Diomed's Ghosts

DIOMED’S GHOSTS

By

PETER COPLEY

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 by Peter Copley

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2015

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-910530-77-1

ANY REFERENCE TO REAL NAMES AND PLACES ARE PURELY FICTIONAL AND ARE CONSTRUCTS OF THE AUTHOR. ANY OFFENCE THE REFERENCES PRODUCE IS UNINTENTIONAL AND IN NO WAY REFLECTS THE REALITY OF ANY LOCATION OR PEOPLE INVOLVED

To Kathleen

Other books by Peter Copley

Blue Sea, Brown Rivers, Red Blood

Chapter One

After spending the last two days and two nights in a run-down two-star Athenian hotel, Billy Bindle rode the rickety lift to the ground floor eager to check out. The hotel lounge was deserted except for a man slouched in an armchair fanning himself with his panama. The man struggled to his feet when he saw Bill in the lobby.

Bill waved when he recognised the Athens shipping agent he had met a couple of days earlier, Morning, Kostas, nice to see you again, what’s happening, has my ship arrived yet?

Good morning, Mr Bindeelee. The two men shook hands like old friends. Yes, your ship will dock-ed at Piraeus this morning. Sorry that you wait two day for it, Kostas wheezed and spoke in broken English; sweat ran down his plump face. How was your stay in Athens...did you manage to see the Acropo... he paused looking at the swelling on Bill’s face and his black eye. What happen to you face? You got eye black, Kostas asked curiously but not interested enough to hear the answer, instead, he turned and waddled over to the reception desk. Dinging the bell a couple of times, he called for service.

Bill followed Kostas to the desk. Morning, miss, he said plonking the key and heavy brass fob onto the counter. I bet nobody wanders off with your keys in their pocket. If you fell into the sea with them in your strides they’d take you straight to the bottom. He looked up at the receptionist surprised to see the face of a wizened old woman looking back at him and not the young receptionist he’d seen earlier.

The wrinkled faced woman said nothing; her dark eyes staring at Bill’s face, then with a dismissive nod she bent down under the desk pulling out a shoebox. The box contained a few passports, she flipped through them and finding Bill’s handed it over.

Thanks, Bill said, then, under his breath, he added while scratching his arm, I’m not sorry to be leaving this flea pit. There are more crabs in your bed than on Blackpool beach.

The old woman muttered something in Greek; something that Bill could not understand but could guess was not particularly complimentary. The woman shoved the box back under the counter. Still mumbling to herself the elderly concierge began to shuffle off back towards her room. On reaching the door, she turned and looked up at Bill and in perfect English she said, I have a message from Malcolm. Her eyes then shifted their gaze, focusing on something behind him. Malcolm says to be careful on this ship.

Malcolm? Bill frowned and turned to see what the woman was staring at. There was no one there. Malcolm who? Be careful of what? he didn’t finish asking questions as the old woman had turned and disappeared through the door without speaking again.

Bill shrugged and waited until the door closed. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him. There was no one else in the lobby and Kostas had wandered off outside. Leaning over and almost toppling over the counter he reached down for the shoebox. Putting the box on the counter he looked around him again; all clear. Quickly searching through the passports he took out the two remaining British passports, he inspected the first and put it back in the box. He opened the second looking at the small photograph. That’s the bastard, Bill’s eye twitched at the memory. He’s the guy who punched me in the face and gave me this bloody black eye. After a quick look to the left and right he took the pen out of its holder and wrote Mr F.UCKING-PILLOCK in thick black letters over the name Brian Brown. He put the passport back into the box, leaning over the reception desk again, he pushed the shoebox back under the shelf. A minute later Bill was in the street with Kostas.

You know, Kostas, them passports should be locked away in a safe, anyone could tamper with them.

Kostas’ car set off towards Piraeus with a lurch and a squeal of rubber on the already warm tarmac road. It was a hot morning for late summer. In an attempt to cool down and escape Kostas’ body odour, Bill wound down the window and leaned towards the cool breeze. Kostas talked loudly over the noise of the revving engine; he honked the horn at every other car and shouted in Greek at the pedestrians. The car bounced along the uneven roads, swerving around the corners, breaking hard at red traffic lights and then careering off again at high-speed. Bill, thrust back in his seat, closed his eyes in fear gripping the sides of his seat with white knuckles. The nearside wheel hit the curb causing one side of the car to lift into the air and crash down again onto non-existent shock absorbers causing Bill’s teeth to rattle and his headache to return.

