New Moorings Under Hay Street

Friday. A new mooring for my galleon, in a basement under Hay Street Mall. A ship in a basement. I asked how they got her down the stairs. Nobody would tell me, which means it was clever, which means it was not my idea.

The first prisoners came aboard this morning, and by afternoon they were wandering from the hold into my private quarters as if they owned them. My quarters! My maps, my bunk, my good hat on its peg!

I had the door to my quarters built narrow on purpose, so that no mob could ever burst in. This has worked against mobs, but not against prisoners, who simply come through one at a time, politely, saying excuse me. It also keeps out wheelchairs, the management tells me, so they point those crews to another room in the building. I have been asked to stop calling this a feature.

A fortnight ago, under this very mall, I lowered a certain chest into the deep. I will not write about the chest. The chest is between me and a gentleman called Davy Jones, and he does not care to be gossiped about.

Scarface carried my sea chest down the stairs without a word. Strong as an ox and quiet as a fish. I would trust that man with my life. I very nearly do.