obviously thought better of arguing. Coben placed his massive, filthy hand
around my chin and asked me again, more threateningly this time,
“Where’s the camel?”
His clenched fingers were genuinely hurting my face, and out of instinct I brought both my hands up to try and wrench his
arm free. Fortunately I hadn’t cut my fingernails for about a fortnight and I managed to dig them into his oily skin and produce
about six deep satisfying crescent-shaped welts in which blood appeared as he stared down at me.
Slowly, he bared his filthy brown teeth in a snarl. “You’ve really asked for it now, you little ship’s rat,” he growled. “‘Elp
me, Jiggs.”
And as I kicked and struggled, the hideous twosome took my legs and arms and carried me across the roomwhere, for the first time, I noticed the ornate chest they’d brought from the
Sun of Calcutta
. The golden decoration on its lid sparkled in the candlelight: patterns like peacocks with their tails fanned out, liquid
shapes like falling teardrops of gold. But I didn’t have much time to appreciate it — at least, not from the outside. Before
I knew what was happening Coben had opened the lid and I was being bundled inside! I shouted, enraged, letting out all the
foul words I knew, which probably weren’t half as many as I’d have known if I really
had
been a bosun’s boy. Kicking wildly, I managed to land a resonant blow with my heel to the one called Jiggs, at a point on
the front of his trousers which made him let go of me abruptly and turn away, clutching himself in alarm. But Coben was quite
strong enough for two; and I might just as well have been a baby, wailing and feebly kicking, as he stuffed me into the chest
and banged the lid down on me.
It was a couple of minutes before I could think straight. The low voices of Coben and Jiggs filtered through into the darkness
of the chest as I lay cramped up inside. I strained to make out what they were saying, but their words were muffled by the
solid wood, and they were speaking to one another in a strange slang I couldn’t really understand.
“You better sound out the three friends,” I heard Coben say.
There were some indistinct murmurs from Jiggs, some of which sounded like, “That chavy wants drowning.” His tone of voice
suggested he was still in pain.
“Not yet,” said Coben, “we can get more out of ’im.” Another indistinct murmur from Jiggs, then Coben said: “We ain’t got
long. My name’s out.”
Again Jiggs said something I couldn’t make out. How irritating he was! “The man from Calcutta knows,” came Coben’s voice again.
“But there’s something I don’t like. It’s a trick, Jiggs. Fact is, I need a boat.”
There was a clattering. It sounded as though they might be preparing to leave. I listened as their footsteps creaked up the
hollow stairs. Somewhere above, a door was slammed, and a key turned.
Silence. They’d gone.
I began to feel around the inside of the chest to see if there was any way of opening it. But no amount of pushing at the
lid would make it yield. I was locked in, bent almost double, with my knees in my face and several hard lumpy objects underneath
me. Fumbling with my fingers around the floor of my prison, I scraped them against a sharp edge, like a large knife. But it
was wedged tightly under my weight, and try as I might I couldn’t move it.
I could see absolutely nothing. I just hoped there was some crack in the chest somewhere where aircould get in, or else I’d suffocate. As the reality of the situation sank in I began to panic, and started shouting and kicking
at the sides of the chest; but there was so little room to move that I could make no appreciable sound at all. I was just
exhausting myself. I gave up, my eyes filling with tears of frustration. Where was Lash? What had they done with him? In the
darkness I could clearly picture the nasty boy’s face, and I wondered how much Coben
around my chin and asked me again, more threateningly this time,
“Where’s the camel?”
His clenched fingers were genuinely hurting my face, and out of instinct I brought both my hands up to try and wrench his
arm free. Fortunately I hadn’t cut my fingernails for about a fortnight and I managed to dig them into his oily skin and produce
about six deep satisfying crescent-shaped welts in which blood appeared as he stared down at me.
Slowly, he bared his filthy brown teeth in a snarl. “You’ve really asked for it now, you little ship’s rat,” he growled. “‘Elp
me, Jiggs.”
And as I kicked and struggled, the hideous twosome took my legs and arms and carried me across the roomwhere, for the first time, I noticed the ornate chest they’d brought from the
Sun of Calcutta
. The golden decoration on its lid sparkled in the candlelight: patterns like peacocks with their tails fanned out, liquid
shapes like falling teardrops of gold. But I didn’t have much time to appreciate it — at least, not from the outside. Before
I knew what was happening Coben had opened the lid and I was being bundled inside! I shouted, enraged, letting out all the
foul words I knew, which probably weren’t half as many as I’d have known if I really
had
been a bosun’s boy. Kicking wildly, I managed to land a resonant blow with my heel to the one called Jiggs, at a point on
the front of his trousers which made him let go of me abruptly and turn away, clutching himself in alarm. But Coben was quite
strong enough for two; and I might just as well have been a baby, wailing and feebly kicking, as he stuffed me into the chest
and banged the lid down on me.
It was a couple of minutes before I could think straight. The low voices of Coben and Jiggs filtered through into the darkness
of the chest as I lay cramped up inside. I strained to make out what they were saying, but their words were muffled by the
solid wood, and they were speaking to one another in a strange slang I couldn’t really understand.
“You better sound out the three friends,” I heard Coben say.
There were some indistinct murmurs from Jiggs, some of which sounded like, “That chavy wants drowning.” His tone of voice
suggested he was still in pain.
“Not yet,” said Coben, “we can get more out of ’im.” Another indistinct murmur from Jiggs, then Coben said: “We ain’t got
long. My name’s out.”
Again Jiggs said something I couldn’t make out. How irritating he was! “The man from Calcutta knows,” came Coben’s voice again.
“But there’s something I don’t like. It’s a trick, Jiggs. Fact is, I need a boat.”
There was a clattering. It sounded as though they might be preparing to leave. I listened as their footsteps creaked up the
hollow stairs. Somewhere above, a door was slammed, and a key turned.
Silence. They’d gone.
I began to feel around the inside of the chest to see if there was any way of opening it. But no amount of pushing at the
lid would make it yield. I was locked in, bent almost double, with my knees in my face and several hard lumpy objects underneath
me. Fumbling with my fingers around the floor of my prison, I scraped them against a sharp edge, like a large knife. But it
was wedged tightly under my weight, and try as I might I couldn’t move it.
I could see absolutely nothing. I just hoped there was some crack in the chest somewhere where aircould get in, or else I’d suffocate. As the reality of the situation sank in I began to panic, and started shouting and kicking
at the sides of the chest; but there was so little room to move that I could make no appreciable sound at all. I was just
exhausting myself. I gave up, my eyes filling with tears of frustration. Where was Lash? What had they done with him? In the
darkness I could clearly picture the nasty boy’s face, and I wondered how much Coben
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