Warning: This chapter contains sea-worthy language from everyone's favourite Captain. Remember: he's only just started moderating his language so it's fairly believable that he'd lapse back into swearing under times of extreme stress.

Fifteen

Hidden in a small gap between a large barrel of wine and the wall of the cellar, Tintin held his breath as an Arabian man walked by. The man looked slightly distracted, his arms folded into the sleeves of his burnous. He passed from sight and Tintin waited for something – anything. But nothing happened. There was a very slight creaking noise, then… Nothing. No sound at all, and the cellar settled back into silence. He could barely hear the sound of someone moving around upstairs, but those noises were remote. Cautiously, he peeked out, ready to pull back if he was seen, but there was nobody to see him.

The cellar was empty.

He pulled himself out and looked around, ready to bolt back to his hiding place, but there was nothing to run from. There were four huge barrels – easily big enough for him to stand in without stooping over – and nothing else. Even the windows, which were high up on the walls, were tiny – barely big enough to let air into the underground room; more vents than windows. They certainly weren't big enough for a full-grown man to squeeze through. Tintin doubted if even he could squeeze through one, and he wasn't the tallest person in the world.

It made no sense: the man couldn't have disappeared into thin air. So where on earth is he? he thought to himself. The end of the cellar was a bare wall, but Tintin tapped along it quietly and experimentally, waiting to see if there was a hollow portion behind it. But from what he could tell it was solid stone. His fist made a dull, solid thunk as it hit the wall. There was no secret passage there.

He stood for a moment, wondering what on earth was going on, when a sudden, loud, explosion of noise, that sounded like the distorted bark of a large dog, made him jump. Startled, he looked around, and spied Snowy in one of the windows, staring down at his master and licking his chops. "Snowy!" Tintin hissed. "You frightened the life out of me! What are you doing up there?"

Snowy wagged his tail and padded his front feet impatiently, eager to rejoin his master. "Is that where you hid?" Tintin chided him as he reached up. Snowy jumped forward and landed in Tintin's arms. He licked at Tintin's chin, and the teenager could smell beef on the dog's wet breath. "Did you eat that whole thing?" Tintin asked, impressed. "Good boy! Maybe you can help me, hm?" he said as he put the dog onto the ground. "I feel like Diogenes, seeking a man…"

Tintin trailed into thought as he watched Snowy snuffling around the base of one of the huge barrels. The thing about Diogenes, Tintin thought. That is: the very important thing, was that he lived in a barrel…

Of course! Oh, it was so simple, now that he thought about it. One of the barrels was a fake: a hidden door to fool any casual visitor to the building. The whole place seemed to be some sort of catering outfit – aside from the strange dormitory upstairs – and probably supplied a few of the tourist pubs in the area, cooking food that the halal caterers wouldn't touch. If someone came to put in an order, all they'd see was the huge vats of wine, never thinking that one was a doorway to a secret room.

And thanks to Snowy's nose, he had an idea which one it was.

Getting down on his hunkers, he felt around the barrel until he found a small hinge. Well, I'm on the right track, that's for sure, he thought. On the other side of the barrel, almost opposite the hinge, was a tiny, circular button in the wood. He pressed it gently and the whole front of the vat swung open, revealing a short, barrel-shaped tunnel. At the far end was a wooden door, which had been left open.

With Snowy at his heels, Tintin closed the secret door behind him and crept through the wooden tunnel and into the stone corridor beyond. It was amazing: it appeared to be a vast, underground network of tunnels. Just ahead of him was a stone arch cut into the wall, and a set of stone steps leading further down into the earth. He went down them as quietly as possible, his soft-soled running shoes making little noise on the hard stone.

He came out in another corridor, which opened up into a long, square-shaped room. Stacks of crates, the lids already prised open as though the contents had been carefully examined, stood around the room, and Tintin could see the distinctive red and yellow labels of the tins of crab. These crates, however, bore the shipping stamp of the Karaboudjan on the side.

"Aha!" he said as he picked up one of the tins. "The heroin! Oh, I've never been so pleased to see drugs in my life!" A load roar made him look up.

The word; "Bandit!" floated to him on the quiet air. It was faint and distant, but it was unmistakable. "That's the Captain's voice," Tintin said.

x

The last time Captain Haddock had been tied up and whipped, it had involved a woman and had been slightly more pleasurable than this. Only slightly, mind: he wasn't a fan of pain in the bedroom, especially when it was concentrated on his arse cheeks. That had been a strange night though, and he could chalk that up to the curiosity of youth. This, on the other hand, could only be chalked up to the cruelty of man.

He heard the leather belt as it whistled through the air, and braced himself before it slapped down hard on his broad shoulders. He was on his knees – never a good position for a man to find himself in, unless he were that way inclined – with his hands tied to a thick metal ring that was set into the concrete floor beneath him. He looked over his shoulder and eyed the tall, brute of a bloke that held the belt.

