Free Death of a Supertanker by Antony Trew Page B

months’ pay? You must be joking. And my wife expecting,’ declared Jerry Whitelot recklessly, his voice thick with whisky. ‘That’s a fine bloody prospect.’
    ‘We’re a small company and a young one.’ Kostadis’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like criticism of the company, implied or otherwise. ‘We do our best for you but we don’t control the world’s tanker market.’
    ‘Some of the circulars from Head Office give the impression you try to.’ Freeman Jarrett smiled sardonically, looked into his tankard. ‘But let’s cheer up. Things are never as bad as they seem.’
    ‘A damn sight worse, usually,’ suggested George Foley.
    ‘They are if you care to make them that way.’
    ‘Meaning what?’ challenged Foley.
    ‘Anything you like to think.’ Jarrett turned his back on the second officer, slid his tankard across the counter. ‘I’ll have the same again.’
    The steward filled it, passed it back.
    Lars Hammarsen, sensing the tension, lifted his glass. ‘Here’sto you, gentlemen. And to you, ladies‚’ he added as Sandy Foley and Doris Benson joined them. ‘ Bon voyage, and may the future not be as black as it looks.’
    ‘Hear, hear!’ Kostadis raised the tankard and his long nose almost disappeared into it.
    At a nearby table Abu Seku, a young Ghanaian, one of several fifth engineers on board – the ‘fivers’ – raised his tankard to his Welsh colleague. ‘Balls,’ he said, ‘to all agents, ship owners, oil sheiks and other exploiters of the working classes.’
    ‘A fine sentiment, Abu,’ said Gareth Lloyd, who was also a ‘fiver’. ‘I’ll drink to that. Balls to the lot of them.’ He drained the tankard in two mighty gulps. ‘Thank Christ I’ll be home soon and along to Cardiff Arms to see the Welsh massacre the bloody English.’
    ‘Another fine sentiment,’ said the Ghanaian. ‘Racist bastards. Let’s have the next pint.’
    At the bar Jarrett was ordering a gin and tonic. He took it over to Sandy Foley. ‘Have a good swim?’ he asked in a low voice.
    ‘Marvellous,’ she whispered.
    ‘Meet any interesting people?’
    ‘Yes. A handsome stranger.’
    ‘Nice guy?’
    She eyed him mischievously over the edge of her glass. ‘Dishy,’ she said. ‘In spite of a cut lip.’
    ‘Watch it. Men like that are dangerous.’
    ‘That’s what makes them attractive.’
    He dropped his voice. ‘See you. Here comes George.’ He went over to Kostadis and Hammarsen.
    ‘Enjoying his drink?’ George Foley came up and looked at his wife with studious calm.
    ‘Yes. I always enjoy G and T.’
    ‘Especially when our friend pays for it.’
    ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, George! Grow up. Can’t he buy me a drink without you being unpleasant?’
    ‘I was up on the bridge this afternoon.’
    ‘Were you? Doing what?’
    ‘Watching you and him chatting each other up beside the pool.’
    ‘So that’s a crime, is it?’
    ‘What were you talking about?’
    ‘The future. What he proposes to do when we get back. Anything else you’d like to know?’
    ‘Yes. Whether you’re telling the truth.’
    She turned her back on him and joined Doris Benson. It was just about the most provocative thing she could do because he knew she couldn’t stand the second engineer’s wife.
     
    Hammarsen and Kostadis, having said their goodbyes, left the bar-lounge and made their way to the Master’s suite for a formal leavetaking and farewell drink. They found the chief engineer with the Captain.
    The four men discussed briefly the final stages of the repair work, McLintoch assuring them that there would be no further delays. They got on to the ship’s departure the next morning. ‘The Port Captain’s providing three harbour tugs,’ said Captain Crutchley. ‘Pilot’s boarding at 0515.’
    ‘Good.’ Kostadis raised his glass, his deep-set eyes fixed on the Captain. ‘Here’s to a successful voyage.’
    ‘I’ll second that,’ said Hammarsen, raising his. McLintoch did the same, but