The Defector Page 21

  I chewed heavily on mine; it had gone dry in my mouth. I took a drink to try and wash it down. Well my friend, I thought, if you've told Janac where we are there is every possibility that I'll vanish, just like your precious career. And you'll be going with me.

  Chapter 21

  I checked the time, just before one, I'd only got another hour to go. I wiped the gathering beads of perspiration from my forehead again, and shifted a little to try and get comfortable. It was just about the hottest part of the day and it made the freezing southerly’s seem like a pleasant dream. There was nowhere to escape the heat. The awning we had rigged over the cockpit yesterday morning, when the wind completely ran out, had helped a lot. But with this easterly filling in and building, it had had to come down when the sails went back up. So Duval and I took it in turns to steer, whilst the other struggled to stay in the patches of shade provided by the sails.

  It was just as bad below decks. Despite our efforts to dry everything it was like a sauna down there, as all the ingrained damp of the heavy weather sailing steamed quietly back into the atmosphere. At least the air moved up here. Not much, as we eased along on a starboard beam reach, but it did move. Down below, with only the two hatches and no windows, another feature of these damn racing boats, there was precious little throughput of air. I felt I'd breathed some of that stuff four or five times already. But Ben assured me that with the easterly slowly filling in, things would get better. For a while at least. Thirty miles or so ahead was Rossel Island, the eastern tip of the Louisiade Archipelago, which spread out from the south east toe of Papua New Guinea. After a stopover there we had to head north-west, and unless the wind changed this would turn us downwind once more. The apparent wind would shift aft and the cooling breeze would disappear. This much I had learnt in a couple of minutes at the chart with Ben that morning.

  That, at least, had temporarily relieved the other principal occupational hazard - boredom. Especially when Duval was steering. Then I knew where he was, so watching him wasn't a problem either and there was little else to do. In the light-ish airs he could click the autopilot on when he needed to adjust something and do it himself. I didn't even need to be on deck. When I was steering it was a little harder. Having to look after the boat and keep an eye on him. But in the last thirty one hours he had made no effort to go near the radio. He had just sprawled on the foredeck, reading what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of books.

  Nothing else had happened either. We hadn't seen a boat, never mind search planes or helicopters. Nothing, just mile after mile of empty ocean. I had started to think that Kate might be right, maybe I was paranoid. The deep concern had slipped away, leaving me with just a faintly ill-at-ease feeling. And, nearly two hundred miles on, I had still only had that one conversation with Kate. It's almost impossible to talk to someone alone on an eighty foot boat with three other people around. Particularly when they seem to be ducking you. I didn't want to admit it but I was fast being forced back to the conclusion I had reached during the storm. She was avoiding me. What that meant, gave me something new to worry about.

  ‘How's it going Martin.’

  I looked over to the aft hatch, where Ben was emerging. He at least, and alone, was still talking to me.

  ‘You're not on for an hour yet Ben, what's the problem?’

  ‘Too hot to sleep down there, thought I'd come up and sling some lines over the back, see if I can't catch us something to alleviate the tinned diet.’ He sat down on the cockpit floor and started to untangle the line and lure, ‘Don't know why I didn't think about it before, while I was up here myself. Too tired, I guess. Pretty hard work that weather.’

  I looked at him with interest. He hadn't shown much sign of tiredness, and I said as much.

  ‘I guess you get used to operating in that stuff, so it doesn't show too much. But I still feel it alright. I'm not getting any younger either.’ he answered, head down over the fishing tackle.

  I'd been curious about that as well, ‘So how old are you then Ben?’

  He looked up, ‘Me? I'm thirty eight. Too old for this shit, that's for sure.’

  ‘You're older than both Scott and Duval.’ I said, it was half a question and half a statement. I'd lowered my voice too, and glanced forward. But Duval was fifty feet away, in the shade of the genoa.

  ‘Uhhuh.’ he replied non-committally, head back down over the fishing lines. He seemed to be making a bigger tangle, rather than a smaller one.