Flipping heck, Kostas, slow down.

Kostas laughed, Flippin’’eck, what does that mean? The car lurched forward again. How long for you been goin’ to sea?

Bill blew out his breath. Eight years, he answered eventually.

Kostas blinked and looked sideways at the young sailor, How old you?

"I’m … hells bells! Bill screeched pressing his right foot down looking for the footbrake as the little Fiat missed an oncoming taxi by less than two inches. He waited until his heartbeat had slowed to somewhere around normal before he answered, I’m twenty-four."

Twenny four? You don’ look twenny four. I thought you about eighteen / nineteen year; you hab pretty-boy young face.

Pretty-boy my arse, Bill mumbled tetchily, self-conscious of his youthful face, wishing he looked a bit older and a bit more rugged.

Have you bin to stay Greece before? Kostas asked Bill.

Nope.

You must go to Acropolis and see the Parthenon. When is England going to return Elgin’s marbles? Kostas interrogated his passenger in a friendly way.

Elgin’s what? Bill hadn’t a clue what the Elgin Marbles were, and he was now becoming agitated; his head and his eye were throbbing. God, what was I drinking last night? He turned his head towards the window again and mouthed quietly, Why don’t you shut up for a minute and give my head a rest. And keep your eyes on the road.

Kostas stopped talking, Bill sat in silence for a few minutes looking at the ramshackle buildings and the indecipherable advertisement hoardings until curiosity got the better of him.

What do you know about the ship? Where is she trading? My agent in Liverpool told me it was a Liberian flagged vessel...This will be the first foreign ship I’ve sailed on.

Foreign ship? Kostas looked puzzled as he translated the English into Greek. He no foreign ship, he is a Greek ship.

"Well it’s a foreign ship to me. Even the name is, is, odd... Diamond Crocodile. Only foreigners would call a ship Diamond Crocodile. Whoever heard of a ship called Diamond Crocodile? Diamond ring or a diamond brooch perhaps, but not diamond crocodile."

Again, Kostas looked confused, Di-a-mond Crocka-dil? He thought about the name for a minute then said, "No, no, he call-ed Diomed. Di-o-med, he spelled out the word in syllables. And he is own-ed by Stavros Crocodilos. Cro-cod-i-los. Stavros is a very rich man owning many ships."

"Well, Miss Brenda clever clogs Goldberg, my agent in Liverpool, told me the ship was called Diamond Crocodile," Bill grumbled. Things were getting a little confused. I wonder what else she deliberately got wrong, he thought. What have I let myself in for? He sat back in the car seat. What the heck, it can’t be any worse than fishing off the north coast of Iceland in winter on the trawlers, and the further I get away from randy Mandy’s husband the better.

***

Half an hour after leaving Athens they arrived at Piraeus Harbour, driving down a dusty road towards what appeared to be a deserted semi-derelict jetty. The car skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust two feet from the edge of the dock. Bill gasped in disbelief half expecting the car to plunge into the harbour. He breathed a sigh of relief as Kostas reversed away from the danger area. Unclenching his fingers, he looked around for the ship. There was no ship, just an empty dock and a group of men standing around their suitcases. Bill and Kostas got out of the car; Bill unloaded his bags while Kostas went over and spoke to the men.

A few minutes later, Kostas, mopping his brow, waddled back towards Bill. The ship, he is still outside the harbour. It will dock-ed here soon. He pointed towards the empty berth. These men are sailors, they wait for ship too. Please wait here, I come back later. With a wave and a shout across to the waiting seamen, Kostas squeezed himself back into his car and drove off, the rear wheels spinning throwing up grit and another cloud of dust.

