King Dong
Edgar Rider Ragged
A new and original take on the iconic story of man meets giant ape in the biggest and hairiest parody of all time…Just as Skull Island hits the big screen in an exciting and re-imagined format, comes the true story behind the world's biggest and hairiest love story.The intrepid explorer Indiana Bones (so-called for his passion for energetic archaeology) is hired to track down King Dong, legendary for his sheer massiveness (nudge nudge, wink wink). Accompanied by his gay best friend, fey Ray, and the platinum blonde Ann Darling, there to lure Dong into the open, they set off into uncharted territory. As the story develops, dodging intrusions from dinosaurs, Nazis, Orcs and a myriad of characters and plots from movies both classic and contemporary, it inevitably leads up to a king-sized climax and lots of monkeying around on an American landmark – yes, Dong climbs the famous Hollywood sign and is buzzed by spaceships.All very silly, this must-have humour title apes a number of bestselling spoofs in the best traditions of Bored of Rings, Barry Trotter, The Matewix and Star Bores.
KING DONG
by
Edgar Rider Ragged
Copyright (#ulink_eb258821-864d-5738-86f2-7ceb9fed0dd3)
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons or primates, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HarperNonFiction
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2005
Copyright © Edgar Rider Ragged 2005
Edgar Rider Ragged asserts the immoral right to remain unidentified.
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with all contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007208128
Ebook Edition © Jul 2013 ISBN: 9780007524686
Version: 2017-01-18
Epigraph (#ulink_fea5ea7e-58a5-5a9e-8e4d-4ddfa1a1ee77)
And the Prophet said, And lo, the Beast looked upon the face of Beauty. And Beauty said unto the Beast, ‘You lookin’ at me, pal? Stitch that!’ And from that day, the Beast was as one dead.
Old Glaswegian proverb
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u496e6bec-54cf-5147-9eb5-fe535da32322)
Copyright (#u626f381d-e1d0-5d44-bcbb-2d96f9242863)
Epigraph (#u5abc5300-e65b-5786-909c-eca25308c5fc)
CHAPTER ONE Rumbuggery on the Lash (#uc4a3b4e7-e5b9-52d1-be4e-fc1b4889dda1)
CHAPTER TWO Deadman’s Tales (#uf58369fb-2f77-5df6-a6c7-0b880e784426)
CHAPTER THREE A Motley Crew (#u0cc9aa41-eb07-5698-9d4e-a32fb5d5edb9)
CHAPTER FOUR Bones of Contention (#uddc9ef58-007c-5aed-b171-7ae6b630a89e)
CHAPTER FIVE Tall Tales and a Big Whopper (#ud73bbbfa-46de-5efe-bbff-b87d8479e470)
CHAPTER SIX Welcome to Dongland (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN By Hook and by Crook (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT Virgin and the Ridiculous (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE A Taste of Marzipan (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN Monkey Business (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN Heeerrre’s Dongie! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE Beauty and the Beast? (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Gorilla Warfare (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Plots and Pans (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Do Drop In (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Dong Goes Ape (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Sing Alonga Dong (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Dong Flops (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN So Long, Dong (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE Rumbuggery on the Lash (#ulink_d984ded8-ac24-596b-b41d-531c9fb16104)
In the bustling port of Old Hokum, an old tramp lay against the quay, filthy, neglected, rust-streaked and leaking from every seam.
The ship that loomed above him was in pretty poor shape, too.
Seeing the bobbing approach of a watchman’s lantern, the old tramp corked the brown bottle he had been holding to his cracked lips and croaked out a hail. ‘Say, friend, what ship is that?’
The watchman was bored, and disposed to be chatty. ‘The Vulture. Sailing tomorrow.’
The old tramp waved his bottle towards the ship. ‘They lookin’ for any hands?’
The watchman held up his lamp and gazed at the questioner’s impressive collection of liver spots and elephant’s scrotum wrinkles. ‘Now see here, old timer, you don’t want to be taken on to that crew, if half of what they say is true.’
The old tramp blinked his rum-reddened eyes and gave a hacking cough. ‘What do they say?’
‘Why, that the captain of this old rust-bucket has hired it to Carl Deadman, the motion picture producer who’s always going off to the most crazy dangerous places he can find to make movies about the world’s deadliest critters with scant regard for the lives or sanity of his men, and he’s setting off tomorrow for an unknown destination with a highly dangerous cargo and a crew of the worst collection of low-life wharf-rats and plug-ugly desperadoes anyone has ever seen, that’s what they say. Why d’you ask?’
‘Come to think of it, no idea.’ The old tramp picked a louse from his beard. ‘How come you gave me such a detailed answer?’
‘I think we’re supposed to set the scene by providing an opening narrative thread and establishing an atmosphere of mystery and foreboding while at the same time adding a little local colour …’ The watchman broke off. The old tramp was making painful retching noises as his 100 per cent rubbing alcohol diet got the better of him, decorating the quay with a little local colour of his own. Shaking his head, the watchman moved on.
On board the SS Vulture, Captain Rumbuggery poured himself another glass of rotgut liquor with a shaking hand, and made a desperate attempt to focus on Carl Deadman. The movie producer was pacing the Captain’s insanitary cabin, from wall to rust-streaked wall, furiously chewing on the end of a cheap cigar. A fug of tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes had turned the air into a sickly pale-green mist.
Deadman paused in his perambulation and whirled to face Rumbuggery, slapping his hand down upon the desk. With a drunk’s instinct, Rumbuggery lifted his glass from the tabletop just in time to prevent its being knocked over.
‘I tell you, Skipper,’ growled Deadman, ‘sometimes I just can’t figure the movie business. I’ve been out with you on two expeditions to the ends of the Earth. Each time, I’ve brought back a swell film – and the public, rot them, just don’t want to know. I ask you! I put everything into those pictures – blood, sweat tears, even money – and what happens? An Exciting Movie About a Big Strong Elephant was box-office poison and A Thrilling Story About a Big Fierce Lion didn’t even open in the top theatres. How could pictures like that fail?’
Captain Rumbuggery gave a lurid belch. ‘I’m flying a kite here,’ he slurred, ‘y’know, jusht running up the flagpole and sheeing if anyone drops his pantsh – but could the titlesh have anything to do with it?’
‘Hogwash!’ roared Deadman.
‘Plus the fact that your leading men got trampled to death in the firsht picture and eaten in the shecond …’
Deadman waved a hand dismissively. ‘I tell you, Skipper, I have it all figured out. My movies have adventure, excitement, spectacle, thrills, danger …’
‘And big shtrong elephants and big fierce lionsh …’
‘Sure, sure. But they don’t have the one thing the public wants. Know what that is?’
‘A decent shcript?’ hazarded the sozzled Captain. ‘Conshistent plot? Compelling dialogue?’
Deadman stared at the old salt. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Skipper? No! The public don’t care for any of that horse-shit. I’ll tell you what they want!’ He leaned conspiratorially towards Rumbuggery. ‘Sex!’
The Captain stared. ‘Shexsh?’
‘You heard me! S-e-c-k-s, sex! That’s what I need! Sex!’
The Captain fumbled with his belt. ‘Well, why didn’t you shay?’
‘Not now!’ snapped Deadman. ‘In my movie!’
The Captain rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘Well, I don’t know … if it wash artistically valid, and the money wash right …’
‘Holy mackerel! You think the public are gonna pay to see a rummy deadbeat with his pants round his ankles?’
The Captain considered. ‘I would.’
Deadman ignored this. ‘No, you old fool, I need a girl. But every flapper I’ve tried to hire has been interfered with.’
‘Well, this is New York.’ The Captain did a cock-eyed double-take. ‘Jusht a cotton-pickin’ minute! Are you telling me you’re planning to bring a woman on board?’
