We Float Upon a Painted Sea
Prima Facie

Under the orange canopy of the raft Andrew Douglas Ulysses Holmes’s mind had been a maelstrom of confusion and panic. Like the first waking seconds from a nightmare, disorientated and struggling to come to terms with the bridging between the dream world and reality. But unlike a normal dream, the dark cloud of anxiety had not been dispersed by the gasp of rationality, it had grown inextricably to consume him. The voices were returning to torment him, as they often did when he felt this way. He patted his jacket and felt a further pang of despair. He had left his pills on the sinking ship. Like Prometheus, he thought. Chained to a rock, but my brain and not my liver pecked at and consumed every day by Zeus’s Caucasian Eagles. His heartbeat racing, he rambled and raged out loud in a variety of voices, but his despairing thoughts had been interrupted by the untimely entrance of a large, almost naked man, appearing through the aperture.

Bull was coiled up and shivering at his feet, his huge form wrapped in a foil blanket and reminding Andrew of a gargantuan Christmas turkey. He studied Bull’s face, bloated and crimson from the exertions of the swim. He had fat swollen lips and was panting heavily like a pub dog on a hot summer’s day. He had vacant, gormless eyes, thought Andrew. Like the pleading eyes of a baby harp seal, a Russian fisherman stares into before he clubs it to death. Andrew wondered if the man was in shock or like him, just glad to be alive. Was he taking stock of his life? Now was not the time for such luxuries, he thought. It was hard to tell his age - similar to myself, mid-thirties probably, but it was difficult to determine with modern society’s obsession with cosmetic laser surgery. He examined the man’s long black hair. All men should have short hair, he declared. Andrew heard his wife’s voice resonate inside his head,

There you go again darling, making assumptions about people based on their appearance. It is pure, unadulterated presumptuousness and arrogance, and you know it.He struggled to control a nervous tick - it was like an impulsive reaction to every voice exploding in his brain. For the most part the voices would stay locked inside his mind, but occasionally they would escape. In times of acute stress he would say things out loud. He was confident the voices hadn’t broken free, at least not this time. His mother’s voice interrupted Ashley’s moralising lecture. Her words were challenging and contradictory. At first an impotent Andrew welcomed the interjection, but then she would qualify her objections by offering excuses for her son’s behaviour. She made references to a young Andrew locking himself in the toilet for hours, being a loner and a fairly odd boy. Much to Andrew’s delight his deceased Grandfather interjected with a deep booming voice to put the two bickering women to flight. “We need to get him some medical attention,” said Bull breaking Andrew’s delusional mental ramblings. Andrew was startled. He refocused his mind and drawing his eyes across Bull’s semi-naked form he replied,

“Dress it with what? The medical kit is missing along with most of the emergency supplies.” Bull looked at the sorry sight of the unconscious man, his head swaying from side to side in time with the rhythm of the pulsing sea.

“He’s going to bleed to death,” said Bull, his words disjointed and his body shuddering with cold.

“It’s just a matter of when we get rescued and then we can get him some medical attention, and perhaps get you some clothes.”

“You seem sure.”

“These ships are tracked by satellite and the authorities will be alerted. I’m sure of it. We just need to be patient.”

“I’ve got a library book I need to return, so let’s hope it’s soon.”

“A library book? There haven’t been libraries for years my friend.”

“It was just a joke. Something my dad used to say.”

“There will be a time for jokes, but only when we get rescued. Look on the bright side. You’re alive. Many others didn’t survive. I should know, I saw the bodies. We could have frozen to death by now but the life raft was here to save us and I haven’t seen any other life rafts so far, so count your blessings my friend, God is smiling on us.” Bull raised an eyebrow in confusion. He stared into Andrew’s wandering eyes and said through chattering teeth,

“Yeah, it definitely feels that way.” He paused and then said,

“Do you know him? Was he on the raft when you got here?” Andrew was irritated by the sudden eagerness of Bull’s questions.

