‘Will you ever interrupt my work with a piece of good news, Bonnie?’
Yegor briefly put his phone down, threw Ikarus off the bed and got up. In truth he hadn’t been working, but enjoying a snooze after some disappointing sex with his wife. But he’d rather run up and down the promenade deck naked with a flag sicking out of his arse than let his captain in on the fact that he took the occasional siesta.
‘Shot in the head?’ he asked, the mobile back to his ear.
Sleepily, his wife turned over in the bed and farted. Bloody hell, that was even more disgusting than the mess his captain was describing.
On his way to the bathroom, Yegor wondered whether there was any way of sweeping the matter under the carpet, but realised it was doubtful. So he said, ‘Leave everything as it is.’ While only half listening to Bonhoeffer he breathed into his hand and pulled a face.
Half an hour’s siesta and I’ve got breath like an Albanian sewage works.
‘Of course we’re going to continue,’ he interrupted the captain’s nervous torrent of words.
Are there only idiots working for me?
‘We’re almost halfway; what point would there be in turning around now? Don’t touch anything in that room, and notify the authorities.’
Yegor flipped open the loo seat and undid the button fly on his pyjamas. ‘And muster all those PR luvvies on my payroll. The losers can finally work for their money. I don’t want to read reports like “Horror cruise on the Sultan – one dead and one missing” or anything similar.’
Although it would be almost impossible to avoid the headlines, of course. And that was partly his fault, as Yegor knew.
It took a while for the first drops to come. In the past his urethra had burned when he’d been with the wrong sort of women. The feeling he had now reminded him that his check-up was long overdue.
Getting old is a whore, Yegor thought, peering through the open bathroom door into the semi-darkness of the bedroom. His wife’s feet were sticking out from under the duvet. Even from this distance he could see her crushed stiletto toes. Revolting.
Wait. What did this bird-brain of a captain just suggest?
‘Stop? Again?’ In his anger the ship owner found it difficult to avoid peeing on the floor. Ikarus, startled by his master’s outburst, padded into the bathroom with his ears pricked up.
‘Our Chilean moneybags might have put one suicide down to bad luck. He’s a superstitious Catholic. The worst sort of person. If another body turns up, the jerk will see it as a bad omen and put his chequebook away quicker than you can say “prison”. I don’t mind how you do it, just draw the fucking thing out until the contract’s been signed!’
Yegor hung up, had a shake and flushed. From the bedroom he could hear his wife’s drowsy voice, but he couldn’t care less what she was saying.
He was annoyed with himself. He’d intended to stay calm. People who shouted didn’t have a grip on themselves or their lives. But since they’d left Hamburg, no, since the approach into Oslo, when that tongue-tied Anouk suddenly reappeared from nowhere, he’d had one shit-filled profiterole after another hurled at him.
Not bothering to wash his hands, Yegor made his way back to bed. He had to get past Ikarus, who gave him a look of irritation. He bent down to his dog and tickled the terrier’s neck.
‘Yes, I know. It’s Daddy’s own fault. But do you know what, Ikarus? I just can’t bear being blackmailed.’ The dog put its head to one side as if it understood every word. Yegor smiled and poked his wet nose.
‘Veith was a waste of space,’ he whispered so his wife, now awake, couldn’t hear him. ‘I must have given him my special revolver.’ The one that shoots backwards if you turn the lever. Which is precisely what he’d done before handing the weapon to that violence-hungry fool. It was a present from a comrade. Custom made. A joke amongst old friends from the Foreign Legion. Not traceable back to him.
‘Do you understand, Ikarus?’ The dog panted and Yegor took that as a yes.
Yegor turned off the bathroom light – the only one that had been on – and got back into bed. His wife wanted to stroke his arm, but he pushed her hand away.
What a shame that Veith isn’t a Jap, he thought. They commit hara-kiri for all manner of crap. Code of honour and so on.
They might have been able to make it appear as if the security officer couldn’t deal with the shame of having failed to find that suicide brat.
But who’d believe that of a clog-wearer?
Yegor yawned. There was nothing worse than being wrenched from the middle your siesta. He was dog tired. For a while he pondered whether it had been a mistake to let Veith eliminate himself. But the man himself was to blame. What kind of crusade did he have against that… Tiamo… Tigo…?
Yegor couldn’t recall the name. And ultimately he didn’t care. As his eyes gradually closed, he merely wondered where that Argentinian Lothario was now, after probably – almost certainly – staring death in the face not long ago.