Drinks at the Three Sails

Artur and Mikhail the ship captain were propped up against the bar of the only hostelry in town that looked like it might welcome sea faring men such as themselves. The Three Sails pub consisted of two small wood panelled rooms that you entered through a small door off a long narrow hallway. The building was right in the centre of the small, pretty yet sinister town that they had moored up at, not two miles from the terrifying temple that both men were now desperately trying to wipe from their mind with the help of drink.

They should have been in a celebratory mood, after all they would now be rich men when they returned home but neither man could bear to look at the white suitcase wedged between their two barstools. Artur’s stomach still felt sore and empty from vomiting though it did not stop him from downing shot after shot of rough cheap rum. There were much finer brands of spirits on display behind the smart polished oak and zinc bar where they were sat and with their pockets full of money both men could have bought any drink they wanted.  But the glistening gold decorated glass bottles were not an appropriate drink for men of the sea or for the occasion.

At the same time Outside the black and white fronted hostelry the lock keeper leant his red rusty bicycle against the low window ledge that looked out onto the road. On his back was a worn blue cloth rucksack, sticking out of the tightly pulled drawstrings at the top was the neck of his beloved ukulele. The instrument that had been forged high in the Grenadian hills. Above his head the painted sign of The Three Sails pub creaked gently and swung back and forth in the winter breeze.

He peered through the window; where there were tables full of well to do patrons eating tiny portions of elaborate food on gigantic white plates. The scene filled him with sadness and anger in equal measure, everything had changed. The pub had once been owned by a friend of his, then it had been a haven for folk of all types. Every evening the bar had been full of steamer captains, river pirates and asparagus smugglers all rubbing shoulders together, whilst fiddle music filled the air. The old pirates would tell long forgotten tales of river heroes and rogues as gypsy women danced and stamped on the hardwood floor. It was only these memories that had kept him coming back to this place, well that and the ale and the hope that one day he might spot a face from the days when the river and their folk had been full of life.

He stepped into the long galley like passageway that ran all the way down to the stern of The Three Sails. The flaked white painted wood always made him feel as if he was in the bowels of an old tea clipper headed out into the ocean for India.  None of the fixtures of The Three Sails were ever quite straight, a painting at an angle a crooked lamp on the wall it all added to the atmosphere of a ship lilting as it crashed through the waves. The lock keeper approached the frosted glass door that led to the public bar, pushed it open and stepped in, the door swung shut behind him causing the glass to rattle. He scanned the room out of hope more than anything for a familiar face but saw none, just table after table full of estate agents, bankers, wealthy rowing coaches and their jewel encrusted women. He gave a silent sigh and walked over to the bar leaning on a spot that the bar keeper was furiously trying to polish. A small smile came across the lock keepers face when he saw the barman who had given up trying to polish the spot on the bar where the lock keepers elbow was now resting and had moved on to rub the enamel badge on the ale pump of the months guest beer

“Old Man Mind fuck” a strong dark malty ale with alleged hallucinogenic qualities and the lock keepers personal favourite. He threw down two sovereigns onto the bar “pint of Mind Fuck please.”

The Lock keeper was half way through his second pint of Olde Mindfuck and the room was already starting to spin like a carousel in his head  finally his eyes came to a rest on the faces of the two strangers he had seen on the river earlier that day.

The two men were slumped over the bar; both faces were a stony grey, drained of life but their eyes were still wild like a rough swell in the sea and clearly unnerved the other patrons who were giving the strangers a wide berth.

He felt an instant kinship with the two foreigners sprawled over the bar, not only were they outcasts but they too were men of the waters of the world. He pulled up a stool next to them, took of his yellow windcheater and with a thud placed down his pint of Mindfuck on the polished wood bar, its mind altering foam running down the side of the glass. The lock keeper checked his watch there was still two hours until the appointment with his therapist, plenty of time to get drunk.

Artur and the Captain looked up as the long haired man shuffled himself onto the stool next to them. By the foot of the man’s stool was a dirty old canvas bag with the neck of a mahogany coloured musical instrument poking from the top. Artur nodded as the man turned to him raised his glass and gulped down the brown liquid before wiping the foam from his moustache and grinning at the sailor.

“Ahoy there” said the lock keeper “you are them men from the boat that barely squeezed through my lock today, so what brings you to these lands, riches? And gave a wink.

