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Back The Dead Line Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

‘Come on, Ed,’ she raced towards their dingy hotel, grabbing his hand in a burst of her excitement. ‘Quickly.’

‘Steady on.’ But he was laughing again, as she dragged him along.

‘The Teffy,’ Casey gasped. ‘What if she is a ship?’

40

40

To the north of Chittagong, the city straggles away along the coastline. All the way up this shoreline are broad mudflats, hundreds of yards wide, the slope down to the sea almost imperceptible. The mudflats are so wide that a pier has to be hundreds of yards long just to allow the boats to float.

There was almost nothing in this muddy part of the world, for years. And then one day, in the wilderness of a cyclone, a Greek ship washed up on the flats. She sat there for months, the MD Alpine, sinking slowly into the sediment. And then quietly, secretively, the locals began to gouge away at her.

Finally, in 1965, five years after she first ran aground, the battered old wreck was sold for scrap.

A new industry sprang up overnight. Because the huge ships that circumnavigate the globe need a place to die, in the end. And the mudflats of Chittagong became their graveyard.

The ships came in their hundreds, beached side by side on the silt. Thousands of workers hacked away at them, the glitter of the oxyfuel sparkling blue-orange across the mud. As they worked, the men ripped the ships apart from stem to stern, carving away huge hunks of metal.

‘We recycle everything,’ the shipwreckers said proudly. ‘All the steel and everything.’

But the workers died, in their hundreds.

One a week, a charity guessed, for years. Struggling with huge sheets of steels, and scrambling over the bulkheads. No ropes, no safety, plunging to their death.

And, quite often, those workers were children.

There is a strange sort of beauty to the dying ships of Chittagong. They are so proud, these ships, as they storm in on the highest of tides. They have fought the oceans for years, and survived the storms.

And one day, it all ends.

Sometimes, men build a bonfire in her path. Her last triumph, as a wall of salt water drowns the flames with contempt. But then the ship runs out of water, slamming full-speed into the mudflats. The magic of the sea captured in this most brutal of traps. The ship’s weight and all her arrogant speed carry her onwards, upwards, skidding along the flats, carving through the silt. Until finally, she grinds to a halt, gravity irresistible.

There she is, grounded. Earthed. Stranded in the mud, all her dignity gone. The slow ignominy, as the tide goes out, and the ship is abandoned.

She waits.

And then they come for her.

She is chiselled apart, day after day, night after night. Butchered where she lies. Disappearing, scrap by scrap.

‘The Teffy,’ said Casey. ‘I think that she is a ship.’