Bill dusted himself off as the Fiat sped back towards Athens. Bloody maniac, he cursed under his breath as he put his bags down on the dockside and sat down on a bollard. He fished around in his shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strike, putting a cigarette to his lips he produced a Zippo. In one slick flick of his thumb the lighter both flipped open and ignited at the same moment, that little movement had taken him months of practice, but to Bill it was worth the effort. He thought he looked pretty cool doing it.

Yes, sir. Pretty damn cool.

He lit the cigarette and looked around putting his cupped hands over his eyes to protect them from the sunlight reflecting off the water. He gazed towards the harbour entrance; still no sign of a ship coming in from the sea. In the distance beyond the seawall, a pall of black smoke raised high into the blue sky. Bill thought there must be a tyre dump on fire over on the headland.

One of the waiting sailors wandered over, a big man with a mop of dark curly hair, his Mediterranean featured face was deeply tanned. "Yassou, ti kanis?" the seaman said pleasantly, holding out his hand in greeting.

Hello. I’m sorry, I don’t understand Greek. Do you speak any English, mate?

The Greek shook his head from side to side and said, A little. My name is Nickos. We are seamen, and that man, he pointed to one of the men, "he cook the food. We all wait for ship call-ed Diomed. He will come here soon."

Hi, Nick, my name’s Billy. They shook hands. "I’m going to be the radio operator for the Diomed. Where are you lads from? Are you Greeks?"

"Yes, we Greeks, apo Skios. We work before for Mr Crocodilos."

The five other sailors came across. One by one they introduced themselves to Bill, "Yassou, Marconi," they greeted him in turn.

Bill guessed he would have to get used to the name ‘Marconi’. He decided that he liked Nickos and the other sailors; they all seemed to be polite and friendly, things were not looking so bad after all.

A black limousine drove slowly down the dock road and parked a short distance away from the waiting sailors who were now sitting out of the blazing sun in the shade of packing cases. The uniformed occupants sat in the car looking fixedly towards the harbour entrance.

Bill thought they must be Customs and Immigration officers.

Fifty sweltering minutes passed before the waiting seamen caught sight of a ship moving from the sea towards the harbour entrance. At first they could only see the tops of the masts above the harbour wall. The masts were covered in salty grime looking like they hadn’t seen a coat of paint in many years. The thick oily smoke that Bill had thought was a tyre dump on fire was the smoke belching out of the ship’s tall black funnel. As the ship got closer to the harbour, the top half of the superstructure came into view above the sea wall. The once white paint was soot smeared, dirty, and covered with patches of red rust and brown stains. The faded varnish peeling off the woodwork gave an impression of neglect and dereliction. The whole of the ship eventually appeared between the harbour entrance walls.

Flippin’ Nora. Bill could hardly believe his eyes. He looked at Nickos. "What a wreck. This can’t be the Diomed. Brenda Goldberg, my agent in Liverpool, told me that the ship I’m supposed to be joining is a new ship. I bloody well hope it isn’t the Diomed."

Nick shook his head; the other sailors stared in disbelief as the old salt encrusted tramp steamer, escorted by two tugboats, chugged into the harbour. When the ship turned towards the empty berth, Bill’s heart sank into his beetle crusher shoes.

The ship rode high in the water, the iron clad wooden rudder and slowly turning bronze propeller could be seen below the counter stern. The ship looked ancient. Heavy shrouds and ratlines ran up the foremast and mainmast, untidy radio aerials were slung loosely between the masts. Streaks of red rust ran from stem to stern, lines of large rivet heads stuck out proud from the steel plates along the hull. Old wagon and tractor tyres tied to pieces of frayed rope hung over the handrails to act as fenders.

Stone the flipping crows, Bill moaned slowly, an apprehensive look spreading across his face. I’ve seen better looking ships in the Lagos scrap yard. Just take a look at the state of them lifeboats … and those masts.

Nickos shook his head slowly from side to side carping in Greek, "Gamoto Christo."

