Leaving his home country to work aboard a cargo carrier has proved a good decision for Mick to make. He enjoys his new life - at least until a new arrival among the ship's crew causes trouble.

Standing on deck of the Victory with a cigarette between my lips, I brushed some stray curls back from my forehead in the sweltering Spanish heat while I waited for Michel to throw me the rope and jump on board as the ship cast off.

I had been with the Victory's crew for almost half a year now and crossed the Atlantic back and forth several times.

A sailor's life suited me well. I felt less deprived of a place to call home when I was travelling constantly anyway, and nobody expected me to form any bonds that went further than sharing a few drinks and playing a game of cards together.

While most others were looking forward to seeing their families and sweethearts when we arrived at their home port or sought some quick amorous adventure in certain establishments in foreign harbours, I didn't care too much about shore leave. Usually I strolled around the respective area for a while and returned to the Victory rather early to enjoy having the cramped quarters I normally shared with three other sailors to myself for once.

I was always happiest when we were out at sea. What I particularly loved was being outside in a storm, feeling the full force of wind and rain lash the ship that seemed so small compared to the vastness of the ocean. I didn't mind getting soaked through. Standing on deck in that kind of weather as long as it was safe to do so made me feel so wonderfully alive.

But I also relished leaning on the railing and simply looking out over the wide expanse of the sea when the waters were quiet. Waves and nothing but waves as far as the eye could see, and the occasional other vessel sailing past.

No need to feel attached to any place or any person. No other requirements but to adhere to the simple hierarchy of the ship's chain of command and to do my duty, and the added benefit of being right in the middle of my beloved Atlantic most of the time.

This is not to say I kept my absolute distance from everyone on board. I became good friends with one of the French guys, Michel. He had smiled when I'd introduced myself by my full name. "Ah, comme c'est rigolo", he had said with a funny little chuckle, "isn't it nice that we have the same name, basically? That's a sign that we should be friends." He had shaken my hand earnestly before he broke into boyish laughter, and I had taken an instant liking to him.

He was two or three years my junior, of medium height and slender build, with reddish hair and a pleasant freckled face. He spoke excellent English with a charming French accent, and I got him to teach me a bit of the language. I didn't do too well with the grammar, but I was able to conduct a not-too-demanding conversation rather soon, to the great delight of Michel and the other Frenchmen on board.

In fact, there were only two people on the Victory I didn't get along with.

For some reason, the captain seemed to resent me – whenever there was the slightest possibility that I had been involved in some screw-up, he was happy to make me the scapegoat. I accepted the extra duties he clapped on me without complaining much. He'd only have gotten more disgruntled at me if I had tried to reason with him. He didn't bear contradiction well.

The other person, the one I had really come to despise, had joined the crew a few weeks after me, and while Captain Fawkes's dislike for me had been an instant one the moment he laid eyes on me, my sentiments for Tristan Wood had slipped gradually from indifference to a slight aversion to a heartfelt antipathy.

He had not looked like he was cut out for a sailor's hard work when he first came on board in South Carolina. His physique turned out to be sturdier after all than it appeared at first glance, but I didn't care at all for the whiny expression that seemed to be constantly painted on his face, eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth turned slightly downward as if he was no older than five and someone had just stolen his candy.

Within short, it became clear that he'd have been a kid of the kind who said someone had stolen his candy when he had in fact dropped it in the dirt himself. Every time he got berated for something he'd done wrong, he blamed it on someone else, more often than not me or one of the younger boys, which usually meant another talking-to from the captain and another extra shift.

I hated this oily little creature's snitching on everyone, his sucking up to the captain to wheedle some privileges out of him, the innocent sugary half-smile with which he told the grossest lies to be granted exemption when it was his turn to do some unpopular duties. I didn't get it. Captain Fawkes normally smelled flimsy excuses any time someone reported in sick, no matter how green around the gills they were or how feverishly red their faces, but with Tristan, he let as good as anything fly.

"Look out!" Michel shouted as he hurled the rope towards me and leaped on board in a graceful arc. I caught the end of the rope and began to coil it up neatly.

The deck was vibrating with the roar of the diesel engines being revved up, and I laid down the rolled-up rope and stepped aside, out of the way of the stinking exhaust fumes, as the ship picked up speed and began to chug away from the pier.

Michel followed me around the corner of the engine room. He opened his mouth and seemed about to say something but then apparently changed his mind.

