Notes: A much more popular POTC appears briefly in this chapter. I do hope I've made a semi-decent effort at capturing his way of speaking because it's something I've seen people get completely wrong so many times.
I don't know when my next update is going to be, I might get another chapter done by the end of the week but it's graduation week so I'm potentially going to be busy being kicked out of university with a degree in my hand! Anyway, for those of you actually reading this, I promise I won't take too long to update again.
Chapter Five:
Martha did not know onto what she was clinging but her instinctive reaction to curl her fingers had served her well. If she wasn't feeling sober before, she definitely was now and she fought her fear of looking down towards her feet. She gasped once she realised that she was hanging from the side of the ship with nothing but the sea, hardly visible in the night, beneath her. She peered skyward, realising that to get onto the bowsprit she had surely climbed down from the main deck. There was no direct connection and now that she thought about it, the bowsprit was hardly stable either. It curved upwards and separated into two, mimicking the jaws of a sailfish. In short, she must have been really drunk to attempt something so foolish. Still, the experience had been worth it, excluding the complications now arising. Worse still was the sudden appearance of a torrential downpour.
"Urgh, tropical climates…" she hissed to herself as she managed to pull herself up from the upper jaw of the bowsprit, taking care to watch her step this time, especially given that the surface was fast becoming ten times more slippery. Her next problem was finding the strength to haul herself back onto the bow deck; the brief re-acquaintance with the bowsprit had pulled a muscle in one of her arms limiting her movement. She tried to grip the wood, using the lip of a cannon port as leverage but the sharp ripping pain in her right shoulder made her grimace. With much effort, she secured both of her hands and attempted to rest her feet upon a ledge that was hardly a ledge at all. A little self-motivation and a mighty swing later, she had managed to move her hands to the edge of the deck, but her legs gave way and she slipped again. She screamed as her weaker arm was pulled free, she no longer possessed the strength to swing her body back into a better position and the fingertips upon her opposite hand were losing their grip. Her knuckles tensed and she pressed her finger pads harder against the wood, but she could feel the rest of her body slipping away from the ship. She could let go and drown, but that would require a lack of immortality and she made the insane choice that being on the ship was the better option.
By now, those of the crew who were not inebriated had gathered on the deck to survey the commotion. Maccus was cursing yet another addition of five years to his sentence when his mean-spirited captain decided to make an appearance. He stepped rather impatiently up to his crew and used his clawed hand to spin Maccus around, so that he was facing away from the spectacle at the bow.
"What is this?" Jones growled.
"The girl fell overboard sir," Maccus replied as Jones let go of him. Jones smirked.
"Let me know when she falls tae the sea…"
"Beggin' your pardon Cap'n," said Maccus, hunching his shoulders as though he expected a hit "but you did promise…" he was unharmed but the anger that flared across Jones's face was enough to wound the first mate emotionally. The crew expected that Maccus would be sent to retrieve Martha as punishment, but to their most extreme surprise, Jones moved forward, stomping towards the bow.
Martha of course did not hear what transpired on deck, she was occupied with yelping and supporting her entire weight with just one hand, and that one hand was troubling her. Her little finger had slipped from the deck, and her remaining digits threatened to follow. She decided to try another swing, letting out a deep growl as she propelled her weight forward. Her hand only just missed the deck, but it didn't fall back to her side either. In a flash, she had narrowly missed the deck and felt a clammy hand grasp hers. As something slithered around her wrist and pressed against her forearm, she already had some idea who had pitied her, nevertheless her heart leapt in fear when she looked straight into the fiery blue eyes of the captain. She had no time to consider the force of his anger, for now he was simply helping her. With considerable strength, he pulled her up onto the deck using just his "good" arm and Martha slid unceremoniously onto her belly. Her right hand appeared to be covered in slime, but much to her relief, the rain soon washed any traces from her skin. She mustered enough energy to pull herself to her feet and wiped her hand against her sodden jeans.
"Thank you…" she said. Jones's eyes widened in shock but it only lasted a few seconds, and his unpleasant scowl returned.
"Anythin' tae get ye tae shut up!" he snapped. Turning sharply to stomp back to his quarters.
"Fine! I won't say thank you in future!" Martha spat back and their 'audience' collectively gasped. Jones faced her again with a single thud and his lip trembled, he was definitely going to rant and rave now. Martha even slapped a hand over her mouth once it registered that she had probably spoken out of turn. There was a deadly silence and Jones simply leaned towards her, touching a tentacle to the side of her face and forcing her to look at him.
