The other day the Chief gave me an old typewriter, a 1908 Underwood No. 5. He’d bought it from a scrap merchant down by the harbor, here in Lisbon. Several of the keys were broken and the release lever was missing, but the Chief knows I like fixing broken things.
It’s taken me a couple of evenings to mend my Underwood No. 5, and this is the first time I’ve written anything on it. Several of the keys still stick, but a pair of pliers and a few drops of oil will soon put them right.
That will have to wait until tomorrow. It’s already dark outside my cabin window. The lights from the vessels lying at anchor on the river are reflecting in the black water. I’ve strung my hammock and I’m about to climb into it.
I hope I don’t have those horrible dreams again tonight.
It’s evening again.
The Chief and I were lucky today. Early every morning we go to a harbor café where unemployed sailors wait round hoping to get work for the day. There is not usually anything much, but today we struck lucky and so we have been heaving sacks of coal from dawn to dusk. The pay was poor, but we need every penny we can earn. My back aches, my arms ache and my fur is itchy with coal dust.
More than anything else, though, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well again last night. It must be at least a month since I had a full night’s sleep undisturbed by nightmares.
The same dreams return time after time.
Some nights I’m back in the engine room of the Song of Limerick. I’m being held from behind by strong arms while the engine is racing and the ship is sinking.
Other nights I dream of Chief Inspector Garretta. It’s dark and I don’t know where I am. Among the tombs in Prazeres Cemetery, perhaps. The only things I can see are Garretta’s small eyes, which shine with a cold gleam under the brim of his hat. And I can smell the acrid gunpowder from his revolver— the shot is still ringing in my ears.
The most horrible dream is the one about the Chief. I am standing in the rain waiting for him outside an iron gate in a high wall. Time passes and I’m chilled to the bone. I try to convince myself that the gate will open at any moment, but I know in my heart that I’m fooling myself. It’s never going to open and the Chief is caught behind that wall forever.
There are times when I scream in my sleep. One night not long ago I was woken by the Chief rushing into my cabin waving a big pipe wrench. Hearing my screams, he’d thought someone had crept aboard and was going to hurt me. That was a distinct possibility, for we’ve made dangerous enemies in Lisbon.
I’m too tired to write any more at present. I’ll probably write again tomorrow. I’m really pleased with my Underwood No. 5!
It’s foggy tonight. It came rolling in from the Atlantic during the afternoon. I went up on deck just now and couldn’t see beyond the cranes a short way along the quay. Every so often the gruff noise of foghorns and the ringing of ships’ bells can be heard from the river. It sounds a bit ghostly.
The Chief and I have been carrying sacks of coal again today. I was thinking about my Underwood No. 5 while doing it, and now I’ve decided what I’m going to use it for.
I am going to use it to tell the truth.
The truth about the murder of Alphonse Morro.
So that everyone knows what really happened.