The crew, p.1
The Crew, page 1
The Crew
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
PART TWO
1
2
3
4
5
PART THREE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
PART FOUR
1
2
3
4
PART FIVE
1
PART SIX
1
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by J.M. Hewitt
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For Piers, Nikki and Ayton
PROLOGUE
She senses that she’s not alone. There is no sound, no shadows, no footsteps.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickle regardless.
Someone is there.
She turns around.
Nobody is there.
She breathes out, almost a sigh. She has been paranoid for too long. Always looking over her shoulder. It will take time to get used to this new way of life, that’s all.
She scans the horizon. The water that they are anchored in is secluded, rising mountains of white and grey walls at the stern. An empty Aegean Sea at the bow. Inky, waveless waters that soften into black sand: a beautiful, alien landscape.
There is nobody out there. Other than the one she is aboard, there are no other vessels in sight.
She decides to go to bed. She will rise early tomorrow and show willing. If she wakes up half an hour before her shift starts, she might be able to talk Chef into cooking her eggs and bacon. Maybe potatoes and some avocado toast. A huge platter, just for her.
She casts one more look into the dark night and picks up her jumper from where it lies on the anchor trapdoor.
She tells herself she is safe, ready now to return to her cabin, deep down in the belly of the boat. A chill has risen, and she thinks of her bunk, her duvet, of wrapping herself in it, a cocoon until sunrise.
She rubs the side of her neck, feeling the tendons standing to attention, her pulse quickening. Ice travels down her spine. Not so much a warning. Rather, the feeling that is constantly hanging over her recently. So much so, she’s forgotten what it feels like to live without that underlying fear.
‘There is nothing here. Nobody is after you.’ Her lips move as she speaks the words silently, trying to talk herself down.
There is a sudden flash, lightning dancing across the Milky Way. The world turns as thunder smashes through her jaw.
The boat has capsized.
The thought is muddled and wrong. There are no waves, no storm; how is this yacht suddenly sinking?
She rests her head against the teak, the aroma of the cleaner the deckhands use filling her senses. Her heart thuds painfully in her chest against the planks. She can hear her own breathing, a wheeze, as if all the air has left her.
I’ve fallen, she thinks.
Immediately following is the realisation.
I was pushed.
Claret stains the wood. Not unusual. She knows that from witnessing the way these boats are run, watching them day in, day out, drunken charter guests spilling their Merlot, the stewardesses and deckhands fighting over who should clean up the exterior of the boat. But this is wrong.
This is not wine.
Her forehead throbs. The skin there is split.
She plants her hands on the deck.
A foot kicks her wrists.
She slumps back down and curls, foetus-like. Her stomach clenches into a hard ball as she tenses herself, awaiting a further assault.
More hands come into view, more than one person: two, three, a dozen. Is she concussed, or are her persecutors many people?
A kick lands on her forehead, in the same place as the earlier fist that struck her. It comes from a heavy boot, but that, too, is wrong. No shoes allowed on board.
Everything is wrong.
* * *
Silence, and for an all-too-short time, blissful oblivion. Then the hands are on her again. Not thumping or pummelling this time; she is being carried.
The world tilts once more, the handrail below her now, her view: over the stern end of the boat. Nausea rises. She swallows time and time again, hearing the click of her throat, loud in the otherwise eerie calm.
The tender is in sight, the small motorboat that they use to ferry guests to snorkelling locations or as a water taxi.
She closes her eyes. She loses minutes, or maybe more, because the shock of the water wakes her. She gasps, panting breaths, in and out, trying to ease the tightness of her chest. Her eyes dart here and there, but everything is jet black. She is out of sight of any lights that are on the land. The water isn’t too cold, but it’s wrong that she is in it.
Blood and saltwater sting her eyes; rough hands touch her. Many pairs, she thinks, but with the absence of voices and her own sight gone, it is impossible to tell.
Metal on the flesh of her neck. Tight and cold. It holds the aroma of old pennies, rust and things from the ocean floor. Decay.
She opens her eyes a crack and sees an arm, white flesh, straight up in the air, fingers splayed. She watches, horror like a flame licking her insides, as the fingers of the unidentified person fold to hide in a fist.
She knows that is the signal they use to bring up the anchor.
She screams, but it is silent, cut off by the anchor chain.
The sound of rolling steel. The water is gone; she is out now, in the warm Greek air, going up, up, up.
The side of the yacht scrapes at her back. Beneath her, she sees the chain wrapped around her, the anchor itself nestled below her chin.
Her heart, which moments before thudded so painfully, slows horribly. She braces herself for the yell she’s heard from the dock several times a day. Anchor is home!
When it comes to the end of its trajectory, if those words are spoken, they will be the last she hears.
The knowledge, the realisation of what is about to happen galvanises her into action. She struggles, thrashes the lower part of her body, but is no match for the motorised anchor. No match for the person or persons operating it.
