Night Crossing
by Mike Bennett
Smashwords Edition
Copyright Mike Bennett 2008-12
All rights reserved by the author.
This story originally appeared as part of the free podcast, Hall of Mirrors: Tales of Horror and the Grotesque. The podcast is available via the author’s websites: www.MikeBennettPodcast.com and www.Podiobooks.com.
Night Crossing is the prelude to the novel, Underwood and Flinch, available as a free podcast from www.UnderwoodAndFlinch.com, and Podiobooks.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The author would like to thank Pauline McGrath, Jason Andrews for his tireless work on the web sites, Evo Terra at www.Podiobooks.com, and the Mike Bennett Podcast listeners for their ears, support and enthusiasm over the years.
For Pauline,
and Planet U&F
Night Crossing
On a chill night in the spring of 1958, the Cargo ship Glenmalloch sounded its foghorn, as it had done every ten minutes for the last 12 hours, and edged slowly onward through mist towards Spain. The ship had left the Algerian port of Oran the previous morning carrying a cargo of fresh fruit, dates and tobacco; it also carried seven passengers, the majority of whom were in their cabins getting ready for dinner. However, two passengers stood alone at the stern. The men were dressed in formal black suits. The taller man appeared to be in his late thirties, while the shorter, who wore a black overcoat, looked about ten years older. There was an attitude of stoical regret about both men, as if misfortune had recently come to visit and was now reluctant to leave.
‘I’m so sorry, Lord Underwood,’ said the shorter man as he extended his hands to take the body of the cat.
Underwood handed him the corpse and sighed. ‘Never mind, Flinch. I know you did all you could. Let’s just forget about it, shall we?’
‘I know you’re not fond of – ’
‘Really Flinch, forget it,’ Underwood drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open. The second hand wasn’t moving and he tapped gently at the scratched face. The hand began to move. He smiled. ‘What time do you have, Flinch?’
Flinch dropped the cat over the side of the ship and checked his wristwatch. ‘It’s just after eight-thirty, sir.’
‘Hmm,’ Underwood adjusted his watch, wound it and put it back in his pocket. ‘And what’s our current speed? Any idea?’
‘Five knots, sir.’
‘Five knots?’
Underwood looked over the side and down at the sea. The ship’s slow-churning wake confirmed Flinch’s report.
‘It’s the fog, sir. A necessary precaution, I’m told.’
Underwood ran a finger along the hand rail and looked up at the single red and black funnel as the fog horn again sounded its low, two-note warning. ‘I see. So what does that make our estimated time of arrival?’
‘We should reach Malaga in about two hours, sir.’
‘Oh damn. I’d hoped we’d almost be there by now.’
‘Yes, sir. It is regrettable.’
‘Oh well, never mind, eh?’ Underwood began to reach for his cigarette case when he noticed the blood on his hands. ‘Oh, dear. Do you have a hanky or something, Flinch?’
Flinch pulled a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and passed it to his master without a word.
‘Thank you.’ Underwood wiped the blood from his hands then inspected the soiled handkerchief. ‘Sorry, Flinch,’ he handed it back. ‘I’ll get you a replacement when we reach port.’
‘Very kind, sir,’ said Flinch, folding the handkerchief in such a way as to conceal the bloodstains before popping it back into his pocket.
Underwood reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his silver cigarette case. ‘Fag?’
‘Oh, don’t mind if I do, sir.’ Flinch accepted one of the proffered cigarettes and took out his lighter. He extended the flame to Underwood, who leaned forward to meet it.
For a moment, the flame illuminated a pale, handsome, face, though one with an impression of being somewhat undernourished; the cheeks were sunken beneath high, sharp cheekbones. His hair was dark, parted from the left and fashionably slick with Brylcreem that shone in the light from Flinch’s flame.
His cigarette lit, Underwood stepped back. Flinch lit his own cigarette and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. ‘Everything go all right with the car?’ Underwood asked. ‘I didn’t really notice earlier on.’
‘Everything’s fine, sir. It’s lashed securely to the cargo hatch. Not that there’s much chance of it rolling around the deck in this weather.’
‘No indeed. What about the other things? How’s the move going?’
‘All very well, sir. Most of it is, as you know, coming by sea in the next few months. Until then, we’ll have to make do with what’s already in the house.’
‘You mean you’ll have to make do; such things are hardly my concern.’
‘No, sir.’ There was a note of regret in Flinch’s voice and he looked down at his shoes. He noticed a spot of blood on his left toecap and he took out the already-stained handkerchief and bent to wipe it off. He then gave the shoe a brief polish before rising again with an air of complete composure.