The Forcing, page 27
‘You are beautiful, aren’t you?’ Francoise said to the gull.
I tossed out another piece of pancake. The gull caught it smoothly, without braking this time, and swooped back astern, closer now so that we could see the fine detail of its plumage, the soft stratocirrus grey of the flight feathers, the red circumference of the coal-black eye and the small nick in the lower beak, some healed wound. The bird was watching us intently now, watching the rest of the pancake.
‘Isn’t he magnificent?’ she asked, smiling, her hair streaming in the breeze. In that moment, she looked happy.
She looked at me, gazed into my eyes a moment, and turned back to the gull. I threw the last bit of food, and the gull snapped it up.
‘Come back tomorrow and we’ll give you more,’ said Francoise.
The gull held on for a time, tracking the boat as we hissed towards the darkening horizon, until finally, perhaps sensing that its luck had run out, it drifted off, gained altitude, and disappeared towards the setting sun.
We were making good progress. Over a hundred and twenty nautical miles today, I figured. The plugs I’d driven into the hull were holding, for now anyway, and the cabin was dry. The solar panels were working, charging the batteries. With a day of sun tomorrow they would be at full charge. I had patched the bullet holes in the Genoa, three in all, sitting down with needle and palm, the old-fashioned way, stitching over squares of canvas.
Francoise was below, busy in the galley. Soon the smell of garlic and onions was wafting topside, incredible. From the wheel I watched her working, her long hair braided up, the back of her neck sunburnt a deep ochre, one hand on the frying pan handle. She was humming to herself. I didn’t recognise the melody, but it was gentle, a children’s lullaby perhaps, and as the sun sank into the sea, I thought that I could see a tinge of blue haunt the sky like a childhood memory, and for a moment I forgot what had brought us here and who was missing. But then it all came back, and I cursed myself for my contentment.
We ate in silence, sitting in the cockpit side by side, tin plates balanced on our knees. She had made spaghetti in tomato sauce laced with garlic. I couldn’t remember ever enjoying a meal so much. Afterwards she took the plates down to the galley and brought up two steaming mugs of sweet tea. We sat watching the sky darken, hands wrapped around the warm mugs, the boat’s phosphorescent wake spooling out behind us like the plotted course on an empty map.
‘Providence is stocked for a family of four,’ said Francoise. ‘Man, woman, two children under ten. You can tell from the clothing aboard. I wonder what happened to them. I hope they’re alright. I feel as if I know them.’
‘There is a copy of Herodotus on the bookshelf down there.’
‘And Maupassant and Proust, and lots of Dr. Seuss. I loved those books when I was a little girl. That was how I learned English.’
It told you something about a person, the books they travelled with. I let off the main a little.
‘How far is it to Belize?’
‘A thousand nautical miles. Maybe more.’ I still wasn’t exactly sure where we were.
‘Did you hear him?’ she whispered. ‘The sanctuary in the mountains. The bank.’
I nodded in the darkness, checked the compass. One five zero. On this heading, at this speed, in ten days’ time we would either run straight into Cuba or the Yucatan peninsula. Belize lay south of there, through the two-hundred-mile gap between the two, just around the corner. That was a lot of water.
‘My son—’ I heard myself say before cutting short, my throat tightening.
Francoise waited a time, then said: ‘Tell me.’
I swallowed hard. ‘Lachie told me that the government’s experts were saying that certain parts of the equatorial territories may have fared better. The climate models always predicted that the poles would heat up most, that the mid-latitudes would dry out, and that the tropics, in some places at least, would be less hard hit, especially at higher elevations, in the mountains. Lachie told me that the government had intelligence that supported this, although the equatorial countries were trying to downplay it, as you would expect, making a lot of noise about crop failures and food shortages, trying not to attract the attention of northern powers.’
‘Argent’s story makes sense then.’
‘Some.’
And then after a time she said: ‘Can we sail a thousand miles?’
‘In this? Absolutely. Even during that storm, we were never in danger.’
‘It didn’t feel that way to me.’
‘It never does when you’re in it.’
‘Then we can go anywhere.’
‘The boat’s not the limiting factor. It’s us.’
