On top of the cliff was an almost bare patch of level ground, stony, with only a few dispirited patches of grass, an occasional sickly bush. Beyond this was thick brush, with trees pushing themselves above the lower growths. I’m no botanist, but I was able to recognise a few banana trees. Just clear of the brush was an untidy huddle of huts, miserable shacks knocked together from rusty sheets of corrugated iron.
“Anybody at home?” shouted Green.
There was no reply, only the monotonous song of some bird among the trees.
“Looks as though we have the muckin’ place to ourselves,” said Curley. “Just as muckin’ well.” He juggled with the automatic as he must have seen the heroes of Western movies juggle with their revolvers, almost dropped it. I could guess what he was thinking. He knew, as well as I did, how many rounds were left in the magazine.
“The others …” said Bible Bill vaguely. “The others would not toil for God’s elect …”
“So you muckin’ well bumped them off, you bloodthirsty old bastard. Well, well … Though I always said, when we was shipmates in the old Koromiko, that you weren’t as muckin’ good as you muckin’ well made out …”
He stood there, stocky, arrogant, the lethal ironmongery in his hand making him master of the situation. He surveyed us contemptuously — although there was more than contempt in his expression when his gaze slid over Sally’s naked body. He spat on the ground.
“Come on, you muckin’ old psalm-singer,” he snarled. “Where’s yer fresh water? I wanter get the taste o’ muckin’ fish outer my mouth. An’ then some tucker. An’ make it muckin’ snappy.”
“They bring me fish,” said the old man slowly.
“I’m tellin’ yer — I’ve had me fill o’ muckin’ fish. Got anything else?”
“Some cans,” said the old man reluctantly.
“Then trot ‘em out.” He spat again. “But let’s have that muckin’ water first.”
Bible Bill walked slowly into the larger of the huts, emerged carrying a bucket and a tin mug.
“Put them down,” ordered Green. “Get away from them. Stand with the others.”
He sidled past us, always facing us, always keeping us covered. When he reached the bucket he squatted carefully, keeping his right hand, with the gun, rock steady, groping with his left for the mug. Not taking his eyes from us he managed to get the vessel into the water, to fill it. He drank noisily, water running down the stubble of beard on his chin. He sighed with satisfaction, rose slowly and carefully to an erect posture. He tossed the mug to the ground.
“All right,” he grunted. “I’ve finished. You can all wet your muckin’ whistles now, if you muckin’ want to.”
He backed away from the bucket, stood in the doorway of the large hut.
So we drank — the women first, then John, then myself. The water could have been cleaner, and cooler, but after the fishy ichor upon which we had been subsisting it was nectar.
“And now,” I said to the old man, “what about some clothing for the ladies?”
“Not so fast, Petey boy,” snarled Green. “Not so muckin’ fast. You ferget who’s givin’ the muckin’ orders round here now. If I say we start a muckin’ nudist club, we start a muckin’ nudist club. See?”
“Don’t be a bloody fool,” I told him. “I suppose that you do want some co-operation from us. Let me tell you that you’re going the wrong way about it.”
“Am I?” He hefted the gun. “Am I? This’ll get me all the muckin’ co-operation I need.”
“Will it? Dead men can’t co-operate.”
“I only have ter shoot one o’ you bastards.”
“And the rest of us will rush you.”
He stood there, turning the situation over in his mind. He was having to feel his way. When he knew just what the set-up was here he could afford to throw his weight around, but the time was not yet.
“Got any muckin’ rags around here?” he demanded abruptly.
“Rags?” asked the old man bewilderedly.
“Yes. Muckin’ rags. Though I suppose that you’d expect these bitches to wear muckin’ figleaves …”
“Yes, yes. Clothing, to cover their sinful nakedness. There is cloth in the shed …”
“The shed?”
“Yes. The large hut. Where you are standing. Where I keep my stores …”
“Your muckin’ stores, eh? And I suppose that there’s spare ammo for this?” Again he juggled the gun, this time more adeptly.
He backed into the shed. We could see him moving in the semi-darkness. When he came out he held in his left hand a water-stained, bulging sack. It looked heavy.
“All right, Bible Bill,” he said. “She’s all yours. You can play at muckin’ dressmaker now. Bring the cloth outside so that I can see what you’re muckin’ well doin’. And then rustle up some grub — an’ make it muckin’ snappy.”
Sulkily, Bible Bill went inside. I hoped that there was another gun in there and that he’d have the savvy to conceal it on his person — long white robes are ideal for that kind of thing although, I should imagine, inclined to inhibit a quick draw. But Curley Green dispelled my hopes.
“An’ yer needn’t waste any muckin’ time lookin’ for the knives or the boat axe,” he said. “They’re in the bag, with the spare ammo.”
The old man reappeared. He held in his arms an untidy bundle of white — or more or less white — fabric. It consisted of a half dozen or so bedsheets, sea-stained, mildewed. But they were better than nothing. Sally pounced on one of them, contrived to wrap it around herself like a sari. The Samoan girl followed suit. I looked at John, he looked at me. He shrugged. I shrugged. His loincloth and my trunks would be better than such hampering garments. Evidently Curley Green thought the same.
