Sixteen

Fresh air sounded like a good idea, Tintin decided. His head was fuzzy and he wasn't thinking clearly. He also had a severe case of the hiccups which were getting steadily worse. Every time he hiccupped he ended up giggling until he was so breathless all he could do was hiccup and slowly suffocate from giggling. He staggered away from Allan and braced himself against the wall, trying to stop his giggles and his hiccups.

"Hey!" Allan warned, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back.

"Naaa-hic!-ha! Hahaha-hic!-Oh cra-hic!-hap! Haha-hic!"

"God-damn, I hate stoners," Allan muttered under his breath. Behind them, the Captain had started shouting.

"You bully! You stole my bottle! Renegade! Pox-bottler! Shite-hawke!"

"I swear to God, I'm just looking for a reason to punch him!" Allan shouted. "What the hell is the hold-up back there?"

"He's freaking out," Tom called back. "You know what he's like."

"Always spoiling for a fight." Allan let go of Tintin – the kid wasn't capable of doing anything for a while – and went back to the wine cellar. "I'll give him a God-damned fight," he promised.

Tintin sagged against the wall. He was a bit tired now. He could probably sleep for a bit. Even Snowy was relaxed: he was sitting down, leaning against Tintin's leg with his tail wagging slowly. Still hiccupping, Tintin watched as Allan turned the corner and disappeared into the wine cellar.

"Buccaneer! Vegetarian! Politician!"

"Be quiet, you drunken fool!"

There was an almighty row – the sounds of punching and fists meeting flesh; dull thuds and grunts and swearing. And over it all, Captain Haddock's voice rose like a foghorn.

"Pirate! Corsair! Hydrocarbon! Harlequin! Bastard! Gyroscope!"

Tintin slipped a little further down the wall and started to giggle again. It was unusual, but he had to admit that the Captain's new-found way of swearing was very effective. He may just have be saying random words, but he was hurling them with such accuracy and venom that they automatically became insults.

Allan came flying out of the wine cellar. He could have tripped over the steps in his haste to get away or he could have been thrown bodily: either way he was seriously beaten up. He had a split lip, a black eye, bruises on his right cheek that were already starting to turn dark and his jacket was ripped badly. He landed in such a forlorn heap that Tintin couldn't help uttering a short burst of surprised laughter.

"What happened to you?" he exclaimed, dumbfounded. He hadn't thought that the Captain was quite as strong as that. Allan groaned and lay still, but the question was answered a few seconds later when the man who had been beating the Captain with a leather belt tore out of the room, tread water in his haste to turn the corner, and zoomed past Tintin. The Captain, clutching a bottle of wine like a club, followed him, still shouting his bizarre swearwords.

"Anthracite! Fuzzy-wuzzy! Coconut! Snaffler! Rumbeak!"

He chased after the burly crewman, all the while looking like a Rottweiler that was chewing a wasp. "Get 'im!" Tintin shouted. "Seek him out, boy!"

Hearing the word 'seek', Snowy started to get excited too. People were running, and he wanted to know why, but the word 'seek' was a command word used by Tintin whenever he had hidden Snowy's favourite Squeaky Ball. Automatically assuming that the running men were connected to Squeaky Ball – which must be hidden nearby: quod erat demonstrandum – and that Tintin wanted to play, Snowy started to look for it. Nose to the ground and whipped into a frenzy of small-dog excitement, Snowy chased after the Captain while Tintin brought up the rear.

x

The inside of Omar ben Salaad's study was elegant and stylish. The furniture was simple yet luxurious and the rest of the fittings spoke of wealth and good taste. The wall behind Salaad's chair – which had a higher seat than the sofa the Thompsons were sitting on – was taken up by a long, expansive bookshelf filled with leather-bound first editions and rare folios. ben Salaad smiled down at them from his elevated position, like a plump, benevolent king.

He wasn't entirely sure why these strange men were in his house. They had been let in after ben Salaad had returned from the mosque and they were so sure that he would want to help them with their enquiries that he'd felt like he couldn't refuse them. They were mildly confusing, but seemed harmless enough.