Artur did not answer but turned to his Captain, after all he had always told Artur to keep their business to themselves lest they fall foul of the authorities. He got no answer for his superior was lying with his face flat on the bar; intermittently loud snores came from the Russian’s mouth.

Artur watched as the lock keeper drained yet another pint of the sickly smelling brown ale.

“Aaah Mindfuck it hits the spot every time” said the man with the long hair smacking his lips together “so tell me, what brings you boys so far from the Baltic?”

Artur felt as if an elevator had just dropped 3 floors in his stomach. How did this ma know they usually plied their trade in the Baltic seas, he wondered if the man also knew what him and Mikhail had been party only a few hours ago? The face of Torado peering out from between the wooden bars of his island cage flooded Artur’s mind, the blood that dripped from the swans feathers that were wrapped around the dainty women it was all too much for him, his face went white and he unsteadily started to rock back and forth on the stool. The room started to spin as if he was suffering land sickness, every so often the spinning stopped and he would find himself staring at a large gold framed mirror guilt, fear and shame staring back at him.

The lock keeper just about managed to catch the young sailor before he crashed from his stool onto the pine deck of the hostelry, he perched the sea farer back onto his stool as if he was righting a toy boat in a bath and refilled the young man’s shot glass.

Artur in need of a friendly ear and completely overwhelmed by the day’s events let the whole terrible tale tumble from his lips. He told the lock keeper about the child thrown in the icy waters of the Baltic, their sinister blonde employers and finally taking a deep breath explained the terrifying scene he had witnessed on the island.

The lock keeper leant close his shoulders hunched down listening intently to the stories of kidnap, rendition and occult worship. Periodically he poured the cheap rum from the bottle with the anchor label into the sailors shot glass. The tale he was told by the young Polish sailor confirmed many of the lock keepers long held conspiracy theories about what was happening to his sacred river and the island that had once been occupied by an ancient order of Franciscan monks.

The men sat at the bar together for another hour drinking but not saying a word, Mikhail the captain was still asleep his face now in a bowl of peanuts, the lock keeper and Artur deep in mists of rum and Mindfuck ale. The lock keeper checked his watch he was late for his appointment with Signora Robbiati the therapist, he downed the dregs of his pint bade the sea farers farewell and stumbled out into the night.

A Black ship slips into the Thames

Condensation slowly worked its way like snails down the hot water pipe and then onto the neck of Torado, the cold droplets tickling him before running down his back where they were dried out by the heat being emitted from the pipe the Mexican midfielder was shackled to. The room was dark now but out of the porthole window he could see thousands of diffused lights they appeared to be hanging in the sky, glowing orange behind the fog that curled and wrapped itself like a cloak over the estuary of the Thames. As the black ship slipped silently through the water toward the city; huge power stations along the river bank jutted up high above the boat spitting poisonous smoke into the air, turning the sky completely red. In the distance a clock towers bell rang out and clanged twelve times. Torado tried to move his left leg. It had fallen asleep and when it finally awoke it started to tingle as if it had been wrapped in a blanket of green nettles. The ropes that bound his legs loosened a little as he shuffled his body; just enough to let the blood start to flow back down his leg awakening it from its slumber.

In the distance he heard the bells of a clock tower chime, the clang crossed the still waters and shroud of fog before reverberating twelve times around the engine room of the boat, the pipes ringing back in response. There were more lights coming through the small round window of his cell now and as the billows of fog parted for a second, he saw a foreboding looking building that loomed over the banks of the river. Torado did not know that this was the seat of British government but the scene reminded him of a painting of London that his school teacher Signor Bolivar had once shown him. In the painting was a similar looking building he could still hear Signor Bolivar’s voice telling him and the rest of the class the tragic story that accompanied the picture. The demise of a heroic character called Guy Fawkes, they had all decided in the class that day that this man was a true Rio Grandean at heart.

He watched as the ship started to pass the building that was pushing its chest out over the river with a colonial arrogance. Torado thought of Guy Fawkes, his old teacher Signor Bolivar, the classroom he had sat in as a child that looked out over the hills of Rio Grandé. He thought of his beloved Papito’s avocado farm where he and Suarez had played as children, then of his friends and team mates and the homeland and life he had been torn from. He felt a vacuum of loneliness engulf him, pulling his memories from his mind, at that very moment he knew he was to die completely alone.