"I'll pretend I did nae hear that lass, just this once!" he stormed back towards the crew, treating them to an earful of "what are ye lazy woodworms starin' at, get back tae yer posts!" before he slammed the door to the main cabin and the entire deck seemed to quake. The crew disappeared back below in silence, and Martha was left alone, biting her bottom lip so hard that she tasted blood.
The Doctor was extremely bored with standing around looking at open sea. Granted, it was a beautiful sea, shimmering with deep blues and rich greens in the mid-morning sun but he had been looking at the same sight for the best part of twenty-four hours. He had the luxury of a slight change of scenery during the night but it was still water and nothing more. He had refused a bed for the night, telling his "friends" that he required very little sleep. An anonymous lieutenant had looked at The Doctor as though he didn't believe him but respected his wishes. Those on the early morning shift were rather surprised to see that The Doctor was meandering around the deck in exactly the same manner as they had left him eight hours earlier. The Doctor could hear the other men panicking, wondering if he was in fact a cursed member of the Dutchman and that their ship was now in danger, luckily the more intelligent among them pointed out that they were quite safe "because of the heart,"
The men shushed each other with friendly elbow jabs as The Doctor walked past them. He pretended that he wasn't listening, but had already heard enough. The heart had to be on board this so far un-named ship. The problem was finding out where and his gut instinct was that it had something to do with Lord Beckett. The Doctor slouched against the main mast and looked up to the sky, squinting as his face was bathed in bright sunlight. In the corner of his field of vision, he spied both Beckett and Norrington on the bridge deck, chatting to the helmsman. Mercer was up there too, but he was his usual grouchy self, making no effort to join in with the others. They appeared to be so engrossed in their conversation that nobody else's presence registered, and an idea instantly tugged at the corners of The Doctor's mind. With one last glance about the ship to ensure that nobody was watching him, The Doctor slipped away from the main mast and under the stairway to the bridge deck in one fluid movement.
It was difficult having to walk backwards, with only the occasional luxury of a glance over his shoulder, but The Doctor knew that discomfort was better than getting caught. He fumbled with one hand, feeling behind him for the door to Beckett's office, and was relieved to discover that the door remained unlocked. His hearts were beating wildly against his breast and he was worked-up enough to sweat far more than he had done in the baking heat on deck. He quickly pushed the door open and hurled his body through, turning in the process so he could face any unwanted attention on the other side. The room was empty but the atmosphere peculiar, for a room that contained no human activity, the silence wasn't silent enough. The Doctor closed the door and licked his lips, trying to tune his senses to something he couldn't quite fathom. There was the faint sound of the sea, and men toiling on deck, but these were both outside the room. There was something inside and it was thumping to a steady beat. It was subtle but easily detectable if the ears had been alerted to its presence. It was constant and mostly unchanging, almost like…
"A heart…" The Doctor whispered to himself. His tiptoed over to Beckett's desk and his eyes fell upon a medium-sized object that appeared quite out of place. How could he be so stupid? During his previous visit to this office, this chest had been right under his nose, meaning that Beckett's smug tone had just acquired deeper meaning. He had stated with an air of superiority that Jones was no longer master-less, and he must have known that The Doctor's interest was in the object that had been mere inches away. The chest was surprisingly clean for something so obviously old, and The Doctor was fascinated by the carvings upon it, the most intriguing being the double-lock set in the centre of a raised crab. He brushed his fingers over the small dimples, wondering where Beckett had hidden the key and then wishing that he had his sonic screwdriver. However, he did chuckle, realising the painful irony that Jones's actions had deprived The Doctor of the one instrument that could get the heart out of the chest. Seeing as leaving the chest behind and making off with the heart wasn't an option, The Doctor had to think of a plan B.
Plan B didn't seem to be getting beyond listening to the dulled thump…thump and tapping on the sides of the chest for weaknesses. The Doctor didn't even have his glasses; eighteenth-century uniforms had an annoying lack of decent-sized pockets and so any close-up work was carried out with the threat of eyestrain. "Perhaps I should change to contact lenses…" he sighed in his thoughts as his fingertips bumped along several square-shaped dents in the metal.
