Linda and the Fat Russian

By Captain Jock

A chance meeting with an orphaned young woman in a seedy port bar, leads a well-seasoned, salty old dog into a chaotic adventure on the high seas involving money, drugs and violence, with a little bit of romance thrown in for good measure.
The fishing vessel he becomes trapped on, is not all that it appears to be at first sight, whilst its owner, the Fat Russian, displays a cruelty and cunning well beyond the norm. A climactic conclusion will leave the reader craving more from our hero, The Captain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528963541

Captain Jock

Captain Jock really is an ocean-going captain, currently sailing the world as Master (Captain) of various ships. He has a long and colourful history of being what he himself calls 'an aircraft geek'. Currently enjoying 12-18 long-haul flights annually, he relishes the whole process and has become very observant of the fickle, sometimes-erratic and often-humorous behaviour of the thousands of fellow passengers he encounters. Now a granddad to two boys, he enjoys family time at home but is never far from the water; he is skipper of a commercial jet boat on the Waimakariri River, NZ, a couple of times a week whilst on leave!

Book preview

Epilogue

About the Author

As a real sea-going ship’s Captain, the author has an excellent insight into the world of all things related to ships and the ports that they visit. His sailing experience extends to more than 60 countries, hundreds of ports and spans five decades since his first voyage in 1976.

During a short break from the deep-sea life, he enjoyed, amongst a few other things, time as an auctioneer, as a gym owner, TV presenter and finally a motel owner in his adopted home country of New Zealand. His wildly varied life experiences ensure a vivid imagination, well suited to fiction writing.

Dedication

Dedicated to my family, who never have a dull moment following me on my forever-changing life’s path. Their patience and support have been vital in enabling me to be who I am.

Copyright Information ©

Captain Jock (2020)

The right of Captain Jock to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528921701 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528921718 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528963541 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgment

I’d like to thank my most recent employers, Seabird Exploration, for their confidence in my abilities, and for my time as Captain on board Aquila Explorer in Bilbao, Spain, where I was able to refine and complete this book and start the sequel.

Chapter 1

Ice Cubes

I know why I am here, in this bar, in this type of bar. It did not have to be this particular bar; any bar like this would have been OK. It is no mystery to me why I am here, yet I really don’t need to be. Then again, maybe I do. This could be a cleansing for me. A kind of farewell to the past. I could be in any establishment in the town, right now, yet I chose this one. Anywhere. Literally. Price no object, location unimportant, yet here I am, enjoying a cheap drink or two, in this shitty little place, leaning on a worn out fake wooden bar, pondering my immediate future, with a smile. I don’t want to be alone, not now, and that is unusual for me. But my solitude is only temporary. This time.

I look down and watch as the ice cubes spin in their continual race, chasing each other at the bottom of my glass, as I swirl the last dregs of my drink over them. Like a shoal of frozen jellyfish, desperately searching for the last dregs of seawater as the tide goes out. They could be frozen box jellyfish. Vicious little bastards from Australia. One sting and you are a dead man. Just another killer in the life-ending fauna of that great continent; what misadventure has that land done to deserve so many beasts intent on killing anything that moves?

The ice cubes have no idea that their race is keeping me occupied; I could stop it at any moment. I just need to put the glass down. I am in control now; total control. Shoal? Or maybe it’s a pack; or a group. What is the collective noun for jellyfish? Who fucking cares anyway?

My mind is wandering; wondering. Focused on nothing in particular, as images from the last six or seven months of my life are flashing through my mind. Some exciting, some brutal and some just plain incredible. My sudden change in expression, as each successive part of the time-line leading up to the present flashes across my face, is mistaken by the solitary barmaid as a request for more alcohol.

On the other hand, is that a barman? I try to see through the gloom without obviously staring. Difficult to tell in the dim lighting, which I guess is deliberate. Not only to hide the dirt and grime gathered during years of neglect, but to disguise the questionable orientation and occupations of the clientele as well as the establishment’s workers.

This type of place is always a little unpredictable. As are the staff and customers. I wonder if you know the kind of place I mean? Often accessed through a broken door, guarded by a large, suit-clad bouncer, at the darker end of an alleyway, down which you would hesitate to walk alone. Graffiti on the walls and neon lights flickering in the dark, advertising anything from food to guns to sex. A faint smell of chlorine from the none-too-hygienic facilities greet you as you push your way through the door, mixed together with the nostril-flaring smell of stale beer, tobacco, hard liquor and even harder women. Just to reach the serving counter involves a treacherous journey over beer soaked and sticky, threadbare carpets.

On the other hand, maybe you do not. Perhaps this is not quite the type of establishment that you would visit for a Sunday afternoon high tea with your grandma or your kids? And, if you did, would you ever admit to stooping so low? You may never get your kids out of here again. This is no place for kids. Or grandmas!

These establishments are everywhere; you just have to look in the right places, the right, or should I say the wrong, neighbourhoods. The underbelly of dockside entertainment which is found worldwide. I have been hanging out in these places for longer than I care to remember; visited many like this, been thrown out of a few and allowed back into others, frequently.

