All stories

The notorious pirate Bradleigh Salterton, Captain of The Seahorse, was vain.

He liked doublets almost as much as he liked Doubloons and he spent a considerable portion of these on accessories. Every morning he washed his beard in nutmeg infused milk whilst the ships boy laid out his laundered pirate clothes- Stripy socks, felt boots, bellbottoms, Captain’s Underpants, scarlet shirt, jacket with gold frogging and Tricorn hat. A menacing yet stylish cutlass and gold earrings completed his look.

His most prized item though was a vermillion, aquamarine and canary plumed parrot he had bought in a Tapas bar on the Spanish Main. it adorned his left shoulder attracting envious glances from deadly rivals BlueBeard, BlackBeard and Female pirate Fakebeard.

There was only one problem with this extraordinary bird. Its previous owner had been an insufferable foodie, this meant it wittered incessantly about pancetta and attracted unflattering nicknames from other parrots including “Bore of the Bahamas” and “Snob of the Spice Isles”.

The bird itself it would sulk extravagantly unless it was addressed as “Charles Campion- Restaurant Critic of the Daily Telegraph”.

Where other parrots shouted “Pieces of Eight”, Charles Campion Restaurant Critic of The Daily Telegraph would hop around on his perch shrieking “Oxcheek and bonemarrow!” or, on occasion, “pan-fried ballotine of lamb with shallots in a Red Wine Reduction!”

One day, a Spanish Galleon laden with gold, silver and lusty maidens was sighted off the starboard bow. Cap’n Salterton ordered the ship to hot pursuit,…. but the crew had downed tools.

“We’re starving! Can we get a bite to eat on the way?” they asked.

Just then Cap’n Salterton saw a Sail-Thru Sinbad’s upon the Horizon, “2000013 pirates proudly served”. “Stroke of luck” he declared! We’ll hardly lose any time!”- the crew cheered.

He’d reckoned without the parrot.

“A delightful Michelin-Starred restaurant run by Angela Hartnett has opened just round the headland.” it cried, “I wouldn’t send my valet to eat in Sinbad’s”.

Scared of upsetting his parrot, Salterton announced, to loud groans, that perhaps it would do them good to go somewhere that served something better than ships biscuits and grog.

With The Spanish Galleon still in view, they arrived at a minamalist restaurant adorned with works by Damian Hirst to hear the snooty waiter say there were no tables for filthy-looking pirates. The ship hit the high seas again to find the galleon gone.

A deputation from his mutinous crew issued an ultimatum, either the cap’n provided them with food immediately and got rid of the parrot, or he’d be forced to walk the plank and have his clothes sent to the charity shops of Hispaniola.

That evening, as the crew feasted upon the corpulent stomach of Charles Campion- Restaurant Critic of the Daily Telegraph, Cap’n Salterton mused that at least the wretched bird retained some dignity. After all, being served with a medley of root vegetables, on a crumble of ships biscuits, in a grog foam, wasn’t such a bad way to go.

The boats in the marina rose and dropped in the glare of the headlights. Sophie had spent fifteen minutes silently categorising fruits and vegetables in her head and now she began listing cartoon characters.

It was hard to say when she had switched off altogether. Somewhere between the third story about his Ferrari and the bit where he showed her pictures of other cars he thought he might buy.

The date had been an unmitigated disaster. Sebastian had not realised this yet. He’d picked her up from her mate Sharon's house in the estate. She never let Tinder dates see her place; she knew what they'd think of her and she wanted to make sure their first impression was of her, not her house.

He had eyed the place, took in the peeling plasterboard walls and threadbare carpet then made sure to flash his Rolex, name drop several prominent celebrities and mention the fact that he owned two very expensive cars, all in the first five minutes.

Then he’d told her he’d take her for a real treat and they had spent the evening in a restaurant that had served Sophie two mouthfuls of something undercooked while Sebastian explained nouvelle cuisine to her. Sophie watched enviously as he polished off his steak, dreaming of a Big Mac.

“Bet you’ve never been to a place like this before have you? Well this is what it’s like with me. I look after my girls. While you’re with me I’ll see that you want for nothing. Babes.”

Then he had started on the first Ferrari story.

After dinner he’d driven them to the marina to look at boats he was thinking of buying. He’d parked up, launched into another story and was still laughing uproariously at himself.

“The chap on the bike tried to make me pay for the repairs. I told him he should be paying for the scratch marks his stupid face left in the side of my Porsche!’

Snoopy, Captain Underpants, that one from Beauty and the Beast. Shit what was his name? Gavroche? No…

“Anyway I sort of had to cough up a couple of hundred quid in the end. For that sort of money it’s not worth the fuss. Just gave the prole his cash and off he pedalled - ah haha aha!”

Gaston! That was it!

“I mean, honestly, what kind of person cycles? Same poor chaps who think Big Macs are food. Not like the food I ordered for you tonight. I can tell, just by looking at a woman, what she likes to put in her mouth...”

Sophie had had enough. She pulled out her phone and quickly tapped in a message. Within minutes, to her immense relief, the gleaming Bentley slid soundlessly up next to them.

Startling him, Sophie opened the door and got out, clutching her black leather Hermes bag to her chest.