"Doesn't look like I'm going to get in without picking the lock," he said aloud, noticing that the squares were probably connected to the lock mechanism. He was scanning the desk surface for anything sharp or key-shaped when the door opened with a drawn-out creak. The Doctor froze, reluctant to turn around. He had been caught red-handed and if he were to talk his way out of it, it would take a much more sophisticated lie than "I was just looking"
"A curious thing, isn't it?" thank goodness, it was Beckett. "I didn't know whether or not to believe it personally, after all…cutting out one's own heart, it's the stuff of fairy tales," he stated, footsteps moving towards The Doctor, who picked that moment to straighten his spine and turn around. He grinned sheepishly as Beckett continued, "another ship found the chest floating in shallow waters yesterday, quite a fortunate coincidence really,"
"I…just wanted to see, well hear for myself," he could've kicked himself, that was definitely a poor lie.
"I thought you might. The men seem to think you're cursed…" replied Beckett.
"Do you?" The Doctor was curious. Beckett's expression remained unchanged but was strangely…pleasant.
"Not at all Doctor," he said, moving behind his desk to sit. He thoughtfully crossed his fingers and rested them under his chin, all the while staring at The Doctor with interest. "Men aboard the Dutchman are desperate, they lose all sense of patience. If you were going to take that heart, you would have foolishly attempted it by now, without caring to find the key first either," one side of Beckett's mouth twitched up into a smirk. "Then there is the matter of Jones's pet, were you an escapee I'm sure the Endeavour would be half way to the sea bed by now,"
"You named the ship then!" The Doctor smiled, feeling a tiny bit disappointed that his suggestion had not been used. Beckett nodded but didn't speak nor blink, he was waiting. "And…forgive me, but you seem to be quite trusting,"
"Oh I don't entirely trust you Doctor!" Beckett scoffed, "I like you, there is a difference. And if you want my advice, taking the heart to barter for your companion will not make you many friends. There are more people out there who share my distaste for the supernatural,"
"Ah, I wasn't going to take it," The Doctor replied and there was that half-smirk again, Beckett wasn't buying this. "What I meant to say is, how do you plan on helping me if giving the heart back isn't an option? My friend has no doubt being forced to swear an oath by now," The Doctor closed his eyes in frustration; thus far he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding the true details of Martha's fate.
"Not so much giving back but replacing, there are many fools in this world Doctor, all determined to prevent the inevitability of death. And if you're very lucky you'll be meeting one very soon…"
Martha had spent most of the morning checking ropes and tackles, replacing them and securing them depending on the severity of their decay. Her head ached but to a much lesser degree than the hangovers she had inflicted upon herself in the past. It was a shame that the benefits of immortality were tied to remaining on the Dutchman. Jones had been making his unwelcoming presence felt at various points as early morning gave way to midday. He didn't speak to Martha, he even appeared to avoid looking at her but whenever he did it was through narrowed eyes, suggesting that a night's sleep had done nothing to calm his fury. Martha had to keep busy, she was certain that Jones would soon use any little excuse to punish her, unaware of the terms that The Doctor had agreed with him.
By the position of the sun, Martha guessed it was early afternoon and the crew were noticeably less productive. Various men were settling down for a little siesta in the intense heat and Martha could see why, other than the practical reasons, they dared to neglect their duties. Jones was nowhere to be seen and the lack of repetitive music suggested that he too was asleep. It was then that Martha remembered hurling drunken abuse in Jones's general direction, right after trying to bet her necklace in a game of poker. Her fingers reached for the key concealed underneath her top and pulled it out. It had been a couple of days but she recognised the TARDIS key, albeit groggily. She cursed at herself; the TARDIS had been on board the entire time!
Getting below deck without anyone noticing her required stealth beyond her capacity as a medical student. Luckily for Martha, she had travelled with The Doctor and had experience of hiding on Earth as an early twentieth-century maid; a sneaky walk seemed to come quite naturally now. She also faced a test of memory; the TARDIS had clearly landed in the cargo hold but ever since she had no reason to find her way back to it. Perhaps it was her good memory or just luck, either way Martha's first choice of stepladder led her directly to the TARDIS. The glow of the windows beckoned to her in the gloom, outshining the criss-cross patterns created by the grating above and she could just about see the familiar blue paintwork of that homely little box. She took one last look around her before steadily placing her key in the lock, and opening the door slowly. She closed it with a barely audible click, and slumped against it, sighing with her eyes shut as a feeling of comfort washed over her for the first time in two days. She had nearly drowned several times and had been accosted by a monstrous pirate or two but she had made it back to where she belonged. One problem, this peaceful idyll was suffering from a lack of Doctor.