The fibre-reinforced plastic morphs into steel at her back. The edges of the anchor pocket.
So, this is what it feels like.
Nearly there.
She closes her eyes once more as the anchor tries to fold itself home.
There is a snap, a gush of blood, staining the port side with its spray.
She doesn’t feel it. She doesn’t see it.
She is gone.
PART ONE
1
ELLA
ONE YEAR AFTER THE DEATH OF ASHLEY
Here she is again, standing beneath the plaza at Athens Marina, staring at the 50-metre superyacht, Ananke, the sun beating mercilessly down on her bare shoulders.
Despite the heat, a shiver wracks Ella Themis’s entire body.
Ananke, named for the Greek goddess of fate and circumstance.
Was that what last year’s tragedy was – fate?
Ella Themis has been a yachtie for a long time. Her father had been a captain, her siblings deckhands. Her youngest brother, the one who they no longer speak about, strayed from tradition, and went into the forces. They are scattered now. What remains of them, anyway.
Her mother had been the type of woman who holidayed on yachts, and her mother’s family were the kind of family who purchased yachts. It is in the blood. At thirty years old, she’s worked her way through ten seasons up to chief stewardess. It is the perfect way to run away from real life.
Over the course of her yachting career, she’s done the Med, the Baltics and the Rivieras – both Italy and France. The last two years have been spent in Greece.
Last season was a write-off. After the accident, Ananke was seized and put into the dry dock while the authorities carried out their investigations.
Accidental death by misadventure had been the verdict.
A young life cut short by an avoidable tragedy. One of those needless, senseless moments in time that makes everyone in the vicinity embrace their lives and let go of the petty stuff. The crew mourned. Some of them cried. Most of them drifted off Ananke and finished the season filling in on other superyachts. For Ella, it brought back emotions that she’d already been running from. She spiralled into herself, holding a tight ball of rage in her stomach like a foetus that seemed to kick out, winding her.
Terrifying her.
The world had once been so big with limitless opportunities.
Now, there is nowhere left to hide.
Now, one year later, all of them have come back.
* * *
The first person she sees on board Ananke as she moves down the boardwalk is Captain Carly Lee. Conflicting emotions pull at Ella as she watches her boss on the bow. Like all good captains, Carly is fair but strict. She abhors drunkenness from staff and grudgingly grits her teeth when the guests get intoxicated. She is at the top of her game in terms of professionalism and excellence in all areas. As a female captain on a man’s sea, she’s worked twice as hard to get where she is, and for that, she rightfu
But… seeing her is a reminder of the last fateful journey that Ananke took before she was confined to port for a year. The whole point of coming back was to be on the same ship as Carly. However, just for a moment, Ella considers slinking off back down the boardwalk and seeing if there’s a position open on another yacht. She’d happily lower her rank, go down to second or third stewardess. Because she’s not sure that she can face this.
‘Ella!’
Too late.
With leaden feet, Ella makes her way on board. Captain Carly envelops Ella like a mother would. A normal mother, anyway. Ella’s mother doesn’t give hugs any more.
‘I’m so thankful you came back, Ella,’ Carly murmurs.
Their embrace is slightly longer and more loaded with emotion than it normally would be for the first meet of a new season. The lingering hug is for the one girl who won’t be coming back this year. It is because of her.
Ella pulls back and studies Carly’s face. She looks the same as last year. Strong and capable, equal parts ready to smile or to chastise. Her jaw-length blonde hair is pushed behind her ears, shades atop her head. She’s dressed in the boat’s casuals, polo shirt and shorts, Ananke embroidered onto the breast.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ Ella says, though she’s not sure if it’s true.
Carly pats Ella’s shoulder. ‘You’re the first one here. Grab your cabin, then we’ll get to work.’ Her smile downturns. ‘The ship’s not in a good state. Lots to do.’
It’s an unwritten rule on superyachts. At the end of the season, you leave the boat as you wish to find the next yacht you’ll be working on. Any decent captain and crew will insist upon this, and Ella has always adhered to it.
But last season, Ananke was seized. All of them, crew and guests, had to leave immediately with only their own belongings. Since then, Ananke has had police, investigators and insurance officials tramping all over her.
‘When is the first charter?’ she asks Carly now.
The captain does that strange little grimace again. ‘Two days’ time.’
Forty-eight hours to get this ship looking like the jewel of the ocean that she’s supposed to be. ‘I’d better get started then.’
‘I’ll help, later,’ Carly calls over her shoulder as she makes her way back to the bridge. ‘I’m going through the mechanics with Sid.’
So, Sid is here too. Ella is glad Carly has turned away before she sees the expression on her face at the mention of his name.
He’s the chief engineer, and behind his back, nobody calls him Sid. His name below deck is Slopy, on account of his slopy-shouldered approach to his work. The role of a chief engineer is to ensure the safe running of the mechanical side of the boats. In this world, on superyachts, there’s barely anything in disrepair. Like new cars, it’s mostly computerised. Therefore, Slopy spends most of his days and nights sleeping in the engine room.