“What about this muckin’ tucker?” he demanded.
Again Bible Bill went inside. He returned with five rusty tins, innocent of labels, a can opener.
“Open one for me,” ordered Green. “Bring it to me — but don’t come too muckin’ far. Now leave it on the muckin’ ground.”
He squatted down, still covering us with the pistol. With his left hand he raised the open can to his mouth. “Beans,” he mumbled. “I always hated the muckin’ things — but they’re better than raw fish …” He swallowed. “Is this all you’ve muckin’ well got?”
“Yes. It is all that They were able to find. Not always are the storerooms of wrecks open …”
“Tell them to try to get some canned chicken. Or some peaches.”
“Do not worry,” said the old man, a slight contempt showing in his voice. “They have always seen to it that willing workers have not starved …”
“Have they, now? An’ what do they feed these willin’ workers on? More muckin’ beans?”
“No,” said Bible Bill. “Fish.”
Green swore. “That’s too much of a good muckin’ thing. Or a muckin’ bad thing. I see that I shall have to make some muckin’ changes around here.”
“And do you think that They would consider the wishes of a loose liver, a blasphemer?”
“Too muckin’ right they would. They’ve got a real engineer here now, an’ they’ll get some muckin’ action at last.”
I was pleased to see John take the opener from the old man’s hand and start to open the other cans. He passed one to each of the girls, the third one to me. The fourth he kept for himself. All of them contained beans, and cold, canned beans are not among the world’s great delicacies. But, as Green had implied, after the fish they were delicious. But I didn’t let my enjoyment of the food distract me from the conversation.
“Yes,” Green went on, “I keep my muckin’ eyes open. I saw, in the shed, what you’ve been tryin’ to make for Them. An’ it’s such a muckin’ bungle that I’m surprised they brought you as much as one lousy, muckin’ sprat. You can be sure, you Bible bashin’ old bastard, that They’ll be muckin’ pleased to have me on the muckin’ job.”
“They will punish you!” the old man was crying wildly. “They will punish you!”
“Like muckin’ hell they will. Now, down to the muckin’ beach an’ introduce me.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you get a bullet in the guts an’ I introduce my muckin’ self. Get a muckin’ move on.” He turned on the rest of us. “An’ you get down to the beach too. I wouldn’t trust you muckin’ around up here by yourselves.”
So it was down to the beach again — the old man in the lead, then John, then myself, then the two girls, then Curley Green. I hoped that he would slip on the steep path and drop his gun — but he was as sure-footed as a mountain goat.
We walked down the beach in the same order as that in which we had descended the cliff. The old man stopped when the water was just breaking over his sandaled feet, raised his arms and cried, in a high pitched voice, “Noah! Noah!”
With that white beard and those white robes, I thought, he looked very Biblical. But why Noah? The general impression was that of Moses commanding the waters of the Red Sea to open to clear a path for the fleeing Israelites.
“Noah!” the old man called again. “Noah!”
A great, dark shape broke surface, but remained outside the line of breakers. It snorted loudly, whistled, whistled and snorted. And then, suddenly, I realised that the uncouth sounds were an approximation to human speech. Have you ever heard one of those unfortunates who, after an operation for cancer of the throat, has lost the use of his voice, and who has trained himself to talk again, using his diaphragm? That’s what it sounded like, a coughing, grunting parody of language.
“I hear,” sounded over the incoming waves. “I hear. I am here. What do you want?”
“Tell him,” prompted Green, “that I’m in charge from now on.”
“Noah, you deal with me no longer. Not any more. This man here …” he gestured towards the engineer … “will do as you say.”
“You, man,” grunted the great sea beast. “What is your name?”
“Call me Curley!” shouted Green.
“Gurley …” repeated the giant porpoise. “Gurley …”
Green laughed. “You haven’t got it quite right, but it’ll have to muckin’ well do. Now, Noah, I’ll tell you what I want. Tinned food. And somethin’ ter muckin’ well drink. Keep me well fixed, an’ I’ll look after you. See?”
“Drink? But you have water …”
“Well, skip that for the time bein’. Just rustle up plenty o’ grub — an’ no fish, mind. Look after me, an’ I’ll look after you.”
“No work, no eat, Gurley.”
“No eat, no work, you fish-faced bastard. Plenty eat, plenty work. You see.”
“We bring food. But you work.”
“Tomorrow work. Today rest. But bring food. Now.”
With a flick of his muscular tail the porpoise vanished. I looked round at the others. Frustration was writ large on Sally’s mobile features — here was the story of all time, and she had with her the wherewithal neither to record nor transmit it. John and Mary were clinging tightly to each other. They made no secret of their fear. The old man was — just an old man. He had lost the authority that They had given him over his fellow humans, and with that authority had gone the rather frightening mien of an Old Testament prophet. He was just an old man huddled in a dirty bedsheet.
And Curley Green?
He was enjoying himself. That was obvious. He was one of those who would sooner rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.