The Thompsons were in a quandary. They had promised Tintin they wouldn't say anything directly to Omar ben Salaad about the drug smuggling operation, and they were men of their word. So how were they to make discrete enquiries of him?

"How can I help you, gentlemen?" ben Salaad aksed politely.

"Hmm," said Thomson. "The thing is… We've been asked to carry out an investigation" –

"A discrete investigation," Thompson added.

"Aah." ben Salaad nodded knowingly. "And what, may I ask, is the subject of your investigation?"

"A journalist has been investigating an international drug cartel and believes it leads back to you."

ben Salaad's jaw dropped.

"I don't think you were supposed to say that, Thomson."

"Dumb's the word, Thompson."

"To be precise" –

Omar ben Salaad stood up and drew himself up to his full height indignantly. "By Allah!" he roared. "How dare you come into my house and insult me in such a manner!"

"Blimey! He looks annoyed, Thompson!"

"Who dares level such accusations at the mighty Omar ben Salaad? Get out, infidel dogs! Out, or I'll have you flogged to death!"

"It's a good job we're so sure that Islam is a peaceful religion, Thomson."

They weren't quite sure what happened after that: the room seemed to turn into a Benny Hill sketch for a second. A part of the large bookcase swung open, cracking Omar ben Salaad in the back of the head. A frightened, olive-skinned man with a broken nose and dishevelled, wine-stained clothing ran out of a dark passage behind the bookcase. He was gibbering and being chased by a tall man in a blue jumper, who was brandishing a bottle of wine in a threatening manner while shouting the strangest insults the Thompsons had ever heard ("Nincompoop! Anacoluthon! Muckluck! Liquorice!") who in turn was followed by a giggling, hiccupping Tintin.

"Seek!" Tintin was shouting. "Seek! Seek!" Snowy barked excitedly at his heels.

"Tintin!" Thomson exclaimed.

"Hey, homeboys!" Tintin replied, staggering to a halt. "What up?"

"So you're Tintin," ben Salaad spat. He pulled a gun from a holster hidden inside his burnous and waved it at Tintin. "You've been a real thorn in my balls, boy."

"Calm down, homie," Tintin said with a laugh. "Guns are crazy dangerous, you know? In the words of Father Dougal McGuire: careful now! Haha-hic!-ha!"

Snowy was frustrated. He really wanted Squeaky Ball now but he still couldn't find the wretched thing. It made no sense: why would Tintin say it was hidden if it wasn't? Who would do that? What sort of monster could build up a dog's hopes like that, only to crush them?

The sort of monster that pretends to throw the ball when he really hasn't, a treacherous inner voice replied.

It was too much to bear. A lesser dog would have snapped by now. And here was a man-with-a-hood-covering-his-face threatening Tintin? On top of everything else? No, no, señor: this cheese is no good.

Snowy launched himself at Omar ben Salaad, his front paws wrapping around the short man's leg as he sunk his teeth in to the chubby arse that was now at mouth level. ben Salaad howled in pain and flailed wildly, and somehow the gun managed to go off, blasting a hole in the ceiling. The elegant, weighty light fixture dropped like a stone in a shower of plaster and splinters, and landed squarely on ben Salaad's head with a heavy Thunk! while a large piece of plaster landed on Tintin's. ben Salaad went down like a ton of bricks, almost crushing Snowy. Tintin, on the other hand, started to sober up as a fresh rush of adrenaline overcame the last effects of the weed.

"Who is this man?" he asked when the dust had settled.

"That's Omar ben Salaad," Thompson explained. "We were in the middle of questioning him. He swears he's innocent."

"He can't be innocent," Tintin scoffed. "He's got a cellar full of drugs. The heroin from the Karaboudjan is down there, along with a load of marijuana. Besides," he added thoughtfully, kneeling down beside the unconscious man. Something had caught his eye. "Besides, look at this necklace." He gently lifted the delicate gold chain out of the folds of ben Salaad's burnous to show the detectives the pendant that hung there: two distinctive golden crab claws similar to the design on the fake tins of crab meat. "He's the ringleader," Tintin continued. "I'm sure of it. We must call the police at once."