‘I sure as hell am! What’s wrong with that?’
‘What’sh wrong with it?’ Captain Rumbuggery spluttered with righteous indignation. ‘I’ll tell you what’sh wrong with it! Women on board ship are nothing but trouble! Talk about a Jonah. Dischipline goesh to hell! The crew neglect vital dutiesh, such as shteering the ship and shtoking the boilersh and pleasuring their Shkipper. I tell you, Mishter Deadman, I’d shooner have an albatrossh round my neck. I’d sooner have a man-eating tiger on board than a woman!’
Deadman gave the Captain a contemptuous look. ‘Oh, pipe down, you old buzzard.’
The blare of an auto-horn from outside caught the movie man’s attention. He crossed to the porthole and rubbed at the condensation misting the grimy glass.
A taxi had drawn up on the wharf below. As Deadman watched, a platinum blonde wearing an outrageous amount of cheap fur and fake jewellery stepped out.
Deadman clicked his fingers. ‘There’s my girl now. Sit tight, Captain. I’ll bring her up here and introduce you.’ He yanked open the ill-fitting door at the third attempt and headed for the companionway.
By the time he reached the wharf, the argument between his star and the cabbie was already turning the air blue and causing the Vulture’s blistered paint to flake off over a wide area.
‘Whaddaya mean, wiseguy?’ his leading lady demanded as Deadman joined the fray. ‘A dollar thoity from Brooklyn? Ya lousy joik, tryn’a rob me.’
‘That’s the fare, lady.’ The cabbie’s voice was weary. ‘Right there on the meter.’
‘I’ll give ya meter, ya –’
‘Here. Keep the change.’ Deadman thrust a five-dollar bill at the cabbie and took his fare by the arm. ‘Come along, Darling.’
‘Darling?’ The cabbie whistled.
‘That’s my name, ya doity moocher,’ the lady replied. ‘Ann Darling.’
‘Sure it is. And mine’s Rudolph Valentino.’ The cabbie leered. ‘Keep one hand on your wallet with that one, Mac.’ He sidestepped to avoid a vicious swipe from Ann’s purse and roared off while Deadman restrained his furious star.
A few minutes later, Ann was installed in Captain Rumbuggery’s reeking cabin, wrinkling her nose at the foul atmosphere and staring disdainfully at the glass of 90 per cent proof spirit the old sea-dog had considerately poured for her.
‘Ann!’ Deadman radiated cordiality. ‘I’d like you to meet our skipper for the voyage. Captain Rumbuggery – Ann Darling, the leading lady of my new movie.’
Ann gave the Captain a hard-eyed stare and beckoned Deadman closer. ‘We’re sailing half-way round the world with him in charge? The guy’s a lush!’
‘Only when he’s drinking,’ Deadman reassured her.
‘Oh.’ Ann was mollified. ‘That’s OK, then.’ She gave the Captain a winning smile, from sheer force of habit.
Deadman lit another cigar. ‘OK, here’s the deal. Captain, we sail on the first tide.’
Rumbuggery nodded and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Right. Gotcha. Before any shneaky dockside rat getsh to hear about some of the characters we got in the crew – not to mention the cargo …’
Ann’s ears pricked up. ‘What characters? What cargo?’
Hurriedly, Deadman continued, ‘Sure, sure, Skipper. Then you take us to the co-ordinates I’ve already given you.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ demanded Ann. ‘What characters? What’s all this about a cargo? What sort of cargo?’
‘Yessiree.’ Rumbuggery gave Ann a knowing, drunken wink. ‘I sure wouldn’t want the port authorities to hear about thish cargo.’ He gave a phlegmy chuckle which deteriorated into a hacking cough.
‘When we get to this latitude,’ continued Deadman, ‘I’ll reveal our destination.’
‘I want to hear more about this cargo.’
‘I don’t like it!’ The interruption was sudden and shocking. Rumbuggery’s mood, in the way of drunks, had undergone a sudden swing. His voice, powerful enough to summon a favoured fore-mast hand from the fo’c’sle to the Captain’s bunk in the teeth of a hurricane, made the solid steel walls vibrate.
‘I tell you, it’s ashking for trouble.’ The Captain’s face was a picture of misery. ‘You’re ashking me to shet sail for an unknown destination …’ The Captain enumerated his points on nicotine-stained fingers. ‘… on a ship that leaksh like a sieve, carrying a highly dangerous cargo and crewed by the worsht collection of cut-throats and no-goods I ever laid eyesh on – and, worsht of all …’ The Captain’s eyes bugged out with indignation. ‘… with a woman on board!’
‘Now hold it right there!’ Ann shot to her feet, eyes flashing. ‘Did you say, “a woman” on board? “A woman” as in “one”? Singular?’ She pointed accusingly at Deadman. ‘Youse creep, you never told me that!’
‘Didn’t I?’ said Deadman unconvincingly. ‘It must have slipped my mind. Does it matter?’
‘You betcha it matters!’ howled Ann. ‘You expect me to spend three months on this hell-ship, being pawed and leered at by a bunch of lecherous deck apes, without even another goil on board? You told me this would be a cruise, with luxurious accommodation on a swell, high-class liner.’
‘Maybe I exaggerated a little.’
‘I shoulda guessed you were lyin’ when youse lips started to move.’ Ann fixed Deadman with a furious glare. ‘Forget it, buster. Include me out.’
‘Well, there’s gratitude!’ Deadman turned to Rumbuggery. ‘Captain, I appeal to you …’
‘No you don’t.’ Rumbuggery eyed Deadman up and down, then shook his head decidedly. ‘Not one bit. I like lithe young deck-hands with firm, rounded –’
‘I meant,’ grated Deadman, ‘I appeal to your sense of fair play.’ He pointed accusingly at Ann. ‘She hadn’t worked for two years. I dragged her out of the gutter …’
‘I was resting, you joik!’
‘Yeah, like you’d been resting ever since the talkies came in, and your fans discovered that Ann Darling, the Sweet Maid of Milwaukee, had a voice like a buzz-saw tearing through sheet metal.’
‘That ain’t fair! I had elly-cue-shun lessons …”
‘… till your voice coach threw himself out the window. Get this, doll-face – I hired you because no other producer would touch you with a camera crane.’
‘Yeah? Well, no other goil would agree to come on a crazy trip like this.’
‘That too,’ agreed Deadman. Ann, not sure whether she’d just scored a point or conceded one, gave an injured huff and turned her back on the men.
‘While we’re on the shubject,’ said Captain Rumbuggery, taking yet another liver-dissolving pull at his glass, ‘just where the hell are we going?’
Deadman rolled his eyes. ‘I told you. I’ll spill the beans when we reach the coordinates I gave.’
‘No!’ Captain Rumbuggery slammed his glass down. Liquid slopped from it and began to eat through the table. ‘That’sh not good enough! You exscpect me to take you into uncharted seas and unknown dangersh with a contraband cargo and a woman on board? I won’t do it, I tell you!’
‘All right, already!’ Deadman gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I can’t tell you everything – there may be spies aboard. But, just to satisfy your curiosity, I’ll give you a few hints.’
He bit the end off another cigar. Ann leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with calculation. The Captain tried to focus, and not fall off his chair.
Deadman lit the cigar puffing hard and rolling it around in the match flame to ensure that the tobacco burnt evenly. He stuck one hand in a waistcoat pocket, took a deep draught of the pungent smoke, and blew three rings which sailed up to join the clouds roiling around beneath the flyspecked ceiling.
Lowering the cigar, he carefully removed a flake of tobacco from his bottom lip. Only then did he turn to face the Captain and Ann.
