The Mariner

ABSINTH ALCOTT SQUATTED ON THE filthy carpet and rolled himself a cigarette. He had no food, he had no ship — he certainly had no soap, but tobacco was one thing he had a lot of. Buckets and buckets of the stuff; enough glorious tar to fill his lungs and then coat a roof. What he didn’t have (more pressing than the soap situation) was a crew. They had all died in the latest raid — hence why Absinth had so much tobacco all to himself. He rooted through a bag by his side, allowing himself to be picky, choosing only the choicest pinches of the herb. Indulgence in tobacco was a sin he could easily allow, the skins would run out much sooner. After that, a pipe would suffice.

Despite his age, Absinth squatted with ease. His legs were trim and his back strong. Would he have been in such good shape if the world hadn’t changed? If he hadn’t been forced to fight to survive? He doubted it. Yet while his hair had deserted him, muscles had emerged, growing stronger with every passing year. In the future they would dwindle, a long and inevitable slide into frailty, but for now that day had yet to come. Sometimes he would marvel at his thin and gangly arms (a trait he could never shake off), sticks now bestowed with small yet firm muscles lined with bulging veins. Certainly a lot better than the weak flab of his youth. And a hell of a lot better than the paunch of middle-age.

He’d been in his room for some time, wondering how long Isabel would be with this new fella, the one she’d found wandering about on the pier. Once she’d led him back to their dilapidated house, keeping him distracted from the old man’s presence, Absinth had taken the liberty of exploring the stranger’s ship. It was old, startlingly so, practically a nautical antique. But it would do.

The main problem was not the age, but the sheer size of it! That made Absinth nervous. No way could it be sailed by just one man. Yet where was this fella’s crew?

The house had been quiet for some time. At first, as he’d crept back inside, he’d heard them. Isabel’s typical moans and cries, underlined by the stranger’s grunts. That had finished ages ago. The poor sap would be dead by now, sent from sleep to death with a smile round his throat. Absinth couldn’t blame him, if Isabel ever offered him her bed he’d take it, despite knowing the lethal consequences. Young pussy was too good an opportunity to pass.

But Absinth was suspicious by nature, and Isabel, sensing his distrust, hadn’t risked seduction. Instead the black widow tolerated the presence of the wolf; they preyed upon different beasts so could share the same lair. More than once, he’d tried to understand her motives. Absinth was a ‘tax and spend’ kind of guy. For instance, he’d ‘taxed’ those people in Sighisoara tobacco for the right to live, and now he was going to ‘spend’ it. Isabel didn’t dabble in the spending side. She claimed to be saving for some sort of religious pilgrimage, confirming in the old man’s mind that she was completely bonkers. The world had fallen apart, there was no Pope.

Absinth lit his cigarette in the fire, the flames singeing his hairy knuckles. Black soot had long ago blotted out any design on the wallpaper, though Absinth didn’t mind. This was a place to rest and recuperate. A place to smoke and plot. Nothing more.

Steps. Down the stairs. Isabel must have finished going through the man’s pockets. Yet why were the footsteps so heavy and slow?

“Isabel? Hear any sweet nothings?” he shouted above the crackling fire. “Like, where his fucking crew are? I need them.”

But it was not the Widow who walked into the room, she was limp in her killer’s arms.

Through the smoke, the two seamen appraised each other. The Mariner, bathed yet always filthy, lank hair thick from sea salt and grime. Absinth, gnarled by years and sinewy from toil.

He looked at Isabel and noted remotely that the blood that covered her face clashed with her copper hair. Still, a fashion faux pax was the least of her trouble. She was dead.

“How did it happen?” he asked, curiosity in place of emotion.

The Mariner didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to hear. He stumbled across the room as if in a daze, and lowered the body beside the fire.

Poor Isabel. Still, the bitch had it coming, no doubt about it. How many had she lured to death in that room? Absinth had no idea, she’d been doing it long before he’d met her. Inevitable that one day she’d find someone too quick to cut, or too messed up to spunk ‘n’ sleep.

“You saw her go for the knife huh?”

“What?”

“I asked if she went for her knife?”

The Mariner struggled as if the memory were a wet fish. “No knife. We were making love. And…”

“Yes?” Absinth thought his own voice sounded rather too keen for his ears. Perhaps he should try to sound more sympathetic? Would be difficult though. Why should he care about a whore’s death? Lord knows another death meant little in this place.