“Have they sent anyone to shore?”
“No, Sir,” Wandsworth blurted, eyes blinking. “But she is flying distressed colours.”
“So they’ve come afoul of their own misdeeds and returned to seek our aid, have they? A strange choice, this is the last place I’d seek refuge.” Philip swung out of bed, rubbing the night from his face whilst Wandsworth gathered his clothes. “Let’s go deal with them. I won’t have that man step one foot on land. If his crew are in peril, they can join our ranks and be charged for their abuses, but if Traill is to remain immune, then to hell with him.”
The two dashed through the small encampment, making their way towards the dock. Wandsworth led a path, holding a lantern before him, drawing a cloud of insects as an escort. Small creatures scuttled in the shadows, avoiding the footfalls of the clumsy men.
Ahead, Philip could make out the outline of the Neptune against the grey moon-lit ocean. The deck was dark, no lights to be seen. For a moment he imagined all the crew dead, killed by plague from the rotting corpses he’d refused to unload, but then dismissed the idea as absurd. There was no way the ship could have returned without a crew. Ships couldn’t sail themselves, could they?
Upon the dock was a small number of men who were, as instructed by Wandsworth, preparing a row-boat to approach the ship. They stood to attention as the governor arrived.
“Listen here,” he said, ignoring formalities. “Find out what the nature of their distress is, but impress upon them they do not have permission to dock. If Traill thinks he can blight my horizon without a bloody decent explanation, he’s profoundly mistaken.”
As the men readied themselves, he continued. “Keep your weapons handy. I don’t like the stench of this. Not one bit.”
Slowly, the row-boat began the long journey away from the shore, out to the Neptune. Soon the crew were cloaked by the night air and all Philip could make out was the small lantern bobbing with the waves.
“Should I awaken the camp, Sir?” Wandsworth seemed to have gathered his wits now that someone else was in charge.
“No, not yet. I don’t want to start a panic. Those that survived their last experience of Traill are apt to go quite mad at the thought he’s returned to finish the job. No, let’s find out what he wants first.”
So they waited in the dark for the row-boat to return, Wandsworth fidgeting nervously, whilst Philip kept his eyes unwavering upon the alien vessel.
“Governor Philip I presume?” The voice called to them from the pitch-black surf.
“Who goes there?” Wandsworth cried, jumping in front of his master with earnest concern. With the reply came the sight of a man, standing waist deep in the ocean, not far from the shore.
“My name is Donald Traill.”
“What are you doing here, Traill?” Philip asked cautiously. “I told you not to return. I made that clear to you and your crew.”
“The crew are dead.”
And in the dim moonlight, Philip knew the man spoke the truth. It was as he’d feared.
“Plague?”
“The corpses did ‘em in, that’s for sure, but not by disease. I watched each one get taken. There’s just me and the ship left now.”
“And yet my word still stands. You’re not welcome.”
“I’m not on the shore,” Traill replied with a dark chuckle. “I’m ten feet from it.”
“Go back to your ship,” Philip commanded, his voice trembling ever so slightly. Traill was mad, he could sense that, but there was something else. Something worse. Some intrinsic evil, deep down in the man’s soul. Some men were good, some were bad. It was in their eyes. It was even in their smell.
But Traill would not acquiesce. He’d come to say his piece, and say it he would.
“That ship is cursed, and it is your doing, just as it is mine, Arthur Philip. You sent it out there with a hundred corpses, you allowed those spirits to remain. Well now the Neptune is full of ghosts… and I am one of them!”
“What a load of bollocks.”
[The Mariner] closed the book he’d been reading with a disappointed sigh. The story had ridiculously spiralled into mediocrity, ruining what little promise it had shown. He turned it over in his hands to once again review the blurb. ‘The Neptune’s Curse’, a splatter-punk tale of gore and horror. He had purchased it under the promise that it was based on fact. As it turned out, the facts were thin on the ground, as were the prose. Whatever actual events had inspired the pulp tale, that was their only role: inspiration. And trashy inspiration at that.
A door opened from a small office beyond the even smaller waiting room. “Would you like to come through?” The doctor smiled warmly, looking expectant. [The Mariner] had been to several therapists and counsellors over the years, and although each had done their best to appear kind and understanding they usually proved to be useless in the end.
He stood, somewhat awkwardly, and followed, holding the trashy horror novel in his hands. As he closed the door the therapist apologised for the wait. “I’m pleased to meet you, I think I can help.”
“Thank you doctor,” he replied, absent-mindedly stroking his arm and wincing at the dull throb. “I appreciate you finding an appointment for me so quickly.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s no problem at all. And please, call me Edgar.”
[The Mariner] sat in a large comfortable armchair and looked out the window. The therapist’s office was high up, almost at the top of the multi-story building split between many private offices, and through the grimy glass he could see the skyline of London, in all its equally grimy glory.
The therapist had what [The Mariner] assumed to be his file in his lap, and he quickly flicked through making the occasional grunt. Finally he looked up, and smiled.
“I see you’ve tried medication, CBT, traditional counselling and psychoanalysis.”
“Yes,” [The Mariner] nodded, his hands folded neatly over the book. The therapist looked down at it.
“Any good?”
“The book or the therapies?”
Edgar grinned. “The book.”
“It’s ok. Started well, got a bit silly as it went on.”
“What’s it about?”
[The Mariner] had seen this approach many times. A new counsellor or therapist tries to engage on a seemingly benign topic to assess the patient’s social skills. All very standard.
“It’s roughly based upon a ship that transported convicts to Australia in the 18th century. A lot of them died on the way.”
“A true story then?”
“Not really. The author has fictionalised a couple of characters, a sadistic captain and a noble governor. There’s a supernatural element that’s pretty juvenile, lets the narrative down. I hate it when authors throw in weird shit for no reason.”
“So no good then?”
“Naa.”
Edgar stared intently. “When you read a story like that, who do you associate with?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Whose shoes do you place yourself in?”
“In this story? Neither.”
“Oh?”
“Traill appears to be evil through and through. I don’t think anyone’s like that. But Philip is just as unbelievable; I’ve read over a hundred pages and he hasn’t done anything other than act selflessly.” He shrugged. “That’s bullshit.”
“So no-one then?”
“Sounds strange, but if I had to identify with something from the story, it’d be the ship.”
“‘The ship’?”
““There’s this cursed ship called the Neptune that carries the convicts. Later it is doomed to sail for eternity, haunted by their souls.”
“Sounds pretty kooky. You think that’s more realistic than goodies and baddies?”