‘Tell me,’ he said slowly, ‘did you ever hear of … Dong?’
CHAPTER TWO Deadman’s Tales (#ulink_1beba55e-b879-5389-a4f9-78f6067aa156)
Dong … Dong … Dong … Dong
The sound reverberated around the cabin.
Dong … Dong … Dong … Dong
Deadman stared through the porthole. ‘Who is ringing that goddamn bell?’
‘Eight bells!’ intoned a salt-roughened voice from the deck.
‘Twenty hundred hours, ship’s time,’ explained the Skipper. He staggered to the cabin door, flung it open and bellowed, ‘Will you shut up out there! How’sh an old seadog to think with that noise going on?’
‘Sorry, Skipper.’
Rumbuggery weaved his way back to his seat. ‘Did you jusht shay what I thought you said, Mr Deadman?’
‘I did,’ nodded the producer.
Rumbuggery’s eyes flared with shock and fear. Then they flared again as the light from Deadman’s smouldering cigar spontaneously combusted with the alcoholic fumes surrounding the Captain. The smell of singed hair joined the cabin’s rich mixture of odours, but the Skipper seemed barely to notice it. ‘Dong!’ he repeated in a quaking voice.
Ann shrugged. ‘Is that the name of the island we’re goin’ to?’
Deadman shook his head and tapped the side of his nose significantly.
Ann let out an impatient sigh. ‘Well, if this “Dong” is a poyson, why don’t you stop fooling around and tell us who the hell he is?’
The producer shook his head. ‘Dong isn’t a “who”, he’s more of a “what”.’
‘What?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Exactly what?’
‘Exactly. “What”.’
Ann’s eyes narrowed. ‘Deadman, I swear you’ll be soon livin’ up to your name, if you don’t give us some answers right now!’
Deadman took a long pull on his cigar. ‘I’m talking about the legend of Dong.’
Before Ann could explode, Rumbuggery shook his head decisively. ‘Dong! Ha! Dong is a will o the wisp, an old seafarersh’ yarn, a tittle-tattle tall tale told by tellers of tittle-tattle tall tales.’ There was a pause. ‘Er – I jusht shpat my denturesh out – could you passh them back, pleashe? They’re jusht there beshide my shcale model of the U Essh Essh Missbbhhisshhipp…’
‘A legend?’ Using his handkerchief, Deadman did as requested. ‘That’s what I thought too, Skipper.’ He stubbed out his cigar on the ship’s cat, which yowled and hid under the Skipper’s bunk. Deadman leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘A couple of years ago I was in China, filming A Nice Movie About a Cute Panda – a guaranteed blockbuster how the distributors passed on it I’ll never know. When I’d finished shooting, I headed south to Hong Kong to board a steamer for home. My boat wasn’t due to leave for a couple of days and I had some time to kill. Wandering the gloomy back streets of Kowloon I accidentally by sheer coincidence chanced upon an opium den.’
Ann’s eyes widened. ‘You stumbled into a real opium den?’
‘Stumbled, hell, it took me hours to find … er, yeah, sure, that’s right.’
‘Opium!’ muttered Rumbuggery. ‘The power of the dreaded poppy!’
Deadman frowned at the interruption. ‘The dreaded poppy?’
‘Aye. Dreaded Poppy O’Shea. Two jam jars high, breastsh like Zeppelins and fishts like a longshoreman. She ran the Dragon’s Den House of Forbidden Delights and Hand-Wash Laundry in old Singapore. Hell of a woman.’
Deadman sighed. ‘Be that as it may …’
‘Oh, believe me, son,’ rambled the Skipper, ‘I know what the dreaded poppy can do to a man. Fall into her armsh and you’re seduced – a shlave to her wilful charmsh. Oh, I know, I know, the dreaded poppy can help you to escape from the depressing reality of thish world, but she’ll set you on the road to oblivion. Every minute you spend with the dreaded poppy, you flirt with fear and the danger of helplessh addiction leading to rack and ruin and eventually a horrible tortuous death. Aye, many are the helplessh victims of the dreaded poppy. We used to hold a minute’sh silence to remember them on Dreaded Poppy Day.’
Deadman gave the snootered sailor a quelling glance. ‘Have you quite finished?’
‘Aye.’ A smile spread across Rumbuggery’s grizzled face. ‘Happy daysh, happy daysh.’
Deadman pointedly turned his back on the Skipper. ‘I entered the dismal pit,’ he continued. ‘The only light came from the glowing charcoal braziers that were heating up metal bowls and filling the room with choking brown smoke. I could just make out shadows and silhouettes of wizened creatures lying on cane beds: Malays, Chinamen, Lascars and Westerners – a motley assortment of the dregs of humanity coming together in a haze of drug-induced dreams.’
Ann nodded. ‘Yeah, I been to parties like that – back in Hollywood.’
‘In the midst of this hell hole I happened to meet an old sea captain who’d also wandered into this den of lost souls. Although, looking at him, he’d obviously wandered into it dozens of times. As we shared a nocturnal pipe or two, he told me a tale that had happened to him some years previously.’ Deadman looked around the room before beckoning Ann and Rumbuggery closer. ‘One winter’s day, this captain set sail from port with his usual load of passengers when a storm sprang up and before he knew it the ship was off course, lost somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.’
Rumbuggery raised a caterpillar of an eyebrow. ‘What ship wash thish?’
‘The Staten Island Ferry – it was a hell of a storm.’
‘It happensh, it happensh,’ muttered Rumbuggery.
‘When the storm finally blew itself out, they came across a crudely made inflatable rubber dinosaur drifting on the ocean.’
Ann stared. ‘An inflatable …?’
‘Don’t interrupt! On it lay fourteen bodies. All were dead except for one. The captain hauled the unfortunate creature aboard. He, too, was not long for this world and died soon after. But before the end, he told the captain a blood-chilling story – the legend of Dong.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Ann. ‘How could the skipper of the Staten Island Ferry communicate with some native savage?’
‘Through a combination of gestures and an old copy of Savage Native Lingo for Travellers the captain always carried with him to communicate with passengers from New Jersey. Even so, he only managed to gather that the poor souls on the raft had come from an island where the inhabitants conducted human sacrifices to a terrible beast. He and his companions had put to sea on the dinosaur; unluckily for them they soon ran out of food and water and all died except for the lone survivor. With his story told, the poor devil breathed his last – his final words were, “Dong … Dong”.’
‘My eye and Betty Martin!’ cried Rumbuggery. ‘’Tis but an invention of a drug-raddled mind. Nobody would believe it but a raving maniac, a half-witted infant – or a Hollywood producer, down on his luck.’
‘I didn’t believe it,’ replied Deadman, ignoring the slur, ‘until the captain gave me this …’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sea-stained, weather-beaten piece of parchment. ‘The native had drawn a crude picture, of which only this piece survives.’
Deadman opened out the parchment and set it down on the table.
Ann gave a cry of shock. ‘Is that what I think it is? OHMIGOD!’
‘I told you it was a crude picture.’
‘It’s enormous! I’ve never seen anything so big … and believe me I’ve seen a few.’ Involuntarily, Ann licked her lips.
‘Thundering typhoonsh! That’s impresshive.’ Rumbuggery’s voice was awed. ‘It’sh enough to give a man a shense of inadequacy.’
‘Dong,’ said Deadman, gravely.
‘You are not just whistlin’ “Dixie”,’ said Ann, dreamily.
‘And if the rest of the creature is in scale with this …’
Deadman tapped the drawing. ‘… then it must be bigger than anything that’s ever been seen before.’
At that moment there was a knocking at the door. A high-pitched, effeminate voice called out, ‘Oh, Mr Deadman, duckie, are you there?’