"We're the police," Thompson pointed out irritably.

"Oh, you have a warrant to search down there?" Tintin asked politely.

"Call the police, Thomson."

x

Captain Haddock had his prey in his sights. He was bearing down fast on the man. He wasn't even sure why he was chasing him any more, but something inside said; 'Chase him!' and he was complying. This was the usual state of the drunken brawler, and the Captain was nothing if not a drunken brawler. From the very first night that he and his friend, Jimmy, had robbed that naggin of vodka from Jimmy's older sister when they were fifteen, Archibald Haddock had been a born-again drunken brawler.

Besides, he figured, this guy was quite dangerous. This guy was involved with Allan – treacherous dog – and had hit the Captain with a belt.

That's why I'm chasing him! his brain reminded him. Hurray for me!

The streets whipped by: curious and confused spectators stood back out of the way to let the two men pass. From the corner of his eye, the Captain registered something familiar: the flash of a uniform.

Thank God! This is a genuinely new emotion: being pleased to see the police.

"Hey," he said, slowing down and pointing at his quarry. "Arrest that man! He's a bully and he's from the Karabou" –

Which is how Captain Haddock ended up in unconscious in an alleyway, after being coshed with a copper's billy-club.

x

The police arrived at Omar ben Salaad's house shortly after that to find ben Salaad still unconscious. They looked at the eminent, wealthy man that practically owned the city and the three strangers that were responsible.

"What happened here?" the sergeant asked, slightly shell-shocked and more than a bit confused.

"He shot the ceiling and managed to knock himself out," Tintin said quickly. He pointed to the gun, which lay on the floor just out of ben Salaad's reach.

"We have brought him to justice," Thomson said imperiously.

"To be precise," Thompson added, "we have flouted him with buttkiss."

"There are more in the cellar," Tintin said, extracting himself from his burnous. "Some of them are armed but I think they're knocked out."

They rushed down the passage and followed Tintin as he led them back to where he'd left Allan unconscious on the ground. While Tom was still in the wine cellar, groaning and holding his injured head, Allan was gone. "He's the most dangerous," Tintin said grimly. "There's another way out: he must have gone that way."

"Right." On a more even footing, the sergeant took over. "Men, you stay here and arrest everyone that's left, including ben Salaad. I don't care how much money he offers you to let him go, or what he threatens you with: if he's not here when I get back, I'll have your badges. Detectives," he turned to the Thompsons, "you're with me."

Once again Tintin took the lead, bringing them through the stone passages to the door that opened at the end of the fake wine barrel. The kitchen was deserted by now and the streets beyond were starting to empty out as the day wore on. It was early evening, and the cooler air was some respite from the heat of the small passages underground.

They caught sight of Allan when they were scouting through the market. He was striding with some determination towards the harbour, looking cagily over his shoulder every so often to make sure he wasn't being followed. When he reached the docks and disappeared from sight, Tintin put on a burst of speed to try and catch up with him, but by the time he'd reached the harbour there was no sign of Allan.

There was, on the other hand, a small commotion along the wharf. A tall, thin sailor was shouting, and the small crowd of people around him looked annoyed. They were all staring out to sea. As soon as the sailor saw the police uniforms, he hailed them. He was, Tintin judged by his accent, Polish.

"Someone stole one of the motorboats!" the sailor said indignantly. "I rent boats," he continued. "I rent boats and this man, he come and take! Is crazy! He just take my boat!"

Tintin squinted out at the motorboat that was rapidly zooming away from the harbour. "It's him!" he declared. "We need to go after him! Do you have another boat?" Without waiting for a definite response, he simply hopped into another motorboat and took the helm. Thomson and Thompson followed him, leaving the sergeant to distract the poor sailor who was quickly seeing two of his best boats stolen from under his very eyes.

Tintin started the engine and the boat roared into life. He kept the acceleration lever pushed forward, leaning forward in anticipation of the speed that would follow, but nothing happened. He waited for a second before pointing out the obvious. "Er, we're not moving."

"Painter!" he heard a voice call out. "You slip painter first! Rope! Rope!"

