The Shipping Forecast

The Shipping Forecast by Chris Green

I am listening to the Shipping Forecast on the laptop when the phone rings. Much of the nautical detail of the forecast goes over my head, but I find the poetry of the teatime bulletin entrancing. I hardly use the landline so I let the phone ring. I am not expecting a call and I don’t want the poetry to be interrupted. Lyrical names like Lundy, Dogger and Fastnet. Rockall, Viking. Cromarty, German Bight. Fitzroy, Biscay, Trafalgar. Mystical names. Not that I am a seafarer. I don’t have a boat or even live by the sea.

On the basis that it must be important, I finally pick up. No one there. I put the receiver down and all of the lights go out. The laptop goes onto battery so the Shipping Forecast continues. It is more atmospheric listening to it in the dark. Perhaps this is something to bear in mind. It is easier to concentrate. It could be my imagination but the reports from coastal stations seem to be clearer. Even Stornoway and Lerwick have good prognoses for later.

At first, I put the outage down to a more widespread power cut. We have had one or two of these since the November storms. But the lights from the neighbouring houses are still on. Dan isn’t a very good electrician so I figure it is probably down to something he did or didn’t do when he fitted the new sockets. We only used Dan because he was Ellie’s cousin and was cheap. The gig economy is taking hold in these lean times. Dan was a fairground worker before he became an electrician. I do not have a number for Dan, so I will have to wait until Ellie gets home from her class. Meanwhile, I can practice some tunes on my duduk. I think I’ve cracked Light My Fire, and Omar feels Marrakesh Express would sound good on the duduk.

Without warning, two tall dark figures dressed in black let themselves in through the back door. I can’t see who they are but I don’t imagine they have come to listen to me playing the duduk. Paranoia takes hold. I have seen enough noir films over the years about unsuspecting victims being taken off for interrogation to feel I know more or less what to expect. They will threaten me a little, perhaps point a gun at me, tie my hands behind my back, blindfold me and bundle me into the back of an unmarked vehicle. They will take me to a dark basement somewhere a twenty minutes drive away, tie me to a chair and leave me to stew for a while. Later on, the principal interrogators will arrive. For simplicity let’s say they will be Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta lookalikes. They will tell me they know I know why I am here so I might as well come clean. They will ignore my protestations of innocence, threaten me some more and perhaps club me around the head.

‘Why are you sitting in the dark, playing that flute thing, Dad?’ Matt says. ‘By the way, this is Andy.’

‘Hello Mr Jazz,’ Andy says. ‘That flute thing is a duduk, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Andy. A duduk.’

Matt tries a few switches.

‘Oh, I see, Dad,’ he says. ‘The electrics have gone. What happened?’

Trying to hide what is a growing sense of relief, I explain the chain of events.

‘That’ll be a trip switch,’ Andy says. ‘Unusual for all the rings to go at once though. Where’s the consumer unit?’

I show him. He puts the switch back on. I thank him and think no more about it.

The following day, I am listening to the Shipping Forecast again when the same thing happens. The phone rings, I answer it and the lights go out. Once again two dark figures appear out of nowhere.

‘Hi, Matt. Hi, Andy,’ I say.

This time it is not Matt and Andy. It is a pair of gangsters and they appear to have read the script. They threaten me a little, point a gun at me, tie my hands behind my back, blindfold me and bundle me into the back of an unmarked vehicle. They take me to a dark basement somewhere a twenty minutes drive away, tie me to a chair and leave me to stew for a while. Later on, the principal interrogators arrive. Pulp Fiction’s Jules and Vincent lookalikes. They tell me they know I know why I am here so I might as well come clean. They ignore my protestations, threaten me some more and club me around the head.

‘If I knew why you’d brought me here, I’d be completely cooperative. I’d tell you everything you want to know’ I say, taking the initiative. ‘But as it is, I have no idea.’

‘OK. We’ll try it another way, shall we?’ Vincent says. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. You’ve been listening to the Shipping Forecast.’

‘Regularly, Mr Jazz,’ Jules says. ‘We know because we’ve been keeping tabs on you.’

‘But you don’t have a boat,’ Vincent says. ‘So tell me, Mr Jazz. Why have you been listening to the Shipping Forecast when you don’t have a boat?’

‘I find it relaxing,’ I say.

‘You find it relaxing, do you?’ Jules says, coming at me with the butt end of his pistol. ‘Let’s see if you find this relaxing.’

‘Now, why do you like listening to the Shipping Forecast when you don’t live by the sea?’ Vincent says.

‘It’s like a mindfulness meditation,’ I say. ‘ I like listening to those mystical names. Shannon, Lundy, Sole, Fastnet.’

‘And why exactly is that, Mr Jazz?’ Jules says. ‘Why do you like those mystical names? It’s to find out where our shipments are coming in, isn’t it?’

‘So you can intercept them,’ Vincent says. ‘Like your cut-throat band of pirates did with the last shipment three weeks ago. That didn’t go down too well with the boss.’

‘What shipment?’ I say. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Our shipment from Morocco, Mr Jazz, as if you didn’t know,’ Jules says. ‘Somehow you found out that we have been sneaking coded instructions about our drug drops into coastal stations’ reports on the teatime shipping forecast for the benefit of our runners. And you have been listening in to crack the code.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ I say. ‘I know nothing about any drugs.’

‘And clever though you might be to crack the code, as you don’t have a boat, you must be part of a larger operation,’ Vincent says. ‘So you’re going to give us names.’

‘What about those two young bucks that arrived the first time we called round for instance?’ Jules says. ‘The ones dressed in black.’

‘We would have taken them out then,’ Vincent says. ‘But the Boss said, deal with you first.’

‘Perhaps Mr Jazz needs more time to think about it,’ Jules says. ‘But we can always call back.’

‘Let’s leave him to sweat then. I think he might decide to be more talkative later.’

‘Yeah! When Goran gets in, jazzbo here might just decide he wants to start communicating, wouldn’t you say? He has that air of persuasion about him.’

‘For sure. Let’s not waste any more time on him. Those ropes look well secure. He’s not going anywhere soon.’

With this, they are gone. Something fortuitous needs to happen fast, or it could be the end of Jonny Jazz. If I am to get out of this one, the Gods are going to have to pull out all the stops. It takes me a while to spot it. but Jules appears to have left his phone. If I tip my chair over and rock it back and forth, can I reach it? Or might it be a trick? Are they trying to find out who I might contact? Gods or no Gods, from now on I need to be cautious, strong, vigilant. I can afford no more slip ups. If I ever get out of this hell hole I will need to be more careful about how I operate. If I do make it to the other side, I will need to find another way to track future shipments from Morocco and surprise being the element, find new places for my people to intercept them.

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