"I'll get you," he promised. "I'll fucking get you. You see if I don't." He vaguely recognised the man: he was one of the new crew that Allan had took on about six months ago. How the hell did it take me so long to cotton on to Allan? How the hell didn't I see what he's really like until now?

"Smart mouth," the man said. He quickly brought the belt down again, this time aiming for a different spot on the lower part of the Captain's back.

"Argh! You cunt, you!"

"I thought you'd given up swearing," Allan said with a mocking smile.

"And I thought you'd given up being a dickhead," the Captain shot back, "but it turns out we were both wrong." Allan nodded at the man with the belt, and the Captain felt another blossom of hard pain, this time just below his shoulder-blades. He gritted his teeth to stop himself from crying out again.

"I'm gonna ask you again," Allan drawled lazily. "And this is gonna be the last time I ask you: where's Tintin?"

"Thundering typhoons, I don't know!" the Captain shouted. "And even if I did, do you honestly think I'd give him up to a bunch of blistering cockbags like you?"

"Well look at you," Allan said with mock wonder. "Getting all noble in your last few minutes on earth."

"Yeah? Is this my last few minutes on earth?" the Captain demanded. "Then I might as well tell you: you're not fooling anyone with the John Wayne act. You're nothing like the Duke. And besides, he were a right pussy compared Clint Eastwood. You twat!"

Allan's face twisted into a scowl. "You'll regret that," he said furiously. He bent down and put his face inches away from the Captain's. "Where," he shouted, "is Tintin?"

A red and yellow blur flew across the room and smacked him hard on the side of his face. "Here!" Tintin called. He had entered the room silently and drawn his gun – the same one he'd stolen from the Karaboudjan: Allan would no doubt be pleased to know that they'd finally found Pedro's gun – and had it pointed at Allan. "Put your hands up," he said. This time, the gun was firm in his hand. "You, put down the belt and untie the Captain."

The large man tossed the belt aside and quickly freed the Captain. "Cheers, pal," the Captain said as he stood up straight. He fixed his jumper and eyed the bag man. He was tall, but the Captain had a hard head. He seized the man by the front of his shirt and dragged his head down. At the same time, the Captain forced his head up into a vicious jab, and nutted the tall man in the face. The man went down with a scream as his nose broke. "Told you I'd get you," the Captain said smugly. "Tintin!" He turned to the teenager and threw his hands in the air. "Good lad!" He rushed forward and grabbed Tintin in a bear hug, swinging him off his feet and knocking the gun from his hand.

"No! Captain! I – oh, for crying out loud!" Tintin lunged for the gun but Tom, the man who had assaulted him on the Karaboudjan and put him in the hold, got there first. The man dove forward and seized the gun, rolling until he was facing towards Tintin and the Captain, the gun pointed at them.

"Run!" Tintin grabbed the Captain's hand and pulled him back the way he'd come. There was a room off the corridor that they could hide in. They could barricade the doors and wait it out until Thompson and Thomson came looking for them.

They hurtled down the corridor and Tintin shoved the Captain into the room. "Find something to put against the door," he shouted breathlessly.

"What door?" the Captain cried.

"Ah, damn it!" There was no door. Tintin looked around desperately. He could hear the sound of running footsteps close by: they were caught. Against the back of the small room was a tall stack of what appeared to be dried grass or hay. It had been baled and put into large cubes that were tied together with thick twine. On the wall closest to them were shelves upon shelves of wine bottles. "Aha!" he cried. He grabbed a bottle by the neck and waited until someone appeared.

Tom was the first. He turned the corner and stood, framed against the doorway. "Got you!" he said. Tintin throw the bottle hard. It hit Tom's face and smashed. He fell back, screaming and clutching his face as blood trickled through his fingers. As his gun dropped it fired itself, the bullet whizzing past Tintin's face with barely an inch to spare. It buried itself in the hay behind the Captain and Tintin. Still white hot from being fired, it met the dry grass and started to smoulder. Thin tendrils of white smoke began to curl up from it.

"More bottles!" Tintin shouted, not noticing where the bullet had stopped. Allan had just appeared.

"Take that!" the Captain roared, throwing a bottle at Allan with all his might. It barely missed the First Mate, and shattered on the wall behind him.

"Get back!" Allan shouted. "Everyone back!" They dodged out of the way, dragging the injured Tom after them.

"Hurray!" Tintin cried. "That's got them on the run!"

"Well done, lad!" The Captain clapped him on the shoulder. "That was quick thinking! What do we do now though? They're just waiting around the corner for us, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," Tintin replied. He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. "How long can we hold them off for?"

"There's a good few bottles here," the Captain said. "About two hundred. We going to smash 'em all?"