Steam poured out of the whirring windlass and the clanking docking winches covered the forecastle and poop deck in clouds of white mist. The ship’s upper deck was a cacophony of noise, clanging, banging, hissing steam and apparent confusion of officers shouting orders to uncomprehending seamen. Bill’s mouth dropped open when he saw the ship’s deckhands working on the mooring ropes; they looked like a gang of latter day freebooters. The multi ethnic crew wore a ragbag of clothing, faded jeans, torn singlets, neckerchiefs, sweatbands and bandannas. Each deckhand had a sheath knife on his belt. A cook, wearing grubby checks and a food stained T-shirt, stood outside the galley watching the activities on the dockside. A scruffy steward stood beside the cook. Bill did not consider himself colour prejudiced or snobbish about the appearance of a ship or its crew. After all this isn’t the Royal Navy, he thought, but this is not what I expected. The scowling faces of the pirate lookalike crew, the foreign languages being spoken and shouted all around him, and the hulk like state of the tramp-steamer filled him with trepidation. He was now having second thoughts about sailing on the Diomed. Sub-consciously, Bill got the feeling that most of the sailors on the ship were staring down at him. It made him feel uneasy. He looked up again, sure enough all the crew lining the handrails were staring directly at him; the steward pointed at him and said something to the cook.

What are you lot gawking at? Bill called up at them.

The men stared down at him for a moment longer then lost interest in him. The sound of gurgling water made Bill look up at the hull just in time to see a turd shoot out of the toilet outlet pipe. The excrement landed on the dock in front of him splattering brown spots over his blue suede shoes. Bill cursed and danced clear of the offending mess. He moved out of the way of the activity on the quay towards the back end of the ship looking up at the docking bridge.

The winches rattled, pressurised steam hissed from the pistons; the steam hung around in clouds obscuring for a moment the officer who was giving orders to the sailors handling the after mooring lines. When the mist cleared, Bill saw a little girl standing behind the emergency steering binnacle. In stark contrast to the dark skinned, black haired sailors, her skin was pale and her eyes were blue. Her hair made up into two neat plaits tied with blue ribbon was platinum blonde, almost silver. She looked directly at Bill and gave him a friendly smile raising her hand to wave. Bill smiled and waved back. The girl disappeared in another cloud of steam. When the steam cleared, she had gone.

What a pretty kid, Bill said to himself wondering who she was, the captain’s daughter, perhaps? He looked around again at the stern end of the ship and at the name painted on the transom. Corona! he read the name aloud. The words ‘CORONA del MAR’ were painted in crude freehand around the stern of the ship with the port of registration ‘MONROVIA’ painted underneath.

Oh yeah. Not our ship. Thank goodness for that. A feeling of relief flowed through him. Hey, Nickos, have you seen that? he called to the others. "This isn’t the Diomed. I told you the Diomed is a new ship. This wreck must be fifty years old if it’s a day. He beckoned to Nickos and pointed to the transom. Corona del Mar. This is not our ship."

Hey...Hello, a voice called from above.

Bill looked up to see who was doing the shouting. Standing against the handrails of the boat deck was an officer with west European features.

The officer waved at Bill. Yeah, you with the drain-pipe trousers and Teddy-boy brothel creepers, he called down with a Liverpool accent. Are you the new Sparky?

The guttural Liverpool accent sounded musical to Bill’s ears after listening only to Greek for the past couple of days. Yes, I am. But not for this worn out owld rust bucket, he shouted to the officer. "We’re signing on the SS Diomed. Crocodilos Line." He nodded in the direction of the waiting Greek sailors.

The officer laughed and shouted down, "This is it. This will soon be the Diomed. As soon as we can paint out ‘Corona del Mar’ we’ll paint in ‘Diomed’ instead, same ship with a different name. The new owners are taking over this ship here in Piraeus."

Bill’s heart plummeted again like a stone to the bottom of the harbour. Shit, he cursed under his breath. Diamond Crocodile, new ship, American officers... Thank you, Miss Goldberg, somehow I think you’ve told me a pack of lies here and pulled a fast one. I’ve no money, I’m stuck here in Greece and I’ve been well and truly shanghai shafted.

Chapter Two

The tugs pushed and manoeuvred the big ship up against the dock wall where it was secured in place by the dockworkers. After a lot of shouting of orders from the captain up on the bridge and the uncertainty of the sailors below, the accommodation ladder was lowered to the dock. The Liverpool officer was the first man off the ship. He ran down the gangway causing it to bounce on its blocks as he jumped down onto the dock.