I threw my cigarette stub over the railing and saw his gaze follow my movement, again getting the impression something was troubling his mind.

"Want one?" I fished the half-empty pack from the pocket of my blue working pants and held it out to him.

To my surprise, he actually helped himself to a cigarette and put it between his lips tentatively, then patted his pockets in vain for some matches. I gave him mine, and he took his first puff which promptly led to a bad coughing attack.

I grinned. "You need some more practice, huh?"

"Mon Dieu, Mick, how can you smoke those things?" he croaked, bleary-eyed and red-faced. "Beurk, what a taste!" He spat into the water.

"You'll get used to it. Or not. Better not start at all. Bad for your health, you know", I said in a concerned big-brother tone.

"Then why do you smoke?"

"Oh … I don't know, honestly. I started at some point, I liked it, I stuck with it. And now spit it out, mate."

"Spit out what?" He looked confused, looking at the cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

"What you wanted to talk to me about. What's wrong, namesake?"

"C'est rien."

"Ah. Sure." I leaned against the metal wall of the engine room whose white paint was peeling off in large flakes. Lit myself another cigarette and waited, staring into space right past Michel's flushed face.

He tried to look nonchalant as he drew on his cigarette again, coughed once more and angrily chucked it into the ocean with a bad French curse.

He spun around to look at me and said, "Well, then. There is a … problem … a question I have … but please promise me that you keep it to yourself, yes?"

"Sure", I said. "You know I don't rat on people."

"Do you … do you believe that … that you will end up in hell for … for … doing … things … with a man?" His voice became thin and reedy.

"What?" I frowned at him, rather perplexed. I'd never taken him for a queer, nor for a zealous Christian.

"Do you think that it's a deadly sin that can never be forgiven?" His eyes were desperate, plaintive now.

This outlandish concept of sins in various categories and hellfire to punish you in the afterlife had never particularly appealed to me, and I had begun to doubt its validity a very long time ago. But Michel obviously believed in it and was in a serious conflict.

"Why're you askin' me that?" I said to play for time. "Are you trying to tell me that you're …"

"No!" he said with emphasis, apparently horrified. "But Tristan …"

Tristan? Why on earth was Michel wondering about the salvation or damnation of that unpleasant little creep with the pompous name?

He wasn't, as it turned out. Haltingly, pausing for breath and composure again and again, he slowly relayed all of his sordid tale.

Tristan had obviously felt him up one day as Michel had tried to squeeze past him in the doorway of the sleeping quarters they shared below decks, and when he'd struggled to free himself, our endearing newbie had threatened to rat him out to the captain for indecent behaviour.

So Michel had held his tongue, scrubbed decks and floors for Tristan and once even cleaned the john when Tristan had chucked up after hitting the booze too hard, and of course he satisfied his other needs any time he wanted him to, which was usually in the early morning hours when his tormentor would quietly climb down from his own bunk into Michel's right below. And no, no one had ever noticed anything, as the only other occupant of their cabin was old Willie Blackman, half-deaf and blessed with the legendary ability to sleep through any possible disturbance, come hell or high water.

I couldn't find any words to say. I wanted to chase after the bastard immediately and rip him to pieces, stuff his balls into his mouth and dispose of him in the black depths of the ocean.

"That goddamn little prick", I growled through my teeth. "Something's gotta be done about him."

But what?

Knowing I couldn't do much without putting Michel at risk – certainly not go to the captain – I made an effort to suppress the impulse to have it out with that load of shit on the spot and tried to come up with a better plan instead.

I racked my brains, my fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on the metal wall behind me.

Michel had sat down, slumped against the railing, looking half relieved about having finally poured his heart out to someone, half anxious about what was going to happen next, and above all confident that I would help him solve the problem called Tristan.

I was not so sure I would.

Confiding in one of the higher-ranking crew members might not be a good idea since I didn't know them well enough to be sure we could trust them not to take Tristan's side when push came to shove and the issue was taken to the captain.

We'd be arriving in Brest within one or two days anyway. Maybe I'd get some inspiration during shore leave how to further proceed, but I had to make sure Michel wouldn't have any unwanted nightly visitors again.

"I'm not sure if people will believe us if we tell them the whole story, but I'll see to it that you can at least sleep undisturbed tonight", I said in the end, stretched out my hand and pulled Michel to his feet. "Guess we gotta go back to work now."

We went about our business without a further word.

By the evening, the burning heat had given way to a cold drizzle as we made our way north. Everyone had hurried below quickly at dinnertime, looking forward to warming up with some hot food.