Entertainment? I have used that word in its very loosest possible definition in this case. The only entertainment being offered this evening are my ice cubes and a couple of similar gendered lovers discovering what they are, or, perhaps, are not, somewhere in a darkened booth off in the back of the smoke filled, poorly lit atmosphere. A muffled shriek of pain, or is it surprise, or maybe even pleasure, gives their actual location away. It is dark enough in here for them to be doing just about anything they want to do without upsetting anyone. Well, to be honest, I am the only other person in here and I do not give much of a fuck about what they might or might not be doing and if I did know what they were attempting, I’d certainly not be upset by it.

Underbelly for sure, but I have been in worse, much worse, so the trademark rough edges of this dump are nothing new to me; nor is the air, thick with smoke, the whiff of cheap alcohol and of even cheaper perfume. The bar man/woman here is just another incarnation of whom ever may be serving at whatever bar in whatever place I happen to be in.

It is in places like this that I have made life-long friends, found some of the best crew I have ever had, found lovers (some good and some not so good) and then lost a few of each, for one reason or another. The kind of people you will find here, on any given day, are genuinely different. Through many surprising and often unbelievable circumstances, they find themselves here, as part of their life’s journey, and are part of a rare and brutally honest bunch of humans. No one sets out to get here deliberately, it just happens. Most regular visitors have many-a story to tell and yet rarely tell them. The lines on their faces and the scars on their bodies are the best way to search into their past to tell the tales of their hard, yet interesting lives.

My own life’s path has been a twisted one with plenty of unexpected forks and a few dead-ends, yet it has brought me to this place, tonight, which is a very satisfying fork in that path. A thin dark branch leads one way but it has, thankfully and beautifully, been permanently blocked. A bright, silver-lined, wide boulevard of a path leads the other way. I know which one I will be taking. No more of the twists, bends and vicious forks. A more sedate, comfortable life path awaits me.

He, the bar man, yes, I’m pretty sure it is a he now, seems disgusted that he is even here and when I do dare to gesture to him, with the barest of an upwards nod of my head, signalling my desire for a refill, his reaction is one of utter indifference. He minces, yes, minces, that is the word, over towards me, teetering on high heels that are way too high. Now that I look more closely, he is showing an ugly expanse of hairy, fishnet-clad legs and an obviously enhanced bosom, which he is thrusting out in my direction in some sort of a challenging gesture, confirming that this is indeed a very poor attempt at cross-dressing.

Yea? his voice bears no pretence at be anything other than that of a middle aged, heavy smoking, half-drunk man.

I almost look up from the perusal of my jellyfish; I give a small wiggle of my glass, pointing, with the merest shift of my eyes, at the bottle of Rum parked not 2 feet from me,

Same. I am a man of few words.

He carelessly sloshes a large amount of the dark liquid into my glass, squirts some sweet, sugar-laden mixture that could loosely be described as cola on top and adds more jellyfish from a sweating ice bucket, which is forming a pool of condensate under it on the bar top. He then waltzes off, balancing with some difficulty on his stupidly high platform shoes, to the far corner of the bar where, as if he is unseen, straightens his chest, fiddles with his fishnets, adjusts whatever is in his pants and lights another cigarette.

Yep, I have been in a hundred bars like this. All over the world. There is always one in every godforsaken shit-hole that I end up in, usually many more than one.

Yet, I keep coming back for more, even tonight when I am smiling, inwardly. Smiling and feeling very pleased with myself.

Mercifully, it is a Monday and quiet. I know what this place would be like on the weekends, or when there are a few ships in port. The description ‘Zoo-like’ comes to mind, yet for some long-established reason, I quite like Zoos and the animals that go with them. Always a surprise in each cage and on every visit. Entertainment.

However, today I need quiet time. Just me. I have to think about the last six months and in particular the last two or three weeks. Just what the fuck have I done? What have we done? I am here, alive and, well, let us just say, slightly better off than I was six months ago, when I was in another bar.

It was just like this one. A couple of thousand miles from here, but it could have been next door. And how the fuck did I end up there? At that moment, just exactly at that moment?

I am not really the story telling type, if I am honest. Ha! To be honest, I am very rarely honest. However, I did decide, at some stage over the last half year, that this is a story that I would tell. I could tell a hundred or more, but choose not to. Too many people would get hurt, or worse, would want to hurt me. No, to kill me, is probably more accurate.

However, I can tell this one; no one gets hurt, well, other than those that are dead already and most of the participants are. There are some losers who can never admit to being losers and have no idea that either of us were involved, far less who we are, or that we even exist. Then there are the winners, every one of whom has his or her own reason to keep a deathly silence about the last few months. Best of all, no one can ever trace anything back to us. Those eyewitnesses who may have talked are all gone.

I still do not feel quite right. My legs still ache, my body is bruised and my arse is still recovering. My conscience, what is left of it, is stretched and strained to the limit. However, I am here, in the cross-dressing guy’s bar, drinking another rum and well, telling my story.

This is not something that I am used to doing. I do not talk. I am not a talker. Never have been. If I ever want something, I take it. If I need something, I get it. I do not use too many words to do that. Telling this story is like an exorcism for me. An unloading. A relief. A giving of my…soul? A cleansing of sorts. Is that the right word to use? Perhaps not, you decide.