Normally, on yachts, the engineers muck in with the deck crew, and because Ananke only has two deckhands, Sid really should be assisting with the exterior.
He doesn’t, however, and it’s a bone of contention that ripples through the crew.
Unfortunately, Sid ‘Slopy’ Lee is Captain Carly’s brother. Wherever she works, he’s usually to be found too.
Alone on the main deck, Ella can stall no more. It’s time to assess the damage, which will inform her of the current workload.
Ananke is a wonderful ship. Before last year, she was the nicest boat Ella had ever worked on. Pieces of her still emit the magic – the mahogany panels, teak flooring, plush carpets in the interior. The gold handrails, smudged with fingerprints of a hundred people, definitely need a clean. Everything does, she notes as she makes her way through the lounge to the stairs that descend to the crew quarters and galley.
She smells the galley kitchen before she reaches it. Pulling up her shirt to cover her nose, she finds herself wishing the world were still back in the time of facemasks as the aroma of rotten food assaults her.
Her makeshift face covering drops as she stands in the doorway and gapes in amazement.
On that fateful last charter, she’d been on the mid shift. She’d gone to bed at around 10 p.m.; her girl on the late shift was responsible for clearing dinner and making sure everything was in order for a breakfast that never happened.
But today, the galley is exactly the way it looked when Ella was escorted off the vessel a year ago.
Ella is livid. Of all the people that have been on Ananke, none of them thought to dispose of all the perishables. It smells like a sewer in here, and in two days they’ll have guests aboard who will be paying more for their charter than the average person pays for a house.
Throwing open the porthole windows, swearing under her breath, Ella gets to work.
* * *
An hour later, she’s on the dock, heaving the last bag of rubbish into the already overflowing large bin, and sucking in great gulps of hot Greek air before she goes back aboard.
‘Hey, Ella, are you getting on okay?’
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stares up to see Carly on the aft deck. She’s stripped down to a vest, and Ella wonders if the past hour of the captain’s work was as horrifying as her own has been. She doubts it, somehow.
She gives Carly a thumbs up and bangs a fist on the side of the bin where she’s just discarded almost all the contents of the galley. ‘It was pretty bad; food from the last charter was still out.’
Carly shakes her head. ‘I hadn’t been in there yet; it must have been awful.’
‘Seriously, the worst thing I’ve ever seen,’ Ella calls back in reply.
Her words ring around the dock, almost echoing in their stupidity.
Her mind spins as angry tears threaten. The nightmare, the one she has had on repeat every night, flashes before her eyes.
That face, distorted in agony, that neck, the pale flesh torn, the anchor chain embedded in it.
Year-old food, rotten and stinking, is not the worst thing she’s ever seen, not by a long shot.
‘Ella?’
The calm voice of the captain brings her back to the here and now.
She blinks, forces a smile and jerks her head towards the boat. ‘Best get on, still got the cabins to do.’
Carly studies Ella’s face for a moment or two longer than necessary. Finally, she nods. ‘We’ll catch up later; I’ll take you for dinner.’
It’s not an invitation, but rather a statement.
They don’t normally eat together on land. Captain Carly, despite her warm nature, is the boss after all. She’s also sober, has been for twenty years, and when Ella and her crew go out, they like to let loose.
Still, there’s no crew here yet, maybe not until tomorrow, and Ella can’t think of anything she’d like less than to spend the first night of a new yachting season alone in her bunk, thinking about last year.
‘I’d like that,’ she says in reply. With a final wave, she makes her way back on board.
With Carly ensconced in her own cabin, on the top deck near the bow, Ella wanders the rest of the boat from floor to floor. She starts at the top, on the sun deck, straightening up the loungers as she goes. They are bare, the covers stowed somewhere, and though it is the deck crew’s job to maintain the exterior of the boat, she makes a mental note to keep an eye out for the cushions and covers. It was something Ashley was good at: blurring the lines between inside and out, merging the teams, teaching them through her own actions that helpfulness makes for good working relationships.
Next to the sun deck, through the double patio doors, is the bridge deck lounge. An area to relax if rain has hit, or wind, and Ella has never much cared for the opulence in here. Ananke is sleek, rich with chrome and teak, but this lounge, with its swirly patterned carpet and gauche bar, has always struck her as rather old-fashioned. With its cigar cabinet for the male guests, she supposes it is a relic of a time gone by. Beyond the lounge are the cabins where the bridge crew sleep. On Ananke, this space is reserved for Carly and her brother.
Ella moves past the entrance door to those cabins and trips down the spiral stairs, coming to land at the guest cabins. There are six of them in all: a master, two VIPs and three doubles.
On that last, fated charter, they had only three guests: the Kilfoyles – a husband and wife, and their teenage son. The adults, Piers and Nikki, had the master, and their son was in a VIP.