The only other person still out was him. I blocked his path as he walked towards the companionway. "Can I have a quick word with you before dinner, Wood?"

"What do you want, Carpenter?" More than ever, he looked like he was ready to break into tears at any minute, even if his tone was snippy and cool.

"I want you to keep your hands off Delacourt. And I want you to swap bunks with me. You're not going to sneak down at dawn to make him give you another blow job."

I had expected he'd deny everything.

Instead, he sneered. "You want him for yourself or what? Shall we strike a bargain? You tonight, me tomorrow?"

I pushed my hands deep into my pockets so they wouldn't fly up and strangle him on the spur of the moment.

"You're such a disgusting little piece of shit", I said in a low voice, almost a whisper.

"Fine, if you don't want to share, I'll be happy to have him for myself." Tristan's triumphant grin was even worse than his usual weepy expression, and he turned to walk off.

"Wait!" I called to his retreating back. He stopped to look at me.

"It's a deal", I said, trying to sound conspiratorial and convincing.

He came back and shook my hand with a nauseating little smile. "Good. And of course this will remain our sweet little secret, won't it?"

He went away, leaving me standing on the wet deck with my blood rushing loudly in my ears.

Damn. What had I done? What if the weather didn't allow us to reach Brest before the next night? He'd be back tomorrow to claim his part of the deal, that much was certain.

I didn't get much food down that evening, praying for the weather to improve.

At night, I told Michel to sleep in the upper bunk and spent a wakeful night in the lower one, keeping watch, listening for approaching footsteps or other telltale noises, but obviously the little shithead had one last scrap of a sense of honour left in him and stayed away.

I awoke from my half-sleep in the feeble light of dawn and got up to answer a call of nature. Somewhat dazed, I padded through the deserted corridors on my bare feet.

When I left the bathroom, a figure appeared from the shadows and thrust himself upon me.

Wood, who else. Wearing nothing but his underpants. Pressing his pelvis firmly against me so that my hand came to brush his groin.

I jerked back my hand and tried to retreat, but there was no manoeuvring space with the bathroom door right behind me.

Before I could ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, he began to scream and call me names.

There was some groaning and complaining from the direction of the sleeping quarters, then someone flicked on the lights in the corridor.

Powers, the Chief Engineer, poked his head around his cabin door angrily, eyes bulging at what he saw.

I stood frozen with my hands flat against the door, horrified to find Tristan's underpants now lying in a crumpled heap around his ankles.

"Oh, fuck", I breathed inaudibly.

Powers strode over quickly and thundered, "What the heck is going on here? Wood, put your pants back on, for God's sake! And what are you doing there, Carpenter?"

Tristan hastened to pull them up and pointed an accusing finger at me before I could explain I'd just needed to take a leak and wasn't quite sure what kind of trick Wood was trying to pull off here.

"He molested me, sir!" he whined, looking ready to break into tears at any minute. "I was just standing there waiting to use the toilet, and he came out and … and … groped me."

My face flushed with a flaming rage. I wanted to deck him but knew I was in a weak enough position already. Instead, I said, "With due respect, sir, not a single word of what he says is true. He is trying to set me up."

"Why do you think he should do such a thing?" Powers asked warily without giving me a chance to answer. "Anyway, I'm not going to play the judge on this. I'm taking this to the captain. You get dressed, both of you, and appear at the captain's office at" - he consulted his wristwatch – "seven-thirty sharp."

"Aye, sir", I said and walked away without another glance at Tristan.

Captain Fawkes was waiting for us behind his desk, fully dressed and inscrutable. He acknowledged our arrival with a curt nod and addressed the matter directly, inquiring what exactly had happened.

I felt rather awkward, towering over the seated and rather short captain like that. Tristan, for his part, appeared unfazed.

Of course, he was the one who got to speak first. He told the captain the same cock-and-bull story he'd given Powers earlier.

"So Mr. Carpenter here approached you in an inappropriate way, Mr. Wood?" Fawkes asserted.

Tristan nodded dolefully.

"Would you say this is true, Mr. Carpenter?" Fawkes asked coolly. "Did you touch him indecently?"

"Well, yes, I did touch him, but not indecently and not on purpose. It's pretty difficult not to touch someone who's throwing himself right at you, but I had no idea he was half naked. It was dark in the corridor and I didn't even know who it was at first."

"Mr. Wood wasn't only half naked when Chief Powers switched on the light", Fawkes remarked.

