The secret of the lost gavel

The ball of white pain laying on the pavement slowly unravelled revealing a man with some serious fitness issues and an addiction to cigarettes.

Donnie Penfolde opened his eyes, wheezing and wondered — not for the first time — when this would all finally end. Surely he’d earned the right to sit on his arse in fluorescent air-conditioned comfort and bitch about colleagues and co-workers by now?

The smell of salt-air together with the urine and solid waste of a thousand yachts assaulted his nostrils.

He stood unsteadily and regarded the millions of dollars of floating property with a little lust.

‘All right,’ he wondered. ‘Now what?’

His phone beeped; a message delivered.

‘What progress on Lost Gavel?’ he read, and typed a response.

‘Making progress,’ he said as he typed. ‘Have information soon.’

A car screeched to a halt not far away.

Bugger, thought Donnie as eight shoes hit the ground running. His feet took the hint and led him down one of the jetties toward a large boat that stuck out from the crowd like a pimple on the nose of a supermodel.

He thumped up the gangplank and straight into the arms of the smelliest man he had ever see.

‘Avast!’ screamed the man. ‘We has a stowaway!’

Donnie was whacked over the back of his head by something hard.

‘Fuck,’ he yelled, ‘That really bloody hurt!’

Stars exploded before him as the kosh was used again and his eyes closed.

* * *

As Donnie’s eyes opened, they focussed, refocussed and revealed a clear blue sky moving slowly past him. His legs seemed to be aloft and held in a solid grip.

‘Any chance–’

‘Shaddup!’ said a rough man nearby.

Donnie was pulled upwards again and recoiled from the festy breath of the one-eyed dreadlocked pirate standing before him.

‘Blimey,’ said Donnie, waving his hand in front of his face to clear the air. ‘Ever heard of mouthwash?’

‘No we hasn’t has we lads?!’

There was a roar:

‘No!’

Donnie turned, his head still a blaze of pain and saw the crew: twenty or thirty badly dressed, mucky-looking sweaty nutters in variations of classical pirate dress, complete with an odd number of eyes, hygiene issues and breath that could strip paint.

‘Whadda we do with stowaways lads?!’

‘They walks the plank cap’n!’

Donnie was lifted above the men, crowd-surfing fashion, and dumped again next to a plank of wood which extended from the boat and out over the edge. The horizon stretched all around but had an insubstantial, almost fake look to it.

‘Now hang about,’ said Donnie. ‘Isn’t a plank a bit drastic? How about a dingy?’

‘Walks the plank yer poxy cur!’

A cutlass was pushed into his arse, point-first.