Deadman scrabbled for the picture, hastily folded it, and rammed it back into his pocket.
‘I’m coming! Ready or not!’ The door was flung open.
Deadman groaned inwardly. ‘Hello, Ray.’
The newcomer was a slim man of indeterminate age. He wore slacks of eye-watering, skin-hugging tightness and a flamboyantly frilled shirt. He had melting brown eyes and sensuous lips, and wore his hair tied back.
Ray gave an ingratiating simper. ‘Hello, Mr Deadman, hello Captain Rumbuggery. Oooh!’ Ray let out a squeal of laughter and clapped his hand across his mouth.
‘What is it, Ray?’ asked Deadman.
‘I just wanted to ask you about Miss Darling’s dress for the screen test. Would you like to go with the crushed silk or the eau-de-nil?’
‘Why not ask her?’ said Deadman. He beckoned Ann over to make the introductions. ‘I don’t believe you two have met.’
‘Oh?’ Ann eyed Ray with her customary calculation.
‘Miss Darling,’ gushed Ray, ‘how very bona to vada your eek at last. Fantabulosa! Such an honour, I’m such a fan.’
‘Oh!’ said Ann again, clearly dismissing Ray from her ‘to do’ list.
‘I thought we’d better see what we can do with your riah …’ Ann gave her hair a self-conscious pat. ‘… and have a little conflab about your cossies. If we stroll down to my cabin, would you be interested in inspecting my wares?’
Ann gave the camp costumier a dismissive look. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Ooh, you are awful!’ Ray flapped limply at Ann’s arm. ‘I’ll think you’d carry off the raw silk very well. How d’you think she’d look in the raw, Mister Deadman?’
‘Ask any casting director in Hollywood,’ said Deadman nastily. Ann scowled at him. Ray gave a falsetto giggle.
Ann’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I throw a stick will you leave?’
‘You’re such a tease – just my type.’
‘I don’t think so, fly boy. I got a pair of wings and an undercarriage you ain’t never gonna be interested in.’
Ray let out an even higher-pitched squeal of laughter. The Captain’s glass shattered in his hand.
‘Ooh you’re soooo naughty. I’m so looking forward to dressing you. I’ll just go and lay on some chiffon …’
‘Sure,’ drawled Ann. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘… and then I’ll come and find you. Don’t go away now.’
Ann watched him go with pursed lips. ‘Who’s the squirt?’
‘Ray? He’ll be dressing you for the movie,’ Deadman told her. ‘He’s a wizard with a needle and thread. Back in Hollywood they call him Fey Ray.’
‘I can imagine. But who says I’m goin’ on this cruise to nowhere?’
Deadman smiled the smile of the shark he was. ‘Doesn’t the sight of Dong make you kinda curious?’
The memory of the crudely drawn picture flickered to the forefront of Ann’s mind. ‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘But let me get this straight – you’re askin’ me to spend weeks on a beat-up old ship, the only female on board, with dozens of sailors, gawpin’ and lustin’ after me and watching my every move? What sort of goil do you think I am?’
‘An actress.’
‘OK, OK.’ She held up her hands. ‘Ya persuaded me. But what’s this cargo the old seagull keeps yabberin’ on about? Contraband, he said.’
‘I’m not saying anything.’ Deadman glared at the Skipper. ‘And neither is he. ’Cause if he doesn’t keep quiet, then the authorities might find out what really happens at those fish finger parties he throws.’
A guilty, fear-stricken look flickered across Rumbuggery’s white-bearded face. ‘You can’t prove nothin’.’
Ann stood up. “Well if I’m joinin’ this crazy ship I need showin’ to my suite.’
The Skipper stared. ‘Suite? Oh, sure, suite.’
‘Yeah. I gotta powder my nose.’
‘Huh?’ The Skipper stared at Deadman, who closed off one nostril with his index finger in order to mime snorting up some powdered substance …
Ann stamped her foot. ‘I mean I want to take a crap, only I was too ladylike to say so, OK?’ She turned her back on Deadman.
‘Classy broad,’ muttered Deadman under his breath. Raising his voice, he added, ‘Skipper, maybe you could get someone to show Miss Darling to her suite.’
Rumbuggery staggered to the door and hailed a passing crewman. A young, well-muscled, long-limbed, lithe figure dressed in a tight-fitting sailor suit stepped into the doorway.
Rumbuggery introduced the seaman. ‘Roger the cabin boy.’
Ann eyed the creature standing before her. ‘Is that his name or an invitation?’ She turned to Deadman. ‘Things are looking up. Maybe this cockamamie cruise won’t be so bad after all.’ She gave Roger a full-on dazzling smile. ‘Hello there. Come on up to my place – wherever that is. Lead on.’ She gave Roger a pat on the backside. ‘I’m Ann, but you can call me Darling.’ She winked outrageously at Deadman. ‘Don’t wait up, mother, I’m going outside and I could be some time. If you hear me scream, stay the hell out.’
Deadman and the Captain watched Ann and Roger leave. Rumbuggery’s lips were pursed. ‘I still shtand by what I shaid – this is a foolhardy mission, based on the word of a mind-ravaged lost soul. Itsh dangerous and no place for a woman. A woman’sh place is in the home, peeling potatoesh, whitewashing the coal cellar and taking spidersh out of the bath.’
Deadman raised an eyebrow. ‘I think Miss Darling’s place is in a cat’s home.’
‘I don’t think much of women on shipsh.’ Rumbuggery took a long pull from his bottle. ‘Truth be told, I don’t think much of women at all. The love of my life ish thish.’ He tapped his bottle. ‘And my ship – better than a woman any day.”
‘How come?’
‘Shipsh never need yet another pair of shoesh. Shipsh never ask if their bow is too wide or if their rigging is sagging. You can rent a ship to others by the day and you can tie up a ship without it ever complainin’!’
Deadman shook his head. A leading lady with the morals of a degenerate baboon, a rum-sodden old sea-dog in command and a dresser more camp than a scout jamboree. He sighed. It was going to be a long voyage …
CHAPTER THREE A Motley Crew (#ulink_6310dda7-cb68-5a45-8d63-bb34dfdba180)
The ship rang with orders.
‘Cast off fore – cast off aft.’
‘Aye aye, Skipper.’
‘Let go the stays, Mister Decktennis.’
‘Ooh, thank you, sir – they were killing me.’
‘’Ware that bucket, Sloppy.’
‘If you insist, Skipper, but I don’t think it’ll suit me.’
‘Avast behind, Mister Hawsehole!’
‘Well, there’s no need to be personal.’
‘Weigh the anchor, Mister Obote.’
‘Five and a half tons, sir.’
‘That’s enough sarcasm from you, Mister Obote. Mister Dogsdinner, clear the harbour and steer sou’ sou’ east.’
‘Sho’ sho’ thing, Skipper.’
Coughing like a tuberculosis ward, the rickety vessel limped its way towards open water in a haze of black smoke. A spasm of foreboding crossed Captain Rumbuggery’s grizzled face. ‘And may God have mercy on us all.’
Deadman breezed onto the bridge. ‘So we’re under way at last, Skipper.’
The Captain gave him an unfriendly look. ‘Yes, though I can’t say I’m happy to be setting sail on this fool’s errand. This is an ill-fated ship with an ill-fated crew. I’m mortally certain there’s a curse upon us all.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘An albatross just crapped on my head.’ The Captain removed his filthy cap and stared mournfully at the newly deposited guano. ‘I’m going below. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in an alcoholic stupor.’
Deadman watched the departing captain out of sight and shook his head. The Skipper had the jitters: well, Deadman couldn’t exactly blame him. The voyage they had embarked on would be enough to try any man’s courage.
