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Chapter Two - With Pain, Comes Understanding....No, Sorry, Just More Pain.

"Improper use of tools may be hazardous to your health..." NRCan Safety Manual

Though his circumstances were much the same as a short time past, there were some important differences.  For one, though Hargrove was once again swimming back to consciousness, it was to the interesting tune of what could be compared to a large Spanish man performing a Mexican hat dance on his head.  The thunder in his skull was matched quite nicely by a terrible nausea, beginning in his stomach and descending quite ominously into his lower intestines.  Secondly, as his senses came on line with the smooth efficiency and speed of an IBM 286 (turbo off, running windows), he realized the salty air of his cabin and the faint creaking of his bunk had been replaced with the bitter stench of well oiled machinery and the hiss and pump of hydraulics.  Finally, the pair of well-encrusted boots before his slowly opening eyes confirmed that no, he wasn’t having a particularly painful déjà vu.

“Sir?  Mr. Detective, sir?”  It was the crewman who had accosted him in the hallway.  But the voice was behind him, and didn’t the crewman wear spotless black shoes?  His eyes traveled up the begrimed pant legs, swept across the massive, hairy fist loosely grasping a massive, bloodied pipe wrench, crawled laboriously along the ridged, steroid enhanced chest, to settle on a gap-toothed grin.  Hargrove abruptly remembered a nature program’s enlightening observation that animals had an altogether different reason for showing their teeth than humans.  He resolved, with an uncharacteristically brilliant burst of wisdom, not to make any sudden moves.

Something about the pipe wrench jogged at his memory.

“Sir?  Are you all right?”

It was the sort of moronic question that could open up a can of memories.  The crewmember had taken him below decks, and into the door to one of the engineering sections, where the bomb had apparently gone off.  Upon stepping through the door, there had been a flash of red iron at the corner of his vision….

Hargrove sighed.  That was why the wrench looked familiar.

The steward carefully helped him to his knees, and began examining the wound on his head.  “Ah, that would be Rory McGuiness, Sir, one of our chief engineers.  He’s a bit of a temper.  Oooo, this looks like a bit of a nasty; twenty stitches, no doubt.”  If anything, the bearded man’s smile grew wider.

“Do you always greet fellow members of the working class that way?” inquired Hargrove weakly.

“Augh, ye shameless blob of cheesy dogmeat, ye look like a bloody poncy bastard in that get up.  Worker me ass.  You come dancing through me door after a bomb goes off in middecks, and I’ll give ye another taste of the iron.”

“Scottish accent, Scottish engineer…you wouldn’t happen to be nicknamed….” The end of the wrench twitched slightly, and Hargrove, with another stab at wisdom, aborted the question.

A rushing noise was beginning to penetrate the hiss and chug of machinery.  The Marxist detective bent his efficient senses to the task of penetrating the mystery.  His eyes glided about the room, touching on the massive pumps fighting a losing battle with the bubbling water; the mighty boilers, wheezing most alarmingly; the gaping hole in the floor and the wall through which seawater boiled into the decks below; the carts and trolleys pushed up against the far wall as if thrust by a giant’s hand….

Hole?

“This is where the bomb blew!”  he gasped.

“Well, that was where I said I would take you,” the steward huffed.

“It took ye that long t’figure it out, ye erratic tub of foul knob cheese?”

Hargrove staggered to his feet, laboriously drawing his Webley, and flourishing it threateningly.  “Nobody move!”  The two crewmembers stared at him in consternation.  “Arrgh,” he continued, drawing the Webley back to his chest and cradling his newly sprained wrist.  Mental note – no flourishing of Webley.

“Put the bloody antique away, you communist twit.  The engineer wouldn’t blow up his own room, and the crewman came with you, right?” 

Hargrove twisted to face the voice, taking care to keep his pistol close to avoid upsetting his fragile balance.  General Tobormorry, his immaculate uniform now spattered with oily water, stood before the hole, chin in hand, the very picture of deep thought.

Bourgeois pimple.  “And how do we know that you were not the culprit?

“Because I was with you, you bloody moron,” retorted the General, through gritted teeth, staring down into the hole at the floor level and resolutely ignoring the fact that soon the chambers below would finish their unscheduled filling and commence spilling into this section.  “Now see here, I’ve examined the hole, and from the bomb pattern I would say this is the work of Armenian Separatists.”

“Armenian Separatists?  Lenin’s beard!  Hasn’t that been worked out yet?” 

“There will always be Armenian Separatists,” the General returned darkly.

“But, that would mean,” Hargrove began, his mind in a whirl.  Comrades, fighting the good fight, here aboard the cruise ship!  No doubt striking a blow for the true cause in the battle against the oppressive forces of Capitalism!  Spontaneously he broke into a wild rendition of the Internationale, oblivious to the pained faces surrounding him and McGuiness’s hand creeping towards his pipe wrench.  He was just reaching the point where he normally forgot the words (a fact that was beginning to disturb him – nobody else was joining in and finishing the song with a wa la la wala la wouldn’t sound nearly as fine as it did in a group) when a terrible thought gripped him.  War against the Capitalist empire was one thing; war involving his own hide another.  Why, if he died, who would write the lengthy letters expounding upon the virtues of Socialism and the evils of Capitalism to the London Times?  The cause, man, think of the cause!

“Forgive me,” he coughed, ending his song abruptly; “It must have been the blow to my head.”  MacGuinness mumbled something about crusty toad tumors, but otherwise everyone simply nodded.  “I suppose we could check the passenger records, to see if we have any Armenian terrorists on board.”  Though upon careful reflection, and noting that several of the medals on the General’s coat were for speed typing and form completion, he was beginning to doubt the military man’s conclusion.

“What about the boat?” inquired the crewman worriedly.

“Argh, ye malodorous box of malignant braised pus, the pumps be workin’ overtime.  ‘Twill be a good while yet afore they give up the ghost.”

“Lead on, comrade!”  The famed Marxist detective clapped his fellow worker on the shoulder, ignoring the man’s grimace of disgust and his vain attempt to wipe the oil and bloodstained palm print from his white uniform.  But as they set off down the slowly canting corridor in search of a passenger manifest, one question continued to plague the razor keen mind of Hargrove.

Did ticks really have jaws?

Behind them, the shadowy figure slipped from behind the machinery and sniggered with a definite Spanish accent.  It swirled its dark cloak once and disappeared, leaving only a set of rather obvious wet footprints behind to mark its passing.

Will the Passenger list hold any clues?  What about the life rafts?  Is there a reason why the crewman has no name?  Can anyone else find an insult generator for MacGuinness?  

On to Chapter 3