"That's true, sir, although I don't know why exactly he saw fit to take off his underpants", I replied calmly. "But we had a … kind of … dispute about … something that happened between him and Delacourt, and I think he was trying to set me up as an act of retaliation."

I wouldn't have needed to see the captain's expression to know I was fighting a losing battle. Why should he, of all people, believe my version over Tristan's?

He gave a mirthless snort of laughter. "That's priceless, Mr. Carpenter, trying to twist the evidence in your favour. What reason would he have to do such a thing – make himself the laughingstock of the crew, standing in the corridor with his pants down for everyone to see just to discredit you? That's ridiculous! The scene Chief Powers witnessed speaks for itself, I daresay. I will not condone any inappropriate behaviour among my crew, Mr. Carpenter. I will not let this kind of assault go unpunished. You'll be off this ship as soon as we arrive in Brest, and I do not want to see you again."

Although I was seething inside about the outrageous injustice of being condemned like that just because Fawkes preferred to see what he wanted to see, I admitted defeat and accepted the dismissal without any comment. I simply walking out of the cramped office wordlessly with my head held high. No matter what Fawkes might be thinking, I knew that I had done nothing wrong and I had nothing to be ashamed of.

Of course, there was a lot of whispering among the rest of the crew. Daily routine on the ship could get rather boring, so people jumped at any exciting diversion that presented itself. I didn't really want to imagine what kind of rumours were going on. While most of the men weren't particularly fond of Tristan, they'd certainly care even less for an alleged sodomite.

Thus, I was rather surprised at the commiseration I encountered when I told my comrades I'd been given the sack because of Tristan's false accusations. I didn't let on anything about the nightly visits Michel had had to endure, but I raised my eyebrows meaningfully when Victor Kelly said, "I'd bet you a hundred bucks, if I had them, that the little dickhead is a fruitcake himself. I wonder if he's been trying to hit on one of the boys here."

"Or if he's Fawkes's personal toy boy", Matt Vincenzo chimed in.

I didn't comment on that either but thought that would be a fine explanation of just about anything.

Michel was crestfallen when he learned I'd leave. "Mon Dieu, Mick, I'm so terribly sorry. If I hadn't told you …"

"Nonsense!" I shot back, a little harsher than intended. "I'm glad you didn't hold back any longer, even if we haven't achieved much in trying to hold him accountable for what he did to you. It's me who's got to say sorry that I won't be around to try and protect you from that bastard. Maybe if you speak to Victor, or Matt …"

"No. If you're going, I'm going, too", he declared with sudden determination.

I was about to tell him not to throw his job away, with regular employment hard to come by these days and his family back home relying on him for some additional money to sustain his widowed mother and three sisters, but I couldn't make him stay in good conscience as long as Tristan was on the same ship.

I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose wearily, sobered by the thought that my botched attempt at standing up to Tristan hadn't only come at the expense of my own job but also cost Michel his.

I tried to convince myself that he was better off out of a job than harassed by that asshole, and indeed he didn't seem to be all too bothered by the thought of leaving the Victory.

On the contrary – the prospect of returning home and escaping Tristan for good at the same time seemed to buoy him up considerably, and he cheerily invited me to stay at his uncle's place as long as I wanted.

"He's a fisherman, like you used to be. I bet you'll get along fine, and he'll be happy to have you. He's got no kids, you know, and his wife ran off with a foreigner years ago, so he's a little weird sometimes like solitary men often are, but he's a nice guy. And I'm sure we can both help him with the fishing until we've found some other jobs. Or, if we're lucky and the fishing season's good, maybe he's going to keep us on and even pay us for the work we do."

I wasn't planning to draw on this uncle's hospitality for too long, but I certainly didn't mind being spared the inconvenience of having to search for some lodging on my own in an unknown place, so I agreed to come along.

The Victory pulled into the narrow entrance of the Brest port the same afternoon in breezy, sunny weather, past steep granite cliffs and a small lighthouse that reminded me pleasantly of the coast back in Maine.

After helping the rest of the crew unload, Michel and I went to get our bags from below decks and set out for the bus station to go to the village on the western coast of Brittany.

It took us a while to get there. We had missed the last bus by a couple of minutes and sat around for two hours, then our bus had to stop halfway to our destination to wake up a drunken man who'd laid himself down to sleep off his intoxication right in the middle of the narrow dirt road.

