Witch Hunt

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It was a pleasure boat.

At least, that’s how owner and skipper George Crane would have described it. It had been bought for pleasure back in the late 1980s when business was thriving, money both plentiful and cheap. He’d bought it to indulge himself. His wife had nagged about the waste of money, but then she suffered from chronic seasickness and wouldn’t set foot on it. She wouldn’t set foot on it, but there were plenty of women who would. Plenty of women for George Crane and his friends. There was Liza, for example, who liked to stand on deck clad only in her bikini bottom, waving at passing vessels. God, Liza, Siren of the South Coast. Where was she now? And all the others: Gail, Tracy, Debbie, Francesca... He smiled at the memories: of routes to France, Portugal, Spain; of trips taken around the treacherous British Isles. Trips taken with women aboard, or with women picked up en route. Wine and good food and perhaps a few lines of coke at the end of the evening. Good days, good memories. Memories of the pleasure boat Cassandra Christa.

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