  I let that one lie for a while and concentrated on my steering. But the boat was almost sailing herself, trickling along with a gentle slap slap of the bow wave. ‘So I'm confused over who is the skipper.’ I said, ‘Scott's in charge, but back in Sydney Kate said it was Duval?’ I half knew the answer to that question, but I wanted to get him to talk about it. Partly because I was interested and partly because if I didn't talk to somebody about something soon, I'd go crazy.

  Ben looked up again, and this time he leaned back against the cockpit side, and studied me a little more closely. ‘They both are. The responsibility shifts depending on what the boat is doing. It's Scott's job to prepare the boat for each regatta, or race. During that time, like now when it's on delivery, he's the skipper. When the preparation is complete and the boat is practicing or racing Duval takes over. There's a few borderline areas but that's roughly how it works.’ he stopped, but didn't go back to the tangle in his lap. It seemed like someone was going to talk to me for a while.

  ‘Back in Sydney Kate said being the racing skipper was better?’ I asked quickly, before the moment disappeared.

  Ben smiled, ‘Did she now? Well that depends on your outlook. Far as I'm concerned Scott's the man. But he gets none of the public recognition, and little of the money. The two jobs are totally different. Duval is the front man, he nobs it with the guys who pay for all this,’ he waved his arm dismissively at the couple of million dollars worth of hardware we were sitting on, ‘he does the interviews, has his photo taken, and he carries the can if the boat doesn't get results. I guess he's responsible to the sponsor for value for money. The problem is that a lot of that stuff can lose you respect with the guys. The ones that sail the boat. Some of the things you have to say and do, whether you mean it or not, it's hard not to look ridiculous.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The self-promotion, press releases about yourself, pumping up your profile in the magazines and papers. The kind of stuff you have to say to make the sponsors pay attention, makes you look foolish to the people on the inside. The problem is that you need those same people to sail and run the boat. Duval comes from multi-hulls, single-handers, so it wasn't a problem for him before. He didn't need anyone else. But when he got into the Whitbread, well, he found it was different. He needs the boys, the crew, to respect him. And they don't have so much respect for someone who spends all his time writing his own press releases. With Duval it's even worse.’ Ben shifted slightly, and paused a little to think. I'd underestimated this guy, he certainly knew what was going on, and his different perspective to Kate's was interesting.

  ‘We're in the Southern Ocean, ok? It's blowing like hell, forty, fifty knots and building, forty foot waves. The chicken chute is up and the boat is smoking. It's absolutely freezing, so cold you can't touch metal without gloves on or you stick to it. The boat's on a knife edge of control, adrenalin's going so hard you can smell it. You know you should get the kite down, but who the hell is going forward to do it? No one. And anyway it's a race. He who pushes hardest and stays in one piece, wins. So on you go, faster than you ever been, till something gives.’

  ‘Finally the driver gets it wrong and wham, she spins out to windward. The pole's in the water, and the kite's in shreds. The main's pinning the boat down, a couple of guys are floating out the back on lifelines - all kinds of hell. Anyway, it sorts itself out eventually after you shit yourself for ten minutes, gets back upright and off you go. Trouble is, half the kite's still up there. So now someone has to get it down. But it's worse, mu
ch worse. You got to go up the rig to retrieve the halyard, cause there's only one left, since we've done this once already.’

  ‘You're all standing there waiting for someone else, usually the bowman, to be dumb enough to get going on it, when Duval comes on deck and starts blowing off about how much time we're losing with no sails up, and why isn't it sorted? It isn't his job, he's the skipper right? One of the boys has to go, so who you going to do it for? You look at Duval, and you see this guy making more money in a month than you get for the whole damn race. He gets himself on telly, in the papers, it's like he sails the boat on his own. I mean, I don't care too much for all that, but even so, you can't help but be a little bit jealous, can you?’ He paused, pulled his sunglasses off and wiped them on the tail of his tee shirt a little self-consciously, perhaps at the nature of this last revelation. I was silent, waiting for him to go on.

