Free Ocean Prize (1972) by James Pattinson Page A

a grimace of agony. Wilson had really hurt him.
    Again there was silence in the messroom, broken only by the creaking of timber, the rattle of cutlery, and a laboured, grunting noise coming from Trubshaw. Wilson looked at Trubshaw and was scared, scared of what Trubshaw would do to him when he recovered from that punch in the groin. He thought about getting away, but Trubshaw was between him and the door. And even if he escaped from the messroom, where would he go? Once more the hard fact forced itself upon him: in a ship at sea there was nowhere to go.
    Trubshaw straightened up slowly, carefully, as though testing the way before committing himself. When he had reached his full height of five feet nothing he moved towards Wilson. Wilson got up quickly and backed away. Trubshaw followed. Wilson retreated until he was brought to a halt by the end bulkhead of the messroom. Trubshaw came to a halt too and stood looking at Wilson.
    “I’m goin’ to make you sorry you done that,” he said. “I’m goin’ to smash you, kid. Oh, yes, I’m really goin’ tosmash you now. When I’ve finished with you you’re goin’ to need plastic surgery.”
    This time Wilson did not wait for Trubshaw to start things; he put his head down and rushed at the other man, arms flailing, fists beating at Trubshaw’s iron face like hailstones rattling against a brick wall, and with little greater effect. Trubshaw gave a shake of the head like a horse bothered by flies, then slugged Wilson with a left and a right to the stomach. Wilson went down again, retching, and once again Trubshaw began to kick him systematically, without passion, but with a deadly accuracy, picking his targets.
    “Give it a rest, Trub,” Lawson said. He sounded worried. “The kid’s had enough. You wanter kill him?”
    Trubshaw paused in his kicking and stared at Lawson. “Keep out of this, Aussie, ’less you want a sample of it yerself.”
    Lawson’s mouth tightened. It looked for a moment as though he might be about to take Trubshaw up on that; but he thought better of it.
    “You’ll kill him,” he said, but he made no move to stop the killing.
    “Maybe I will,” Trubshaw said, and he started kicking Wilson again.
    Wilson could taste the blood in his mouth and his jaw felt as though it might be cracked. His whole body seemed to be on fire, nothing but pain and more pain as the kicks exploded in his quivering flesh. Oh, God! he thought, when will it end? Oh, God, make it end!
    It went on.
    When he thought about it afterwards Wilson could not help wondering whether Trubshaw would have gone on until he had really kicked the life out of his victim. It waspossible; for Trubshaw had a kind of brute mentality that did not look beyond the immediate moment, did not consider the possible consequences of any action. So he would probably have gone on kicking Wilson until there was no life left in the boy, not because he had any real desire to kill him but simply because he was in the mood to take his revenge by inflicting pain. Wilson had dared to provoke him and for that must take his punishment; that was Trubshaw’s code.
    That he did not in fact kick Wilson to death or at best permanent injury was not the result of any change of heart but simply the intervention of Orwell, the black-bearded carpenter. Orwell, passing the doorway of the messroom, looked in and saw what was happening. And he did not like what he saw. In fact he liked it so little that he went into the messroom at a quicker pace than was normal with him.
    The first that Trubshaw knew of Orwell’s presence was a heavy hand on his shoulder and a voice bellowing in his ear: “Give over!”
    Trubshaw stopped kicking Wilson and turned to face the carpenter, breathing hard from exertion and anger. “Get your bleedin’ ’and off my shoulder.”
    Orwell drew his hand away without haste. “Are you trying to kill the lad?”
    “It’s nothing to do with you, Chippie. You keep out of this.”
    “Nowt to do