The Prisoner of Grimsby

By John Coffey

As he grows old, sea captain William Wright is cruelly exiled from his house by his son and daughter-in-law. Forced to live in the garden shed, he is left only with his memories, but designs a unique and terrible revenge on his banishers.

Gritty family tale of Grimsby and its contemporary seafaring industry from sailor John Coffey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SDS Publishing
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310276088

John Coffey

Author Bio: John F. Coffey is London born and educated.. He lives in Radnor, Pennsylvania, with his wife,Gillian; He is the author of: ‘Tim and Nothing - A Nature Myth’ by John Coffey; and of, ‘Sylvia Myer MD - Sometime Somewhere' by John Coffey.

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THE PRISONER OF GRIMSBY

Copyright John Coffey 2014.

The Prisoner of Grimsby

By John Coffey

Published by SDS Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 John Coffey

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE – THE GARDEN SHED

ONE – EARLY DAYS

TWO – CAPTAINCY

THREE – THE BENDER

FOUR – HAMBURG

FIVE – EXILE

SIX – THE MOTORBIKE

SEVEN – MEMORY LANE

EIGHT – PRESS GANG

NINE – CLEETHORPES

TEN – THE BIG SECRET

ELEVEN – THE ATTACK

TWELVE – REVENGE

EPILOGUE – A BETTER PLACE

PROLOGUE – THE GARDEN SHED

Hell is a ship, sailing from somewhere to nowhere, with all the absolute bastards you have ever met in your entire life, signed on as crew. And that is where I found myself, except it was not a ship, it was a garden shed. It was a miserable looking shed made out of pine planks, with a roof covered in oilskin, painted with Stockholm Tar. The tar kept out the constant rain in winter, but stank of choking petroleum fumes all summer - if a summer actually occurred in Grimsby. The shed was not even set in an open space. No, it was shoe-horned into a small overgrown backyard of sour black soil and algae-stained concrete; a yard screaming out to feel the rays of the Sun, but surrounding brick walls would not often allow it.

The mere fact that I, ex ship’s Captain William Wright, was the only person there must mean the original ship of hell had sunk, and I was the sole survivor of it, the shed in fact a lifeboat far from any ocean, marooned in Lord Street, Grimsby. Worse than that, the shed was in a part of Grimsby known as the West Marsh, an area on the wrong side of the tracks. And unlike oceans, Grimsby is no boisterous expanse of water that smells of ozone, no sea swelling and surging between dark green and dark blue, no athwart foaming of the waves to indicate mood. No, Grimsby more closely resembles a pea-soup-fogbound, oily expanse of blackened water, redolent with the smell of fish from the fishmeal factory at Pyewipe. There is nothing to see, but there is an ever-present threat that danger will suddenly appear through the mist. You have to strain your ears for the boring wheezes of the foghorn, or the distant tolling bell of the channel marker or wreck buoy. Many channels and wrecks are marked, and from the relative safety of my lifeboat, I could only wait for the Devil himself to suddenly emerge from the fog, with red and green navigation lights for ears. His foghorn might sound, in line with the international rules of the sea. But his massive bow wave might cast into me, trying to break my ribs. Through an endless eternity, the plates of his ship might slide past, dotted with rivets, weeping rust, flashing his Plimsoll line. His stern might suck me in, then vomiting me back out, turning my guts to ice, the blades of his propeller thumping the water. He travels light with no cargo of consequence. You wouldn’t see the corpses of the deck and cabin boys from wartime convoys to Murmansk, but I know they are there, still fourteen or fifteen years of age after all these years, arms outstretched, feet swaying slowly from side-to-side, blocks of cork bound in abrasive canvas strung around their necks as life jackets, which would keep them from submerging, but wouldn’t fend off squawking seagulls fighting for places at the banquet of their eye sockets.

Hey, mister! What you doing? Hey, mister! What you doing in there? Grunting and snorting, I was brought back from the Norwegian sea, summoned by a child's voice. The voice came from outside, through the open top half of the shed door, over the ledge at the top of the lower half, upon which I would rest my book if the weather was dry. I looked out. There used to be a gate bisecting a wall, leading to next door, but now only hinges remained, hanging from remnants of rotting wood. Without the gate, local dogs often wandered amongst the weeds in front of my shed to deposit turds. And now a small girl of about five years of age stood in the valley of turds, dressed in grubby clothes, looking at me with the most incredible eyes from under a fringe of matted hair. The average human eyeball has some nuances in its colour and design, but not this girl. Her irises were pure black, the whites pure. When she didn’t speak or move, she looked like a doll; a Victorian doll that had been dropped and picked up many times. Suddenly, the Sun sprang from its hiding place in the overcast sky, and put dots of brilliant light in the centres of her eyes. It caused me to gasp, making her think she had to speak again. Mister! What you doing?

I’m reading a book, that’s what I’m doing.

Is it a story book?

Yes, it’s a story book, but a story book for grown-ups. I couldn’t tell her it was about the war. One question would lead to another, and it would end in farce.

Read me a story, she asked, as it started to spit with rain.

Ask your mother, she'll read for you.

She's doing the washing. She told me to go out and play. Read me a story.

I began to feel truculent, knowing that if anyone saw me telling her a story, I could be perceived as a dirty old man, after which I could see a medieval-style mob coming towards me with pitchforks and burning torches, calling my name. Your mother's calling you, I lied, feeling awful about it. Of all the people in the neighbourhood who needed company, I needed it most. Better go quickly. Oh no, she sounds angry. I knew the trick would only work once, so I closed the top half of the shed door, preparing myself to barely breathe or move. What else could I do? I had a tear in my eye, hoping the little girl would forgive me, remember me as the old man that sat in the shed. If she didn’t remember me, it would be as if I never existed.

The shed's planks were full of knots. One half-popped knot made a natural spyhole. I could watch the garden through it, hoping she would never come back. If she did, I might have to deter her from visiting by being grumpy. Her visit had made my imprisonment worse. What would her mother say, when she heard about an old man living in a shed? The truth was that I had been herded there by my son's wife, left to rot by my own gutless son, the same son that talked out of the corner of his mouth, unable to look me in the eye. I was the prisoner of Grimsby, the prisoner of Lord Street, unless I chose not to be.

CHAPTER ONE – EARLY DAYS

Once, we were normal. Well, as normal as people from round here can be. The local landscape was rows of plain and unadorned terraced housing, as if designed by children using crayons on butcher’s paper. Looking outside, I would see people going by, men mainly. Some walked dogs. I often considered asking them to keep their dogs from fouling the pavements, but always concluded I was too old to take anything but the philosophical route. Better to