Michel laughed. "That's not unusual here. There used to be an electric tramway from Brest to my village until a few years ago, and they kept having to stop to get drunkards or stubborn cows off the tracks."

I chuckled and eagerly eyed the landscape we rode through – single trees whipped into bizarre shapes by the never-ceasing wind; fields and gardens separated by bramble hedges or low stone walls, often overgrown by shrubs and hydrangeas; one-storey granite houses with brightly painted doors and shutters.

I held my breath as we passed by the magnificent ruins of a Gothic church with a red-and-white lighthouse so close by that it seemed to grow out of the roofless nave, with a majestic backdrop of blue-green sea. A smaller chapel stood to the other side of the lighthouse, still intact.

In my mind's eye, I could see monks in brown robes circling the church or tending the gardens that must have been where now there was only grass and weeds between the ruin and the road.

Michel had noticed my awed silence and grinned. "Impressive, isn't it? Used to be a monastery. It's a shame they closed it down and used it as a quarry after the Revolution. Well, at least they built the lighthouse from the stones they took. Those monks had been the first ones to light a fire on top of the bell tower to guide sailors around the cape. Before, many, many ships got wrecked on the shore. There are dangerous currents and submerged rocks everywhere. Still today these waters are pretty tricky to navigate. We have more lighthouses around here than anywhere else in France."

We had turned the bend in the road and the monastery and lighthouse disappeared behind our backs.

Not much later, we got off the bus in the central square of Michel's village. A granite church with a slender spire rose up at one end. Michel led the way along the narrow footpath that ran along the length of the building and on to the main street of the village that was lined by little shops. A delicious scent of fresh bread from the open door of the bakery made my stomach rumble.

Michel laughed. "Hungry, eh? We're almost there now, and I'm sure Maman will have some treat for us."

We kept following the street as it sloped down to meet the inlet where the village port was located, and not much later, Michel stopped outside a weathered house with elegant high stems of colourful hollyhocks swaying gently in the breeze, contrasting gaily with the rough grey quarrystone front. He had not yet quite raised his hand to knock on the door as it flew open and a girl of perhaps fifteen threw herself at him with a squeal of delight, kissing him on both cheeks.

I stood back with an insecure grin, holding on to my sparse luggage.

A woman appeared behind the girl, tall, gaunt and tired, wiping her hands on her spotless white apron before she greeted her son with a solemn smile.

He gestured at me, obviously explaining lengthily who I was, and when he was finished, she nodded earnestly, beckoning me to come closer and said something to the girl. I introduced myself in horribly accented French, which made the young girl, Louise, smile in appreciative amusement before she hurried away down the street.

Madame Delacourt welcomed me in a friendly but reserved way, led us through into the large kitchen and told us to sit at a heavy, pockmarked table of dark wood while she prepared a simple, tasty fish-and-vegetable stew that was served with homemade bread and, funnily, accompanied by cider served in shallow pottery cups.

Michel's mother seemed to recognize my surprise and said in her throaty voice, "Taste it. You'll like it, I'm sure."

Michel grinned. "Oh, yes, you will. A big shot of cider is the secret of your stew, isn't it, Maman?" He gave a conspiratorial wink that made the girls grin.

We were seven around the table. Louise had apparently been sent off to get Jean-Luc, the uncle at whose house I was supposed to stay, a bearded, taciturn man with piercing eyes who didn't say much but watched me attentively all the time from his seat opposite me.

Michel's other sisters, Thérèse and Juliette, also kept casting curious glances at the stranger who'd suddenly shown up at their dinner table. They were even younger than Louise; Juliette couldn't be older than ten. They chattered away in rapid French, and I didn't even understand a quarter of what they were talking about, but for a moment I gave myself to the illusion of being with my own sisters, letting them babble on and on as my mind was occupied with other things.

It felt good to have been part of a family dinner for once, and I thanked Madame Delacourt affectionately before Jean-Luc and I left.

He showed me into a little upstairs room with a mullioned dormer window looking out on the narrow port basin and the headland on the other side at whose tip a small white lighthouse was keeping watch. The furniture was very basic, just a simple wooden bed with a mismatched nightstand, a dark old cupboard and a hard cushionless chair by the window, but the view that reminded me so much of the ragged coasts I'd grown up with made up for any shortcomings in terms of comfort.

Maybe I'd stay on for a few days after all before returning to Brest in search of new employment, I thought and went to bed, feeling almost happy and strangely at home in this foreign place for the moment.