Still, there’d be no room on this ship for milksops and weaklings. Deadman squared his shoulders. It was time he checked on the crew.
The light faded as the movie man made his way into the bowels of the ship, along dimly-lit corridors whose walls glistened with moisture. The air throbbed with the arthritic beat of the engines; from behind the walls came the furtive scrabbling of rats and the less wholesome sound of off-duty crew members removing each others’ gold fillings. Deadman reached the crew’s mess. He stepped over the mess, wondering why a bunch of grown men couldn’t manage to make it to the can in time. Squaring his shoulders, he flung open the door.
Immediately he stepped back, gagging, as a wave of foetid air, redolent of spoiled gorgonzola, athlete’s foot and bus station rest rooms burst over him.
Dabbing at his streaming eyes, Deadman gazed around at the dregs of humanity occupying the stinking fo’c’sle. There was the usual collection of Lascars, mulattos, gimlet-eyed Shellbacks, Ancient Mariners and Flying Dutchmen. In one corner stood a painted savage shaving himself with a harpoon. A shrunken head hung from his waist, tied by its hair. At a rickety table, two old seafaring men – one blind, the other with a wooden leg and a parrot on his shoulder – sang an incomprehensible pirate ditty with the chorus, ‘Yoho ho and a bottle of rum.’
Deadman raised a hand for quiet. The noises of sailors carving their initials on whalebone trinkets and each other died away into an ugly, brooding silence.
‘Men, I guess you know me. Carl Deadman, movie producer.’ Deadman scanned the hard-bitten faces that glowered at him from the dingy recesses of their stinking rat-hole. ‘I’m gonna be straight with you. When we reach our destination, the going could be rough. I’m going to need men with guts, men who laugh in the face of death.’
‘No probleme zere, m’sieu.’ The voice came from a hunted-looking individual wearing a striped shirt, a black beret and a string of onions round his neck. ‘Zere is not one of us on zis hell-ship who would not sell ’is life for a shot of rum an’ think it a bargain.’
‘Is that so?’ said Deadman. ‘And who might you be, sailor?’
‘Jacques-François Peep, formerly of the French Foreign Legion. In ze regiment, I was known as Beau Peep.’ The man’s eyes clouded with pain. ‘I joined ze legion to forget.’
‘Forget what?’
‘’Ow do I know? I’ave forgotten. Zat was ze ’ole point!’ The man stiffened, and his face turned pale. ‘Wait – now I remembair! I was an accordionist – ze greatest in all France! I ’ad a monkey – ’er name was Sylvia – she danced while I played, oh, ’ow she danced, like a small ’airy angel! But one day when I woke up, ze apartment was empty, Sylvia was gone!
‘I searched ’igh and low for ’er, I wandered ze streets of Paree without rest, I could not eat or sleep. Zen – I found ’er. She was with a man ’oo was playing ze barrel-organ.’ Jacques-François clenched his fists and his lips became flecked with foam. ‘She, ’oo ad danced to the music of my accordion, ’ad left me for a cochon with an ’urdy-gurdy. Quelle vulgarité! In my agony, I cried to ’er “Sylvie! Cherie! For what do you prostitute yourself with zis animal?”
‘She turned, she saw me, and she laughed. Zey both laughed! Naturally, for the sake of my honour, I ’ad to shoot zem. Ze judge acquitted me because it was a crime passionel. So I joined ze legion, an’ aftair ten long years in ze fearful ’eat an’ desolation of ze desert, I ’ad forgotten ze ’ole tragic affair, until you forced me to remembair … and now I shall nevair be free of ze memory – nevair …’ The man’s voice choked off. His body shook with uncontrollable sobs.
‘There, there, Jacques-François. Don’t take on so – you’ll get wrinkles.’ The cut-glass tones betrayed the speaker as an Englishman of the upper classes. He patted the quivering Frenchman on the shoulder and eyed Deadman censoriously. ‘All of us on this ship have a similar tale to tell. Mine involves the Rajah of Ranjipoor, his favourite concubine, a polo stick and a bucket of ghee – I prefer not to talk about it.’
‘Yeeesh, that eesh sho.’ A small, pop-eyed man with a pronounced Hungarian accent leered up at Deadman. ‘Een my cashe, eet wash thee Black Bird …’
‘Ze Czarina of oll the Russias,’ contributed a man with a monk’s habit, a long filthy beard and the eyes of a maniac.
‘Thee seex-fingered man who slew my father,’ hissed a leather-doubleted Spaniard. ‘And when ah find heem, I weel say to heem –’
‘Hello,’ chorused every one of that desperate crew in a weary sing-song. ‘My name ees Indignant Montoya. You keeled my father. Prepare to die.’
Montoya’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Well, ah weel!’ he said petulantly. ‘When ah find heem, ah weel keel heem!’
‘Of course you will, my friend.’ The speaker sported a scarlet-lined opera cloak and impressive dentistry, particularly in the canine department. ‘You see, Mr Deadman? This is a ship of lost souls. Who are we? No one. Where are we sailing? Nowhere. Do we even exist? Who knows?!’
‘Right.’ Deadman backed slowly away, feeling for the door handle. ‘Good. OK. Point taken. I’ll – er – catch up with you later, OK? Good, er, fine.’
His questing fingers having at last found the handle, Deadman yanked the door open – and Ann Darling sashayed in.
‘Why, Mister Deadman.’ Ignoring the sudden silence and the lascivious moans of the crew who, having been without a woman for very nearly two and a half hours, were ready to leer suggestively at anything with legs, Ann favoured the slavering cut-throats with her most beguiling smile. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your … friends?’
‘Well, I … er …’ Deadman got no further. Howls of fury and screams of agony indicated that a fight for Ann’s favours had already broken out. Knives were drawn, blackjacks and knuckledusters brandished. A nose flew by. The air reverberated with the shrieks of men having their ears bitten off.
Deadman glared at Ann. ‘See what you did? I’m going to end up with half my crew murdered before we’ve cleared Ellis Island.’
‘Why,’ simpered Ann, ‘can I help it if the boys are fighting over li’l ol’ me?’
‘You started this, you finish it, or no movie.’
Ann pouted. ‘OK, OK.’ She put her thumb and forefinger to her lips and gave a piercing whistle. ‘Hey, youse bums, knock it off before I nail your cojones to the wall with my hairgrips!’
There was a sudden shocked silence.
‘That’s better,’ said Ann. ‘Now, what’s goin’ on here?’
The peg-legged cove Deadman had noticed earlier adjusted his parrot and stepped forward with an ingratiating air. ‘Well, missy, me an the boys was drawin’ lots, all friendly like, to see who’d ’ave first chance to get you into ’is ’ammock, an’ Blind Pugh ’ere was palmin’ the black spot …’
‘Whaaaaaat?’ Ann was furious. ‘You were drawing lots for me? What kind of goil do you think I am?’
The parrot cackled. ‘Piece of ass! Piece of ass!’
The peg-legged man swiped at the bird, which fluttered away, squawking angrily and shedding feathers. ‘You’ll ’ave to excuse Cap’n Flint,’ he told Ann. ‘He meant to say, “pieces of eight”. I reckon ’e’s a mite confused.’
‘I say what I see,’ squawked the parrot. ‘When I say “ass” I mean “ass”!’
Ann looked the peg-legged man up and down. And then halfway up again. Her eyes widened with concupiscence. ‘Say, big boy, what do they call you?’
The rascal leered at his disappointed shipmates. ‘They call me Long John Silver, missy.’
‘And why do they call you that?’
Long John leaned forward and whispered into Ann’s ear.
Anne giggled. ‘You don’t say? In that case, why don’t you come up and see me sometime.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t be comin’ near the officer’s cabins, missy.’
