Dreamboat Ch. 04

Usual standard declarations about age, ownership etc. apply here.

Welcome back once again as the journey continues, with mysterious figures seeking to become involved in the lives of our boat dwellers as they try to understand their own situation. This chapter took longer to write as ... well Christmas and stuff. Winter and goodwill and so forth, and I have family, friends and even strangers who want to share my stores of liquor at New Year. Oh yeah -- Happy New Year, peoples!

But now, with a gently glowing fire in front of you, and a glass of your favourite in your hand, settle in and listen while I tell you more of my tale...

CHAPTER FOUR

The figure slipped through the deserted car park, keeping to the shadows. The area was dimly lit at that time of night, and a dark leather coat, black jeans and a midnight-blue knitted cap helped the figure to stay out of sight of any casual observer.

At the beach end of the car park, the figure slipped quietly up and over a diamond mesh fence, and dropped down into an area heavily populated with fishing nets, lobster pots, coils of rope and upturned dinghies and rowing boats. Nostrils flaring slightly at the scent that inevitably went with fishing paraphernalia, and moving quietly and slowly, the intruder made its way silently to a viewing point slightly above the small harbour.

This was the fifth night in a row that the figure had made the anonymous journey, familiarity with the route making progress easy and quick. A pair of binoculars was drawn from a pocket and the figure gazed in turn at every one of the boats floating in the harbour.

Most of them had been there for weeks, moored up for the season until warmer days came around again. The only new addition was a nice looking catamaran, its sails furled neatly as it bobbed up against one of the floating wooden piers that would rise and fall with the tide, making ingress to the yachts moored there easy at any time of the day or night. The yacht was lit up like a Christmas tree, and from the sounds of it there were a lot of people partying within the twin hulls. It appeared at regular intervals during the season, hosted a noisy party into the small hours, and then returned to a private mooring alongside a boathouse a little way up the coast the next day.

The watcher dismissed it, gave a sigh and swung the binoculars further around in its sweep, noting that a small fishing boat had disappeared, and a small dinghy had been left moored in its place at one of the buoys that dotted the harbour. At the end of the visual sweep the quay came into view. It was largely empty, as mooring fees were higher there, and only bigger boats ever took up any space alongside its concrete length.

The local pleasure steamer, which offered tourists an hour-long trip around the bay during the day, was the only inhabitant at that moment, and even that was silent and dark, the gloom in that area broken only a single, small security light on a pole illuminating it for the security camera on a neighbouring pole. Kids sometimes tried to get aboard the steamer during the night, but were always picked up by the security guards quartered in the small lighthouse at the end of the quay. They were inevitably ejected with threats of their parents being told, and it had become something of an ongoing game. The pair of night watchmen actually quite looked forward to foiling every renewed effort, as the camera pointed at the steamer actually had movement detection hardware attached which rang an alarm in their office, making their job easy. The kids didn't know about it and the guards felt it made them seem like Batman and Robin when they silently appeared out of the night to haul the kids off the boat. If nothing else, it passed the time.

Another almost silent sigh escaped from the figure as the binoculars were stowed back in a capacious pocket and the route retraced back to the car park and the town beyond. Tomorrow might be more fruitful -- or not. Either way, the watcher would be there.

*****

Seventy two miles from where the watcher was slipping silently into the shadows, a meeting was taking place.

The office was large and luxuriously appointed, dominated by a huge ebony and teak desk that had been polished to a shine that made it seem to glow from within its own darkness. Leather armchairs -- not matched, but each a handmade creation that screamed wealth and taste -- were scattered about, subtle lighting highlighting and isolating each from the others. The carpet was more a subtle blending of Middle Eastern rugs than a single piece, thick enough to ensure that the sound of footsteps was never heard in that room.

In contrast to the rest of the decor, the chair placed precisely in front of the desk was an old-fashioned, high-backed, wooden school-type chair, and despite the pleasantly cool temperature of the office, the thin man who occupied it at that moment was sweating like a pig, drops appearing at his bald temples and running down his pale, stubbled cheeks. His expensive grey suit had dark stains at the arm pits, and he suspected that the backs of his jacket and trouser legs would be dark with moisture as well.