Solid ground at last, and, boy, am I glad to see you. He held out his hand. "Hello, I’m Andy. I’ve been the R O on this ‘owld rust bucket’ as you call it for nearly twelve months now and I’m ready for going home, I can tell you. Andy’s sun-tanned face grinned from ear to ear as he shook hands with Bill. Here, I’ll give you a hand with your bags. He picked up the smallest bag and started back up the gangway eager to get his replacement onboard. What’s your name?"

Billy Bindle.

Well then, Billy, let’s get you aboard, foll-ooow meee. This way, mind your step. Where are you from, Billy?

Pendle Bottom.

"Pendle Bottom! Where the fuck’s Pendle Bottom?"

Where the fuck’s Pendle Bottom? Bill echoed in tone of exaggerated surprise. He then quoted, ‘Old Pendle, Old Pendle, thou standest alone, ‘twix Burnley and Clitheroe, Whalley and Colne’. That’s where Pendle Bottom is; a village at the bottom of Pendle Hill. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard of it. It’s near Burnley. Burnley Lancashire, famous for its beer, its meat pies, its football club and its witches."

Andy laughed again, Burn-lee Lan-ki-sheer, he imitated Bill’s accent, It’s great to hear an English accent again even if it is broad Lancastrian. I like your hairstyle too. From a distance you looked like an Italian gigolo in a Teddy-boy suit, he said jokingly, pointing to Bill’s collar length dark brown hair and referring to his powder blue drainpipe trousers and beetle crusher shoes.

Cheeky bugger, Bill shot back as he followed Andy up the steep gangway to the main deck. Does Elvis Presley look like an Italian gigolo in a Teddy-boy suit? I don’t think so, he’s a cool dude and so am I. He stepped aboard the Steamship Corona Del Mar and looked around at the decks. The smile disappearing off his face as he checked out the litter and rubbish strewn around the decks; potato peelings outside the galley door and eggshells along the passageways, a decapitated chicken’s head lay in the scuppers. These decks could do with a swill down. I’ve never seen such a pigsty. What kind of seaman leaves a ship in this state when entering port? he complained kicking aside a cabbage stalk. And you want to get one of the sailors to get a chocolate-board over that toilet outlet. If I’d been standing two feet closer I’d have got a lump of shit right on my head.

They’ll get round to it eventually, Andy said pushing past the crew. The chief mate doesn’t give a shit either. He’s leaving here you’ll be pleased to hear. He led the way towards the officer’s accommodation.

Striding from out of the shade, a bandy-legged, black bandanna-wearing sailor came sauntering towards them looking down at the deck and wiping his hands on a ball of cotton waste. The seaman suddenly became aware that Bill and Andy were in front of him. He halted looking up. He stared at Bill’s face for a split second before springing backwards in terror, a fleeting look of fright spread across his pockmarked face. An involuntary gasp of "fucking shit!" blurted out of his mouth before he recovered, realising that Bill was just some harmless Gringo. The mulatto cast his eyes downwards again and hurried past them and along the passage.

What’s up with Pancho? Bill asked looking back at the disappearing seaman, The bandit from Brazil.

The bandit from Bogotá more like. That’s Silas, he’s from Colombia.

He looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

Andy smiled thinly, A ghost, yeah well, you do look a bit like Theo Kliss.

Theo who?

Andy didn’t answer the question as he showed Bill the way into the officers’ living quarters.

Out of the sunlight, Bill had to adjust his vision. Peeling paint covered the pipes running overhead and the steel walls. The oilcloth on the corridor deck had lifted and broken off in parts exposing the metal plates underneath. An overwhelming composite smell of human sweat, food, and fuel oil permeated throughout the boat. He looked around at the cabins, half expecting to see an unshaven Humphrey Bogart in a dirty singlet with a bottle of booze in his hand coming out of the cabin door marked KAPITAN.

God, what a dump.

You’ll soon get used to it, Andy said quietly, go on inside and make yourself at home. I’ll make some coffee then I’ll show you what’s what with the radio room and the wireless accounts. I won’t be long.

