Offshore (12 page)

But
before he could take full advantage of this nice new body he had
some refuse to dispose of. He eased the door open and
listened.

The
doors between the corridor and the lounge were closed, muting the
clatter of crockery and someone’s tuneless singing in the galley.
Better for him; more chance of getting away and disposing of
Reynolds’ remains unseen and unheard. He seized the drop bag and
stepped out into the corridor, closing the cabin door behind
him.

“
Hey Daz. What’cha got there?”

Euterich
almost lifted out of his shoes at the unexpected voice behind him -
Craig McDougal, zipping up his overalls, on the way back to the
lounge after using his lavatory.

Reynolds’ words tripped from his lips. “Er … laundry. Running
out of smalls. Don’t fancy going commando and freezing my bollocks
off.”

McDougal
grinned. “Great, wait there!” He ducked back into his cabin,
emerging seconds later with a bundle of underwear, socks, T shirts
and a pair of navy overalls, roughly bundled together in a grubby
towel.

“
Stick these in for me while ye’re there will ye,” he said,
thrusting the bundle into Euterich’s hands.

“
What am I, your fucking slave?”

“
Nah, you’re just a decent human being doing his mate a good
turn.”

“
Fuck off!”

“
I owe you one. Cheers mate. I’ll save you a naan bread.”
And McDougal ambled back to the galley to continue work, leaving
Euterich standing in the corridor, a scowl creasing his forehead
until it stood out like rusty guttering, fuming not only at
McDougal’s bare arsed cheek, but also at his own foulness of
language and behaviour. Reynolds’ influence on him already? That
didn’t take long.

He
stalked down the corridor, through the swing doors of the hub, down
the next hallway to the room housing the washing machines, dryers
and irons, left behind because there was no value in taking them
off. He thought of dumping McDougal’s stuff on the floor and
leaving it to fester until he too ran out of clean underwear and
came to deal with it himself, but instead he set a machine going
with the gear in it, not because he wanted to, or out of the
goodness of his heart, but because if anyone asked where he had
been, he would have a legitimate excuse for his absence, one
corroborated by McDougal, which would give him time to get rid of
Reynolds’ surplus to requirements bones and flesh mouldering in the
bag atop the washing machine not three feet away.

Taking
care to remain out of sight of the CCTV cameras covering the deck,
the location of which he picked from Reynolds’ memories and his own
observation, Euterich tossed his dreadful payload over the safety
rail and watched it fall away into the heaving grey
mass.

He did
not hear them splash into the sea two hundred feet below, nor give
them a second thought as they sank to the briny depths to join
Lonny Dick in providing an extraordinary meal for scavenging fish
and crabs.

Chapter 14

Lonny’s
absence from the dining table at dinner raised little
interest.

Euterich’s playacting illness had convinced Lydia to sign him
off work for the afternoon. She prescribed him some medicine and
ordered him rest in his cabin. For him not to appear to partake in
a hearty meal of spicy chicken curry and rice then, was somewhat
expected.

Euterich, however, now in Reynolds skin and keen to join in,
helped himself to a moderate portion of the food, despite still
feeling a little bloated from his enjoyment of the dear departed’s
organ meats, which he found to be in remarkably good condition
considering the amount Reynolds smoked, drank, and screwed
around.

The
curry was aromatic and hot, and he appreciated the sensation of
heat on his tongue and at the back of his throat. The generous
chunks of tender chicken were much to his liking.

He
laughed quietly to himself. If anyone were to ask him what chicken
tasted like he could, with an arrow straight face, say, ‘Human,’
and be telling the truth.

Lydia
returned from the serving area with her plate. “You made too much
rice,” she said. “It’s going to be wasted. It won’t keep. You can’t
eat reheated rice. You’ll get food poisoning. You should have
measured it out more carefully.”

“
We did,” complained Cameron. “We followed the instructions
to a T, but it doesn’t matter how careful you are, it is physically
impossible not to make too much rice.”