The executive behind the desk leaned forward and placed his elbows on it, his hands clasped together. As he moved, his Westmancott suit seemed to flow around him, moving as if alive to ensure that it fit perfectly to its wearer at all times, allowing no unseemly bulges or creases.

"Mr Smith," the executive said. "Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice."

The voice was rich, a deep baritone with just enough traces of gravel within it to make it commanding. It seemed to perfectly match the handsome, craggy face and thick, well-groomed white hair.

Mr Smith nodded quickly and forced a smile, nerves turning the expression into a horrible mixture of anxiety and subservience. He didn't try to say anything, which was a good thing, as his throat was so dry it felt as if he had a sponge lodged in it.

"How did this problem creep up on us so unexpectedly?" the executive asked, his tone kindly, but puzzled.

Mr Smith tried desperately to stop his right foot from bouncing his knee up and down -- a habit he had formed when nervous at school. "I... er, we... I didn't realise... and then..."

"Mr Smith," the executive interrupted, his rich voice still kindly, but now revealing impatience. "Perhaps I should simply ask questions. We might proceed a little more swiftly that way, yes?"

The executive opened up a folder, which he seemed to magically draw from mid-air. It certainly hadn't been on the desk up until then, Mr Smith thought wildly.

"You are one of our middle management staff, and are in fact second-in-charge of our ports operations in the south east, yes? However, eleven months ago you were seconded to a special project in addition to your other duties, yes?"

Mr Smith nodded hard, still not trusting his voice to make any sense.

"And this project was to ensure the viability of, and maintain the location of, our special assets in that area, yes?"

Mr Smith wished the executive would stop ending every question with the word 'yes'. It was not only annoying, it felt increasingly threatening.

"But that degenerated into a situation where half of the assets were prematurely written off, and the other half stolen or mislaid, yes? Which result would seem to be the very opposite of your mission statement, yes?"

Mr Smith nodded miserably. For a moment he wished he was married so he could beg for the chance to send a final message to a loved one.

"Our audit department is suggesting that we move to put in place a full assessment of our current and fixed assets and our cash flow in the area, and make cuts where necessary. In fact Mr Hashamura was almost insistent on this -- as is his right of course. I think you would agree that our auditors have to have a considerable amount of leeway in deciding their course of actions in order to keep everything running smoothly and correctly, yes?"

Mr Smith nodded again, although his face was now so white as to seem almost transparent. It wasn't fair to ask him to agree that the auditors should be sent in, he thought miserably. Especially not that weird bastard Hashamura. He enjoyed making cuts.

"You know, Mr Smith," the executive expanded. "The successful management of our company relies on one thing, the same thing as any other successful corporation; the correct and even inspirational management of our human resources, if you would indulge my describing it that way!

"And I would hate to think that our HR department failed so badly in their brief by appointing you to manage those assets. Assets that have been written off can be replaced of course, with careful selection and management. But we could not replace our loss of reputation as easily if word was to get out that we simply allow them to be misplaced, wasted, or purloined from us, yes? What would the shareholders think? I'm sure it would be nothing good, yes?"

Again, a nod.

"So Mr Smith, I suggest you return to your office and set to solving these problems; primarily finding our missing asset, and -- if it was stolen, and I suspect that will turn out to be the case -- it then needs to be returned and the miscreant who has carried out this theft punished to the full extent. This is your priority! I suspect that how you handle this matter will be reflected fully in your annual review, yes?"

The man called Mr Smith, which wasn't actually anything like his real name, felt a surge of ice-cold relief run down his body like a waterfall. "Yes sir! It will be my number one priority from now on, my only priority, to find the ... asset and return her."

The executive closed his eyes and grimaced for a moment at the man's momentary breach of office decorum. Then he smiled once again.

"Good man! To assist you, I will ask Mr Hashamura to divert some of his staff to your aid! Yes?"

The sweat returned in full.

