I’m not altogether sure if it’s an improvement being in the boat. The dungeon was possibly the most tedious thing any human could be subjected to, but I can’t tell you if the boat is a step up from that or not. The company’s the same, which could be seen in any case as a partial blessing, but at least the castle felt sturdy in comparison. This old thing creaks like a sod. I’ve never heard anything like it. For years I’ve been convinced that at any moment the wood is finally going to creak too far and the entire ship will burst open and plunge into Davy’s in an instant. At least we’re generally left alone here though, not like the old place, but who cares: on the other hand we haven’t seen land for decades. Sometimes when the two of us are doing the bilge I think I might just stop and wait for the murky smelly water to seep in and finish us all, but something keeps me going. I suppose it’s the thought that no matter how low you get, there is still, despite how preposterous it might seem, the vague chance we could enjoy freedom again one day and meet up with our old families and friends – not much chance of that though, what with all of them being incarcerated in remote dungeons and boats as well.
As far as I can tell, there are hundreds of people on this boat, but that, as I say, is only as far as I can tell. I can hear them groaning and shouting in the night and sometimes they call my name, but the name bit tells me it’s all in my imagination and it must just be the sound of the straining wood confusing me. Why would anyone shout my name? Who would know my name other than my companion and me?

I choose to tell you my situation again because a thing which happened yesterday is relevant to something that happened before in the dungeon. My companion and me were sanding down the rigging at the top of the tallest mast (they don’t tell us why we have to do these things. Half the time the tasks seem either pointless or damaging to some vital feature of the ship) and I was looking down the great distance to the deck to see if I could get a better stare at any of the bent-over figures skulking below in their lightless pits when I became convinced that if I didn’t get a sip of liquid then the dry husk of my body would probably just flit away in the breeze.
“God, I’m so thirsty,” I managed, feeling a bit grimmed out by the laziness of the sticky tongue lolling around inside my numb but prickly mouth.
“So am I,” settled my companion with distracted resolution, “but what can we do about that?” A drip of sweat emerged through the battered skin on his brow and ran down to a waiting index finger which mopped it up and sucked it off.
Down below me in a pit I could see a naked, white-faced hunchback with no hair on his head or body emerge from a shadow for a second with a startled upwards glance, and as he did, something in my line of sight that I hadn’t noticed before jumped into focus. A glass!
“What’s that?” I shouted. Then, remembering the trustworthiness of my companion, I grabbed it before he had a chance and peered through the side of the opaque tumbler at the tiny dribble of yellowy fluid left in the bottom.
“Who would leave a glass up here?” asked my companion.
I shrugged. It did seem far-fetched, but we were thirsty and you don’t look a gift horse etc.
“But there’s such a small amount of drink there. It’ll be quite difficult to split.”
In spite of my thirst (who knows, it might have even been delirium caused by dehydration and heat-stroke) I handed the glass to my mate. “You first,” I tempted him, poorly suppressing the masochistic beam on my face. I decided I wouldn’t mind if he drank the lot, it would be worth it to see if he was still a cunt or not, because then I’d know. My companion took the glass from me in silence and held it in front of him, staring solemnly into the bottom. I don’t know what was going through his mind, maybe he remembered about me going on at him for twenty years about the cranberry tart, maybe he was overcome by the will to change his ways, but slowly he leaned back over with the glass and bent right into my cracked and strained leather face with the smile of my-old-selfless-compadre: “You know what, friend? Why don’t you have it?”
“Just have it?”
“I don’t want any. Have it if you want.”
“Thanks,” I said as I took it back off him, a little ashamed I’d had the arrogance to think I could test my mate, my lifelong buddy.
“Hey, don’t mention it,” he said, smiling amiably and turning back to his sanding. And as I went to take the beery liquid to my lips I happened to glance at the bottom for a moment – long enough to see that the drink was laced with what looked a lot like spunk.

I told my companion to finish the sanding himself and sloped off back down to the bilge pumps for some peace and quiet.