Flying Dutch полностью

“Well,” the man was saying, “if that’s the Red Lion, then that over there must be north. Try turning the map the other way up and then we’ll see.”

Jane thought for a moment. It was worth a try.

“So that’s the Red Lion,” she said. “I wonder what was there before.”

“A butcher’s shop,” Vanderdecker replied. Then he lifted his head and stared at her.

“And when would that have been?” Jane said. Her voice was quiet, slightly triumphant, and more than a little bit frightened. The Red Lion had been built, according to the smugly-worded inn sign, in 1778.

“Before your time,” Vanderdecker replied.

“But not yours.”

“No”, said the Flying Dutchman. “Not a lot is. Have you been looking for me?”

“Yes,” Jane replied sheepishly.

“Then,” Vanderdecker said through a weak smile, “you’ve made a pretty lousy job of it. This is the third time we’ve met. Small world, isn’t it?”

Jane seemed to shrink back from even this tiny display of aggression, and Vanderdecker suddenly felt a great compacted mass of fear sliding away from him. It was like having your ears syringed; you could perceive so much more without it. Jane said nothing for a long time, and then looked at him.

“I imagine,” she said carefully, “that someone in your position would think so.” She felt that she ought to add “Mr Vanderdecker” at the end of the sentence, but that would be too much like a detective story. She waited for a reply.

“Too right,” he replied, and the smile began to solidify, like wax dropped on a polished table. “Small and extremely boring.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Just to make sure we’re not talking at cross purposes, do you know who I am?”

“I think so,” she said. “I think you’re Julius Vanderdecker.”

For some reason, he had expected her to say “The Flying Dutchman.” It was a nickname he had always hated—Dutchman yes, perfectly true, but why “Flying”, for pity’s sake?—and the fact that she used his proper name was somehow rather touching.

“And you’ve been looking for me?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“I see.” His face seemed to relax, as he said. “Will you just bear with me while I go and see about my ship? Then we can go and have a drink and talk about it.”

“Fine,” Jane said. Very matter-of-fact. Very civilised. Noel Coward saying it’s a fair cop, but do let’s be adult about it. “Mind if I come too?”

“Be my guest,” Vanderdecker said. “You can watch a master liar at work, if you don’t mind being an accomplice.”

“Doesn’t worry me,” Jane replied. “I’m an accountant.”

♦

Very slowly and cautiously, Danny Bennett peeled back the blanket from over his head and looked about him. He was not one of those shallow people who judge by first impressions; he needed more data before he could responsibly start to scream.

A man in a threadbare woollen doublet, patched hose and a baseball cap walked past him and gave him a friendly smile, which Danny did his best to return. The curiously-dressed one started to climb the rigging of the ship. After a long climb he reached the unrailed wooden platform (was that the crow’s nest, or was that the little thing like a bran-tub at the very top? Briefly, Danny regretted not reading the Hornblower book his grandmother had given him when he was twelve); then he waved, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Danny’s eyes instinctively closed; the tiny muscles of his eyelids were perfectly capable to taking that sort of decision without referring back to the central authority between his ears. As soon as his conscious mind had reasserted its authority he looked for a broken mush of flesh and bone-splinters. Instead, he saw the badly-dressed man picking himself up off the deck, apparently unharmed, and shouting to someone else. Someone else was also dressed like one of those comic relief characters in The Merchant of Venice whose names Danny could never remember, except that he had a Dire Straits tee-shirt instead of a doublet, and a baselard and dusack hung from his broad leather belt. A production of The Merchant of Venice at the Barbican, he decided.

“Hey!” shouted the sky-diver, “I want a word with you.”

The heavily-armed man turned his head. “You talking to me?” he said.

“Too right I’m talking to you.” The sky-diver pointed to one of the many tears in his doublet. “Look at that.”

“I’m looking,” replied the other man. “What about it?”

“That’s your fault,” said the sky-diver angrily.

“Really?” The other man didn’t seem impressed. “How do you make that out?”

“Look,” said the sky-diver, “you’re meant to be the carpenter on this ship, it’s down to you to make sure there’s no nails sticking up where people can tear their clothes on them every time they take a jump.”