  The sunglasses were carefully replaced, and he continued, ‘So, am I going to risk my neck to make him look good? We could just leave the damn thing up there till the breeze backs off a bit after all, but we're racing. So who you going to put it on the line for? Not Duval, he can go up there and fetch it himself far as I'm concerned. No, you do that stuff for Scott, because the first time it happens he's already got the harness on and he's looking to you to get him up that mast. He leads by example you know? And he's only got to do it once because the next time the boys'll sort it for him. He's out there with you, taking the risks, for no money, just like you. And when you finish he's in the bar, getting trashed and doing crazy things with you. The boys'll follow him anywhere, do anything for him.’

  ‘But Duval? He must've done it once on those big multi-hulls. No one else to do it for him. I'm not saying he doesn't have the balls. But now, I guess he just figures there's only so many risks you can take. He isn't up for it any more, and the boys don't respect him so much. Especially with all that bullshit self-promotion he has to do for the sponsor. And Duval loves that stuff, he goes over the top on it. So that's why he needs Scott. On his first Whitbread he didn't have him and he did alright, but me and Scott were on Eagle and we beat 'em good. So next time around Scott's first on the payroll, and we take five out of six legs. I'm not saying that it's like that on all the boats, but it is on this one. Some of the skippers, they manage to do both jobs. Scott and Duval into one. But it's a hell of a fine line. You see them doing something dumb to keep the crews on-side, and you know if they get caught the press'll chew their arse and the sponsor walks. They risk their neck on the boat and get hurt, the result goes down the tube and the same thing. It isn't easy.’ He paused again and sighed heavily.

  ‘But Katie, she doesn't see any of that. All she sees is Duval with his big fat pay cheque, and the fast cars, getting invited to all the smart parties. You know as well as I do that she was brought up with that stuff, her old man is high-up in some big company back in England or something. So she sees it all and figures why can't Scott do that job? Everybody says he's good enough, and he is, on the boat. But he can't ever do all the other stuff that Duval does. He's the wrong kind of guy, he's a sailor's sailor, not a media man's sailor. That's the difference. He isn't ever going to give her those things, however much she pushes him. I think he'd like to, but it isn't going to happen. It's worse because she never sees the stuff Scott is good at, so she doesn't appreciate it. Hearing about it isn't quite the same. So, sure, the racing skipper is the glamour boy, but Scott's my man.’

  He stopped, and looked at me with an uncertain smile, I could guess what was on his mind. But I didn't think he'd have the nerve to say it. And I was right, he just looked away. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘I never realised, you see these things from the outside, and you never know.’ I said quickly, for something to say.

  He shook his head ruefully, ‘I could tell you some stories, there was a boat back in the '77 race...’ but he stopped again. I had heard it too. The sound of Duval's footsteps coming back down the deck, I looked up.

  ‘You want me to take her for a while?’ he said.

  I glanced back at Ben, but he was gone, aft with his lines. ‘Ok.’ I moved aside, as he stepped in behind the wheel.

  I was just about to move forward to chase the shade, when Scott stuck his head out of the hatch.

  ‘We want to come off five degrees if we're going to make that island.’

  ‘What island?’ said Duval.

  ‘Twenty eight miles ahead, we're going to stop there, get cleaned up, see if we can get ashore and have a look around.’

  Duval was shaking his head, ‘No way Scott.’

  ‘What do you mean no way? We're days ahead of schedule.’

  ‘You know I have business to do in London. You pressured me into this trip, now you want to rub it in by cruising up there?’ Duval's voice was tight, serious.

  Scott climbed out of the hatch, his jaw set. Ben was looking back from the stern, with a mixed expression. I just kept very still, this wasn't my beef.

  ‘I pressured you into it?’ Scott started, his voice mocking Duval's anger, ‘You know there's no money, who else was going to do it?’

  ‘You could have found someone.’ said Duval in his resentful nasal whine.

  ‘I could have found someone?’ Scott was incredulous, ‘It's my responsibility to find a replacement so you can go back to London and tidy up a sponsorship deal that I have no interest in? This is my last trip, I fly back from Hong Kong to a British winter and no job, and you want me to hurry it?’

  ‘That's bullshit Scott.’ Duval was angry now, ‘You go home at the end of your contract, after the Brewery sell the boat. That's when the regatta's over in Hong Kong. It makes no difference when you get there, you can holiday there or here.’