"I'll get it," Thomson said. He and Thompson clustered together, trying to untie the rope that anchored the boat to the dock.

"Take my knife," Thompson offered. "It'll be quicker."

Thomson quickly cut through the rope, and the boat shot off. Sadly, due to a combination of gravity, and force versus acceleration, the Thompsons stayed where they were, albeit about a foot lower than they had been, and became significantly wetter.

Tintin didn't look back so he didn't notice that the Thomspons were no longer with him. "Wow! This boat is fast! We're really gaining on him, huh? We're overhauling him quickly."

He closed the gap rapidly, the boat bouncing merrily as it skimmed the calm waters of the harbour. It actually wasn't that hard to drive a motorboat, he decided. He just needed to figure out where the brakes were, but that would come later. Besides, it couldn't be as disastrous as trying to land a plane in the middle of a storm and without any fuel.

The boats were almost level by now. Allan turned and Tintin noticed that the man had a gun. He leaned down, using the dash as cover, as Allan loosed off a few shots. "Take the wheel!" Tintin cried when Allan was finished. He prepared to jump into Allan's boat, and noticed for the first time that he was alone. Snowy looked up at him politely, wagging his tail.

Well, this makes things a bit more difficult.

He had planned to simply leap into Allan's boat, but if he did that now Snowy would probably end up half-way out to sea before anyone could catch up to him. Right. What can I do? There was a fishing net in the back of the boat. Tintin seized it and flung it over Allan as hard as he could, knowing that the laws of narrative meant that any villain would be rendered quite helpless when introduced to even the smallest bit of netting. Quickly grabbing Snowy and tucking the dog under his arm, he leaped into Allan's boat as the man fought with the fishing net, and delivered a sound punch to the face.

x

The sergeant and the Thompsons waited, watching one boat rock wildly as the other shot off to sea. "My boat!" someone said plaintively. "He lose my boat!"

"Someone's getting up," the sergeant said urgently. "I think it's over." He cupped his hands around his eyes and squinted. "It's… Yes! It's Tintin! He's got the boat under control. He's coming back."

"Hooray!" the Captain shouted. He'd woken up a few minutes ago and staggered to the harbour. Now, he was sitting on a bollard, unnoticed, beside the sergeant. He punched the air in triumph, and managed to punch the sergeant on the chin.

"Right," said the policeman, whipping out his billy-club. "That's it!" He raised the club, but Thompson grabbed his arm.

"Hey now! None of that. You're a policeman, not a thug. And besides: that's Captain Haddock. It's thanks to him you've got the chance to arrest the crew of the Karaboudjan and break this drug cartel open."

"How do I stop!" Tintin cried as the boat roared closer.

"Pull the red lever!" the Captain shouted back. "The red one! The flaming red one! Oh, crikey! Everyone get back!"

It wasn't a crash. Not… exactly. More of a bump that helped the boat stop ("My boat! My precious boat! He lose one, he ruin this one!"), but it did the trick. Grinning, Tintin hopped out and dashed over to the Captain. "We did it!" he cried.

"Damn right we did!" They high-fived before they could stop themselves.

"Who are those people?" Tintin, still grinning happily, pointed behind the Captain. A small group of policemen were coming towards them with a slender Asian man in their midst.

"No clue," the Captain said.

"My heartiest congratulations," the Asian man said as he reached them. He bowed politely and held his hand out to Tintin, who took it unthinkingly. "My name is Bunji Kuraki. I am part of a special squad from the Yokohama police force. The police have just freed me from the hold of the Karaboudjan, where I was being held prisoner."

"Jesus Christ!" the Captain exclaimed. "How many prisoners are on my ship? Is there a sex dungeon on it I don't know about and all?"

"Er, I don't know," Bunji said politely. "I only saw one room during my time onboard, and it was the hold. Although your First Mate is a bit… y'know."

"Him? Oh, he's in total denial."

"I'm not gay!" Allan hissed as he was led away.

"I found your pornography," the Captain said, "so I'm afraid we'll have to disagree."

"Please, Mr Kuraki," Tintin interrupted. "Continue."

"Oh. Where was I? Ah, yes. I was kidnapped trying to bring you a letter."