“No, I’ve never met him before, but I think his name is Malcolm. Why? Does it matter? By the way he’s dressed I would guess he worked on the ship. He couldn’t have received the injury inside the raft, although how he made his way here carrying such a nasty wound is perplexing.” Bull sniffed the unconscious man and said,

“Well done Sherlock.” Andrew, his eyelids blinking replied,

“Sorry, what did you say?” Sherlock had been his designated moniker at school, on account of his surname, Holmes. Andrew became aware he was frowning. His wife often pointed out the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead would deepen when he frowned. She teased him he possessed scowl marks instead of laughter lines. Andrew moved to the aperture to take a look out to sea. As he passed, Bull sniffed him before saying,

“It’s just a saying, you know, when somebody solves a puzzle.” Andrew grimaced and viewed Bull suspiciously. He wanted to know why Bull had sniffed both him and the unconscious waiter.

“He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform with the ship’s logo on it,” he snarled. “He also has a name tag pinned to his lapel. I tried to look in his bag to see if there was any further identification, but unfortunately it’s locked. So it’s just simple powers of deduction.”

“Elementary dear boy,” retorted Bull through chattering teeth. Andrew frowned and said,

“So why are you naked, apart from your life jacket?

“Why does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No, I was just wondering.”

“I was showering when the accident happened,” lied Bull.

“Interesting you use the word accident.”

“What else would it be, if it wasn’t an accident?”

“We know the facts. An accident would imply responsibility, fault, blame…” Bull coughed up more seawater and forcing his head through the aperture, he spat it back into the ocean. Andrew winced at the sight of his naked behind. Bull closed the flap and moved to the far side of the raft. He cusped his hands and breathed into them. Bull said,

“Don’t you think we should try and turn the lifeboat around and pick up some of the survivors?”

“This is a life raft,” grunted Andrew, “There are no oars and the raft appears to be drifting away from the ship. The wind and the current are at work. If this was a lifeboat, it would be a different matter. They are usually equipped with several days’ worth of food and water, basic first aid supplies, oars, navigational equipment, solar water stills and fishing equipment, but these items are all missing on this craft. I’ve already checked. These rafts are designed as a temporary means of survival, until a rescue party can be assembled.”

“What do we have then?”

“There are two foil blankets, three flares, a rain catch, which drains into a plastic bladder, and although we have a hand inflator, there’s no puncture repair kit. I hope we don’t spring a leak. I can’t find a water bailer although it’s listed on the inventory. Bull picked up the drogue and examined it. He put it on his head. Andrew’s eyebrows narrowed in bewilderment.

“Don’t mess about with that, we might need it later on.”

“It will trap some body heat. I read somewhere you lose...”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Bull ignored his protests. He asked,

“How come you aren’t wet?” Andrew inspected his own attire and said,

“I am wet but this clothing is designed for survival situations. It is neoprene lined with a water repellent skin so it’s thermally insulated with fast drying qualities. It’s a Roy Beer endorsed Swazi tahr anorak. So are the trousers. It’s standard army issue.”

“So were you in the forces?” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“You could say that.”

“I just did.”

Andrew sighed and moved towards the aperture. He unzipped it and stared out. The mist had lifted and the strong ocean currents and winds had dragged the raft further out to sea. The St Kilda archipelago was now a faint wisp of land on the horizon, rapidly dissolving into the iron grey sky, until finally it was gone. The rugged shoreline, peppered with grey misty cliffs, had once appeared ominous from the superficial safety of the ship, but now the absence of land unnerved him. Moreover, the ship’s upturned hull was shrinking before the low slanting sun and reflecting its rays like shards of shimmering red glass. It was a particularly foreboding sight. Andrew watched the troubled vessel appearing like an ancient beacon fire on the horizon. Still no sign of any rescue services, he thought. And then the clouds gathered once more and snuffed out the illuminating display. Andrew knelt upright, and almost standing he extended his body outside the raft and groped around the roof of the raft until he came to the apex, where the satellite beacon was located. He examined the snarled remains of the unit and returned inside the raft. Andrew felt a knot in his stomach. The anxiety was returning. He tried to calm himself and said to Bull,

“Look, it will be getting dark soon. We will need to rely on our own wits until a rescue attempt is made. It’s looking bleak if I’m being honest. The satellite beacon is busted up.” Andrew stared directly into Bull’s eyes, catching him with a sincere look. Bull resented having his safety bubble burst so soon after finding his refuge. Once more he felt exposed to the natural environment. Andrew continued, “We need rescued soon or we have merely traded a swift death for a slow one.” Bull grunted,

“Does pessimism come naturally to you or is it something you bottle up for special occasions?”