She headed straight for the shower and scrubbed at her skin so roughly that she was sure a layer had been stripped clean off. The hum of the console room was ever-present, as though the TARDIS was singing to her and she threw back her head under the stream of water, willing the mechanical sounds to caress her eardrums and block out anything that reminded her of the sea. She sank to the floor, cradling her head in her hands and cried. It was impossible to stop, like a tap that had been left on all day. Her nose stuffed up and her eyes itched but the tears kept coming. Once it was too painful to keep up the crying, Martha finally hauled herself back to her feet and exited the shower, enjoying the fleeting feeling of being clean. She was clever enough to know that a change of clothes and repositioning of her hairstyle was out of the question. Even the idiot crewmen would realise she had been back in the TARDIS.
Martha continued this deceitful routine for another two days, sometimes visiting the TARDIS up to four times in just as many hours. Most of the time she would shower and then sit in the console room, staring at the makeshift leavers and imagining that The Doctor was rushing around kicking and hammering things. She even tried to imagine his mouth running away with him in a stream of self-congratulatory consciousness as he explained something, but such a daydream would require knowing what The Doctor was talking about the first time around. She'd smile, missing his clueless expression if she yelled at him to slow down.
After another half an hour of TARDIS sitting, Martha reluctantly left and locked the door. She tucked the key away under her top and patted the wood of the doors, her hand lingering over it for a few seconds. Any hope that she had found a way to make her sentence pass more quickly was soon dashed as she felt a hand grasp her shoulder and squeeze hard. It was as though her heart leapt up into her throat and fell into the pit of her stomach, and she could feel the colour quickly drain from her face.
"You're going to be sorry it was me who caught you, girl!" of all the crewmen to catch Martha, it was the bo'sun. It was almost as bad as being caught by the captain, because that is exactly who Jimmylegs would inform. In fact, he went as far as personally dragging Martha by the hair, not caring if she slammed into anything along the way. She struggled against his grip but he would tangle his leathery fingers even harder into her hair, and twist it so hard that her scalp burned. "This little fish was trying to get into that blue box, sir," sneered Jimmylegs once he had brought Martha up onto the main deck. It seemed that Jones was already waiting, and was unsurprisingly very cross. Martha was flung in his general direction and he leaned down to her height, grabbing her throat with his clawed hand when she attempted to look away.
"Yer testin' my patience lass!" he hissed, Martha stared at him, eyes wide and trying to defy the urge to cry in his presence. He appeared to recognise this and rather than tease her further, he actually let go of her, but that didn't mean he was any less enraged.
"You said I could go anywhere…" Martha's voice trembled but she almost managed to create an illusion of fearlessness, Jones secretly found it quite admirable in spite of his obvious dislike for her. Still, there were only so many times he could let her go unpunished…
"Aye, but that did nae mean anywhere off the ship, that blue box counts as off," he snapped "now ye leave me with little choice…"
"Are you always this pedantic?"
"Ten lashes!" Jimmylegs chipped in and Martha turned to him, a look of utter hatred in her eyes. She then faced Jones again, trying to plead without words and it did look like he was hesitating. His bottom lip trembled and he was staring at nothing or nobody in particular, obviously locked within his own thoughts. At the same time, Jimmylegs had the cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand, clutching it with bloodthirsty enthusiasm.
"Ye can't do that, she's a woman, t'aint right!" an anonymous voice sparked a debate among the rest of the crew, with opinions very much divided. Some agreed with the first sentiment, others demanded that Martha be treated as an equal and her gender did not excuse the standard form of discipline. Martha did not contribute to the din around her, she looked to the floor trying to comprehend the pain she expected to experience. It had broken her resolve, and a single tear trickled down her face, coming to rest just above her mouth. She shivered and continued to stare at her feet.
"Hmmph," Jones made that now very familiar popping sound with his lips, usually an indication that a decision had been reached. "Put 'er in the brig," even Martha gasped in shock.
"Cap'n?" Jimmylegs on the other hand was clearly disappointed.
