The Mariner

“Go back to your ship,” Philip commanded, his voice trembling ever so slightly. Traill was mad, he could sense that, but there was something else. Something worse. Some intrinsic evil, deep down in the man’s soul. Some men were good, some were bad. It was in their eyes. It was even in their smell.

But Traill would not acquiesce. He’d come to say his piece, and say it he would.

“That ship is cursed, and it is your doing, just as it is mine, Arthur Philip. You sent it out there with a hundred corpses, you allowed those spirits to remain. Well now the Neptune is full of ghosts… and I am one of them!”

“What a load of bollocks.”

[The Mariner] closed the book he’d been reading with a disappointed sigh. The story had ridiculously spiralled into mediocrity, ruining what little promise it had shown. He turned it over in his hands to once again review the blurb. ‘The Neptune’s Curse’, a splatter-punk tale of gore and horror. He had purchased it under the promise that it was based on fact. As it turned out, the facts were thin on the ground, as were the prose. Whatever actual events had inspired the pulp tale, that was their only role: inspiration. And trashy inspiration at that.

A door opened from a small office beyond the even smaller waiting room. “Would you like to come through?” The doctor smiled warmly, looking expectant. [The Mariner] had been to several therapists and counsellors over the years, and although each had done their best to appear kind and understanding they usually proved to be useless in the end.

He stood, somewhat awkwardly, and followed, holding the trashy horror novel in his hands. As he closed the door the therapist apologised for the wait. “I’m pleased to meet you, I think I can help.”

“Thank you doctor,” he replied, absent-mindedly stroking his arm and wincing at the dull throb. “I appreciate you finding an appointment for me so quickly.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s no problem at all. And please, call me Edgar.”

[The Mariner] sat in a large comfortable armchair and looked out the window. The therapist’s office was high up, almost at the top of the multi-story building split between many private offices, and through the grimy glass he could see the skyline of London, in all its equally grimy glory.

The therapist had what [The Mariner] assumed to be his file in his lap, and he quickly flicked through making the occasional grunt. Finally he looked up, and smiled.

“I see you’ve tried medication, CBT, traditional counselling and psychoanalysis.”

“Yes,” [The Mariner] nodded, his hands folded neatly over the book. The therapist looked down at it.

“Any good?”

“The book or the therapies?”

Edgar grinned. “The book.”

“It’s ok. Started well, got a bit silly as it went on.”

“What’s it about?”

[The Mariner] had seen this approach many times. A new counsellor or therapist tries to engage on a seemingly benign topic to assess the patient’s social skills. All very standard.

“It’s roughly based upon a ship that transported convicts to Australia in the 18th century. A lot of them died on the way.”

“A true story then?”

“Not really. The author has fictionalised a couple of characters, a sadistic captain and a noble governor. There’s a supernatural element that’s pretty juvenile, lets the narrative down. I hate it when authors throw in weird shit for no reason.”

“So no good then?”

“Naa.”

Edgar stared intently. “When you read a story like that, who do you associate with?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Whose shoes do you place yourself in?”

“In this story? Neither.”

“Oh?”

“Traill appears to be evil through and through. I don’t think anyone’s like that. But Philip is just as unbelievable; I’ve read over a hundred pages and he hasn’t done anything other than act selflessly.” He shrugged. “That’s bullshit.”

“So no-one then?”

“Sounds strange, but if I had to identify with something from the story, it’d be the ship.”

“‘The ship’?”

““There’s this cursed ship called the Neptune that carries the convicts. Later it is doomed to sail for eternity, haunted by their souls.”

“Sounds pretty kooky. You think that’s more realistic than goodies and baddies?”

“Yeah, because the ship hasn’t done anything wrong. It was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But now it’s damned. There’s only one thing left for that ship to do, and that’s sink.”

“Is that how you feel? Nothing left to do but sink?”

[The Mariner] looked out the window to the vast crowds below, pushing to and fro in the busy streets, and wondered if he had the energy to explain it all over again. Could voicing his corrupted mind, his stinking foetid brain, really bring any change other than further shame?

He wanted to leave and ignore the malfunctions inside his head, but he’d promised to try, he’d promised. So instead he took a deep breath, and allowed it all to come spilling out.