“I’m just stating the facts of our predicament.”

“So, according to you, our chances of survival are slim unless a rescue comes quickly – well that’s just fucking brilliant Sherlock!”

“I’m not saying we have no chance. I’m just assessing the situation as a means of identifying how best to improve our chances of survival.”

“We’re likely to die slowly…”

“This is a normal reaction. You are seeing yourself as a victim.”

“No, you said we are likely to die slowly. That’s what you said, didn’t you?” Andrew ignored Bull’s question. He was busy recanting script from his military survival handbook. He continued,

“The effects of the adrenalin in your bloodstream are wearing off, leaving you with the debilitating emotion of being trapped with an eroding self-belief.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my self-belief. I’m just cold and hungry and I wouldn’t mind getting home at some stage.” Bull contemplated, in actual fact, he didn’t have a home, at least not anymore.

Andrew was becoming frustrated. His amateur attempts at field psychology weren’t working. He so desperately wanted to convince Bull his experience and training endowed him with skills enabling him to lead all three of them to safety. It was important he took control, this way his mind would be occupied and focused, extinguishing the inner voices ignited by his anxiety. First and foremost, Bull would have to acknowledge there was a pecking order and despite the obvious dangers, he would be the one to lead them to safety. So far, he was hopelessly off course with his strategy. Andrew stated,

“Slowly but surely, you are becoming more conscious of the notion you are a fatality of an uncontrollable event, and you have been cast off into an unfamiliar environment.”

“The sea? What of it? I was floating on the sea, inside a passenger ferry and now I’m still floating on the sea but inside a life raft. The type of environment isn’t the issue. Getting rescued is.”

“Yes, but when you think all that lies between you and a mile of deep cold water, is a piece of reinforced black plastic. It’s a daunting prospect.”

“Have you ever been asked to talk someone off a ledge?”

“No.”

“Somehow, I didn’t think so.”

“My words may sound harsh but part of the survival process is examining what one is up against. Not taking it for granted. Respecting your environment.” Andrew wanted to build the calm persona of a man who was in control of his own destiny, regardless of the harsh reality of the situation. He called upon his military training, remembering how overcoming stress was one of the primary obstacles to survival. Stress, thought Andrew, impaired the cognitive process. It increased the chances of making fatal mistakes and it sapped energy levels. Stress was their main enemy. Second on the list was complacency, which his companion seemed to be experiencing. He needed to be reminded of the perils they faced. Bull interrupted his thoughts. He said,

“It sounds like this isn’t your first time waiting to be rescued?”

“You’re presumption is correct. I’ve had experience of these situations. I know what you’re thinking and you would be right.”

“I was thinking you’re a jinx,” blurted Bull. Andrew’s eyes narrowed for an instant. Bull unzipped the aperture and looked out. His eyes settling on the surface of the ocean, he considered the dense body of saline water, descending a mile to the ocean floor. Bull lifted his head and noticed a suitcase floating near the raft. He pointed out to the sea. When Andrew joined him, he couldn’t detect the object. His eyes squinted and darted between the swells, and then firmly he stated,

“Let’s get it. There may be something inside to help us survive. We don’t have any oars, but you can paddle with your hands. Come on man!” Bull hesitated. He didn’t like the master and servant tone of Andrew’s voice. “Please?” said Andrew unconvincingly. They paddled with their hands, but with little success. Their muscles had seized up in the cold. Andrew cried out,

“This is hopeless,” and removed his jacket, Aran knitted jumper and boots. He slipped into the sea and cut a swathe through the water, stopping every so often to check his bearings. Finally he grabbed the suitcase and made his way back towards the raft, swimming with the object in his arms as if cradling a drowning child. “A little help wouldn’t go amiss,” shouted Andrew, as he came close to the raft. He held onto one of the grab ropes to catch his breath. Bull heaved the suitcase onto the raft. He fumbled with the lock. Andrew crawled back to his original spot, wheezing and coughing. He redressed. Andrew put his hand inside his trouser pocket and withdrew his multi-tool. He passed it to Bull who withdrew one of the blades with shaking hands. He broke open the lock, opened the suitcase and rummaged through the contents.

