The Mariner

Sensing hesitation, Tetrazzini repeated the mantra. “It’s the only way.”

20. BITTER/SWEET MEDICINE

BETH MASTERSON LEFT TETRAZZINI’S CLINIC for the last time, stepping lightly down the many stairs that wound their way into Sighisoara. Her satchel contained a small collection of paperback novels, a diary, two changes of clothes and some basic food, nothing more than biscuits and a flask of juiced tomatoes. Tetrazzini had managed to procure her lodging and employment at the town’s orchard, good work in a world of uncertainty.

Above her, heavy clouds cast intermittent shadows across the steps. It were the first hint of poor weather they’d had in weeks, though after so much sunshine, it was welcome. Clouds meant rain, and rain meant crops; fruit would need picking, plants nurturing. Yes, there would be plenty of work for her to do. God Bless Tetrazzini; he’d given her a new life, something to embrace.

Despite the downward trajectory of her journey, Beth felt lighter with every step.

And somewhere behind, the Mariner followed.

He tried to keep to the shadows whilst appearing casual, nervous that if seen he mustn’t appear like a predator. The response of the townsfolk was a concern, there had been a lot of deaths attributed to him since his arrival. There would undoubtedly be dark feelings abound; he should stay concealed lest he provoke a bitter confrontation.

With every sly step, the pills in his pocket rattled within their capsule, the gentle taps a reminder of his intent. He was nauseous with dread, though even this emotion was a mask. Beneath, his heart raced at the prospect. He no longer had to fight his demons. Now they could be set free.

He checked his gun — the Mauser. It felt good in his hand. He didn’t plan on using it beyond threats and coercion, but it was a welcome security nonetheless. As yet he hadn’t seen another gun within Sighisoara and this power should allow him… indulgence.

Daydreams of how it would play out began flitting through his mind. It shocked him at first, just how easily thoughts of sexual violence filled his consciousness the second he allowed them in. The taboo made his pulse quicken and penis harden. Would he reveal his identity, or blindfold her eyes? Force compliance through threat, or restraint? He liked the idea of her arms bound and body vulnerable to his touch, but there was also a certain thrill from her acting of her own volition, reluctantly servicing his needs under threat of pain.

“Oh it’s you. Heading into town as well?”

Her voice shook the Mariner from his sordid reverie. Beth was standing a little way off, looking at him. A hand was raised to shield her eyes from the glare of the clouds above, still bright despite the setting sun.

“I’m just on my way to check on the ship,” the Mariner lied. “There were vandals yesterday. I must keep a closer watch.”

Beth nodded. “A big old ship like that must attract a lot of attention.”

He agreed, and Beth looked around, seemingly relaxed in his presence. He found himself wondering how her cunt tasted. “Would you like to walk with me?”

Utterly perplexed as how to proceed, the Mariner accepted her invitation and took to her side. They strolled, leaving the sloping stairs behind and entering the uppermost of Sighisoara residences.

“So you’re cured then?” he said, trying to make conversation. “Congratulations.”

“Yes, it’s truly amazing. I think back to just a couple of months ago and life was so different. I was an addict in complete denial.”

“How so?”

“I thought the cutting was something I had to do, rather than something I chose to do.”

The pair passed through a stone archway, wooden doors long since pilfered. Perhaps they’d been burned for warmth or converted into a table, but whoever the thief, all that remained was a tunnel of stone leading to a further slope and larger section of buildings below.

All was quiet, the only sounds that of their feet upon the cobbles and the seagulls soaring above.

“Why cut? I understand why I’m addicted to alcohol. It helps me forget. But cutting?”

“What are you drinking to forget?”

“Me. This. Everything.” He shrugged as if what he was saying was plainly obvious. “But cutting wouldn’t achieve anything like that. So how can you become addicted to something that has such little effect?”

“You’d be surprised,” Beth replied with a sigh. “Cutting does make you forget. While you’re in pain you don’t remember hurtful thoughts and painful memories. They’re still there, but the pain focuses them into that one spot. It’s as if the act of self-harm drags the pain from your head and into the wound. You distract yourself with booze. My method was no different.”

It seemed to make a grim sort of sense to the Mariner. A familiar sense. He remembered his experience with the eels, how he’d come to mutilate himself to dull the lust that threatened to drive him insane. Oh yes, Beth’s approach made sense all right.