Death of a Supertanker by Antony Trew Page B

as he could. The lights were on but the office was empty. He listened at the door of the dayroom. All he could hear was the thumping of his own heart and his laboured breathing. The door was locked. That confirmed his worst suspicions. He knocked but there was no response, so he banged with his fists but still nothing happened. ‘I know she’s in there‚’ he called. ‘Open up.’ Although he had almost lost control, he did not shout. He had no wish-to advertise his wife’s indiscretions.
    Moments later Jarrett called out, ‘What the devil’s going on there?’ There was the sound of a key turning, the door swung open and the chief officer appeared. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.
    Blinded by rage and jealousy, Foley forced his way past him and made for the bedroom door. It, too, was locked. He banged on it. ‘Come out, Sandy. I know you’re there.’ His voice was hoarse with emotion. Before he could get an answer Jarrett was hauling him off the door. Foley wrenched free, got an arm round the chief officer’s neck, took a wide stance and threw him to thedeck. ‘Get up, you bastard, and I’ll give you what you deserve.’ It was a hoarse, threatening growl.
    Jarrett scrambled to his feet, raised his fists and made for the second officer. ‘Come on, do that,’ he said in a voice thick with anger.
    Foley waded in with flailing fists and wild swinging punches. What he lacked in skill he made up in sheer rage and animal strength. Both men were strong, there was little between them in height and weight, but Jarrett was the cooler fighter and he held Foley off with solid lefts and rights to the head. Had the fight gone on one or the other would probably have been knocked out. As it was the bedroom door swung open and Sandy emerged in the white caftan, her eyes wild, her hair untidy.
    ‘Stop it, you maniacs,’ she shrilled, clawing at them. ‘Stop it, for God’s sake. You’ll kill each other.’
    That brought them to their senses and they stood, bruised and dishevelled, their arms at their sides, breathing heavily. Blood trickling from Jarrett’s nose and from a cut on his eyebrow left crimson stains on his white shirt and shorts. Foley’s lower lip was swollen and bleeding, and he had bruises on his forehead.
    ‘For God’s sake try and behave like civilized human beings,’ she implored looking from one to the other, her eyes alternately threatening and pleading. ‘All right? Now let’s go.’ She went out of the dayroom. Foley followed her to the door, stopped and looked back. ‘Keep your hands off my wife, Jarrett, or I’ll kill you.’
    Jarrett gestured angrily, turned away. ‘Oh, get to hell out of it‚’ he muttered.
     
    They got back to their accommodation and Foley shut the door. She turned to him, her face white and drawn. ‘I’m sorry, George. Terribly sorry. I know I’ve let you down.’
    He gave her a long hard look, shook his head, but said nothing. He went into the bathroom, took off the blood-stained shirt and filled the hand basin with water. She came in a few minutes later. ‘Can I help?’ she asked in a low voice.
    ‘No. Don’t touch me. Go to bed. You’ve done enough damage already.’
    She went into the bedroom and he heard her sobbing but he was in no way moved. It was too late for tears. He got on with dabbing the swollen lip and the bruise on his forehead, usingwater as hot as he could bear. After he’d dried his hands and face he put on a clean shirt. He felt a grim satisfaction that most of the blood on the one he’d taken off was Jarrett’s.
    The phone in the dayroom rang. He looked at his watch. It was eleven minutes since he’d left the bridge. He picked up the phone. ‘Two-Oh here.’
    ‘Captain here, Foley. How’s your wife?’
    He was ready for this. He’d been rehearsing it as he bathed his bruises. ‘All right, sir. I’ll be up in a moment. There was a short on the bedside lamp. The lead started smouldering. Sandy woke