Macbeth

‘I’m not, but you have an unusually lucid eye for these matters.’

‘It may be easier to be a croupier and observer than a participant, with all the risk and strong emotions involved, sir.’

‘And I think you’re one hell of a croupier, Jack.’

‘And as a croupier I’d advise you to study your cards even more carefully to see if they can be employed better than this.’

‘Oh?’

‘Tourtell promised you his support at the next election if you didn’t stand now, but that won’t be worth much if he’s outed as a paedophile, will it?’

Macbeth stroked his beard. ‘True enough.’

‘So you should ask for something else now. Tell Tourtell you’re not even sure you’ll stand at the next election. And that you’d rather have something specific he can give you now.’

‘For example?’

‘What would you like, sir?’

‘What would I...?’ Macbeth saw Jack motion towards the gaming room. ‘Erm, more customers?’

‘Yes. The Obelisk’s clientele. But as chief commissioner you don’t have the authority to close the Obelisk even if you had proof of illegal credit being given.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘As a croupier I happen to know that the police can charge individuals, but it’s only the Gambling and Casino Board that can close a whole casino, sir. And they’re subject to the jurisdiction of...’

‘The town hall. Tourtell.’

Macbeth could see it clearly now. He didn’t need power; he should flush what he had down the toilet. A bell rang somewhere.

‘Sounds like we’ve got customers, sir.’ Jack got up.

Macbeth grabbed his arm. ‘Just wait till Lady hears what we’ve cooked up. I’m sure it’ll make her feel better in a flash. How can we thank you, Jack?’

‘No need, sir.’ Jack smiled wryly. ‘It’s enough that you saved my life.’

26

Duff swallowed his vomit. it was his fourth day on board, but there was no sign of improvement yet. One thing was the sea, quite another the stale smell in the galley. Inside, behind the swing door, it was a mixture of rancid fat and sour milk; on the other side, in the mess where the men sat eating, it was sweat and tobacco. The steward had left breakfast to Duff, saying he ought to be able to manage that on his own. Put out bread and assorted meats and cheese, boil eggs and make coffee, even a seasick first-timer could cope with that.

Duff had been woken at six, and the first thing he did was to throw up in the bucket beside his bed. He still hadn’t had two nights in the same cabin as lack of berths meant he had had to borrow the beds of those who were on duty. Luckily he had only had lower bunks, so he didn’t have to actually sleep with the bucket. He had just got his sweater over his head when the next wave of nausea came. On his way down to the galley he’d had pit stops to vomit in the toilet beside the first mate’s cabin and in the sink before the last steep staircase.

Breakfast had been served, and those of the crew who were on duty had finished, it seemed. Time to clear away before they started making lunch.

Duff inhaled three stomachfuls of dubious air, got up and went out into the mess.

Four people were sitting at the nearest table. The speaker was a loud, slightly overweight engineer with hairy forearms, an Esso T-shirt stained with oil and sweat rings under his arms and a striped Hull City Tigers cap on his head. When he spoke he sniffed before and afterwards, like a form of inverted commas. What came between them was always denigration of those lower on the ladder. ‘Hey, Sparks,’ the engineer shouted to be sure everyone realised he was referring to the young boy with glasses at the end of the table, ‘hadn’t you better ask the new galley boy if he can heat you up some fish pie so you can stuff your dick in and enjoy the closest you’ll ever get to cunt.’ He sniffed before starting to laugh. This raised no more than short-lived, forced laughter from the others. The young radio-telegrapher smiled fleetingly and ducked his head even lower into his plate. The engineer, whom Duff had heard the others call Hutch, sniffed. ‘But judging by today’s breakfast I doubt you know how to heat up a fish pie, do you, lad?’ Another sniff.

Duff kept his head down, like the telegrapher. That was all he had to do until they reached the docks in Capitol. Keep a low profile, mouth shut, mask on.

‘Tell me, galley boy! Do you call this scrambled egg?’

‘Anything wrong?’ Duff said.

‘Wrong?’ The engineer rolled his eyes and turned to the others. ‘The greenhorn asks me if something’s wrong. Only that this scrambled egg looks and tastes like vomit. Your vomit. From your green, seasick gills.’

Duff looked at the engineer. The guy was grinning, and there was an evil glint in his shiny eyes. Duff had seen it before. Lorreal, the director of the orphanage.

‘I’m sorry the scrambled egg didn’t live up to your expectations,’ Duff said.

‘Didn’t live up to your expectations,’ the engineer mimicked, and sniffed. ‘Think you’re at some posh fuckin’ restaurant, do you? At sea we want food, not muck. What do you reckon, guys?’