One

Fog rolled over the city, smothering the warmth and light like a creeping, almost tangible ooze that sneaked in from the almost-calm ocean like waves: over the dock, making the already wet wooden gang-ways and piers lethal; sliding along the cobblestone streets and dirty back alleys and the more up-market, fashionable parts of the city. Although it was late on a February night, and cold with it, the city was still awake. A few ships had come in that morning, and this place was still dependent on the ships for life: from the jobs the docks brought to the locals to the coin spent by uncouth sailors on booze, drugs and whores.

The pub was a distance from the harbour. Dawes had arranged for the meeting to take place somewhere it was less likely for any of his crewmates to show up. If any of them discovered his treachery he would be dead. There would be no mercy given; no reprieve granted in the name of brotherhood or friendship: they would simply kill him. Drug smuggling was dangerous, and they were all paid well for it. Not a one of them would go back to the old ways of honest, back-breaking toil and poor pay.

"Fancy a go, pal?" A young girl, barely eighteen, slid out of the shadows and stood leaning against the wall. Dawes looked her over: youthful, but with a hard glint in her eyes that spoke of bad experiences; dark hair that fell softly over one eye; dusky skin that looked like rich toffee and even duskier eyes that promised sin.

"Not yet, love," Dawes said. He reached out and caught a hold of the girl's chin, tilting it up. The smoky, fog-filtered light of a streetlamp lit the girl's face beautifully, and for a moment Dawes thought that she was an angel in disguise, sent to forgive him his earthly trespasses. To forgive him for peddling poison.

He'd come back later, when he'd betrayed his shipmates; his brothers-in-arms. He'd take his salvation then.

x

Bunji Kuraki straightened his coffee cup, aligning it to the very centre of the saucer. This place made him uncomfortable. It was small and damp and the patrons looked like an unruly, motley mob. He stuck out like a sore thumb – everyone else in the pub was white and wore working-class clothes – and he'd seen a small knot of drunken young man looking over and laughing amongst themselves, sniggering unpleasantly. This may have been the 21st century, but racism was still alive and well all over Europe, especially in these places where a small-town mentality prevailed. This may have been a city, but it was a coastal city, secluded by choice; separated from the march of time so vehemently that the people that lived there – though tolerant of the sailors and the occasional blow-ins – still maintained an almost hive-like sense of community that viewed foreigners as contemptible and frightening.

If his contact, Herbert Dawes, didn't show up soon, one of the drunken youths would work up enough Dutch courage to swagger over, his friends at his back of course, to bravely confront the quiet, non-threatening, slender Asian menace. Bunji didn't want that to happen. He wasn't afraid: he was just bloody good at karate and wasn't in the mood to slap down ignorant drunks.

The door opened and a stocky, black-haired man in a burgundy cap and navy blue pea-coat came in. He scanned the small interior of the pub, a look of relief washing over his face when his eyes landed on Bunji. He made his way over and sat down, moving his chair so he was sitting on Bunji's right-hand-side, the door firmly in his sights. If anyone came in, he'd see them straight away.

"Herbert Dawes?" Bunji asked quietly. The man nodded. "Would you like a drink, Mr Dawes?"

"Yeah, go on: get 'em in," Dawes replied. As soon as Bunji had gone to the bar to order, he snuck his hip-flask out of his inside pocket and drank deeply. It was almost full, but he emptied it completely, knocking the cheap whisky back in three or four gulps. His hands had stopped shaking, thank God. If he was going to betray his closest friends he would do it as a man, not a snivelling coward.

Bunji came back, setting a pint on the table in front of Dawes, along with a whisky chaser. Dawes took a huge swallow of beer before getting down to business. He pointed an unsteady finger at Bunji.

"H-h-heroin!" he hissed.

"Excuse me?" Bunji asked politely.

"I s-said… h-heroin!" Dawes repeated.

"Are you buying or selling?"

"Neither: I'm bringing the damned stuff into the country. You ever seen an addict that over-dosed?" He pinned the Asian man with a fierce glare. Bunji nodded, his face carefully blank. He'd seen plenty of over-doses. Some had been accidental, some not-so accidental, and others he was sure were outright murders but he'd had no proof other than his gut instinct.

"My granddaughter over-dosed," Dawes said sadly. Tears welled in his pale, almost sickly eyes. "Beautiful girl. She could have been anything she wanted. We're still not sure why she"- he paused and looked away. Bunji sipped his coffee, waiting until the man had composed himself.

"Do you know what it's like?" Dawes hissed when he had stemmed the flow of tears. "What it's like, living every day knowing that you brought in the shit that killed your only granddaughter? Your own flesh and blood?" He downed the pint in one go, his natural belligerence mixing with the drink to fuel his desire for justice. That's what this was about, after all: atonement. The desire to get caught, at last; to pay for his granddaughter's death, as though by punishing himself and his crewmates he could deliver justice to the dead girl and others like her. The nameless, faceless, growing number of statistics that he was helping to kill.

May God have mercy on me.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Bunji said.

"Yeah," Dawes said with a sneer. "Don't make me laugh. Your type looks on lads like me like we're scum. Well, we're not. We just wanted to earn some money, pal. Where's our economic boom? I'll tell you where: in the pockets of fat-cats! We risk our lives day after day – year after Godforsaken year – shipping goods all over the world, and what do we get for it? A pittance and the back of your hand, that's what!"

