The first morning light cut holes through the cloud cover on the horizon as the skipper lowered the black, rubber-coated binoculars to massage his tired eyes. He released a sigh of relief. Satisfied to see St Petersburg’s industrial harbour a few nautical miles ahead. It had been a long and uneventful voyage from Aalborg, but the cargo made him edgy. Luckily, the wind was merciful at this time of year, and the Russian coast guard was seriously understaffed. He put aside the binoculars, picked up the cup of lukewarm coffee and left the bridge. His job was pretty much done, and he could look forward to a sizeable sum in US dollars. Richer. Freer. It was hard not to be pleased with oneself. He negotiated the ladder to the deck where a crew member and the Chechen brothers stood smoking their thin, fetid cigarettes. Smoking like chimneys, he thought, casting a sidelong glance at the men surveying the ocean with a look of expectation. A sensation had spread amongst them, with the sighting of the harbour on the horizon. Like Vikings returning from a long, dangerous raid, they felt the joy of reunion with familiar waters, the skipper thought and smiled at the irony of his comparison with a Viking raid. For a moment, the metaphor made him forget about the man in the cargo hold and the fate that 153awaited him. But only for a moment. Suddenly the air felt bitingly cold, and he tugged at the flaps of his collar to shield his face.
‘You’re sure that he’s still alive down there, right?’ the skipper asked, inclining his head towards the trawler’s hold.
The brothers nodded, flicked away their cigarettes and started towards the ladder.
‘Not very talkative, are they?’ the skipper said to a crew member.
The sailor flashed a weary smile and shrugged. The only thing that mattered to him was his shore leave and spending the dollars that the journey had earned him.
Down in the hold, the Chechen brothers were almost knocked over by the rank stench of old fish mixed with sour piss. Kaare woke up at the first kick. He lay sprawled in a pool of urine on the floor, writhing in agony. He made a futile attempt to sit upright, but the inhibitive plastic strips did not allow it. Shamil stared at him contemptuously and shot a vile glance at his brothers. They observed Kaare’s efforts until one of the brothers grabbed a bucket of ice-cold water and tossed it over him.
‘You stink like the pig you are!’ Shamil growled in his broken English as he spat on the floor planks.
The cold water shot chills through Kaare’s body, but he stayed schtum. After another herculean effort, he struggled to an upright position. He avoided the Chechens’ evil stare and squinted into the feeble light that lit up the hold of the battered trawler. Kaare noticed the pounding was replaced by a liberating silence and sounds outside. It took a while for Kaare to recognise the sounds; seagull screaks. That could only mean one thing: they were approaching a port. Everything was still a blur to him, and the stench from the hold caused nausea to swell inside him. The throbbing in his 154head hit his brain like ice picks. The effort spent on getting himself upright had drained him of energy. Mobilising his last resources, he suppressed a powerful urge to throw up and he slid into unconsciousness again.
Another bucket of cold water returned him, mercilessly, to the pain. Distantly, as a spectator at the movies, he registered another vicious kick to his ribs. The torment was no longer a challenge for his deadened, exhausted body, and he slipped back into oblivion’s alleviating abyss.