Read Online Not the End of the World by Christopher Brookmyre - Free Book Online

a murky fluid that looked eight parts water to one part food detritus and one part resultant scum. There was a ring of the greeny‐
brown matter a couple of inches above the fluid, evidencing days of gradual evaporation. Dead flies floated amid the surface flotsam, reminding Larry of birds caught in an oil slick. The live flies were concentrated around the small, compact dinner table, flanked by an upholstered bench against the wall and lightweight chairs opposite. On the table there were coffee mugs and plastic tumblers on top of place mats around a brandy bottle and a basket of brittle‐
looking lumps of bread, dotted liberally with flies and mould. Two of the tumblers and one of the coffee mugs lay upturned, their contents having dried on the wooden surface to leave contour lines, like hills on a map. The other three still had at least an inch of coffee in each.
    ‘We flew a guy out on the seaplane to pilot this thing back. It was more than three hundred miles out. Just got back last night.’ Janie picked up some photographs from on top of the microwave oven on a worktop by the sink, handing them to Larry. ‘He took these before moving the boat anywhere.’
    Larry flicked through them. The pictures showed scenes of the galley, mostly identical except that all the cups and mugs were upright, there was no spillage on the table and the water‐
level in the sink was higher.
    ‘It was in case things got choppy on the way home. He wanted to capture the full impact of the scene as upon discovery. As you can see, the trip home was pretty smooth. The spook‐
factor hasn’t depleted much.’
    ‘Jesus,’ Larry breathed.
    Janie pointed above the microwave to a shelf supporting a ghetto‐
blaster.
    ‘CD player was still switched on too, with a disc in it. The Sex Pistols, for what it’s worth. You just imagine being that trawler guy. I mean, you’re seeing this here in the Coast Guard marina. He found all this shit floating in the middle of the Pacific.’
    ‘No thank you.’
    Janie frowned. Larry could tell that seeing the scene one more time wasn’t helping her make any more sense of it.
    ‘Civilised little Sunday dinner at sea,’ she said. ‘Coffee, conversation, music and a digestif of brandy. Then they vanish before the coffee’s even cold. Just disappear without trace.’
    Terrific, Larry thought. A latter‐
day Mary Celeste. An abandoned boat in the middle of the ocean. Disappearing scientists. No doubt another fucking omen.
    ‘Nothing disappears without trace,’ he stated. ‘If you vanish in a puff of smoke, you’re still gonna leave a carbon stain on the ceiling. So, you got any theories what happened here, or do you figure the aliens just beamed ’em all up to go meet Elvis?’
    Janie arched her brow. ‘Well, if the aliens took them, they would have needed room in their flying saucer for a submarine, because that’s missing too.’
    Larry’s eyes widened involuntarily. He thought Bannon had just thrown it in as a figure of speech.
    ‘A submarine?’
    ‘Yes indeed. CalORI told us about it when we said we were sending someone out to pilot the boat home. I mean, keep your pants on, it wasn’t Polaris. Still, a real smart craft, from what I’m told. The Stella Maris, it was called. It could go pretty deep, depending on how long the crew could face in decom afterwards. Look, do you mind if we get back on deck? Two more minutes and this smell’s gonna make me puke.’
    ‘Yeah, sure,’ Larry said. ‘I’ll follow you up in a minute. Just gonna take a little look‐
see. I’ll hold on to these pictures, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘They’re yours,’ said Janie, with a dismissive wave, her hand then moving up to cover her mouth and nose as she began a hasty retreat.
    Larry explored the remainder of the boat. The sleeping cabins were along a narrow corridor from the galley, with stairs to a sub‐
level at the near end. He had a brief glance into each one. Clothes and books cluttered the beds and