  ‘What makes you think I'm going to do the regatta?’ said Scott icily.

  Duval was quiet, when he replied his voice was flat, without the menace the meaning delivered, ‘You will Scott, the new guys don't start work till Rollen's get the boat. You break that contract, you'll never work on a race boat again.’

  Scott looked, and sounded, stunned, ‘You really think you're that powerful don't you?’

  Duval stared at him, expressionless, the sunglasses a mask. Scott shook his head, ‘Where do you get off Duval? Ok, let's just get there. Forget the island. The sooner I'm out of sight of you the less likely I am to throw up on you.’ He turned to go down the hatch, but started when he saw me. I could see the thought cross his face, like a summer cloud on a field. But he said nothing.

  Chapter 22

  I felt the shadow cast across my face by the genoa strengthen. I opened my eyes and the silhouette above me was unmistakeably Kate's. I sat up quickly and shaded my eyes so I could see her face, she was smiling nervously.

  ‘I just had a long talk to Scott. We have to talk also, I have some things to say.’

  I nodded, and she sat down beside me. She gazed at the water for a while. ‘You have to understand, Martin, that he thinks everything is being taken away from him. The only two things he cares about. Duval's destroying his sailing and you're threatening his relationship with me. There's nothing else in his life. Maybe he should've tried harder to replace Duval on this trip. But you, he didn't ask for, and he's got. And while you're here, you just remind him constantly that someday, maybe soon, I might leave him. He hates you for that.’ she paused, glanced up at me, ‘The situation with you and Scott is impossible. Every time you look at me it winds him up, it's getting worse and worse. I can't stand all this tension and hate. If at least you two can get along, we only have to worry about Duval. Do you understand?’

  I was the one who looked away. It crossed my mind how artificial this conversation would seem under more normal circumstances. It would never be necessary with the luxury of distance and the separation that afforded. When I looked back she was staring at the ocean again. I'd never had it this bad before. I spoke softly, ‘I can get a job back in London, a good one Kate. It won't be like it was three years ago. That's all over, I'v
e changed. Come back with me. You know,’ I hesitated, striving to see her reaction, but she was quiet and still, as though hypnotised by the static motion of the bow wave. I plunged on, ‘you know you're too good for this, for him. You know that, and you know that he'll never make you completely happy. You've changed too and there are so many things he can't give you that I can. The break will only get harder the longer it goes on. Be honest now Kate and everyone will be hurt less in the end.’

  There was only the chuckle of the forefoot ploughing up the Pacific. The faint rise and fall of the boat's loping passage. But her shoulders were starting to tremble and before she looked up I knew she was crying.

  ‘Don't Martin please don't.’ she put her hands to her face, and when she spoke again it was through them.

  ‘I have to think, I don't know... I'm not sure about anything anymore. Please just stay away for a while. It's too difficult...’ She buried her face in her hands, and stifled the sobs.

  I reached out and squeezed her shoulder gently, just once, ‘It's alright Kate, that's best for everyone. Please just think about what I said?’

  She nodded, a tiny movement, but it was there. There was nothing more to say or do.

  ‘I'm sorry for everything Martin.’ she said. ‘Please be patient, don't make it any worse.’ she gazed at me earnestly.

  I nodded, eyes lifting over her shoulder, towards the stern. It was empty. A cold fear gripped me.

  ‘Where's Duval?’ I said quickly, everything else forgotten. I was already on my feet, heart racing. I flew down the deck and was half-way through the navigator's hatch before he had even managed to rise from the seat, the microphone still in his hand. His look of guilty surprise was enough to tell me who he'd been radioing.

  ‘You stupid bastard Duval!’ I screamed.

  He was too taken aback to offer any resistance, verbal or otherwise. I grabbed the microphone from his hand, ripped the plug from the set and hurled it across the boat. In the same motion I hauled him out of the seat and threw him into the bulkhead. The impact knocked all the air from his wiry frame. I was back on him in a second, both hands round his throat, he was no match for my size and weight. But then I felt Ben's arm, trying to pull me away.