Bunji shook his head. "You're mistaken, Mr Dawes: I don't think you're scum at all. Far from it. I think you're a hard-working man that saw an opportunity and took it. After all, junkies will get their junk, won't they?"

"S'right," Dawes agreed.

"You might as well make some money out of it. After all, if not you and your ship, then someone else will do it, right?"

"Yus! Exactly!"

"What makes you a good man, Mr Dawes, is your wish to repent."

"Yes!" Dawes put his head in his hands. "Oh, Lord forgive me!"

"Tell me about it, Mr Dawes." Bunji leaned in closer. Someone had just turned on the jukebox and Nancy Sinatra was singing about her famous boots.

"Crab," Dawes said, his hands muffling his mouth. Bunji frowned, annoyed by the gradual loudness that was building around them. A table of drunken women – hard-faced slappers in too-short skirts and towering leather boots – had joined with Nancy in female solidarity, and were shouting the words to the song over her smoky, seductive drawl. "What?" he cried, raising his voice.

These boots were made for walkin'

"Crab!" Dawes raised his head and reached into his coat. Bunji stiffened, aware that the man was drunk enough to be dangerous with a weapon.

And that's just what they'll do

Dawes pulled out a tin. It was roughly the size of a decent tin of baked beans, but had a garish yellow label with a red relief of a crab on it. He tossed it onto the table and it rolled towards Bunji.

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you!

The heavy bass line thrummed, the floor vibrating subtly underfoot. Bunji turned the can over in his hands: it was empty, and the peel-away lid had been, well, peeled away, showing the dull tin inside. He flashed it at Dawes, one eyebrow arched.

That's it, boots, git on walkin'!

"I can get you a full one," Dawes shouted over the din. The women were really having a good time now, stamping their feet and shouting along with the jazz section of the song. Bunji supposed it was just one of those songs, along with I Will Survive, that all women know the words to. It was genetically coded in them, and released itself after their first tough break-up.

"Do," Bunji agreed. He tossed the can back to Dawes. It was of no use to him: any fingerprints on the can were compromised the second Dawes had shoved it into his pocket, and the heroin would have been placed inside plastic wrappers first. He knew from experience that forensics would yield nothing. "What ship did you say?"

He saw Dawes mouth move, but the words were stolen by the din around them. Some of the women were up and dancing, shaking their bodies in a vulgar display of sexuality, and the men were starting to hoot and clap. Bunji shook his head and gestured to his ear.

Dawes rolled his eyes. He tore a strip off the can's label and leaned over to steal a pen from Bunji's shirt pocket. He scribbled something on the paper and showed it to the Asian man. One word; Karaboudjan.

Karaboudjan! Bunji's eyes widened. He had been right! All his instincts had screamed at him that the Karaboudjan was involved somehow, but he'd ignored them after he'd met the captain of the vessel. The man had been a complete arse! What was his name again? Trout? Salmon? Haddock? Something fishy like that, anyway. They'd nicknamed him The Red Herring, because they'd thought he'd just been a blustering drunk that had lost his mind somewhere along the way. If Dawes was right, then The Red Herring was a phenomenal actor.

Dawes screwed up the piece of paper and shoved it into his pocket. The song finally ended, to much applause and cat-calls, and after a short moment the noise died back down to a steady, good-natured buzz, and the two men could finally hear each other again. They leaned back in, conspiratorially.

"You know the old church yard?" Dawes asked.

Bunji frowned. "Beside the Town Hall?"

"Nah!" Dawes waved his hand dismissively, almost knocking Bunji's glasses off. "There's one on the edge of town, over the bridge. Old plague graveyard, where they just used to toss the bodies in together. It's always deserted. Meet me there at noon tomorrow and I'll have the proof you need."

"All right, Mr Dawes, I'll meet you there." Bunji stood up and pulled his black greatcoat on.

"Here!" Dawes reached out and grabbed Bunji's sleeve. "What'll happen to me?"

"Don't worry, Mr Dawes. I'll see that you're taken care of."

"God bless ya, mister." He toasted the Asian man with the whisky shot and downed it in one gulp. When Bunji was gone, he got to his feet and made his way unsteadily out of the pub. If he was lucky, his angel would still be in the alleyway and he could buy his redemption with coins and kind words.

May God have mercy on me.

x

He staggered off, the fog swallowing him, blind to his surroundings. Behind him, two men followed him out of the pub, eager to catch up with him. Their suspicions had been correct: Dawes had proven to be the weak link in the chain, and it was time to silence him.

Author's note: I had no intention of updating any of Hergé's completed stories, but someone mentioned that they'd like to see this done in the comments for one of the other modern Tintin stories (I forget which) and the idea wouldn't go away. I'm still not sure about it though: it could work - it's working so far - but I don't know if there's any demand for it or if anyone else would like to see it updated. Modern Tintin is really about the bromance between Haddock and Tintin, and this story is the start of this wonderful bromance.

For now, this story will be a one-shot. If there's enough reviews asking for it to be completed, I will definitely revisit it (probably after Alph-Art is finished) and continue with it. If not, then it can remain a one-shot and fade into abandonment like a good little story. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So please, let me know what you think and if you would like to see it updated or not.