Alone in the floating cell, only the hum from the engine to break the silence Torado craved companionship even a moment would do, just another human being to remind him he still existed. He thought of the young ship mate Artur who had bought him the delicious soup with the feather light dumplings, the kindness the young man had shown and how Torado had hoped he would see him again. But no one came and as the ship started to leave the city behind in its wake, the lights become fewer and fewer their glow starting to fade until they started to twinkle and then blink on off winking at Torado; he felt his eyes start to lose focus and his head became groggy. His eyelids shut pulled their shutters down and one by one the lights were flicked off in the jumble aisles of Torado’s mind until all became quiet and visions of the Rio Grandean hills floated behind the Mexican midfielder’s eyes.

The sound of the ships horn awoke Torado with a start, he would have jumped up if he his arms and legs had not been bound to the water pipe. a rhythmic tapping came from the glass of the porthole window, it was daylight now a steady rain was falling outside and clattering against the walls of the engine room of the ship. Torado felt the boat come to a standstill, he could still here the propellers running below though, churning up the murky green Thames waters. A huge bird squawked and beat its wings as it flew past the small round window , Torado watched as its long yellow beak snapped itself around the tail of a small squirming fish.  From above his head on the ship deck he could hear the muffled sounds of raised voices, then silence. After a minute or two from somewhere on the riverbank came the unmistakeable lilting sounds of a Spanish guitar. The music sounded both mournful and defiant at once, Torado cocked his ear to hear more clearly, the sounds of the strings reminded him of home of Suarez of everything he loved; a single tear wound its way down his cheek like a small tributary searching for its river. The ships engine roared into life, the horn sounded and the sounds of the guitar were drowned out by the humming that filled the engine room. Torado’s aquatic prison lurched forward and they were on the move again. The boat must have not moved forward more than 100 yards before it came to an abrupt halt again, the engines were killed and once again the sounds of the guitar drifted through the window, Torado listened as each string struck filled the empty void of the four walls of his prison.

Across the frozen seas

The figures on the beach started to fade behind the bank of grey cloud that hung over the coastline until it was impossible to distinguish whether they were people or just jets of strange shaped strata hanging over the black sands. The ship carried Torado out further into the choppy waters of the Baltic, the Mexican stood there alone on the deck bound and gagged, his heart shattered into small sharp pieces that scored his skin from the inside. A malevolent mist sunk down and enshrouded the ship, he thought of his friend Suarez back there on the beach, the friend who he was sure he would never see again. Torado stayed there on the deck for hours his legs tightly bound unable to move, thinking about the many evening he and Suarez has spent together.  They would sit there watching the moon float high up above the Rio Grandean lakes and rivers together, bathed in comforting silence as they held their bamboo fishing rods and looked out on the still shining waters.

Night fell but there was no moon that night as the black ship lilted and rocked with each crash of the wave against its rusting hull. A fierce rain storm swept over the vessel depositing at least 3 inches of ice cold salt stained Baltic water over the deck. The freezing water covering Torado’s bare feet and biting at his ankles. His whole body shivered, his feet felt numb and the rocking of the ship had turned Torado’s face an unpleasant green. Waves of nausea swept over the Mexican midfielder. The pink silk gag that had been stuffed and tied tightly round his mouth on the jetty made it impossible for Torado to catch his breath and he started to be overwhelmed by a sense of dread and panic. He bit down hard on the gag tearing at it with his teeth until at last the silken strands started to rip and the gag came loose. He opened his mouth wide and inhaling sharply filled it with the sea air taking it down deep into his lungs; then he started to vomit and losing any sense of equilibrium keeled over and crashed down into the lake of water that covered the ship’s deck. Torado tasted the wet salt on his lips and coughed and spluttered as he tried to keep his nose and mouth above the ever rising tide.

One of his captors stepped out of a large blue iron door and onto the deck, his yellow windcheater flapping about like a distressed albatross in the gale force wind that lashed at the ship. He saw Torado on the floor and grabbed him by his legs dragging his body through the metal door and down the long Iron staircase bashing the Mexican midfielders head on each step deep into the bowels of the vessel. The man in the yellow windcheater opened another stiff rusty door and pulled the vomiting Torado into the room tying the Mexicans arms behind a long red metal pipe that snaked its way up to the ceiling then left the bruised and sea water covered midfielder alone, with only the aches and groans of the ships pipework for company. Exhausted and destroyed Torado succumbed to sleep.