“
That’s as maybe, but it means we might go short
later.”

“
Let’s hope Lummox keeps his bad belly, then. The less he
eats, all the more for us.”

All but
Lydia laughed.

“
Anyone seen him lately?” Eddie asked. “Anyone know if he’s
okay?”

“
Anyone gie a shit?” mumbled McDougal. “Ye can hang yer
washing atwain that idiot’s ears. Theer’s nut’n blowing through
theer but fresh air.”

“
If he’s taken my advice, he’ll be sleeping it off in his
cabin,” said Lydia. “I gave him some Milk of Magnesia to settle his
stomach and told him to stick to plain water and not exert himself.
He should be fine by morning.”

They
returned to their meal, chattering across the table, getting to
know each other without really trying, testing each other out,
ribbing one another.

McDougal
said something incomprehensible; McAllister swore and threw a piece
of naan bread at him. McDougal scowled at him. “Wa’s yoor problem,
Mac?”

“
At’s yoo,” said McAllister, exaggerating McDougal’s broad
Aberdonian accent. “We dinnae ken wit her bletherin’ aboot win ye
gabs oan like a sheep shaggin’ teuchter. Nae-one can unnerstan’ a
fuckin’ word.” He then switched to pure cut glass English. “Why can
you not speak proper – like what we do?” Everyone laughed and the
piece of bread returned.

“
Shut yer gob, Mac, afair I shut it fer ye!”

“
What did he say?” said Euterich innocently, sending
McAllister into gales of laughter.

“
You see,” McAllister howled. “Even a slob like Daz can’t
make moss nor sand of your highland fling.”

“
Yer nuttin’ bu’ a bunch o’ smart-arse fucking racists,”
retorted McDougal, his insulted Celtic temper inflamed. “We cannae
all hae the benefit of a fancy yoo-niversity edication. Just ‘cause
yoo hae sae hoity toity degree, Mac, is nae excuse fer makkin’ fun
of us lesser mortals.”

Euterich’s ears pricked up.

McAllister? A graduate? University education? There was a
surprise. In what subject? Something deep and meaningful he hoped.
Not like Brewer’s psychology claptrap. Did he read? Did he like the
opera or the theatre? God, make it so.

Reynolds
worshipped the holy trinity of machismo, football, women and cars,
and not necessarily in that order, already proving himself to be an
uncouth troglodyte in both thought and deed, and having to act and
speak and think like him went totally against the grain and
disturbed Euterich deeply. Less than four hours in this body and he
was already looking for something better.

“
Ye go’ summat tae add,
Mister
Reynolds?”

He
realised he’d been staring across the table at McDougal and shook
his head. “Nope.”

“
Gud.” McDougal huffed, sniffed and scowled at his near
empty plate before taking a slab of naan and wiping it around to
soak up every last drop of the pungent curry sauce.

Using
Reynolds’ least offensive tone, Euterich addressed McAllister.
“What … er … degree have you got, Jock, just as a matter of
interest?”

In other words, could you be my next candidate?

Education had not, however, given McAllister good table
manners. He stuffed a fistful of the greasy naan into his mouth,
filling it to capacity. “Arts and humanities,” he said, chewing on
it as he spoke. “You know, history, literature, philosophy and all
that pretentious shit?”

“
Yeah. All that pretentious shit.” Euterich smiled
affably.

Maybe not … yet.

Apart
from the occasions when he needed to concentrate on assimilating a
new body, or when he had to endure enforced semi-hibernation,
Euterich did not require much in the way of sleep.

He
indulged himself purely because he enjoyed the sensation. He liked
the feeling of drifting off into the dark, of exploring the space
behind his eyes, and it gave him time to think … and tonight
thoughts of Lydia would carry him into the arms of Morpheus. But
not yet.

First he
would take some time in the quiet and the dark to go over the
information he had accrued about the others, to help him choose
which one would have the privilege of being the next stepping stone
into Eddie Capstan when the time came.

