The Selfless Gene

Chapter 20

Thame wandered through the city, picking up what food and drink he could with what cash was in his wallet. A Bag For Life, fruit, two big bottles of water, bread and tinned potatoes and vegetables with a pull-cap. Hardly a classy Italian affair, but with a seven day sail back in the shadows and potentially a big swim to shore to avoid authorities, he needed to be smart. The food would last until he was able to surface on the ship. He had inner strength and power, but still a human shell to keep in good nick.

The plan: head to the port, find a UK-bound freight ship, try to board and wait it out for five days, until Europe is clear and water surrounds them. Then he could make crew contact. They'll have no choice but to keep him in a room until they reach port. He'd get fed and recharged until the final swim. Not a foolproof plan, but he had no time. He needed to disappear and get back onto trusted ground.

He made it to the port and perched on top of its cliffs, watching the operation. Tracking the ins and outs, the jumpable fences and human security presence. He could of course swim to a ship, but that bread purchase would be wasted and he couldn't guarantee he'd be on the right vessel. He was there an hour tracking his route, sun beginning to flare his neck. Dressed in a mismatched but weirdly millennial outfit of a smart jacket from Turin, granddad top, shorts and trainers, he looked like a tourist obsessed with getting the perfect Instagram photo. There'd be no way he could sneak in as a worker. Swift, quiet and likely not worrying about CCTV, he had to be direct. Big mechanical hands were picking up little red and yellow blocks like an arcade machine launching itself to a prize. Ants in hi-vis uniform scurried around.

The time had come. He'd head into the crowds and cross the main road to the right of the port. Once over the fence, he'd move towards the giant green cranes loading the next departures. The vast expanse of concrete was a problem; he'd stick out like a sore thumb. Instead he would go straight to the stacked containers, snake through them like a lion hunting in long grasses, and try to hop on the back of a transporter. There was no other way to get across the vastness of the port edge. Waiting until evening was dangerous; Paimona could hunt him down and he could feel that she was still in the cave area. Once at the edge, he'd get onto a ship, check its name and pray it's Britain-bound.

There were four currently loading from what he could see, maybe under an hour until they left. Time for perhaps one chance and, if unsuccessful, a swim to one more. Bread be damned and hardly the priority at that point. Once in, he had no choice but to go with the most British sounding ship on the odds that it must be heading back home.

Down the mountain, he crossed the road and slowly walked the direction of traffic along the port entry and barbed fence. He waited for a break in the traffic where the road began to hug the coast and snake around the mountain. Run. He was sprinting like no man could, jumping sideways over the fence like an angled hurdler. Bag For Life flying out behind him, he leapt over, pulling off a forward roll at the end to keep up his momentum. Without stopping, he sprung to the safety of the shipping containers. Silence. Holding his breath to calm the adrenalin, he listened for an alarm, shouting, some sign that the world was out to get him.

Nothing.

Thirty seconds longer, still nothing. They didn't see me, or likely didn't care. It's already 30 degrees Celsius and I would've bothered if I were them.

Thoroughly satisfied, Thame slowly began snaking through the regulated corridors of yellow and red metal, the Hulkamania of ports, to reach the big opening between storage and loading.

"Shit", he muttered through gritted teeth and furrowed brows. A worker was checking numbers and marking them on a tablet. Slowly moving towards Thame, the man was being thorough and enjoying the relative relief of a shadowed corridor.

Thame stayed still out of site, but this worker wouldn't be the only one. Even if he went another route, he'd encounter inquisitive minds ready to catch him.

Think, for fuck's sake, think! He screamed internally, his head the loudest place to be. No, feel came an instant unconsciousness reply.

He calmed for a second and began to listen and smell. The sweat, the breakfast burps, a dock workers favourite cologne. The image of working in sub-human temperatures began painting a picture of every person within a fifty yard radius. Damn, if only I had a dog's nose, he thought, wondering how far Ormr would have smelt when first landing on Earth.

There were six workers around him, moving slowly and easy to dodge if the containers weren't so rigidly set out. They weren't, however, deviating from their route. Up and down. No side to side. For the shortest run to the waterside cranes, he'd have to pass one of them.

Luigi. Definite smoker with a slight cough (he'd have to see to that later), too much Joop cologne , the saltiness of old fashioned sweat. He burped.

"Pastry. Apricot." Thame whispered to himself. He peered around a container and scouted poor Luigi. Safety hat, pass, hi-vis and importantly open access to a manifest. Thame knew what he needed to do.

Without so much of a heartbeat, he lifted himself onto the top of the containers and, as low as he could, darted towards Luigi. Leaping from behind the worker, he struck down across his shoulder and neck. Luigi was out cold.

Breaking a container door handle, he opened it up and slid the unconscious man inside. Amongst a dormant Fiat, he relieved him of his essentials and his tablet. It was unlocked, bonus. Also on him were keys for a golf cart style electric vehicle. He took Luigi's metallic water bottle and refilled it with his bottled water. The door was left ajar for air and to notify a passing colleague while Thame exited, hi-vis and helmet attached for the break-in containers.

Luigi's cart was there with a much-needed roof but no sides, Thame's first sort-of convertible. He studied the manifest. Two ships to Africa, one to Turkey and the other to Bristol. Jackpot. He needed the one in Dock 2, leaving in 30 minutes. With his legs obscured and security pass working a dream, he drove straight to the dock. A busy hive of activity, he needed to blend in to get near the ship. Worst case, he could sneak to the dormant Dock 1 and swim.

Thame checked his watch. Loading finished, final checks in play for Bristol, the drive taking at least fifteen minutes. One high risk, the other a complete death knell for his bread. Thame pulled towards Dock 1. He parked up and quickly paced towards the ship. Slipping the helmet on, he headed down the side and into the water. Good-bye sourdough, my old friend.

Wrapping his tote bag around his hand to stop things falling out, he ducked under and kicked hard. Under the floating village, out of the dock and towards his watery chariot. The port landscape under water was as bleak as its concrete cousin and it was beasted by Thame. It felt like a natural home.

The engines began to roar and Thame gave them a wide-berth. He latched onto the side of the ship, began to scale and flip over, sliding into a space between cargo containers and out of sight.

Quiet. Did the tugboats see him? Will they know? Just the sound of a freighter leaving, heading to open sea.

With a short sharp jab, he punched a huge dent into a container, not wanting to open the outward doors and draw attention to his presence. One more punch and the metal splintered. He slunk inside, feeling temporarily safe and happy now that he seemed to have a real convertible Audi for comfort. Thame pushed the bent metal back into place and settled down to wait in the dark.