I was not in the mood for talking, back then, on that night, either. I never am. People take it the wrong way; quiet equals rude, in some circles, but not in mine. If you talk too much you are likely to get punched, or become encouraged to punch someone else.

I was as quiet as usual that evening, in what had become my local ‘entertainment’ establishment. Doing much as I’m doing now, rum in hand, head down, contemplating the world in the bottom of my glass; I was single again after the latest ‘entertainment’ had walked out. Alone again in the big, bad world.

Yes, I was financially comfortable but lonely. All my crew had disappeared over the weeks and months since Columbia. I was the only one left there. I was in my local; the place I came to meet people. To try to keep track of the industry, my industry. It was getting harder and harder to keep up. To get information. My circle of informants and friends was dwindling slowly away. Maybe, stupidly, I was dreaming of starting it all up again. Going back to my old life.

There were a few people in that bar that evening, but no one I knew, so I was alone with my thoughts. Re-living past glories and smiling to myself as I remembered a few close shaves and even more terrifyingly dangerous moments.

It was late.

I headed out of the bar, shoes sticking to the threadbare carpet as usual. I was half way along the dimly lit street towards my ‘luxurious’ flea infested, worn out bed when I stopped. I don’t know why I stopped, but I did.

Something was calling me back to that bar. It was a strong feeling that I had to go back, for some reason. I am definitely not superstitious and do not believe in much of anything, but something was pulling me back there. Some powerful force willing me to go back.

I gave in to the ‘force’ and decided that I would go back for just for a look, maybe just one more for the road or stairs or whatever the fuck. One more. I was persuading myself, giving myself an excuse. To find out what had called me back.

I am making myself sound like a heavy drinker. I’m not. Just a few rums and I know when to stop. I hate seeing men (or women) who make idiots of themselves, or are taken advantage of, when drunk and then shout rape! I have never been one of them and I have rescued a few of my crew from becoming statistics over the years.

If I had not felt that call and decided on just one more, none of this would have happened. What made me turn? Fate? Bollocks, no such thing. A feeling? Well, yes, a feeling that I wanted (or did I need) more rum. Not that I was drunk, I seldom am. Just a few rums.

I ordered my final drink of that night from the very pleasant to the eye, hooker-type of lady behind bar. Little did I know, it would be my last for quite some time. I leaned back against that well-worn wooden bar top. I scanned the room, one more time. Not looking for anything in particular, just looking through the gloom and smoky haze. Trying to figure out what had called me back.

There was an old black guy playing some Blues on a hideously out of tune piano. Several hookers, most of whom had propositioned me many times without success, were gaggling like a flock of geese in one booth. A couple of sailors were in the next, clearly deciding if they would like to be ‘entertained’ by the ladies later. A couple more beers and they would be hooked; I had already seen them sending over drinks to the girls’ table. Suckers.

Some dockworkers, still in their Hi-Viz jackets were enjoying a game of pool and gambling on the outcome, over in the far corner. One of the sailors strolled over and made a challenge only to lose and noisily throw down his cue in frustration, an action which was met by the dockworkers, en-masse, who suggested, none too politely, that he should, Fuck right off and go play with his girlfriend.

The bar was not crowded, but there was enough going on to be interesting. I think this is why I am drawn to these places. They are wildly unpredictable. A surprise or shock is only a moment away. A fight maybe a couple of moments away, but seldom a quiet moment.

I was watching another pool match for a minute or two, my back to the main part of the room. When I turned back to see how the sailors versus hookers drama was progressing, I noticed a new comer, in a booth close to the door, hardly visible.

There she was.

Chapter 2

In the Beginning

Before I can tell my tale, you need to know more. More about me. Without understanding more about me and my life up until that moment, you will just believe it is all made up! A crazy, wild, rum-soaked fantasy of some drunken sailor’s sea salt damaged mind and imagination. However, I can assure you, the events of the last six months actually happened and they happened to me.

Way back in the beginning, there I was, a young lad of 12 or 13 or so. Always in trouble, and as you may have guessed, never up to much good. No home. I never had a home, not one I could really call home. I had been shunted from one kids’ home to another; or the odd foster home. Places that were supposed to look after me but didn’t. I was beaten up as many times as I was welcomed. I ran away time and time again and then again after that, eventually dropping off the radar when no official body could be bothered to look for me anymore.

I don’t know why, but I became infatuated with the water; the sea. I guess it was somewhere to get away from what I’d been through. Over that horizon, there had to be a better place, surely? I watched boats plying their trade; bigger ships sailing away over the edge of the world. It must be better over there, surely. I dreamt of far off lands, exotic girls and riches beyond my imagination.

I lived on the edge; literally; the edge of rivers, the sea, lakes whatever water body I could get close to; no permanent base or crash pit, just boats and barges. This was back when there were wooden barges and old steamers of dubious quality plying their trade up and down the coasts and waterways of Britain. Chugging their way between the dirtiest and most inaccessible little wharves and piers in the country, delivering little packages of cargo or collecting boxes of this and that. It was rare to find a sober crew and, consequently, easy to