"I can nae decide what tae do with her!" Jones yelled with a single stomp towards the bo'sun "and unfortunately that devious little weasel made me promise not tae harm her!" he then returned his attention to Martha "as fer ye Miss Jones, I'm sure Bootstrap Bill will be glad of some company, now go willingly or I'll drag ye there meself!" he raised his clawed hand and impatiently waved his crew away, pushing Martha towards Clanker with his other hand and then disappearing. Martha was left wondering what could possibly be worthy of replacing a flogging, but she certainly hoped Jones wouldn't change his mind.
Two uneventful days passed by The Doctor but at least he was granted the luxury of dining with the officers and sleeping in comfort. The latter action was rarely needed, in fact The Doctor found it impossible to sleep more so than usual. He didn't want to, nor did he feel he needed it. For this particular afternoon, he had decided to resume a staring contest with the sea, but had changed the location from the main deck to the bridge deck. Occasionally the man at the helm would attempt awkward small talk but The Doctor stubbornly replied in short sentences, rarely revealing anything. He preferred to face with his back to the ship, elbows resting on the stern railings and watching the sea. Sometimes he believed he had spotted a Dutchman shape in the distance, but deep down he knew he was hallucinating.
"Very quiet today Doctor, for a change," at some undetermined point Norrington had joined him, hands resting upon the railing and overlooking the water. The Doctor turned his head and looked Norrington up and down, returning his gaze to the sea and sucking in a breath.
"This is all so…wrong," he muttered. Norrington didn't answer, and The Doctor recognised it as a polite gesture of being unsure whether or not an answer was wanted. He continued, "I mean, it isn't meant to happen like this, so much has gone wrong already…"
"What on earth are you blathering on about man?" asked Norrington curiously. The Doctor leaned backwards and rapped his hands once against the wooden rail.
"Oh nothing, I can't explain it to you anyway," he said dismissively.
"Who are you Doctor? You seem to have slipped into my world so effortlessly, like you're expecting something to happen. Then you announce that you can't possibly explain," The Doctor simply grinned, "you're an intriguing man Doctor, I think I am beginning to understand Lord Beckett's interest in you,"
"Interest?"
"Indeed. You're clever, and you managed to outwit Davy Jones, something that countless souls will testify is not easy," Norrington left The Doctor's side and walked leisurely over to the staircase down to the main deck, The Doctor was leaning away from the sea now, elbows propping him up from behind. Norrington turned back towards him "I forgot to mention, you're needed in Lord Beckett's office and I'll warn you now, you better be good at understanding rapid fire witticisms…"
"Oh I wouldn't worry about that Admiral," The Doctor replied cheekily "I practically invented rapid fire witticisms!"
A sight to which he had become accustomed greeted The Doctor once in Beckett's office. The chairman of the East India Company was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, flanked by his unofficial bodyguard who came complete with that typical Yorkshireman's frown. However, the out of place nature of the Dead Man's Chest had well and truly been relegated to second place. There, opposite Beckett, was a man dressed in a manner that The Doctor could only compare to the modern day rockstar, albeit in eighteenth-century form. This man was clearly a pirate; his jacket lacked any fancy stitching and both his shirt and hair looked as though they hadn't seen soap and water in many years. He was swaying slightly, and something told The Doctor that it was nothing to do with the motion of the sea below. The Doctor stepped up at the third man's side and looked him up and down with uncertainty. The man didn't say anything, he simply returned the compliment through black-rimmed eyes and flashed a silly grin.
"Ah Doctor, it is my rather unfortunate pleasure to have to introduce you to Jack Sparrow," said Beckett.
"Captain," the third man quipped, holding up his hands to protest innocence as soon as Mercer glared at him.
"Mr…sorry Captain Sparrow finds himself in a spot of bother Doctor," Beckett stepped forward one pace, tilting his head up so to look Sparrow in the eyes "he's my prisoner, but he has vital information about an illegal gathering, do you think I am right to let him lead us to them? Should I trust him?" said Beckett, switching his gaze to The Doctor who noisily hesitated with his mouth half open.
"Well…" he replied, blinking rapidly "depends on how honourable…"
"Pirates are never honourable" Mercer gruffly interrupted.