‘Well then, any time you want me, just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you, Johnny? You just put your lips together and … blow.’ Ann winked at Silver and swayed towards the door. Deadman, belatedly remembering his manners, opened it and followed Ann through. He closed the door, leaned against it and mopped his brow.
‘Well, that’s just great.’ Deadman glared at Ann, who was examining her nails with an elaborate show of unconcern. ‘We’ve only just set sail and you’ve already got the crew at each others’ throats.’
Ann pouted. ‘Can I help it if men find me attractive?’ She set off down the corridor, swivelling her hips. A crewman, eyes glued to her oscillating caboose, fell down an open hatchway. A scream of agony echoed from the hold.
Deadman shook his head. This voyage was going to be even longer than he’d thought.
Three weeks later the Vulture was anchored off the coast of Africa.
The ship had wheezed its way across the Atlantic, producing as much smoke as a middling-sized iron foundry and twice as much noise. Storms had battered the leaking vessel. Many of the crew had been prostrated by seasickness – and, Deadman suspected, many more by his leading lady. In fact, apart from Deadman himself, the only members of the ship’s company who had remained immune to the ravages of the voyage were Captain Rumbuggery (who was too blasted to notice the movement of the ship) and Ann, whose self-obsession was such as to be immune to the whims of a mere ocean.
Now Deadman and Ann were leaning on the rail staring at the palm-lined coast of the Dark Continent and chewing the cud about days past.
‘You never did tell me how you got into the crazy world of movie making,’ said Deadman.
‘I was in Hollywood for a screen test. Afterwards the producer said it would take an Act of Congress to get me into the movies, so I thought what the hell! I’ve been acting and congressing ever since …’
Their reverie was interrupted by a high-pitched, effeminate voice. ‘There you both are, sweeties.’
‘Oh hello Ray, haven’t seen you for days.’
‘I know, I know,’ minced Ray. He turned to Ann. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been dancing attendance; my dear, I haven’t been feeling myself.’ He gave a squeal of a laugh. ‘Well, maybe once or twice, to pass the time. I’ve been laid low, drained, positively overwhelmed with mal-de-mer. Still, I’m feeling better now this beastly boat has stopped bouncing up and down in that alarming fashion.’ He gave Ann a sly wink. ‘And rumour has it, that’s not the only thing that’s been bouncing up and down.’
‘If I want any crap outta you I’ll squeeze your head.’
‘Oh, bold!’ Ray’s mouth twisted into a little moue of distaste. ‘Anyway, I’ve been cutting, sewing and embroidering like a thing possessed to get Miss Darling’s costumes ready.’
He was interrupted by a hail from the bridge. ‘Hi, Deadman! I’m shending in the boatsh to fill up the scuttlebutts.’ Captain Rumbuggery waved a half-empty whisky bottle at Ray. ‘That crazy fella has used all our drinking water for dyeing hish goddamn costhtumes.’
‘Philistine!’ Ray gave the Captain a savage glare and minced off, his wobbling derriere attracting almost as much attention from certain members of the ship’s company as Ann’s.
‘Boatsh away!’ Captain Rumbuggery turned his wandering attention back to Ann and Deadman. ‘You two want to come along for the ride?’
‘Sure!’ Deadman waved back, and turned to Ann. ‘Coming?’
But Ann had spotted a sun-tanned young deck-hand with oiled skin and rippling muscles. ‘I think I’ll stay here and take in a little local colour.’
Deadman followed her stare. ‘Riiiight. Be sure not to take in too much.’
Fifteen minutes later, three of the ship’s boats were pulling in an uncoordinated fashion for the shore.
They had almost reached the surf-line when Sloppy, the ship’s cook, stood up and pointed. ‘Hey, look at that.’
A rider had burst out of the forest, galloping hell-for-leather along the beach. He was a white man, wearing a battered fedora and carrying a bullwhip coiled in one hand, with which he was belabouring the flanks of his foundered horse, urging it to greater efforts.
Behind him, a war party of black-skinned warriors burst from cover. They were wearing leather loincloths and carrying buffalo-hide shields and vicious-looking short spears. They pursued their quarry with dreadful purpose, uttering savage war-cries, brandishing their spears with fearsome intent and thirsting for blood.
The rider stood in his stirrups and waved frantically. ‘Hey – you down there! Help! They’re gonna kill me!’
CHAPTER FOUR Bones of Contention (#ulink_b17a7bb6-9d1f-5a51-8bd1-5cc9d3f27984)
‘Pull for shore, men!’ cried Deadman. ‘Pull till your arms creak and your backs break. We must save that white man from those dreadful savages!’
From behind him, a sulky voice said, ‘Well, I don’t see why.’
Deadman turned to stare at the speaker.
‘As you were, Able Sheaman Obote,’ growled Rumbuggery.
‘Yes, that’s all very well,’ said Able Seaman Obote petulantly, ‘but, I mean, why automatically assume, because he’s a white guy and the black guys are chasing him, that he’s the good guy and they’re the bad guys?’
‘Obote …’
‘It makes me sick. People always make assumptions. I mean, if you saw a bunch of white guys chasing a black guy, you’d think, “Hey, that black guy must have mugged somebody or stolen a purse or something. Let’s go and help the white guys catch him,” but because he’s white and they’re black you don’t give it any thought, you just go barging in on the side of the honky. It’s just emblematic of the institutional, unconscious racism that’s fundamentally rooted in every aspect of society. I mean, he could have stolen their cattle and raped their women, maybe even the other way about, but do you ask questions? No, you just …’
At a nod from the Skipper, the coxswain had crept up behind Able Seaman Obote, and now brought a belaying pin down on the dusky sailor’s head with a solid thwack.
Obote’s eyes glazed over. ‘QED,’ he said, and collapsed.
‘Goddamn pinko liberal commie political activisht.’ The Skipper kicked the unconscious Obote into the bilges as the boat shot through the surf. ‘In oars, men!’ he commanded. ‘Break out the riflesh!’
As the boat ran up the sand of the beach, eager hands tore at the long wooden boxes that had been loaded from the Vulture. The lids flew off, and their contents lay exposed.
There was an awkward silence.
‘Ah,’ said Deadman. ‘I guess Ray must have run out of room to store his costumes and – ah – made some extra room by – ah – dumping the rifles and using the crates …’ His voice tailed off.
Rumbuggery made an executive decision. ‘Back to the ship, men!’
‘But what about the guy on the horse?’ demanded Deadman. ‘We can’t just leave him here to be speared to death by those cannibals.’
‘How do you know they’re cannibals?’ cried Obote, who had just come round. ‘Cannibalism is comparatively rare in pre-industrial societies. You just have a negative and stereotypical view of any ethnic group you deem to fall short of the arbitrary standards of your so-called civilization …’
Thwack!
‘Well done, coxswain.’ The Skipper glared at Deadman. ‘I’m not going to washte my men’s lives on a futile geshture.’ He pointed unsteadily at the oncoming war party. ‘What are we shupposed to fight them off with, seashellsh?’
‘Wait!’ Deadman was examining the flimsy contents of the crates. ‘I’ve got an idea, Skipper. Give me one minute.’
The Skipper sighed.‘ ‘One minute. And thish had better be good.’
‘Right. You men – with me!’ Deadman snatched a double armful of costumes from the crate and led the party he had selected into a nearby stand of trees.
The chase was approaching its climax. The rider had nearly reached the boats when his horse stumbled and fell. He pitched headlong from the saddle and landed, rolling. His mount gave a broken-winded neigh, and expired.
‘Come on, man!’ cried Rumbuggery.
To the astonishment of the crew, the rider, on picking himself up, stumbled back to the horse and began to fumble with the saddlebags.
