‘STILL!’ screams Methúsalem, who doesn’t know where to aim his gun and ends up aiming it in the reddening face of Sæli, who stares at Methúsalem, desperation in his eyes.
‘God almighty!’ says John, looking at Rúnar, who shrugs and shuffles his feet to the right of the chief mate.
‘Methúsalem, don’t…’ Sæli manages to say before Satan tightens his grip. His neck bones creak, his windpipe narrows and his oesophagus closes tight.
‘Let that man go,’ says Methúsalem, trying to squeeze out some saliva for his mouth, which is painfully dry from right down to his stomach.
‘Just one question, before I snap this boy’s spinal cord,’ says Satan calmly as, little by little, he tightens his hold on Sæli, who is going blue and standing on his toes to try to avoid being hanged. ‘What are your plans? What’s going to happen if you capture me?’
Satan has pretty well defeated this three-man invading army. All he has to do – if they don’t have the sense to throw down their weapons and give up – is to sink to his knees, with Sæli in front of him, let his right hand go and get the revolver from his right ankle. Before these fools would have time to drop their jaws in wonder, as they feebly try to deal with the overwhelming fact that they have about a third of a second left to live, he’d shoot all three of them.
However, before he goes so far as to end the lives of three people, he wants to know if there’s a better solution. If blood is spilled and men die, there will be chaos on board the ship. Then the projected cocaine smuggling he and the second mate were planning would come to nothing, and down the drain would go a business opportunity that could easily earn him millions without any serious costs, danger or trouble. And Satan is not the kind of guy who’d risk losing such an opportunity if he could possibly avoid it.
‘We’re going to lock you up,’ says Methúsalem, hesitating in front of Sæli and Satan and aiming his rifle now to the left, now to the right of Sæli, who watches the chief mate’s asinine posturing with a terrified, oxygen-deprived expression. ‘We’re going to see to it that you don’t cause any more damage than you’ve already… caused.’
‘You’re welcome to lock me up somewhere,’ says Satan with a laugh. ‘But if you’re looking for some saboteur, then you’re barking up the wrong tree, whether you believe it or not.’
‘We don’t believe you,’ says Methúsalem, his voice shaking. ‘Let the boy go and we’ll show some mercy!’
‘He can’t breathe, man!’ says Rúnar, watching Sæli turn blue and black around the eyes as he dangles in Satan’s head-hold.
‘I can’t stand this!’ says John, who’s breathing like an adenoidal sheep and wiping sweat from his burning forehead.
‘Let go!’ yells Methúsalem, spraying saliva all over the cabin.
‘Will I get food and drink?’ asks Satan.
‘Yes!’
‘And I won’t have to work and stand the watch or whatever it’s called?’
‘Yes!’ screams Methúsalem, on the verge of breakdown.
‘And I’ll be left in peace?’
‘YES, YES, YES!’
‘All right,’ says Satan, slightly loosening his grip on Sæli, who manages to get his feet on the floor and draw in a little oxygen.
‘Let him go!’ says Methúsalem, clutching even more tightly the rifle that’s shaking in his hands.
‘Breathe slowly,’ Satan whispers to Sæli, who’s convulsively sucking and wheezing as he tries to inhale. ‘And you’ll get me out before we reach land. Otherwise I won’t get you out of debt. Understood?’
‘What are you saying?’ asks Methúsalem, lifting his rifle. ‘Stop whispering! Let the boy go.’
‘Let him go,’ says Rúnar.
‘Do you understand?’ whispers Satan to Sæli, who manages to nod between gulps.
‘LET HIM GO!’ shouts Methúsalem, aiming his rifle straight at Sæli’s blood-red face. ‘Let him go or I’ll shoot the both of you!’
‘Methúsalem!’ shouts Rúnar, about to grab the rifle barrel.
‘Rúnar!’ John says, grabbing Rúnar’s hand before he can grab the rifle.
‘Cool it in here!’ Satan yells at the three men. ‘Put down your guns and I’ll let the boy go.’
‘Methúsalem?’ asks Rúnar with a shrug.
‘We do as he says,’ mutters John and he lowers his shotgun.
‘Okay,’ says Methúsalem, aiming his rifle at the floor. ‘But only until he lets go. And be ready, boys. And you – let go now!’
‘I’m letting go,’ says Satan. He takes his hands off Sæli, who takes two steps forward, vomits on the floor and then leans against the nearest wall.
‘Easy!’ says Methúsalem, pointing his rifle at Satan’s chest. ‘Turn round and put your hands above your head.’
‘Yeah, yeah, cool it, man! You’ve been watching too many police movies,’ Satan says, turning around and putting his hands behind his head. ‘So where are you going to lock me up?’
‘You’ll see,’ says Methúsalem, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then he looks at Sæli, who’s coughing and whimpering and blowing snot. ‘Bear up, boy, and hurry up to the bridge before the bell brings the Old Man out.’
Methúsalem then moves his eyes back to Satan, who bends his knees as he turns around. Satan grabs the rifle barrel with his right hand and pushes it aside. The chief mate’s index finger jerks on the trigger and the shot goes off.
BANG!
The report isn’t particularly loud but so sudden, unexpected and disturbing that it sounds like a cannon to the ears of the sailors, who stiffen and go cold inside, their mouths filling with the bitter taste of blood, as if death has breathed down their necks.
A small hole appears in the wall above the head of the bed, the air smells of burnt gunpowder and the fine smoke gets in the men’s noses and their startled eyes.
‘But let me tell you something,’ says Satan, still holding the rifle barrel and looking directly in turn at each of the gunmen, who have turned to stone in the face of this self-confident madman. ‘If in the end you can’t prove I’m this saboteur you’re looking for, I’ll kill the lot of you.’
None of them can utter a word, because none of them knows what to say.
‘Let’s go, then!’ says Satan, dropping the rifle. Then he turns around, stands with his feet apart and conscientiously places his palms on the back of his neck.
‘Yeah,’ mutters Methúsalem, clearing his throat as he looks at Rúnar, who shrugs and looks across at the chief engineer. Big John raises his eyebrows with a sigh.
The three gunslingers are faced with a man who turns his back on them with his hands behind his head, but they hardly dare open their mouths to give him orders – because they’re no longer sure whether they have captured him or it’s the other way around.
B-deck
‘Can I offer you some dessert? Ice-cream or something?’ asks Ási the cook, pouring more coffee in second officer Jónas’s mug.
Ási had promised Methúsalem to keep Jónas busy chatting in the mess for ten or fifteen minutes, or until they had managed to sneak this Satan guy unnoticed down the stairs and into the forecastle, where they were going to keep him chained up for the rest of the voyage.
However, Ási, the sociable charmer who can talk about anything with anyone, can’t make any contact with Jónas, who already has a reputation for being pretty distant in any company. But on this trip he’s reached the point where they can’t get a sensible word out of him, and when he does look his mates in the eye it’s almost as if he doesn’t recognise them, or as if he simply looks right through them into some other world.