Osgood chose the furthest — the cleanest — and stuffed his towel behind the screen. A cold draught was whipping through the washplace and he tried to shut the half-open door but the spring was defective and the door swung back. He slammed shut the metal partition of his cubicle and stripped off. The water was scalding hot.
A few minutes later, as he turned off both taps and squeezed the water from his hair, he heard a sneering voice he could identify anywhere.
‘I can have a piss, can’t I, Kotta, without you hanging around?’
Osgood dried himself slowly, keeping quiet. Kotta seemed to be moving up the passage outside. It was his voice which called in an undertone from the for’d end of the shower room:
‘I’m on the same watchkeeping roster as you, Foulgis. You’ve gone too far: I’m not having your insolence see?’ Osgood, motionless behind the steel door, sensed the fury in the PC’S voice.
‘You’re a screwball, Kotta,’ Foulgis called. ‘Mavis is dead right: you’re as useless as a PO as what you are to her.’ The handler was shuffling along the tiled deck.
‘You coming out? Or do I come in and get you?’ Kotta said.
Foulgis laughed. ‘Don’t be so flaming stupid. These aren’t the POS heads. I’ll run you in, you sod, if you lay a ringer on me.’
Osgood could hear the man’s breathing as he slopped in his sandals through the half-open door.
‘We’ll see about that,’ Osgood heard Kotta growl — then the thump of a blow.
‘You bastard.’ Foulgis didn’t hide the fear in his voice, as he cowered from the vicious attack. ‘You’re a flaming bad loser. Can’t take it, Kotta?’
Osgood had finished drying himself, but stood motionless while the fight developed outside, both men grunting. They seemed to have stopped for a breather, their words coming between gasps: ‘You could have had her, if you’d listened,’ Foulgis taunted. ‘Told you, but you wouldn’t listen.’
‘What you driving at?’ Kotta gasped, struggling for breath.
‘It’s not size what counts, you conceited bum.’
Osgood heard someone spit — then another blow and Foulgis was muttering: ‘Lay off, Kotta. And stop hounding — me — in this flaming ship — or I’ll take you to the chief.’
They were exhausted, panting in the red gloom outside. In his cubicle, Osgood groped for his washing things.
‘You wouldn’t risk it, with Toastie here.’ There was a hint of panic in Kotta’s voice. ‘Hey put that away, you Irish bastard …’
There was a grunt from Kotta and then they were scrambling for’d. Osgood’s soap slithered to the tiled deck and he had to go down on to his knees to retrieve it. By the time he had emerged through the door, the passageway was empty.
He hesitated. What if Foulgis had drawn a knife? Osgood flipped back the clip, leaned against the bulkhead door.
The force of the wind from the open space of the side lift brought him up all-standing. It was very dark here, where the bollards were sited for the RAS wires. He could hear the roar and pounding of the seas. It was always cold when the lift doors were open, where the spray flew and the wind lashed. The sombre red of the night-lighting cast an eerie gloom on the lift.
Osgood halted in his tracks. On the far side of the open space beside the lift, a shadowy figure crouched, its legs pumping like pistons. Something tumbled over the edge and vanished into the night. The figure paused for a second, peering over the side into the darkness. Then, as a rat scuttles in the sewers, he was gone, shrouded in the shadows.
Osgood rushed for’d, his heart pumping. The ship’s roll made him stumble, sliding across the wet steel deck. Braking himself with his hands, he stopped by the edge. He glimpsed the threshing waves, heard the roaring in the black night.
As he regained his balance, he felt a warm stickiness where his hands had supported him on the plating.
He was shivering as he backed away from the dark corner. He thought he heard someone yelling behind him, but he ran on down the passageway. Someone in a blue anorak was just disappearing through the bulkhead door as he grabbed the telephone he found in the first flat he reached. Osgood saw the smeared blood on the receiver. He spun the dial.
‘Bridge?’ the calm voice, remote, from somewhere in another world, answered calmly.
‘Man overboard, port side!’ Osgood shouted. ‘Man over!’
He slammed the receiver back on its rest, stared at the blood on his crimson hand. He rushed across to the other side, climbed the ladder and ran to the flat which held the regulating office. It was quiet here, silent in the middle watch.
As he heard the Man Over bells ringing faintly somewhere aft, he pushed into the cabin where the fleet master-at-arms was already tumbling from his bunk.
‘Master!’ he shouted, ‘Master-at-Arms, a man’s been murdered.’
Chapter 14
Fleet Master-at-Arms David Legge had turned in late on that Tuesday night. Several stupid irritations, some of them originated by senior men who should have known better, had kept him up. His sleep had been fitful, his mind disturbed by reports from the petty officers’ mess. Now he heard the discordant, braying alarm bells.
‘Overboard! Man Overboard.’ As he rolled from his bunk, his curtains swished apart.
‘What the — ?’ he blurted. A man he did not recognize burst inside the cabin, a towel around his middle. His face was grey and blood was smeared across his cheek and chin. His right hand was crimson and wet.
‘Murdered? How d’you know?’ Legge snapped. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Osgood,’ the man gasped. ‘Aircrewman. 4N8.’
‘Get hold of yourself, son. Here take my chair.’
The fleet master-at-arms listened impatiently as the leading hand spilled his yarn. ‘Okay,’ he told him. ‘I’ll get the duty regulating PO to take it down in writing.’ Legge showed him the door. ‘Get yourself cleaned up and wait in the regulating office while I deal with the Man Over musters.’
‘I’m due for briefing at 0230, sir,’ the wild-eyed aircrewman said. He stood trembling with cold and shock, in the draughty flat. ‘Sortie’s at 0300.’
‘Right,’ Legge snapped. ‘Report to me as soon as you get back.’ He watched-as the shattered man scurried aft, towards the leading hands’ overflow mess, whence earlier worrying reports had originated. The regulating staff were gathering morosely, but all were cynically convinced that the hoaxer was up to his tricks again. Legge took over the broadcast mike himself: ‘D’you hear there?’ he announced. ‘This is the fleet master-at-arms speaking.
Report as soon as your mess musters are checked.’
There was nothing to do but wait. The ship’s life went on, and those on duty would be allowed for. While waiting for the reports, Legge would find the Commander, who would be interested to learn of the developments. Legge returned to his cabin, pulled on his trousers and white sweater, squared his cap upon his grizzled head and hurried aft. He nipped up the ladder on to the next deck. At the top, a bulky figure was waiting in the shadows of the big fan.
‘Thanks,’ Legge said. He was hurrying by when the man called after him: ‘Master?’
‘Yes? Why aren’t you at your muster?’ He hardly recognized the twisted face of the petty officer.
‘What’s up, Petty Officer Kotta?’ Legge asked irritably. ‘I’m pushed — Man Over muster.’
‘I must tell you something,’ the dishevelled PO stammered.
Trevellion was also in a state of half-consciousness when he registered through the open doorway of his sea-cabin the yell from the officer of the watch, then the man overboard alarm. His stomach sinking, Trevellion pulled on his reefer; in his slippers and pyjama trousers, he hurried to the bridge.