“I wonder who this case belonged to,” said Bull. Andrew sat up and pulled on his jumper. He was impatient for Bull to reveal the hidden treasures of their find.

“It doesn’t matter who it belonged to,” said Andrew, “The main thing is we now stand a better chance of survival. There’s sure to be something we can use to help us survive. At least some warm clothes for yourself.”

“Yes, you might be right. This will come in handy,” said Bull, holding up a large black brazier. Andrew frowned. He said through chattering teeth,

“Joke all you want man, but there may be articles within this bag which could save your sorry life.” Bull draped a bath towel over his shivering shoulders. Curiously his eyes focused on a label - stolen from Lustrum Budget Hotel. Andrew crept closer and looked inside the case. He extracted a cotton underskirt and started ripping it into strips.

“What are you doing?” said Bull.

“I’m making bandages for the waiter,” replied Andrew.

“He has a name. Malcolm.”

“Well whoever he is, there’s a nasty head wound requiring tending.”

Bull removed his life jacket and wrapped a shawl around his torso. He made a makeshift sarong for the lower half of his body and draped himself in a white fur coat, held in place by the use of a belt hooked around two holes he made with himself with Andrew’s multi-tool. An impromptu turban was created from a scarf and then, he stuffed other smaller garments under the coat to further insulate the top half of his body. He was warmer now but the water collecting on the floor of the raft made him feel perpetually wet. He separated the brazier into two and used one of the cups to bail water.

“We’re in luck,” he said, looking up in mock delight, “She was a D cup.”

They found some food and drink in the suitcase. There was a bag of soft prunes, a bannock cake, a bottle of mineral water and a bottle of Talisker single malt whisky. Andrew had also come upon a pair of opera glasses. He used them to survey the sea for signs of life or more floating luggage. In the distance he watched as the Andrea Starlight finally sunk. He knew there was no going back to the vessel but the sight of the ship sinking left him feeling vulnerable, as if the last link to civilisation had been removed. The wind picked up and shifted the raft. Andrew wondered why they were travelling west, further out to sea when the prevailing winds would be expected to blow them back towards the mainland. It occurred to him the ocean currents would be at work. He bemoaned the absence of a sea anchor and then he stopped, frozen with a stark realisation. His eyes darted towards Bull. He was no longer wearing the drogue.

“The polythene drogue you had on your head? Where is it?” he said.

“It must have fallen off when I was hanging over the side of the raft paddling. Was it important?” Andrew growled,

“We didn’t need it when we were trying to stay clear of the ship, but now the current and wind have taken control of us we could do with an anchor to stop the raft drifting. So yes, you could say it was important. Andrew admitted to himself, initially he didn’t think an anchor would be a crucial piece of kit, given the sea currents and wind, at this time of year, were likely to drive them back to the mainland. Something had changed. The wind appeared to be coming from the east. Mistakes in a survival situation can be fatal and he imagined his sorrowful tale and account of his mistakes being retold in a melodramatic documentary. He attempted to draw inspiration from survival books he had read by Roy Beer and conjured up pictures in his mind of what the author would do in this situation.

Later, Bull stared out of the aperture in silence. He contemplated the sunset and how he and Saffron would watch from the Necropolis as the changing light signalled the end of the day. In her arms he had felt the most content in his life. He collected pieces of floating waste from the surface of the sea. A wine cork, a cigarette lighter, a rubber band, plastic toothpicks and a piece of rope. He placed them in the suitcase and settled down for the night.

Andrew bailed some water using the brazier cup and when he was finished he zipped up the aperture flap. The indiscernible sun slipped below the horizon and their world was plunged into darkness. Exhausted, he rested his head against the inflated pontoon. He closed his eyes. The only noises were the sounds of the sea slapping against the raft and the distant songs from a pod of passing humpback whales. The close proximity of such colossal animals unnerved him at first, fearing a whale could easily capsize them, but eventually the songs faded. Andrew savoured the silence until Bull’s nasal symphony piped up, playing long and loud into the night.

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