‘Are you crazy?’ demanded the Skipper. ‘Get over here or you’re a kebab for sure!’
Indeed, the refugee was now within throwing range of the war party. Spears rained around him as he tugged desperately at something caught in the saddlebag beneath the horse. Eventually, whatever it was came free, just as a spear went straight through the man’s fedora, knocking it from his head. He turned, a cloth-wrapped parcel in his arms, and stumbled towards the safety of the boats, clutching the bundle to his chest. From the way he was moving, the parcel obviously contained something heavy.
Then he put a hand to his head, looked frantically about, and went back for his hat.
As his hand touched the brim, he was surrounded. The boat crew looked on in helpless horror as the pursuers loomed over the doomed refugee, raising their dreadful, razor-sharp weapons, ready to stab, rend and tear …
‘Cooo-eeee!’
Startled, the ebony warriors turned. Emerging from the jungle’s edge came a chorus line of the ugliest, hairiest matelots in the Vulture’s crew, all wearing rouge on their cheeks, curly blonde wigs, and high-waisted print dresses that revealed far too much of their preternaturally unlovely thighs. Mugging furiously, and making a variety of horrendously cute gestures, they falsettoed:
‘On the good ship sodapop
You can get sick at the toffee shop
And throw up all day
On the sunny beach of Sugarplum Bay …’
The warriors’ eyes widened. Their hair stood on end, their knees knocked. They moaned and gibbered with primeval terror.
‘Aiiieeeee!’ cried one, pointing a quivering finger. ‘Shirleey Tempellleee!’
‘Shirleey Tempellleee!’ echoed the others. ‘Aiiieeeee!’
Casting aside their weapons in their panic, the war party turned on its heel and fled back the way it had come, leaving its intended victim sprawled on the sand.
Captain Rumbuggery turned a disapproving glance on Deadman as the latter strolled out of the forest, smoking a cigar and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Shirley Temple impersonations? That was a pretty low trick to play on a proud warrior race.’
Deadman’s grin grew even wider. ‘Don’t knock it. It worked.’
Released from the momentary sobriety into which the crisis had thrust him, the Skipper weaved towards the stranger. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The dusty figure raised its perforated fedora. ‘Indiana Bones. Pleased to meet you.’ He passed out.
‘Likewishe,’ said the Skipper. And followed suit.
Back on the Vulture, an impromptu conference took place on the aft deck. Several of the shore party were present; except for those who, following their appearance as the curly-haired moppet of popular movie fame, had already attracted partners from the salacious crew and retired below. Captain Rumbuggery having been lashed into his bunk with an attack of the blue devils, Deadman took the chair for the interrogation of the fugitive.
‘So you’re Indiana Bones, intrepid explorer and inveterate tomb-robber. What were you doing to be chased by those guys?’
Indiana Bones waggled his fingers through the holes in his fedora and sighed. ‘It took me years to get this hat so sweaty and grungy. Now look at it. I guess I’ll have to start all over again.’ He took another long pull at the bottle that had earlier been torn from the screaming Skipper’s clutching fingers. ‘What was I doing? That’s a long story …’
‘Then let’s have the abridged version. We’re in a hurry.’ Deadman pointed to the wrapped bundle that Indiana had, despite all blandishments, refused to part with since his rescue. ‘For starters, what is that thing?’
Indiana gave him a cunning look. ‘That’s what they were after. I recovered it, at great personal risk, from the Lost Temple of Werarwee.’
‘The Temple of Werarwee?’
‘Yes – I said it was lost. I risked life, limb and academic credibility to break into the innermost sanctum. It was a deadly game of cat and mouse.’ The energetic archaeologist shuddered at the recollection. ‘The big round rock that chased me, that was the worst. And the spikes that shot out of the floor and ceiling as the roof came down, that was the worst, too. And the room where the gap between the walls got smaller and smaller, and the rats, and the poison darts, and the revolving blades, and the pit of snakes –’
‘But what were you after?’ Fey Ray, who had taken an instant and obvious shine to the rugged adventurer, was sitting at Indiana’s feet, listening with rapt attention to this preposterous farrago of lies. ‘What in the world is so precious that you would risk your body and soul in such an insanely dangerous quest?’
Indiana leered at his audience and slowly unwrapped the parcel in his lap. ‘The solid gold knobkerrie of Shaka Zulu.’
There was a spontaneous intake of breath from the onlookers.
‘Look at the length of that thing,’ murmured one.
‘It’s solid gold,’ breathed another.
‘And very knobbly,’ gasped a third.
‘Lemme see.’ Unnoticed, Ann had joined the conference. Indiana looked up to see who had spoken – and pointed like a retriever. An idiotic smile played across his rugged features. His eyes glinted. Ray pouted.
Ann reached for Indiana’s treasure. Eyeing her like a wolfhound declaring an interest in a nice, juicy ham-hock, Indiana handed it over.
Ann gasped at the weight of the object. Then, tongue protruding, she ran her hands over the heavy, golden artefact. With great deliberation, she stroked the long, sturdy shaft. Her eyelids half-closed as she caressed the bulbous shape at the end …
Three men fainted dead away.
Anne purred. ‘Hey, this is really something.’
Indiana gazed at her with unbridled lust. ‘Do you know what it is?’
‘No.’ Ann’s hands slid over the smooth metal. ‘But I could have a damn good guess.’
‘It’s a ceremonial staff of office derived from a stick with a heavy bulge at the end, used as a war club.’
‘Well, I was wrong.’ Losing interest immediately, Ann dropped the golden dingus back in Indiana’s lap. As he doubled up in agony, she said, ‘What time does Sloppy open the cook-house on this banana boat? I’m starving,’ and flounced off.
Ray looked at the moaning adventurer with a finely poised mix of revenge, sympathy and opportunism. ‘Shall I rub it better?’
Hastily, Indiana shook his head.
Ray gave a petulant shrug. ‘Suit yourself.’
Deadman’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Now see here, Dr Bones, we’ve all heard of your heroic exploits –’
‘Oh, really?’ said a familiar voice. ‘Let’s just get this straight, shall we? This guy claims to be a serious scientist, yet he steals objects of great value from helpless, impoverished indigenous peoples without any regard for their significance or any attempt to record or interpret what he’s found, and sells these priceless artefacts for vast sums on the international antiquities market. Now how does that make him a hero, exactly?’
Thwack!
‘Well, thank you for that cogent and closely reasoned riposte.’ Able Seaman Obote folded up like a deckchair.
‘Like I was saying, Dr Bones,’ Deadman continued, as if the interruption had never taken place, ‘I’m damned if I know what to do with you.’
‘Give … me a … ride … to my next … port,’ gasped Indiana, rubbing at the affected area. ‘I’ve heard of a fantastic treasure in the Himalayas. There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu and its remaining green peeper has got my name on it. If you could just see your way clear to take me to Calcutta …’
‘Goddamn it, man!’ exploded Deadman. ‘I’ve got a movie to shoot. This isn’t an archaeology expedition, and we don’t have time for sightseeing trips.’ He considered. ‘However, there’s a strong chance we may have to deal with an ancient and mysterious culture, in which case your expertise may be valuable. What’s more, since the second assistant chef ran amok in the galley with a meat-axe the other night and we had to throw him over the side, we’re a man short in the kitchen and there’s a mountain of potatoes to peel between here and our mysterious destination.’
‘Now hold it right there!’ Indiana was on his feet, his eyes blazing defiance. ‘I have a Master’s degree from Oxford and a PhD from Harvard, I’m a member of the Royal Society, the National Academy of Science and the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and I’m damned if I’m going to waste my time doing KP for a bunch of lowlife chancers.’