"I can be honourable, I give you my word," slurred Sparrow "in fact…" he began to pace around the other three men, swaggering in a strangely ladylike manner "I have more information, but if you're not going to trust me, I hardly see the point of disclosing the information of which I can disclose if I so choose to do so because you're not going to trust me, and what's the use in that eh? You're left with information from a source that you do not trust and then we're back to square one, a rather frustrating predicament do you not think?" The Doctor gawped at Sparrow in horror, recognising his own habit for ranting and the annoyance it undoubtedly caused.
"Did any of that make sense to you at all? I was hoping you could translate Idiot," Beckett asked, rolling his eyes.
"Not a word, blimey…you're worse than me!" The Doctor replied. Sparrow gave a half-bow and another foolish grin slid across his face.
"I thought it made perfect sense, perhaps you've had a bit too much rum, ay mate?" said Sparrow, Beckett guffawed.
"Alright Sparrow, that's quite enough, tell me this new information and I might consider letting you lead us to your friends that you're about to double-cross in a treacherous manner," said Beckett, he then addressed The Doctor alone "pirates, once a pirate always a pirate" he said, shaking his head. The Doctor nodded in agreement.
"Well," said Sparrow, beginning another dizzy journey about the others, on this occasion it was The Doctor rolling his eyes. "It would seem that my ship, the Black Pearl, has become the temporary abode of a certain sea goddess, a goddess of significant significance…"
"Oh for goodness sake, stand still!" snapped The Doctor. Sparrow came to a sudden halt and looked offended, his mouth drooped at the corners and he lowered his hands, turning away to stare at a wall.
"Well there was no need for that…" he mumbled.
"Sparrow!" growled Beckett.
"It would seem that our mutual friend here wishes for me to continue," said Sparrow, half turning his head and looking over his shoulder toward The Doctor. "Well," he spun on a heel and rooted himself firmly in front of Beckett again. "We have Calypso," Sparrow held up his hands, adopting an "applause please" stance. "Also known as Tia Dalma. Also known as she who was bound to human form by the First Brethren Court of the Pirate Lords. Also known as…" he paused "the lady love of one Davy Jones,"
"Does this have a point, Sparrow?" Beckett sighed.
"Now it's your turn to be rude," Sparrow pointed at Beckett with an insolent smile.
"Well, you will take six hours to make a point," said The Doctor.
"Now he's being rude again, this is quite unfair, I was dead a few days ago. Takes a while for a man to get over that, coming back from that darkened abyss, that torturous realm, that seemingly reversible yet irreversible process,"
"Easily done," The Doctor chimed in superior tones, yet his reference was lost on these people. They all believed him to be human.
"Now where was I?" Sparrow mused, righting himself when he leaned slightly to the left "ah! Calypso, did you know that the new Brethren Court intend to free her? Ay?"
"Well, I do now," replied Beckett, completely unfazed.
"Mate, I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of a freed Calypso, there's a lot of anger pent up within her deceptively sweet exterior, poor dear, and if she finds out you've got ol' fish face's heart, that fury's goin' to be unleashed…" Sparrow leaned his face close to Beckett's "on you…"
"Then we'll simply have to rid ourselves of a minor inconvenience," said Beckett, moving so close that he could smell Sparrow's noxious breath "bring me Calypso or…" a pause was followed by a click and Mercer was now holding a gun to Sparrow's head "I'll send you back from whence you came," Sparrow was overcome with uncertainty but a look at The Doctor was no help, The Doctor shrugged and was quietly amused. It made a change to watch someone else force his own way into an unfavourable deal.
"Done," said Sparrow, offering his hand. Beckett rolled his eyes again but shook Sparrow's hand anyway, albeit while trying to maintain minimal contact.
"Good. Mr Mercer, make sure Captain Sparrow is sent on his merry way back to the Black Pearl…and if he so much as breathes out of turn, feel free to beat him," Beckett's request was met by an unsettlingly pleased smile from Mercer, who roughly pushed Jack Sparrow out of the door. The Doctor was relieved that they had both gone, Mercer's presence annoyed him and Sparrow's elaborate way of speaking had given him a headache.
"What do you need Calypso for?" The Doctor enquired "and I'm sure she never did end up with the East India Company" he thought as he waited for Beckett to answer.
"I know somebody who wants her to be killed," replied Beckett, walking over to the Dead Man's Chest and fluttering his fingers over the top "and if it stops that band of law-breaking vagabonds from releasing her, then I intend to see such a request become a reality…"