*****

Wren gazed out into the dark that masked the steel-grey sea. She had delved into every crevice she could find and had discovered a pair of white dressing gowns folded neatly in a tiny upright cupboard that was deeper than it was wide. Wrapped up warmly against the chill of the autumn night air, she and Lachlan were quietly seated on the bridge, watching the rain on the bow by the glow of the lights on the bridge. The bridge had heating, but Lachlan had asked her to leave it off, uneasy about running things on whatever batteries the boat carried without the engine running to recharge them.

They both sat with mugs of coffee as they discussed the surprises the boat kept serving up.

"There has to be a way, but for the life of me I just can't find it," said Lachlan, his pleasantly rugged face now frowning as he thought. "We know the boat has two engines, or motors, or whatever boating people call them. There are two throttles here on the console, so that would make sense.

"But we apparently can't switch them on from here, which probably means they have to be primed and fuel lines turned on, coolant levels checked etcetera, before they can be started -- either from here or from a master switch at the engines themselves. But I can't find any way to get to them."

Wren made a face, and then gave a tentative smile. "Maybe we'll stumble over it. That's how I seem to find things. Doors and drawers that I couldn't tell were there until the sun catches them at the right angle, or I find them by accident. We've been lucky so far."

"We have!" he agreed, touching her arm reassuringly. "Who knew a boat this size could have so much storage room. You've worked marvels!"

"Well, at least we have enough food to last a couple of weeks. And the water purifier seems to be working very well."

"It is," he conceded. "Although I still have no idea how it works, so if it breaks down..."

She leaned forward and hugged him reassuringly, confident in his abilities.

While Lachlan had spent several daylight hours working on puzzling out the instruments, knobs, switches, dials and read outs on the bridge, she had searched the boat from top to bottom, trying to discover a way into the engine room, and to catalogue the supplies on board.

She hadn't found the engine access, but a narrow freezer fitted into a small alcove at the bottom of the food cupboard had revealed a plethora of meat and vegetables, each neatly labelled and packed in individual portions. Pasta, rice, flour and baking products were discovered in a little compartment within a parent cupboard nearby, as were condiments, spices and bottled sauces. Coffee, tea and concentrated juices had their own section. A little bread maker promised delicious fresh bread when their current supply ran out. All-in-all, whoever owned the boat had made sure they would not go hungry.

A chest had been discovered under a patterned built-in cushion, which until that moment had been a bench seat along the cabin wall opposite to the kitchen and bathroom area. This had revealed several sizes of brand new jeans, tee shirts and sweaters, as well as several pairs of socks and tennis shoes. She decided to keep that discovery secret until they had both had a shower. Fresh, brand-new clothes would be a complete luxury.

Wren had spent the afternoon carefully defrosting minced beef from the freezer, and then putting together a spaghetti Bolognese for their late dinner. A surprised and delighted Lachlan had descended from the bridge as the sun went down to find a meal fit for a king served at a little table that swung down from the cabin wall. When she brought him a bottle of good Californian red wine and asked him to open and pour for them, the contrast in their situations to just a few days before had forced him to look away for a few moments while he controlled a sudden burst of emotion.

Seated on the disguised chest, he had poured the wine, grateful for the calm seas that allowed them to eat a relaxed hot meal in peace for the first time in what felt like years, toasting her culinary skills as sat opposite him on the side of the bed.

"This is superb," he had commented, after a long, drawn-out moan of delighted pleasure. "Where did you learn to cook like this? You've even put freshly grated parmesan cheese on top. Oh god, this is the best meal I've ever had, I swear!"

She had brushed aside his compliments with a pleased smile, blushing prettily as he ramped up the praise until they were both laughing at how over-the-top he was being.

When she had asked him after the meal how his explorations on the bridge were going, he had grabbed her hand and led her up to the bridge. She could tell by his face that he was pleased and excited at whatever he had found. So she had been surprised when he took a moment first to hold her tight and kiss her very gently on her mouth.

