‘What are you doing?’ the first officer yells at his mates and stands up. At the same moment the ship pitches and he loses his footing and is lifted onto the gunwale.
‘Methúsalem!’ shouts the bosun, throwing himself towards his shipmate and managing to grab one of the officer’s ankles before he tumbles overboard.
‘Everybody inside! Everybody inside!’ says Big John, stepping up onto the deck and feeling his way along the gunwale. ‘Everybody inside before someone ends up overboard!’
Methúsalem crawls back along the ship on hands and knees, managing to grab the rifle before it slides back to the stern, while John helps Rúnar back to his feet and steadies him with his left hand on his back.
‘Let go of that gun!’ roars Guðmundur when Methúsalem stands up with the rifle in his left hand, but then he slips and hits the gunwale in front of Rúnar. Rúnar grabs the captain, who accidentally pulls the trigger of the shotgun, sending a shot up into the inky sky.
‘Are you trying to kill me?’ yells Methúsalem, waving his rifle like a battleaxe.
‘Everybody inside! Everybody inside!’ John tries again, but Rúnar can’t go any further because Guðmundur doesn’t move.
‘Throw that gun in the sea,’ Guðmundur snarls, aiming his shotgun at Methúsalem, who grinds his teeth in fury, eyes bulging and nostrils flaring.
‘Get going,’ Rúnar exclaims, pushing at Guðmundur, who doesn’t move.
‘Nobody is going inside until that gun hits the water,’ the captain responds.
‘Take it easy!’ shouts Methúsalem, pressing his right elbow hard against the gunwale, then holding the rifle vertical with his left hand as he loosens the bolt from the magazine with the fingers of his right hand.
‘What are you doing?’ yells Guðmundur, whose mouth is dry and his throat sore from all the screaming.
‘This gun is a museum piece,’ Methúsalem replies forcefully as he lets the bolt fall onto the deck, then kicks it towards the stair and over the edge of the deck. ‘Now it’s undamaged but useless. It’s not going overboard!’
‘Everybody inside!’ John pushes Rúnar, who slams into Guðmundur.
‘All right! For fuck’s sake,’ roars Guðmundur, locking in the safety on the shotgun. ‘Everybody inside!’
They creep along the gunwale, past the big winch to port and back to the stern. There Methúsalem seizes the opportunity to leap in three bounds over the watery deck to the wheelhouse and through the door to the B-deck corridor. He puts down his rifle and holds the door open for Guðmundur, who makes a run for it, falls on one knee when a wave slams the ship but makes it all the way in the end.
‘Come on!’ Methúsalem calls to Rúnar, who is watching the ship’s motion to find the right moment to run.
Too much wind… Too much roll… Too much sea water…
‘Look!’ John shouts in Rúnar’s ear just as he’s about to let go of the gunwale and run for the door that Methúsalem is holding open.
‘What?’ Rúnar shouts, grabbing the gunwale with both hands as the stern presses down into the sea, like a whale diving for the depths.
‘It’s Jónas!’ John cries, pointing with a trembling hand to the second mate, who’s sliding around the deck on his back, between the big winch and the starboard gunwale.
‘Is he dead?’ yells Rúnar, motioning over to starboard.
‘I don’t know,’ John says and gives the bosun a push. ‘Come on! We’ve got to get him inside!’
The forecastle
Satan pulls on the chain to see how much he can move. He can touch the metal pillar in the middle and that’s it. The door might as well be light-years away.
Down on the floor is an open plinth course reaching from the front of the forecastle on each side and ending at the stern. On the port side it contains buoys and net-bulbs but on the starboard side, by Satan, it’s full of painting overalls, bottles of turpentine, paint pots, rollers and brushes. Above the plinth courses, at shoulder height for the average man, are shelves on which there are big bolts of burlap and canvas, dirty overalls and various other things, all kept in place with a green fishing net stretched over the shelves with little hooks.
It is almost ridiculously hard to stay on your feet up here in the forecastle, but by keeping the chain at the stretch, his feet well apart and at least one hand on the shelves, it isn’t impossible.
Satan starts to pile up the painting things in the bow end of the course, then he loosens the net from the shelves and stretches it over them. Once that’s done he makes himself a lair inside the plinth course by spreading canvas and burlap on the bottom.
Now the plinth course has become a deep bed.
Satan lies down on his back in the lair and hooks one link of the chain over a metal hook in the wall right above the course. This ensures that he won’t fly up and out onto the floor in the worst of the turmoil.
The bulb over the door throws a dull yellow glow over the contents of the forecastle. The heater slides around on the floor as it blows out hot air.
‘Could be worse,’ mutters Satan as he digs a crumpled cigarette packet out of his right trouser pocket. Then he peels the bandage off the ampoule, the syringe and the needle.
He puts the needle on the syringe, pushes it through the rubber membrane on the ampoule and pulls the liquid morphine into the syringe. Then he waits calmly while the ship ascends another wave. As soon as it stops, still at the top of the ridge, he clenches his left fist, sticks the needle into a vein in the crook of his elbow and pumps in the stuff with his right thumb, firmly and calmly.
The ship pitches forwards off the wave, Satan gets butterflies in his stomach and drops into the dark abyss.
XXIV
Saturday, 15 September
Methúsalem is holding on with both hands as he makes his way along the portside gunwale towards the front of the ship, towards the stair that leads down to the weather deck. It’s almost eighteen hours since they locked the supposed terrorist in the forecastle and the storm is still raging. Methúsalem is dressed in a dark-green raincoat and black rubber boots and is holding onto the iron railing with his bare hands as he backs down the steep staircase. He steps carefully onto the weather deck, which he can’t even see in the foaming seawater and blinding spray.
The first officer is looking for the bolt from his rifle but isn’t that optimistic about finding it after all this time.
But he couldn’t get here any sooner.
Guðmundur sent him directly to the bridge watch after they had carried the unconscious Jónas to the infirmary, and he didn’t get off the watch until ten in the evening. Then it was too dark to go looking for such a small object in such a large area, especially out on the weather deck in a storm.
As long as Jónas is unconscious, the captain and the first officer will have to take alternating watches on the bridge. This means that they take eight-hour shifts. The captain relieved the first officer at ten in the evening and was on watch until six in the morning. Then he should be free until two o’clock.
It’s already six o’clock, actually, but Methúsalem isn’t going up to relieve the old man until he’s found the bolt from his rifle.
He has to find that fucking bolt!
Just as Methúsalem lets go of the railing the ship pitches and rolls to starboard. He loses his balance, falls on his belly and slams into the last hatch, then the ship rights itself, the deck is filled with seawater and Methúsalem is washed over to the port side, under the railing and overboard.