of darkness.
“Enter.”
The voice, a man’s, made the Mariner jump. He looked around in surprise, scanning the familiar silhouettes. Everything seemed as it was, all in its proper place. No intruders except in his own imagination.
But then he heard the sound of a door opening and closing. A familiar creek. Someone had entered the captain’s cabin!
The Mariner pulled his clunky pistol out its holster, the metal grip cold in his hand and the muzzle looking like ice in the dim light. There was an intruder on board, one that the devils had missed. And no wonder, they were as hungry as he was thirsty!
He crept forward, sliding below deck as silent as a gentle breeze. Ahead he could hear a muffled murmuring. There were two distinct voices: two intruders. He couldn’t make out any words, the wood was too thick for that, even when he pressed his ear against the seam.
The captain’s cabin wasn’t far beneath the top deck, and occasionally the Mariner slept within, but only when the weather was too bad to sleep under the night sky. There was something sour about the Neptune’s innards. Something rotten.
The Mariner pushed the door open an inch, relying upon the darkness to conceal his movement.
Dim candlelight illuminated within, lighting the two figures whilst plunging their backs into black. One was sat at the table, a familiar desk the Mariner had eaten meagre meals at many times before. Only it seemed this man had brought all sorts of personal effects along with him; alien cutlery, plates, glasses, a compass, quill — all manner of items the Mariner hadn’t seen before were laid out with care. The man at the desk was dressed in smart but practical garb and he scowled at the other who stood before him.
“So what are we to do?” he sneered. He looked like a bland painting whose canvas had warped. “I can’t have you making so much noise, my crew need to sleep. How can we shut you up? Hmm?”
The quaking figure under judgement was that of a woman. Unlike him she wore no finery, but a collection of filth-stained rags. Her hands were clasped in chains, the arms above them emaciated and covered in sores. She didn’t respond to him but instead kept her eyes locked on the floor, respectful and afraid.
“We still have many weeks before Port Jackson, and I can’t be having these complaints. Do you understand? Do you?”
The woman nodded. Tears drawing lines down dirty cheeks. Her eyes looked like two tiny heads on pink spikes.
“Kneel,” he commanded. The woman sank to her knees, chains rattling.
“Closer.”
She inched closer to him, wincing in pain.
“I said closer!” The captain slapped her hard around the face and clasped her hair in his hand. She lost her balance as he yanked her forward, keeping her aloft in his grip. She screamed, her voice hoarse and tired. A scream more familiar to the throat.
“There you go again!” He laughed a little. “Making unnecessary noise!” The captain’s other hand pulled at the belt in his lap, fingers making quick work in the shadows. His penis rose like the head of a surfacing shark.
The woman tried to murmur something, but the captain had no interest in entertaining protest. He pulled her forward, punching her as a jokey would spur a horse. Blood leaked from her mouth as she went limp and gave in to his advances. Falling forward, her small mouth opened and took him inside. The captain leaned back and with a dark smile roughly clenched her hair to force a rhythm of his choosing.
The Mariner watched, horrified by the rape. He knew he should put a bullet in this man’s face and put out that horrible smirk, but he was glued to the spot, hiding in the darkness like a peeping tom. And like said tom, there was a certain dark thrill about watching. The sight was horrible, truly horrible, and yet there was a stirring within. A dark and terrible urge the Mariner knew well.
The captain continued to force the woman’s head up and down. A clump of hair tore loose; he threw the lock to the side and took hold of another. His victim gave a pitiful groan, but this only brought further delight to her torturer and further firmness to their voyeur.
Finally, the captain grunted and pulled her head firmly into his lap, emptying himself inside. He let go and she fell onto the floor, coughing and spluttering, her lungs taking in gasps of air between harrowed sobs.
However the beast wasn’t to be so easily placated. He tucked himself back into his trousers and stood, face blank and rigid. All sinister myrth gone. The Mariner’s breath quickened as he watched him kick the victim, first in the stomach, then the breasts before finally her face. Over and over he’d kick and stamp, her initial cries turning to wheezes, ending with a final listless whimper. Soon the only sound she made was a mushy squelch, though that was more attributable to his boot.
When her body finally relinquished its fragile grip upon her sorry life, the captain suffered an orgasmic judder and with his handkerchief dabbed sweat from his brow. Then, as if nothing had happened, he strolled back and took his place in his seat.
“Enter.”
The Mariner tensed. Was the captain speaking to him? Had he known he was hiding outside all this time? Absurdly, the Mariner was primarily concerned with being caught with an erection, evidence plain to see that he’d enjoyed the scene.
But before he could move, the door opened by itself. No, not by itself, there had been someone beside him the whole time! It was a woman, dressed in rags and bound in chains.
It was her! The woman he’d just seen murdered! She walked into the captain’s room solemnly, legs shaking. It was then the Mariner noticed the murdered body had disappeared, all evidence of the terrible crime erased.
The captain looked up at her with a scowl of frustration and disappointment. And something else. Excitement? The Mariner understood why. He knew what was on the captain’s mind. He’d seen what had happened. What was about to happen again. Who were these people? Ghosts? Visions? Memories?