Bill went inside the cabin and looked around. The room contained a wooden bunk, a battered leather armchair and a double wardrobe. Two cockroaches climbed up the drab white bulkhead. Another cockroach scurried across the bureau. A length of wire led from the desk out through the porthole overlooking the foredeck. Guessing that it was an improvised radio aerial he took a small transistor radio out of his bag, connected it to the wire aerial and tuned through the bands picking up Greek, Turkish, Arabic and other unknown languages and music. Flippin’ Whirling Dervish ying-tong music. Unable to find Radio Caroline, he switched off the radio and put it back in his bag. Scanning the bookshelf, he selected a book and flopped down in the armchair flipping through the pages of the dog-eared paperback.

Twenty minutes later Andy returned to the cabin with a tray containing two demitasses of Greek coffee, two glasses of water and four cans of lager.

Sorry to keep you waiting, Billy, I’ve just been talking to the skipper... and the cops. Andy sat down on the bunk. He had lost the happy look and was now frowning and looking bothered. Do you know we lost a man over the side?

Bill’s brow creased, No. No, I didn’t know, nobody has told me anything about that. What happened?

Four days ago, half way between Mallorca and the Algerian coast. Theo Kliss, one of the AB’s disappeared overboard. Funnily enough, he looked a bit like you, from a distance. For a minute I thought Theo must have swum ashore and was re-joining us. Anyway, nobody is sure how long he was in the sea before he was missed. Andy fell silent staring at the floor. He must have fallen over the side during the night. His oilskin coat and sou’wester were missing so we thought he must have slipped over the side just after he finished his watch at midnight. He wasn’t missed until eight. We turned back to look for him when we discovered he was missing. I sent out an SOS man-overboard distress call. There was a major air and sea search for him, choppers from a US aircraft carrier and warships from Gibraltar.

Bill sipped at the bitter coffee and screwed up his nose.

Andy punched two holes in the can and handed the Oranjeboom lager to Bill; he continued with the account of the missing sailor, The police are aboard now talking with the skipper and the mate about it. The captain says they might want to speak to me again later. But I don’t know what more I can tell them. I hope they don’t keep me too long, I wanna get off home as quickly as I can.

Were you in rough seas? Was he washed over the side? Bill asked wide-eyed with concern.

Well, there was a bit of a swell and the decks were wet but not all that bad. We just don’t know what happened. The skipper thinks he may have slipped and lost his balance and fell over the side. He might have been pushed over the side for all I know; whatever happened he’s gone and that’s that.

Pushed over? That’s murder! Do you think he was shoved over the side?

Andy’s mouth turned down and he shook his head, No, not really, there’s no reason to think that anyone would want to push Theo over the side. He had no enemies. All I do know for sure is that he’s gone. I feel sorry for his family. It’s all very sad, but life goes on, Billy. He was a clever lad our Mr Kliss. Not the most experienced sailor in the world, more academic than practical, but an intelligent man all the same. Andy took a swig of the strong Dutch lager. Theo was not your run-of-the-mill sailor, he was a linguist, spoke fluent Spanish and very good English, we used him as the ship’s interpreter. He took another long swig of the beer draining the can and immediately punched holes in another.

Bill got the impression that Andy was a piss artist.

I must admit though, Andy continued, when we knew that he had definitely gone over the side I did suspect the Colombians might have had a hand in it. They are a right set of murdering bastards. A right bunch of dope smoking, drug peddling criminals, lazy, incompetent bastards and bloody useless seamen. The sooner they are packed off back to Columbia and Mexico the better.

Colombia and Mexico? Not exactly seafaring nations are they? Where did you find them?

They joined the ship in dribs and drabs. Two signed on in Brownsville Texas, two more in Tampico Mexico and two more in Cartagena.

Why was that?

To replace the Greeks, who kept deserting.

Deserting? Why would they want to desert?

Dunno why, Andy shrugged. We were haemorrhaging sailors at one time. Lots of sailors bugger off in the States.

Bill was losing interest in the comings and goings of the crew but felt a little unsettled. I don’t fancy sailing with a bunch of, what did you call them? Dope smoking, drug peddling, murdering bastards.

