Macbeth

He stifled another yawn and stared across the river. He knew every reef, every shallow and every tiny paragraph in the port authority rulebook about sailing into and out of the harbour — where the current flowed strong, where the waves broke, where you could lie in shelter and where every bollard on the quay was. That didn’t bother him. The river was grey; he could guide ships in and out blindfolded, and often had, or as good as. The weather didn’t bother him either. A near gale was blowing, and the glass in front of them was already white with spray and salt. But he had guided bigger and smaller ships in hurricanes and worse without needing a beacon, a spar buoy or a lookout. The trip in the little pilot boat that would take him ashore didn’t trouble him, even though it was as seaworthy as a cow — a fresh breeze and it took in water, the hint of a gale and it could turn round if the coxswain didn’t hit the waves right.

Fred Ziegler yawned because he dreaded the ship lowering the red and white flag that showed they had a pilot on board. Or to be more precise, having to leave the ship. Going down the rope ladder.

For twelve years he had worked as a pilot and still he hadn’t got used to going up and down the side of a ship. It didn’t bother him that he might end up in the drink, although he knew he ought to have been afraid because he couldn’t swim.

No, what bothered him was the height.

The paralysing fear when he would have to step out backwards from the ship’s side. Even in this weather the ship was so big that climbing down the ladder on the leeward side wasn’t difficult from a purely technical point of view. However, seeing or just knowing that there was fifteen metres of thin air between him and the abyss bothered him. It had always been like this and always would be. Every bloody working day was bound up with this minor hell: it was the first thing on his mind when he woke up in the morning and the last before he went to sleep. But what the heck, there was nothing unusual about it — all around him he saw people who lived their whole lives doing jobs or in positions they weren’t cut out for.

‘You must have come out of the harbour so many times now that you could ask the coastguard just to let you go,’ Fred said.

‘Let me go?’ the captain said. ‘I wouldn’t have your company then, Fred. What is it? Don’t you like me?’

I don’t like your ship, Fred thought. I’m a small man who doesn’t like big ships.

‘By the way, you’re going to see less of me in the future,’ the captain said.

‘Oh?’

‘Not enough cargo. Last year we lost Graven when they went bankrupt and then Estex closed down. What we have on board now is the last remaining stock.’

Fred had noticed by the way the ship lay in the water there was less cargo than usual.

‘Shame,’ Fred said.

‘No, makes no odds,’ the captain said gloomily. ‘Knowing this toxic stuff we’ve been transporting for all these years is paid for with our fellow citizens’ lives... Believe me, I haven’t always slept well and I’ve sometimes wondered what it must have been like being the captain of a slave ship. You have to be creative to find good enough excuses for yourself. Perhaps we know the difference between right and wrong even without using this wonderful big brain of ours. But with it we can assemble some really sophisticated arguments which, individually, sound good and, as a whole, can lead us to exactly where we want to go, regardless of how steeped in insanity this all is. No, Fred, I don’t want to ask the coastguards for permission to navigate these contaminated waters without a pilot. On Wednesday we were queueing up to come in when a message came from the harbour master himself saying that we had top priority. Free of charge.’

‘That must have been a nice surprise.’

‘Yes. Then I took a closer look at the bill of lading. Turned out we’d been transporting two Gatling guns. This is beginning to resemble how it was under Kenneth. Hey, careful! Are you trying to scald our pilot, son?’

The man in the chequered galley outfit had lost his balance as the ship pitched into a wave and had spilled coffee on the pilot’s black uniform. The guy mumbled an apology into his beard, put down the cups and hurried out.

‘Sorry, Fred. Even here, where half the town is unemployed, it’s hard to find crew with sea legs. This bloke came to us this morning claiming he’d worked in a galley before but had lost his papers.’

Fred slurped from the cup. ‘He’s not been on board a boat before and he can’t make coffee either.’

‘Oh well,’ the captain sighed. ‘We’ll manage as we’re only going to Capitol. That’s the Isle of Hanstholm behind us and now we’re over the worst. I’ll call up your boat and tell them to throw out the ladder.’

‘OK,’ Fred said, swallowing. ‘Then we’re over the worst.’

Macbeth was sitting on a chair in the corridor wringing his hands and staring at the door to the suite. ‘What’s he actually doing in there?’

‘I don’t know much about psychiatry,’ Jack said. ‘Shall I get some more coffee, sir?’