A few hours later sunlight began to filter its way through the tiny porthole into the engine room. The light dappled and danced over the Mexican’s eyelids, the sun god Tonatiuh trying to wake the Mexican as gently as possible.  Torado opened his eyes, winced with pain his head bruised from the previous night’s trip from the deck to the engine room. He looked around his new prison cell, the room hummed with the noise of the ships engine and the heat had dried out Torado’s clothes which were now starched stiff from the sea salt. The pipe he had been tied against was so hot that he no longer shivered but started to sweat as the pipe burned at his back. A groaning noise came from the other end of the room and the heavy iron door slowly started to open revealing the face of a young looking man he did not recognize.

In the hands of the young man was a large bohemian patterned bowl, steam was rising up from it and a smell so earthy and sweet drifted across the room that Torado’s stomach started to grumble for attention. The young man, who was no more than a boy really, stepped nervously closer towards the wild eyes of the man bound to the water pipe, then knelt down and offered the prisoner the steaming hot bowl, gently lifting it to Torado’s lips.

The hot purple broth scolded Torado’s mouth as he tried to greedily drink it down.

“Slowly” said the boy “it is good beetroot, will make you feel stronger, settle your stomach”

The young seaman blew on the soup to cool it and Torado took another gulp, the soup tasted so good, sweet and sour all at once, he could feel its restorative properties going to work as it slid down his throat. The boy who called himself “Artur” plunged a spoon into the broth and fished out a pale coloured dumpling and popped it in Torado’s mouth, the pastry membrane quickly dissolved filling the Mexican’s mouth with the delicious taste of fatty pork and sugared cabbage and for the first time since he could recall Torado smiled. The innocent face of Artur smiled back “I know you, you are a footballer, a Rio Grandean no?” then dug the spoon in his hand back into the bowl offering the midfielder another delicious dumpling. Torado savoured the sweet roasted pork meat once again and as the flavour filled his mouth he realised that this young man was the first person to have spoken to him since his abduction.  He swallowed the silky pastry down and looked at the naïve face of the man-boy and nodded. “Yes my name is Torado it is a pleasure to meet you.”

The young man set the soup bowl down.

“I am Artur the ships mate, the four men who boarded the ship with you, say you are a dangerous terrorist, I do not think I believe this. The men are cold and unfriendly I do not trust them but my Captain says they pay us big money, so no questions.”

Torado still ravenous pointed at the blue flower covered bowl and Artur lifted it back to the mouth of the midfielder who drained the rest of the now less scalding broth down his throat then thanked the ships mate for his kindness.

Young Artur stood up and winked at Torado “there is no need to thank me; it is an honour to serve my mamuska’s beetroot soup to such a footballing legend” 

Torado smiled with embarrassment and looked out of the porthole, where in the distance he could see the snow-capped spires of a city that appeared to look as if it was floating on the now calm grey sea. He asked Artur what it was.

“That is Copenhagen; my captain tells me there is a restaurant in that city, where people pay big money to eat Christmas trees and seaweed, crazy huh?”

Torado nodded in agreement and then asked the young seafarer if he knew where the ship was bound for.

“Tomorrow evening” said Artur “we will land on the shores of England but where I do not know; only the men in the silly hats and the Captain know the exact location and none will tell me.”

Then the boy picked up the empty soup bowl and started to walk towards the door. He stopped and looked back at the sad eyes of the Mexican and then with another wink said, “I shall try and find out for you my friend.” Then pulling the huge iron door closed with a screech young Artur was gone. Torado could hear his footsteps racing up the metal staircase.

He sat there alone once again and looked out at the city that the ship slowly drifted past. He imagined somewhere in one of the buildings fine folk sitting in a sparsely decorated white restaurant. Dressed in dinner jackets and elegant evening gowns, efficient waiters dancing around the room presenting the patrons with bowls full of sugar coated pine needles. The crystal glasses on the table being refilled with a golden liquid. The thousands of tiny bubbles working their way up the glass; before bursting into the air to join the laughter that filled the dining room. The snow falling steeply outside the huge windows that looked out onto the cobbled streets.