“Goodbye Sebastian, it’s been interminable. I asked my chauffeur Jerry to come and fetch me. Oh, I’ll be seeing darling Elton on the weekend - I’ll tell him you said hello, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Jerry can we please call at the McDonald’s Drive thru on the way home? I’m fucking starving.”

It was a night of firsts. First time his boat ever left the quayside - yet another cunning plan of Mister Oh-so-clever, property prices gone mad but I’m not, so why not a place on the marina for a fraction of the cost? It was the first time she ever ate a steak done sous-vide, pink, moist and juicy, temperature perfectly set by the waterbath so that even a humble self-professed wannabe cook such as him couldn’t muck it up.

It was the first time she ever hit a man around the head with a champagne bottle too.

Was he dead?

She thought he was dead. His blue eyes were open, glassy and bold in the moonlight. He was still warm. Was that normal?

She could not feel the beat of his heart inside his unbuttoned shirt.

She was alone at sea with a maybe corpse, trapped on his former boat as it chugged slowly further out into the Atlantic.

But not alone, never alone, Cal with her just when he needed him most.

Cal who told her he saw him put his hands around her throat. Cal who said he saw him squeeze.

She wanted it like that. She wanted the heat and the passion. She wanted the pain.

Cal who asked her then, that much pain?

And Cal lifted her chin to bring her face to look at his. Cal who touched her neck with the tips of his fingers and told her he could feel the marks.

In any time of need she was not without Cal. The first time she knew him when her father taught them both the meaning of the phrase “below the age of criminal responsibility”. She had wanted the Barbie, and she had wanted her Daddy to have the DVD boxset he coveted. She had not wanted to squeeze through the gap between the security pillar and the sliding doors, then walk in the dark down the alley where her Daddy waited.

It was Cal by her side that day, Cal grinning as he led the way.

Cal it was who stripped to his underwear right alongside her in that busy town centre, Cal leading the jump from bench to bench shouting he was Captain Underpants. And that time they took her Dad’s car to the drive thru, Cal right along with her telling her when to change up and change down and when to indicate.

And now he was here, Cal who whispered that the guy had slipped. Cal who told her that the guy had been drinking, he had been showing off and he had slipped and then hit his head and then staggered. And what was the point of these silly little low wire railings? Barely came above the knees they did, and if they didn’t pitch a falling man over the side, look how much gap was underneath and how skinny this man who put his hands around her neck.

The car if that’s what you’d call it, was certainly something. The gentle curve of the bodywork matching the beautiful white paintwork, the delicately carved prow, the 16 inch wheels, the 16 foot mast. It was Julian’s pride and joy; HMS New Voyage.

It had of course not been an easy transition from seaside to roadside. But you can’t let a lifetime ban from the Maine Sunshine Boat Club slow you down. It had all just been a misunderstanding. One that had left him with the rather unappealing nickname Captain Underpants and had caused him to move 50 miles inland. Most people would have cut their losses and hung up their deck shoes for life. But Julian had always enjoyed blowing the wind into his own sail. He took to the concrete ocean like a fish in a watertank on wheels.

Of course there had been other changes, not just the vehicle. Socially he had had to swim in new waters; dating had been, interesting. It had never been easy, a man of his age, and disposition. The club had, if not approved at least tolerated it, until the incident. But recently he had been dipping a toe again. The last one, George Smith had been nice though, nervous and a bit of a food bore, moaning about the Sea Bream ceviche. He as seemed almost as new to dating as Julian. But it was tough, not everyone was into the landlocked sailor lifestyle.

But when he drove, with the wind in his hair and the spray on his face (he’d taken the windscreen out and added salty water to the washers) for a while he was free again without a care in the world. If he was honest he had grown to love it. For starters there were no drive-thrus on the ocean. It just would be nice to have a shipmate to share it all with.

He saw the flash of blue behind him and sighed. He docked at the nearest layby and waited.

“Excuse me sir,” The Officer asked. He was used to this by now and knew his paperwork was all shipshape.

“I assure you New Voyage is perfectly legal, we go through this every...” He began.

“You had a rear light out, Sir”. She interrupted rudely. The evening light shone dirtily on her badge, Officer Smith.

“I most certainly do not, I checked her over myself before we left port.” He retorted.

“You didn’t leave port, sir. You left your drive. And you have a light out.”

“I am aware of…”

“This thing.” She sneered at him. “And you, are a danger to road users.”

“I, I am a very safe navigato…” he began, but was instantly cut off.

“Safe. People like you are not safe.” She stared at him with disgust on her face. “You’re not safe, no one is safe around your type.” She walked over to the vehicle. “Look, this light is smashed.” Her truncheon cracked into the light.

“What are you doing, you can’t do this.” He exclaimed.

“As is this one.” Another sickening crack.

She disappeared into her car to write him a ticket.

He was quiet now, shaking slightly. She strode back, everything about her seemed to shout a warning at him.

“If I was you I would stay off the road from now on, Captain.” She leered at him. “Fag” she said quietly before walking back to the car and disappearing.

He sat at the side of the busy road, the salt from his tears stung his lips. Then he felt the water lapping at his feet. It was warm, inviting. He could hear the roar of the concrete waves now too. They seemed to call to him as they rushed past. He stood slowly. He smiled. It was time. Time to go back to the ocean. The wind tugged at him in sudden loud gusts. Funny how the screech of the gulls reminded him now of screeching tyres. With a confident stride, he waded out into the churning sea.