Well you won’t have to sail with them. They are all being repatriated back to Columbia. All the crew are signing off here. Crocodilos will sign on a new crew here in Piraeus, mainly Greeks, I suppose.

This coffee will take some getting used to, Bill took a sip of the water. I don’t usually drink water either; it’s against my religion, fish pee and fuck in water... Who’s that little girl? Is she one of the captain’s kids?

The lager can on its way to Andy’s mouth stopped just below his lower lip. Andy frowned deeply and for a moment didn’t answer, he eventually said, What kid? ... There aren’t any kids on here, mate.

Yes there is, I saw a little girl stood on the poop deck. A little blonde kid; about nine or ten years old, I saw her as plain as day.

Andy shook his head, Nope, there are no kids aboard here, that I’m sure of; the skipper hasn’t got any kids. You must have been seeing things, Billy.

I’m sure I saw a girl. It was now Bill’s turn to frown; he scratched his ear, doubting his own eyes. Well, it must have been the steam, but ...

How did you get the black eye? Andy interrupted, raising his own eyebrow, pointing with the can towards Bill’s left eye.

Bill gingerly ran his fingers over his swollen eyebrow, Last night in the hotel bar, this guy thumped me. Bill was thoughtful for a few seconds before adding. For no reason. He just walked right up to me and whammed me one in the eye. He fell silent again rubbing his eyebrow, "I was only talking to a woman and he came right up and punched me in the face."

He thumped you for just talking to her?

Yeah, Bill said positively, pausing for a second before saying, "Well not exactly for just talking to her. She was his woman and I was trying to get off with her."

Naughty boy, that’ll teach you not to mess about with Greek women.

"Well, she wasn’t Greek; she was English, a right snobby cow from Croydon. I thought she was Greek and didn’t understand English. So I said to her, ‘I think you Greek women have the best arses in Europe and I’d like to give you a right good shagging’. You can imagine my surprise when she turned to me and said, ‘Do you mind, young man, I’m not Greek. I’m from Croydon and I would be obliged if you would refrain from pinching my bottom.’ Actually, I don’t think she minded me chatting her up or pinching her bottom, it was her boyfriend who got upset. Next news he’s standing next to me threatening to punch my lights out. He was a big hairy Cockney fucker. He threatened to, ‘Stand me on my head and spin me like a top.’ So I said to him, ‘Oh yeah, you big heap of shit, you and whose army?’ Next minute, wham! He punches me right in the eye and I finished up flat on my arse. When I got to my feet, he’d gone. It’s a good job he had gone or I’d have punched his fucking lights out. I mean, there was no need to get violent. I was only having a bit of fun with the woman."

Andy Roberts smiled shaking his head, Some people have no sense of humour. Mind you, it’s a good job they weren’t Greek. There’s one thing I’ve learned, Billy, while I’ve been sailing with the Greeks and that is you don’t mess about with their womenfolk, no sir. You don’t chat up their daughters, their sisters, their mothers or grandmothers, but especially, you don’t mess about with their girlfriends or wives. These Greek guys go mad if you so much as look at their wives in the wrong way let alone pinch their bottoms. I’m not kidding’ they’ll kill you as soon as look at you. So take my advice, keep away from the women while you’re in Greece.

Um... There’s not much chance of messing about with any Greek woman here in Athens. I haven’t seen one to mess about with after six o’clock. There’s some beautiful Greek girls knocking about during the day but they all seem to disappear at night.

That’s because they are not allowed out alone at night. They are not as emancipated as our girls. They are years behind us, a bit like the Middle Eastern women. In fact, if you did manage to fuck one and the police found out, they could force you to marry her. It’s the law here in Greece and the Revolutionary Colonels apparently are laying down the law with an iron fist.

You don’t say, Bill said, wondering what ‘emancipated’ meant. He didn’t fancy the idea of having to marry a girl because of one shag and made his mind up to give Greek girls a miss. "I’m gonna get myself into a whole lot of trouble one fine day with women. That’s why I’m here in Greece. I had to beat a hasty retreat out of Fleetwood when the skipper of the trawler Northern Lights came home from sea a day early and caught me in