He
considered each man at a time, trying not to let Reynolds’ base
opinions cloud his judgement.

Old man
Brewer was a conundrum, in a class of his own. He had impeccable
manners, and when he had something to say, which wasn’t often, he
spoke as if he had marbles in his mouth, being something of a posh
intel-ec-chewal. Too old and too distinguished for a woman like
Lydia, whom he suspected might like a bit of rough now and
again.

Like
Reynolds?

No. Not
that rough. He had stepped into the body of a shit of the lowest
order; rude, uncouth, primitive. Not a step up the evolutionary
ladder from Lonny Dick, more of a sideways lurch.

What
about Duncan Cameron? A decent sort by all accounts; a hard worker
if a tad argumentative and opinionated. A tick in the mental
‘possible’ box for him.

Shaw?
Capstan’s lapdog. Too young for her, but if Capstan trusted him,
she might too. Another possibility.

He had
already gleaned some interesting facts about McAllister to be
considered; McDougal he couldn’t really tell. They were an odd pair
those two, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, with their jocular
horseplay at the table, in a huddle at every possible opportunity,
laughing and talking and joking like naughty schoolboys.

They
watched movies together, played snooker together. Eating, drinking
… sleeping together?

Now here
was an interesting notion. It wasn’t unknown for gay relationships
to blossom in a male dominated environment.

He would
have to spend more time with them to find out. It wasn’t something
he had much personal knowledge of. Perhaps now might be the time to
find out. New experiences were often a welcome distraction from the
banal, particularly if they were pleasurable.

When he
finally fell asleep, he still had not made his decision.

Chapter 15

Lonny
still did not appear for breakfast the next day.

“
I’ll call in on him and see how he is,” said Lydia,
assuming him to be following her medical instructions and keeping
to his sick bed.

Her
knock on Lonny’s cabin door brought no response. She knocked again.
“Lonny? It’s Miss Ellis? Can I come in and see how you
are?”

No
reply.

More
tapping. “Lonny? Are you okay?”

“
Problem?” said Lawrence Brewer, emerging from his cabin
after changing into his work clothes.

“
He’s not answering,” she said. “I don’t want to just go in,
in case he’s … you know. Would you mind?”

“
Not at all.” Brewer rapped on Lonny’s door. “Hey, Lonny,
it’s Lawrence Brewer. Make yourself decent, I’m coming in.
Okay?”

He
tested the handle. Unlocked, it turned easily under his hand and
the door popped open.

Lydia
remained outside.

The
blinds were closed and the room dim. Brewer put on the light. The
room was tidy and the bed made up and empty.

“
You can come in, Miss Ellis. He’s not here.”

“
He should be,” said Lydia, edging her way in. “When I saw
him in sickbay I told him to come directly here and to stay in bed
and rest, but it looks as if he’s never been here. His bed hasn’t
been slept in.”

Brewer
looked around at all Lonny’s neatly arranged possessions. “All his
stuff’s still here,” he said. “Odd though. Lonny didn’t strike me
as a neat freak. Quite the opposite in fact.”

He
ducked his head into the bathroom. Also empty and surprisingly
clean. “It’s the same in here.” He then spotted the hole in the
drywall partition.

“
Cripes, look at this.” He put his hand into the hole,
gauging its size. “There’s some dried blood here as
well.”

Lydia
pushed in close to see for herself. “Oh my God, you’re right. What
the hell’s been going on here?”

Brewer
laid a large hand on her fine shoulder. “Ah, now, I think I have a
perfectly reasonable explanation for it,” he said. “You weren’t
there, but the other night after dinner, there was a bit of aggro
between Lonny and Mr Reynolds. I don’t know what about exactly, but
Mr Reynolds upset him, so I think this might be the result of a
temper tantrum. I wouldn’t read too much into it. Better a smashed
in wall than somebody’s face, eh?”