Innocent on the run. Part 13.

Ricky stared in horror at the white paint forming an ever- widening pool on the red deck, and the streaks of white running down the black hatch coaming. The Bosun had turned at Pete’s shout and his face contorted in fury. ‘You bloody imbecile,’ he bellowed. Ricky recoiled and felt the blood rushing to his face. ‘It wasn’t….’ he started to say, but the Bosun furiously waved his words away. ‘Don’t give me any excuses, you clumsy idiot. Get some cotton waste and thinners and clean this mess up, and if you so much as scratch that new paint you’ll re-paint the whole deck yourself.’ He glared at Ricky and, as he turned away, inwardly fuming to make his way to the paint locker for cleaning materials, the Bosun shook his head sadly. ‘Damned if I know what to do with him,’ he muttered. ‘he’s only been on the ship a dog watch and he’s driving me crazy already. I think he has to practice these accidents to make sure he gets them right.’ Pete grinned to himself. That night Ricky lay in his bunk furiously thinking how he could get back at Pete. Ideas came but he rejected each of them in turn, steal something of the Captain’s and put it under Pete’s pillow….. no, he would probably get caught in the act of stealing, then he would really be in trouble. Trip Pete up when he was carrying the filthy oily waste after mopping up under the bilge pump for'ard, making sure that the filth went over the Bosun…..no Pete would turn it around so that Ricky got the blame. He turned over in his bunk and drifted off to sleep, promising himself that he would get even. He tossed and turned in troubled sleep and dreamed that he saw Pete in the paint locker, pouring thinners over the deck. Pete stepped back and looked at Ricky whose feet seemed to be welded to the deck. He grinned maliciously and took a box of matches out of his pocket. Slowly sliding the matchbox open, he slowly selected a match. Ricky shouted, ‘NO, NO,’ but no sound came out of his mouth. He watched in horror as the arsonist struck the match and waved it in his face, grinning all the while before backing out of the paint locker and tossing the match on to the thinners. Now Ricky was outside the paint locker and the flames leaped and roared among the drums of paint. Cans exploded and showered burning paint on to the newly painted deck. Ricky shielded his face from the burning heat and turned to see the Captain and the Bosun pointing accusingly at him. Sweat poured from his brow and he shouted out in anguish as the heat seared him He awoke suddenly, startled to find that he was bathed in sweat. Relieved that it was just a nightmare, he realised that the bunk light above his head was still lit and the heat from the bulb in the confines of the bunk was nearly burning him. He calmed himself, thanking God that it was only a dream. Switching off the light and turning over, he drifted off to sleep again. Nigel entered the galley before Ricky the next morning. ‘Doc,’ he said. Ricky is taking the blame for something he didn’t do’ Doc looked at him. Sometimes the effeminate steward talked sense. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Well, I was looking out of a for'ard porthole in the Captain’s cabin yesterday.’ ‘Slacking again when you should have been working?’ Doc grinned. ‘Watching the men when you should have been going about your business?’ ‘Oh, stop it, Doc. He pouted. ‘This is serious. I saw that deck boy, Pete, kick over Ricky’s tin of paint. It went all over the newly painted deck and the Bosun was furious. Pete blamed Rick for it and he got a roasting from the Bosun. That creep, Pete, was grinning all over his face.’ ‘Probably just fooling around,’ Doc said, turning to the stove. ‘No, I think its more serious than that, Doc. Ricky’s been a bit down lately.’ ‘Yes, I’ve noticed he’s not his usual chirpy self. I’ll have a word with him.’ ‘Good, he’ll listen to you Doc. He wouldn’t take me seriously.’ ‘None of us do, Nigel, none of us do.’ Nigel said, ‘Hmmph,’ stuck his nose in the air and departed. Ricky came into the galley a few minutes later and Doc called out his usual cheerful, ‘Mornin’ Rick.’ Ricky mumbled, ‘Mornin.’ He wasn’t feeling too bright after his disturbed sleep, and he went to the sink and started running hot water onto the dirty dishes left by the night watches. He poured washing up liquid on them and started washing up. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Doc asked. ‘What’s up?’ ‘Nothing. I’m OK.’ Doc came across the galley to the sink. ‘I hear you’ve been getting blamed for something Pete did.’ Ricky looked sharply at him, startled. He’d told no-one of his problems with Pete. ‘Well, its nothing I can’t handle.’ ‘You can’t handle that lad. He’s a head taller than you and a stone heavier.’ ‘I’ve been boxing since I was ten years old. I can handle myself.’ Doc grunted. ‘Maybe so, but watch him, he’s a mean one.’ Ricky nodded glumly. The injustice of taking the blame for problems caused by Pete was making him feel dispirited. ‘I heard he kicked over your tin of paint on deck,’ Doc continued. ‘Yes, the Bosun gave me a right roasting. Everything I do seems to go wrong, especially when the Bosun’s around.’ ‘Like the boiling water in the tea urn?’ Doc asked. ‘Yes, I saw Pete taking it out in a bucket.’ Doc’s lips tightened. ‘The rotten little devil,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve a good mind to teach him a lesson.’ ‘No, Doc. Don’t do anything, please. I really can handle it.’ Doc turned and walked back to the stove, his face set in a scowl. Ricky followed him across the galley. He looked up into Doc’s rigid face. ‘Please, Doc. Let me do it my way,’ he urged. Doc looked down at the young lad, so eager to sort his own problems out and admired him for it. He nodded. ‘OK, Rick, I won’t say a word to him.’ Ricky relaxed and went back to the sink and Doc mouthed silently to himself, ‘But I might just do something.’ He grinned! Copyright Deric Barry 2005.