‘Or we could leave you for the Zulus.’
Indiana rolled up his sleeves and pulled out his sheath-knife. ‘Would you like me to do the carrots as well?’
CHAPTER FIVE Tall Tales and a Big Whopper (#ulink_496e4c34-ba54-50a2-bd1a-932b13d21c02)
‘Hi there, baby.’
Ann gave Indiana a sidelong glance. If she was pleased to see him, she hid it well. ‘Are you by any chance talking to me, buster?’
‘Well – er – yeah.’
‘Then I would be grateful if you would have the coytesy to address me as “Miss Darling”, as befits my position of being a lady of class and distinction, ya dumb-ass.’
Indiana backtracked hurriedly. ‘Oh, sure, Ann … Miss Darling. Anything you say.’
There was a long pause while Indiana tried to catch Ann’s eye and Ann resolutely ignored him. At length, shuffling his feet, Indiana said, ‘You doing anything special tonight?’
‘Well, I thought I’d take in a movie, and then go down to the Plaza Hotel for supper, and finish up dancing the night away at Radio City Music Hall – what the hell d’ya think I’m gonna do?’ snapped Ann. ‘I’m gonna eat a pailful of slop and go back to my lousy cabin to read a crummy magazine I’ve read three times already, like I do every night, that’s what.’
‘Well, I thought …’ Indiana examined the backs of his hands with inordinate interest. ‘I thought, maybe, you’d like to stay out here on deck with me and look at the stars.’
Ann gave Indiana the sort of look she usually reserved for weevils she’d found in a ship’s biscuit. ‘I like my plan better.’
‘Well, hello.’ A waft of eau-de-Cologne, strong enough to stop a charging rhino in its tracks, announced the arrival of Ray. The effete couturier stood, hands on hips, and eyed Indiana and Ann satirically. ‘Beauty and the beast, eh?’
Ann smirked. ‘Beauty, eh? Why, thank you, Ray.’
‘What makes you think,’ drawled Ray contemptuously, ‘that “Beauty” referred to you?’
‘Blow it out your ears, fancy-pants.’ Turning her nose up, Ann high-heeled away across the deck. Indiana watched, entranced, as a member of the ship’s company accosted her in an over-familiar manner, and she kneed him in the meat and veg with a force that sent the luckless matelot’s glass eye shooting over the starboard rail to splash into the limpid waters of the Indian ocean below.
‘Wow,’ breathed Indiana. ‘That is some woman.’
Ray pouted. ‘I don’t know what you see in her. Hard-faced baggage. A real train-track woman – she’s been laid from coast to coast.’ He slipped a more-than-companionable arm across Indiana’s shoulders. ‘Take it from me, sweetie. Women are poison.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Pooh! Are you still wearing that smelly old leather jacket? Why not let me run you up a new outfit? I could knock up something in your cotton. Or maybe your denim. I could really let myself go in your denims.’
Indiana began to edge away. ‘Er … no thanks …’
‘Or maybe something softer. How about nylon?’ Ray sidled after Indiana, trapping him in a corner of the rail. ‘I’m unbelievable in nylons.’
‘I bet you are.’
‘Or maybe rayon? You haven’t lived until you’ve had rayon.’
‘Uuuuurgh,’ croaked Indiana.
‘Or maybe you’d rather stick to leather.’ Ray ran his fingers up and down Indiana’s disreputable lapels. ‘I like sticking to leather, myself.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Suede?’
‘No, I’m not in the least swayed, honestly.’
‘Saucy! Well, I’ll think of something. Come down to my cabin and we’ll take a gander at your inside leg.’
Indiana glanced downwards at the ocean, briefly wondering whether certain death in its shark-infested waters was a better option than the fate the besotted costumier had in mind for him.
‘Hey! Dr Bones!’
Indiana felt himself go weak with relief. Deadman had emerged onto the wing of the bridge two decks above, and was beckoning to him. ‘Sorry,’ he gabbled, pushing none-too-gently past Ray, ‘Mr Deadman wants me. Glad we had this little chat – mustn’t keep the boss man waiting.’
‘Oh, go on then.’ Ray gave a disgruntled wriggle. ‘The laddie doth protest too much, methinks. I’ll turn you round sooner or later, you’ll see.’
‘Not while I have my strength,’ Indiana muttered under his breath as he took the companionway steps two at a time.
Deadman greeted him at the door to the bridge. ‘Well, Dr Bones – Fey Ray seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’
‘“Fey” is right.’ Indiana pawed frantically at the movie man’s sleeve. ‘You gotta call him off, Deadman.’
‘Funny thing, romance.’ Deadman gave Indiana a shrewd look. ‘You and Ann, Ray and you. Who’s Beauty and who’s the Beast? It ain’t always safe to make assumptions. I guess, like the song says, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. One thing I do know: when Beauty comes in the door, the Beast starts thinking with his cojones and he’s fixin’ to wind up with his ass in a sling. Think about it, Indy.’ Ignoring Indiana’s spluttering attempts to protest his innocence, Deadman continued, ‘Anyhow, that’s not why I called you up here. We’ve reached the coordinates I gave the Skipper. Time you all found out where we’re headed.’
Indiana followed him into the dog-house where the Skipper was trying to focus his bloodshot eyes on a chart. ‘Here we are, Deadman,’ he slurred. ‘Right where you shaid. 7 degreesh north, 06 degreesh west.’
‘What?’ Deadman stared at the Skipper. Then he grabbed at the chart. ‘You’ve got it upside down, you old fool.’
The Skipper blinked. ‘Sho I have. I wondered why India wash to the south and pointing upwards.’
Rolling his eyes, Deadman spun the chart and jabbed with an index finger. ‘This is where we are – 2 degrees south, 90 degrees east.’
‘But we’re in the middle of nowhere,’ protested Indiana.
‘Sure, that’s what everyone thinks … but they’re wrong. According to my information, there’s an uncharted island just to the south west of here. A mysterious land hidden in a bank of fog which defies meteorological explanation, and which has unaccountably failed to arouse the interest of the hundreds of experienced mariners and explorers who have criss-crossed these waters for centuries and surveyed every inch of the sea-bed.’
‘An island?’ The Skipper’s wandering attention had caught up with Deadman’s opening remarks. ‘What short of island?’
‘This sort.’ Deadman took a much-thumbed paper from his inside pocket. He unfolded it and spread it out on the chart table. ‘Here it is – Skullandcrossbones Island. That native I told you about – he roughed this out before he died.’ He pointed. ‘The only approach to the island is through an inadequately charted reef, whose razor-sharp rocks are easily capable of ripping the keel out of any ship foolhardy enough to attempt the passage. Then there’s this isthm … itshm … strip of land here, next to this sandy cove.’
‘Sandy Cove?’ The Skipper gave Deadman a bleary-eyed stare. ‘Is he there?’
‘What?’
‘My old pal Sandy Cove, bo’sun of the Saucy Mrs Truscott out of New Orleansh, used to be a ship-mate of mine.’
‘No, I mean this sheltered bay.’
‘Shelta’d Bey? The Turkish envoy to Rangoon? I met him in the Ninetiesh.’
‘No, no, no, this minor haven.’
‘Mina Haven? Lovely girl, Nautch dancer from old Bombay.’
‘… this handy landfall …’
‘Andy Landfall? Ish he there ash well? Funny, I thought he wash dead.’
‘Oh, it’s no good.’
‘Noah Goode? Haven’t sheen him in yearsh.’
‘Look here, Skipper …’
‘Luke Earskipper? Last of the Fighting Earskippers.’
‘Skipper!’ roared Deadman. ‘I’m not reminiscing about old friends of yours. I’m trying to tell you about this lousy island.’
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