The Shipping Forecast

Fisher

NAIRN, SCOTLAND

[I meet Thomas Young in the sun-room of the Bright Lights Convalescence Home for Lost Souls overlooking the Moray Firth, a place set up specifically to cater for those who suffered during the Dark Years, so that they can find respite and peace. Some are permanent residents, their experiences so severe that they have a variety of physical, mental and psychological issues requiring significant daily care. Thomas is one such resident. He was found only recently, walking barefoot and mildly hypothermic, missing one arm but otherwise well, in the Baltic port of Gdansk in Poland. Repatriated, his story has never before been captured, although parts of it are known, at least in one version or another, with the official version entered in the United Nations Postwar Commission Report as a footnote. This version of events will hopefully be placed in the revised version of the Report, subject to security clearance being granted.

When I first meet him, he seems distant and not fully aware of my presence, but when asked to retell his story, he speaks with clarity and intelligence, and regails me with the tale of the trawler Volantis in exact detail, right down to the words spoken by the crew, including their accents. I am told this is a peculiarity of his particular PTSD.]

"Hey laddie, get y'arse out'ta that pit, there's works tae do!"

A rough, calloused hand reached into the bunk and grabbed me by the shoulder, then shook me vigorously awake. I woke with a start, reaching out instinctively for the sides of the bunk to brace myself while my head rose a few inches off the rolled-up blanket I used as a makeshift pillow. A wave of nausea rose up inside, threatening to overwhelm me once more as the Volantis pitched into a hollow sea, the whole vessel shimmying as the bow slammed into the face of the next wave before rising up, up over the top to plunge once more into a void beyond.

The storm of the last two days had gone - the absence of wind shrieking through the trawlers rigging no longer added to the cacophony of noise - but the sea remained confused, angry and potent. Another violent pitching, combined with a nasty roll that sent all sorts of objects displaced by the storm clattering across the cabin floor almost tipped me into another bout of retching, but I was damned if I would give Graham, the sanctimonious son of a bitch, the satisfaction of seeing me appear weak once more. Graham's unshaven, dirty face leered close to mine, the smell of diesel, rotting fish, stale beer and stale sweat fighting for dominance over the reek of tobacco from the roll-up hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Skipper say's we're to shoot the nets. Time you stopped feelin' sorry for y'self and learn what proper work looks like."

Graham stomped away, leaving behind a miasma of smoke that stung my eyes and brought on the tears that had threatened to return the moment I awoke. Taking great gulps of air to help stay the sickness, I swung out of my bunk and stood a moment, bracing myself on the fiddle of the empty upper bunk, while I fought to regain my balance. A minute or two later, and I had managed to convince myself that the motion was less than the previous day, that it was likely to calm down now that the wind had gone, and if I was quick, I could get dressed and on deck where the fresh air and a horizon would help to ease the sea-sickness before it returned to embarrass me once more.

Above me in the wheelhouse, I could hear my uncle, Dougie, the owner and skipper of the Volantis, singing some song or other, the words too indistinct to hear, but undoubtedly obscene. Since joining the Volantis, I had learned that it was possible to hold whole conversations, receive instruction for hours, and be told that I was completely useless over and over again, in sentences that were almost entirely made up of swear words, with little in the way of grammar to hold it all together. Whether it be Dougie, Graham, Johnnie or Dutch, the universal language of the Volantis was curse.