"I know it was unintended, but thank you for setting us off on whatever adventure this may turn out to be. I have no idea how it might end, but being here is just so much better than I've known for so long. And you made it all happen."

She sniffled happily into his shoulder for a while, balancing her feelings of having let Andrew down and eventually causing his death, with the upside of having taken Lachlan out of his misery into what was turning out to be a delightful interlude away from the streets. To what might be a future...

She shied away from any thoughts of what might be, and wiped her face against his dressing gown. Might be never turned out well, so planning or even hoping was an empty waste of time. She smiled at him and patted the console.

"I'll fetch us some coffee and then you can tell me all about how the Millennium Falcon here actually works."

Without waiting for his reply, she slipped away and he sighed. They both had a lot of issues to try and work through. A few minutes later the scent of freshly ground coffee rose to his nostrils. At least they could try and work through them with some really good Brazilian blend.

She returned and as they stared out into the dark and sipped from their mugs he explained about being unable to use the engines.

"So what do the rest of these things do?" she asked when he had finished speaking, pointing at the console.

"Okay, well this is the radar," he started enthusiastically. "It works off the thing that looks like a big white bar that rotates up on the roof mast. Okay, it's not really a mast -- we don't have sails as far as I can tell. I-"

"I think it does," she interrupted. "I saw them when I brought the coffee up. There's just enough light from the bridge to see them."

He stared at her, trying to take in what she had just said.

Then he went out of the bridge and looked up. There, dimly visible in the reflected light from the bridge, above the radar and radio masts and spreading wide from the upper reaches of the mainmast was, unmistakeably, a sail.

His mouth open in wonder, he stared at it for several minutes, trying to understand just how the boat had managed to grow a sail. After a few moments, Wren joined him.

"That's what I saw," she murmured, pointing at the large white rectangle and then taking his arm and holding it comfortably against her. "I saw it earlier today as well, when I called you for dinner. I thought you had put it up because we didn't have engines."

"Jesus," he muttered. "I can't make any sense of this. I didn't put up any sail as far as I know. Although I suppose it could be a powered rig."

"You sound doubtful," she said.

"Well, when I look at it I can't help wondering why a boat this size would have a sail like that. I mean it's pretty small and..."

He broke off and leaned forward, and then he quickly climbed up onto the roof for a closer look.

He broke out into laughter. "It's a light sail!"

"What?" she called.

He jumped down to rejoin her. "I don't know what the correct name is, but it's basically a light sail. It's a collection of solar panels!"

"So that's powering the ship?"

"Not right now. It doesn't work in the dark. I must have set the switch to keep it permanently raised. Would you mind staying here and watching it while I check something?"

She nodded and he slipped back onto the bridge and into the chair. He hunted across the console and finally found the button he was looking for. It was marked with a jagged lightning symbol and had three lights alongside it, the lower one glowing a soft red. He pressed it and the upper indicator lit up as the lowest one darkened.

"Oh, it's folding up!" Wren called, then after a few moments, "It folded itself into the mast!"

"Okay, keep watching." He pressed the button once more and the centre light glowed. "Now?"

"Nothing's happening," she called back.

"You can come back now."

She settled back into her seat alongside the console.

"I think that it has three settings," he said, indicating the button. "Permanently off, permanently on, and automatic. I think when we jumped aboard it was probably set to automatic, and on that setting it would in all likelihood keep checking the power needs of the batteries, and when they started getting low and the sun was shining, it would unfold the sail of its own accord. My fiddling with the buttons must have left it on the wrong setting."

"So we don't have to worry about power?"

"If I'm right, then no, we don't! Whoever designed this boat was bloody brilliant! When I first saw it, I thought it was something you might take out on a lake, but now... Now I think you could probably travel the high seas for weeks at a time without having to worry about anything. Or at least you could if you could find the engines. Without those we're still at the mercy of the wind and currents.

"However, we don't seem to be in any immediate danger. The radar is running on a 20 mile setting, and I think I managed to set an alarm so that if we come within five miles of other ships or the shoreline it will sound and give us time to make some sort of plan -- although admittedly I can't think of one right now."