Dead Short

Blue Murder

The lifeboat was a magnificent piece of workmanship, Daniel was forced to admit. Carved out of the finest white oak, it had been painted in a delicate shade of whirlpool blue, decorated in a series of inventive loops and swirls, and emblazoned on its silky-smooth side with the bold, striking symbol of the captain's crest. The workmen had clearly put a lot of effort into it.

Which is why Daniel couldn't help but think that if they'd put as much effort into building the actual ship, perhaps it wouldn't have been quite so quick to sink. Right this instant he could've been quaffing Champaign at the Captain's table, and shovelling an ambitious amount of continental delicacies into his sensitive English stomach.

Rather than drifting aimlessly through the ocean, with only a leg of mutton and an unconscious cook as his potential sources of sustenance. Not that Daniel was ready to stoop to such depths as cannibalism, of course, not by a long shot. If the rations gave out before rescue and it came down to that one gruesome choice between starvation and eating his fellow survivor, he would've rather gnawed his own feet off at the anklebone than devour the defenceless woman.

His American companion Hank, however, seemed to view the subject in a very different light.

'Look,' Hank said, in what he alone thought of as a reasonable tone of voice, 'it's not as if we'd be doing anything wrong. In these situations it's survival of the fittest - and let's face facts, that girl's out of the running.'

Daniel's dry, cracked lip curled in distaste. 'Don't you think it's a bit early to discuss eating people? We've still got enough mutton to last us through the week.'

'Ah, mutton, mutton, I've had it up to here with mutton. I want some real meat; something fresh, something juicy.' Hank stared ravenously at the cook's limp form. 'Something five foot four and dressed in an apron.'

'You can't start eating people just because the taste of sheep's lost its appeal.'

'Oh come on,' Hank protested. 'It's what she would've wanted. How many cooks in this world receive the praise that even in death they still made a pretty decent hors d'oeuvre?'

'She's not even dead yet,' Daniel said. 'In fact, I think he might be getting better.'

'She's getting greener,' Hank replied. 'That's not likely to be a good sign.' A thoughtful expression crossed the vast crater-pocked landscape of the American's sunburnt face. 'Could mean the meat's going off.'

'Meat?' Daniel screeched. 'That's a woman you're talking about, not a Sunday roast!'

'Slip of the tongue,' Hank soothed. 'Tell you what, let's flip for her.' The American delved into the pocket of his horrendously loud shorts and pulled out a dollar. 'Heads we eat her, tails we don't - simple as that.'

'You can't decide a woman's fate on the flip of a coin. There has to be an alternative to what you're suggesting.'

'All right, we'll hold a vote. What can be fairer than a pure display of American democracy?' Hank placed the coin back in the murky depths of his shorts and rubbed his chubby hands together. 'Oh, and if it's a tie, we eat her.'

'Of course it's going to be a tie, there's only two of us capable of voting.'

'There's the cook.'

'She's hardly in a position to vote in her favour, is she? The poor girl's unconscious.'

'If she's not going to make the effort, she's got no one to blame but herself.'

'And you,' Daniel swiftly observed. 'You're the one who's responsible for her present condition.'

'Hey, if I hadn't steered the lifeboat towards her when the ship went down she wouldn't even be here.'