"Oh! That was you?"

"Yes. I wanted to warn you of the risk you were running. I have been on the track of this gang for over three years. They even operate in the far east. Incidentally, I believe we share some common friends: the Sons of the Dragon?"

Tintin grinned and nodded. His best friend Chang's adopted father – Mr Wang Chen-Yee – was one of the leading members of the Sons of the Dragon, an underground Chinese organization that battled the illegal trafficking of drugs throughout China and the far east. At first, the People's Republic backed them and let them do their work, but once the Sons of the Dragon became a powerful icon of freedom, and a rallying point for rebel freedom-fighters, they were exiled.

"Anyway," Bunji continued, "I was unsuccessful in my attempts to corner the gang. For the longest time we assumed that Captain Haddock was a brilliant actor and a criminal mastermind, although now I realise he is just a drunk and he knew nothing. No offence, sir."

"None taken," the Captain said despondently. "I didn't know 'owt."

"But one night a sailor named Herbert Dawes contacted me and claimed to have information that would be useful to my investigation."

"Old Herbie?" the Captain asked, puzzled. He scratched at his beard. "He was one of my crew. He was a good man."

"He was the man who drowned, yes?" Tintin asked.

"Yes, that's him. When we met, he was drunk but he claimed to be able to get me some heroin. To prove it, he showed me an empty tin which he said had held the drug, which his ship was bringing in to Europe. He offered to bring me a full tin, so we arranged to meet the next day. That night he died, and I was kidnapped shortly after."

Tintin shook his head. "Why did he have a label from his own crab tin, with the name of his ship written on it? That's what I don't understand."

"When I asked what the name of his ship was, I couldn't hear him over the music," Bunji explained. "He tore off a strip of the label and wrote it out for me. Then he put the label into his own pocket."

"Huh," said Tintin. "Conveniently explained, and all wrapped up neatly."

x

The next morning saw Tintin back at the hotel. He was out on the long deck that overlooked the cliffs and the harbour, the cool breeze washing over him as he leaned against the rail. His phone had been found on the Karaboudjan, and now he had the thankless task of going through it to find out what he'd missed. He had hundreds of missed calls and no sooner had he read one text than another popped up to take its place. Most of the news and tips were old by now – news was fast-paced and shifted direction every day – but he carefully made a note of some items that caught his eye.

He heard a door slide open and footsteps approaching. Snowy, who was sitting beside him, wagged his tail at the approaching visitor, so Tintin didn't bother to turn around. It was either the Thompsons or the Captain: Snowy would have reacted differently to a stranger.

"How do?" said the Captain as he leaned against the rail beside Tintin.

"I'm good," Tintin replied. "You?"

"Not bad. Not bad at all."

They were silent for a few moments. The Karaboudjan was visible even from here. She was a large ship, and she had been isolated from the rest of the ships docked in the harbour. She was anchored at the closest end of the wharf to them, with two smaller police boats on either side. From their lofty position Tintin and the Captain could see teams of tiny people traipsing on and off. The police had impounded her and were going over her with a fine-tooth comb.

"Are you going back with her?" Tintin asked at last.

"Naaah," the Captain said. "They won't let me. They said they've to take her to some shipping yard where they can examine her closely. They've to go through everything."

"Are you going to get in trouble?"

"I don't see why." The Captain shrugged. "Allan's already said it was him, and that I knew nothing about it. And them two blokes… Thomson, is it? They said your statement cleared me."

"It did."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

The Captain sighed. "My black spirit," he muttered. "How very apt."

Tintin put his phone away and looked over at the Captain. "How's your spirit now?"

"Not doing so well, lad," the Captain admitted. "Looks like I'm off the water for a while."

"Where will you go? Back to England?"

"God no!" The Captain shuddered. "Too bloody rainy there this time of year. It's depressing. I like Belgium. I've been based there for years."

"Really? Where?" Tintin cocked his head to the side, surprised. He couldn't imagine the Captain in Belgium. He was so… well, he was so very English.

"Antwerp," the Captain replied. "You look shocked."