"If we have to," Tintin said firmly. "Don't drink any of them, Captain!"

"If we're going to die, we might as well die happy…"

"I'm warning you!" Tintin stopped and sniffed. "What's that smell?" He looked around for Snowy, wondering what the dog had found now, and saw the cloud of white smoke from the burning bale. Snowy was sitting in front of it in a haze of smoke, his eyes half closed and his ears back. Far from looking worried or frightened, the dog looked remarkably peaceful, as though he was about to go to sleep. "Oh dear," said Tintin.

"What's 'oh dear'?" the Captain asked absently as he examined one of the bottles of wine. "Hmm. A rare vintage. This must have cost a pretty penny."

"Um," said Tintin. A huge grin spread over his face and he started to laugh. He couldn't help it. He looked over at the Captain, giggling helplessly. The Captain looked back at him, bewildered. But once Tintin had started laughing, the Captain found himself joining in.

"What?" he asked through chuckles. "What's so funny?"

"Don't get mad," Tintin said.

"I don't feel mad," the Captain replied. "In fact, I feel brilliant. Really calm, actually. I don't know why: there's men with guns out there waiting to kill us, and I feel grand!"

"Because we're high!" Tintin giggled. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the smoke bales. "That's marijuana! It's on fire! This whole room is a big hot-box, and we're getting high off fumes!"

"A-ha ha! You're kidding!"

"No! We're stoned off our asses!"

"Ha ha! Brilliant! I always wanted to try weed before I died!"

x

Fifteen minutes passed. Out in the corridor, Allan looked around. One of his men had a broken nose and was still pumping blood, and Tom had a deep gash in his cheek courtesy of Tintin and that first bottle of wine. They listened to the giggling in silence. "That's unbelievable," he said quietly. "They're high or drunk, or something. I think we can just go in and get them."

"Dure shure?" the man with the broken nose said thickly.

"Yeah. Pretty sure."

"You go first," Tom said, still fuming and holding his hand to his cut face.

"Ok," Allan said with a shrug. He cautiously turned the corner and looked into the room. Against all rational judgement, Tintin was sitting on the steps with his back to the open doorway. He took a long slug from a bottle of wine and passed it back to the Captain, who was sitting cross-legged in front of him.

"Ok," Tintin said as the Captain took a deep drink. "Ok. Right. But, see, what if school can't teach you anything? Theoretically. No, wait: mythologically. Hang on, that's wrong. What word am I looking for?"

"God knows," the Captain replied. "But school can teach anyone stuff. It's what it's there for."

"Yeah, but, like, what if, right, what if you don't like school, 'cos the teachers aren't that nice, yeah? Like, what if they're really horrible to you?"

"That doesn't matter!" The Captain swayed drunkenly. "Nobody likes school, and teachers are all thundering arseholes! Where are the parents, eh? That's what I want to know. Where are the parents when all these kids are running away?"

"Hypothetically," Tintin said suddenly. "That's the word I'm looking for: hypothetically. But what if you don't have parents, Captain? What if there's nobody and you live in a horrible orphanage run by priests and really horrible people that treat you like crap?"

"It doesn't matter!" The Captain wagged his finger in the air self-righteously. "There's ways and means to sort that out. You don't go… Running away. You don't solve anything by running away. And a fourteen year old shouldn't be running half-way across the world. That's dangerous, that is."

Allan looked back at his men and shrugged. "They're pretty drunk," he offered. "I'll grab Tintin. You two get the Captain."

"What would you do?" Tintin asked. He closed one eye and peered at the Captain. "What would you do if you found one of these mythological, hypothetical kids? And they're fifteen, not fourteen."

"Fifteen, fourteen: it's still against the law," the Captain replied. "I'd report them."

"Report them?" Tintin scoffed.

"Of course! Kids that age can't go running off! They need to be at home. Or in an 'ome. Orphanage. Whatever. Oh, 'ello Mate." He waved absently at Allan.

"Captain," Allan replied politely. He bent down and slid his arm under Tintin's arms, around his chest, and pulled him up.

"Oh!" said Tintin in surprise. He looked up at Allan and grinned. "Oh, it's you."

"Yep, it's me," Allan agreed. "Why don't we get you some air, hmm?"

Author's Note: Lots of swearing here. I don't consider it out of character though: in a fandom where the Captain is sleeping with Tintin at every turn, a bit of swearing from a sailor isn't the worst thing. I know the C Word is considered to be fairly unusable in some countries, but it's very common in Britain and Ireland so I have no problem imagining the Captain saying it.

Also, I had to replace the wine fumes with marijuana. I'm highly doubtful that a hardened alcoholic could get drunk off 'fumes' from a few broken bottles of wine. I once smashed a case of wine when I was working in a shop, and I didn't get drunk. I got a mop :( It wasn't fun.