wide range of drinks on offer, but most were of the “brought-home-from-holiday-because-we-liked-the-colour” variety, which seemed a good idea at the time when drunk, but inevitably led to severe brain damage the next morning.
“Banana Liquor,” said Jim. “That seems like a good idea.” Twisting away a plastic stopper the shape of Carmen Miranda’s hat, he decanted a large slug of the yellow liquid into his glass. “Anchors away,” said Jim.
There was a loud thump upon the hull of the barge. Pooley stiffened. John, already. He hiccupped foolishly. “You’ll have to hang on a minute,” he giggled. “I’ve not quite got everything.” There was another thump and the sound of something metallic being drawn down the side of the barge. “Now what’s he up to?” queried Jim. “Setting the charges, you buffoon,” he answered himself. “So get a move on.” Pooley took a hasty look around. Most of it was out of focus and none of it really seemed to matter much. He took a deep unsteady breath. He’d be a millionaire soon, who cared about a barge load of booty? This was a new beginning. A new honest beginning. He stumbled over to a nearby porthole and drew aside the blinds.
Peering out, Pooley found himself staring directly into the face of death itself! The face was big and bloated, hideously swollen, a mass of folds and pouches. The skin looked dead and white, the skin of a corpse. But the eyes were alive, round and black with white pupils. Jim drew back in horror, and then in anger. It was the head of a scarecrow, or a somesuch. John was winding him up, and him with a weak heart and everything. And then the eyes blinked, the horrible eyes blinked and a mouth like a gash amongst the folds and flaps of skin opened. It opened to reveal a hideous maw, a gaping black cavern devoid of teeth and gums. And a sound, a voice, a cry … Jim thrust back the blind and lurched back in terror. Turning to make his getaway he caught his foot in the TV cable, wrenched the improvised socket from the wall, fused the lights, plunged the salon into darkness, tripped, fell, struck his head on the cocktail cabinet and knocked himself unconscious.
John Omally climbed down through the open hatchway, clutching a bulging holdall and peered into the darkness. He flicked the light switch. “Damn it,” said he. “Jim, are you in there?”
All was silent, except for the gentle lap of water against the hull. Even the plopping salmon had turned in for the night.
“Jim?” There was no reply. Pooley had evidently done a runner. “Poltroon,” muttered Omally. “I shall have words to say to that lad when I catch up with him. Buggers the electrics, leaves the door open to all and sundry.” He stood up in the hatchway and placed the holdall upon the deck before him. He didn’t need much light for this, it was all down to a single flick of a switch to set the five-minute egg-timer, the work of but a moment.
Omally unzipped the holdall, flipped the switch, rezipped the holdall and received a violent blow to the forehead which sent him tumbling backwards into the blackness of the salon. “What the … who?” Omally sprawled in the dark, cursing and spitting oaths. He drew a deep breath and prepared to come up fighting. The lozenge of moonlight visible through the open hatchway was momentarily blotted out as a dark shape dropped down into the barge after him. “Who is this?” John demanded. “What’s your game?” Something bowled across the floor and struck him in the shins with a sickening crack. Omally screamed in anguish and not a little fury, and doubled up clutching his legs. He fell in an untidy heap on top of an unconscious Jim Pooley.
“Oh, ouch, what’s going on here?” mumbled a bleary drunken voice.
“Pooley, is that you?”
“John? Get off there.” This was the second time in one day that Jim had woken up to find a man on top of him. “John, unhand me … my God, I’ve gone blind.”
“Shut up,
“Banana Liquor,” said Jim. “That seems like a good idea.” Twisting away a plastic stopper the shape of Carmen Miranda’s hat, he decanted a large slug of the yellow liquid into his glass. “Anchors away,” said Jim.
There was a loud thump upon the hull of the barge. Pooley stiffened. John, already. He hiccupped foolishly. “You’ll have to hang on a minute,” he giggled. “I’ve not quite got everything.” There was another thump and the sound of something metallic being drawn down the side of the barge. “Now what’s he up to?” queried Jim. “Setting the charges, you buffoon,” he answered himself. “So get a move on.” Pooley took a hasty look around. Most of it was out of focus and none of it really seemed to matter much. He took a deep unsteady breath. He’d be a millionaire soon, who cared about a barge load of booty? This was a new beginning. A new honest beginning. He stumbled over to a nearby porthole and drew aside the blinds.
Peering out, Pooley found himself staring directly into the face of death itself! The face was big and bloated, hideously swollen, a mass of folds and pouches. The skin looked dead and white, the skin of a corpse. But the eyes were alive, round and black with white pupils. Jim drew back in horror, and then in anger. It was the head of a scarecrow, or a somesuch. John was winding him up, and him with a weak heart and everything. And then the eyes blinked, the horrible eyes blinked and a mouth like a gash amongst the folds and flaps of skin opened. It opened to reveal a hideous maw, a gaping black cavern devoid of teeth and gums. And a sound, a voice, a cry … Jim thrust back the blind and lurched back in terror. Turning to make his getaway he caught his foot in the TV cable, wrenched the improvised socket from the wall, fused the lights, plunged the salon into darkness, tripped, fell, struck his head on the cocktail cabinet and knocked himself unconscious.
John Omally climbed down through the open hatchway, clutching a bulging holdall and peered into the darkness. He flicked the light switch. “Damn it,” said he. “Jim, are you in there?”
All was silent, except for the gentle lap of water against the hull. Even the plopping salmon had turned in for the night.
“Jim?” There was no reply. Pooley had evidently done a runner. “Poltroon,” muttered Omally. “I shall have words to say to that lad when I catch up with him. Buggers the electrics, leaves the door open to all and sundry.” He stood up in the hatchway and placed the holdall upon the deck before him. He didn’t need much light for this, it was all down to a single flick of a switch to set the five-minute egg-timer, the work of but a moment.
Omally unzipped the holdall, flipped the switch, rezipped the holdall and received a violent blow to the forehead which sent him tumbling backwards into the blackness of the salon. “What the … who?” Omally sprawled in the dark, cursing and spitting oaths. He drew a deep breath and prepared to come up fighting. The lozenge of moonlight visible through the open hatchway was momentarily blotted out as a dark shape dropped down into the barge after him. “Who is this?” John demanded. “What’s your game?” Something bowled across the floor and struck him in the shins with a sickening crack. Omally screamed in anguish and not a little fury, and doubled up clutching his legs. He fell in an untidy heap on top of an unconscious Jim Pooley.
“Oh, ouch, what’s going on here?” mumbled a bleary drunken voice.
“Pooley, is that you?”
“John? Get off there.” This was the second time in one day that Jim had woken up to find a man on top of him. “John, unhand me … my God, I’ve gone blind.”
“Shut up,
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