Tintin shrugged. "I never thought about it. You sound too much like Sean Bean to live in Belgium."

"Shame I don't have his money, eh? I'd be sorted. Bang tidy."

"So what will you do?"

"Oh, this and that. This and that. I'll probably sign on with one of them big companies for a few months. By the time I'm finished with that, the Karaboudjan should be out of hock."

"You sound sad."

The Captain was silent for a moment, his eyes trained on the distant Karaboudjan and the teaming, mass of people that were working on her. "I heard a lot of things today," he said slowly, "that I don't like. Herbert Dawes and me go a long way back. He came with me to the Karaboudjan from another ship. He was loyal. Dead loyal, I thought. I didn't know his granddaughter had died. I didn't even know she was a junkie. The rest of the crew knew though, but I didn't."

Tintin stayed quiet: he didn't know what to say.

"That's how bad I've got," the Captain continued quietly. He looked down at his hands. He was rubbing them together compulsively. Back and forth, back and forth; rough skin scratching rougher skin. "My crew… A man who knew me for over ten years, couldn't come to me for help. For a chat. To share his problems. That's not a good captain, lad. That's a bad captain. That's a captain that deserves to lose his ship."

"You're too hard on yourself," Tintin murmured.

"Am I?" The Captain looked up and stared at him, his eyes fierce. "If you don't know your crew, lad, you've already lost 'em. If they don't know you, then they don't respect you, and a captain without respect is nothing. A captain that can't inspire loyalty has no crew. And that's a fact. Thundering typhoons, what a mess." He passed his hand over his face tiredly. "What a flaming mess."

"It's not too late to change," Tintin said gently.

"Aye, and it's not too late for breakfast either." The Captain slapped himself about his person. "Wallet, keys, phone. Come on: I'm buying. I'm bloody starving."

Tintin grinned and followed him along the decking to the steps that led down the side of the hotel to the front, and the road to the city below. It was a short walk and the day was fine. Snowy trotted alongside them happily.

"That's a good dog, that," the Captain said as they walked. "A fine dog."

"Thanks. I like him."

"Do you know where you find a one-legged dog?"

"No?"

"Where you left him."

"Ha! Good one."

"What do you call a women with one leg?"

"I don't know."

"Ilene. Get it? I-lean!" He nudged Tintin in the ribs a couple of times.

"Yes! I get it, I get it! How many more of these stupid jokes do you have?"

"Oooh, hundreds! Thousands, even!" The Captain slung his arm around Tintin's shoulders. "Let me tell you, my friend, of the time I found a butterfly with no wings. I poured Red Bull on him and Blam!"

"Red Bull gave him wings?" Tintin asked cautiously.

"No, it drowned. Poor bugger."

"I wish I let Allan kill me."

"Tintin my lad, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship…"

::: FIN :::

Author's Note: Yes, I'm very aware that this is not like the film.

I know the book ends with the Captain appearing on the radio, with the classic scene of him taking ill from drinking a glass of water, but there were too many problems writing that up. For a start, it would have to be television instead of radio (in keeping with the updated theme), and I don't know enough about Belgium TV to know who the equivalent of Parkie is. Granted, with the Captain being from England (in my story/series), I could have put him on an English chat show, but with Michael Parkinson retired I couldn't think of a good enough chat show that deserves the Captain as a guest. I can't see my version of Archie appreciating spending any time with someone as irritatingly buoyant as Graham Norton. Besides, by the time I'd written the ending I went with, I liked it too much to add to it or change it.

There are several valid points for the Captain being Scottish and - historically and logically - they make perfect sense and fit with both history and the character. However, he's always had a Northern English accent in my head.

Well, it's been fun. I might take a week off before starting on the next one. Incidentally, the next one will probably be an original story leading off from where Alph-Art ended. However, the subject matter is a bit weighty (and slightly angsty) so it will be posted under an M Rating (making it possibly the only story over in Tintin After Dark without hard-core sex, slash or the tag; 'MPREG'). It's a good old fashioned missing person case that the Captain and Tintin embark on, so keep an eye out for that because it won't show up on the main story page unless you deliberately search for M-rated stories.