‘We have enough food for a month more, at least,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel guilty.’
I reached out for her hand. She didn’t pull away. I turned to face her. In the darkness I could see the whites of her eyes, the flash of her teeth. I put my arm around her waist, pulled her to me. It didn’t feel awkward. We stayed like that for a while, the cool sea air, so much purer now, caressing our faces. And then she drew closer, and we sat together and listened to the sound of the water moving against the hull for a long time.
Later, I woke from a dream. I was lying on the cockpit bench, a cushion under my head, one of Daniel’s jackets zipped up under my chin. Francoise was asleep below, tucked into the main saloon berth. Providence was secure, trimmed nicely in a quartering breeze on a calm sea. Above me, dark shapes progressed across the heavens: the mast, the shrouds, the ghostly mainsail. At first, it didn’t register – it had been so long. Then I saw it, just abeam the masthead, something I hadn’t seen in years. A star.
51
It was the star that did it. Just that few minutes was enough, lying there in the cockpit, watching that light shimmering unhinged and lonely in the darkness. I started thinking that maybe, finally, after all we had been through, that there might be a way.
I must have gone back to sleep, because when I awoke the star had spun down to the horizon and now hung suspended just above the water, strobing like a pulsar. I watched it hover there, anticipating the moment of its extinction, but instead of sinking below the horizon, it got steadily brighter. I pushed myself up, watched as it started tracking back behind us. And then the sound came, almost imperceptible at first, then growing quickly, the hum of an engine, approaching fast.
I jumped up, felt the adrenaline kick through my body and slam into my heart. We were running without lights. I held my breath, watched the light steady, then turn and dim. At first, I thought they might pass us by – whoever they were. They looked to be setting a course far to our stern. Their engine beat a steady rhythm. Providence held to her reach, clipping through a calm sea. Soon the light was gone, and we were alone again, tracking south towards the equator.
When the light reappeared sometime later it came on fast, straight for us. There was no doubt now. I called for Francoise to wake up and fetch the gun. I tightened the main, winched up the jib, nudged Providence higher. By the time the searchlight caught the sails, we were heeled over hard, cutting nine knots.
‘Who is it?’ called Francoise from the cabin.
‘I can’t tell. Coast guard maybe.’
‘Out here?’
‘I want you to stay below until we find out.’
‘I’m coming up.’ She started up the gangway, the pistol clutched in her right hand.
By now the cockpit was lit up like a service-station forecourt back when you could still buy gasoline and drive where you wanted. I raised my hand to shield my eyes. ‘No,’ I shouted. ‘For God’s sake, stay below.’
She stopped just inside the gangway, stared out at me. I knew what she was thinking. ‘Just be ready,’ I shouted. ‘And hold on.’
By now the spotlight had us trapped like a twentieth-century bomber on a night run over some European city. I raised my hand again, waved in greeting. They were close now, had swung around off our portside quarter, standing off maybe fifteen metres or so, matching our course and speed. It was an open-sterned cabin cruiser with a flying bridge and a big outboard engine that spewed smoke. The man at the helm was looking out at me through the cabin window as he manoeuvred closer. Another was standing on the beam railing, leaning out towards us as if to catch our forestay in his outstretched hand. He was wearing cut-off jeans and a stained T-shirt – so definitely not the coast guard. The third man played the spotlight over us from bow to stern and up to the masthead and back, finally fixing on me. I pulled the peak of my cap lower over my eyes, nudged Providence away, again putting distance between us. They matched my manoeuvre almost immediately, drew in closer, almost within reaching distance.
‘Hola,’ shouted the man on the railing, waving his free hand in a motion that might be interpreted as a signal to slow down. Or maybe it was to speed up.
‘Hold on,’ I shouted, snapping the wheel hard to port. Providence hit the other boat hard amidships. The man on the foredeck was flung overboard. I saw the man on the searchlight topple over, the beam swinging away until it was shining up into the empty sky. As I soon as I felt the sails fill, I wrenched the wheel to starboard and put Providence into a powerful broad reach. Soon we were bathed in darkness.
‘Hand me the gun,’ I said. ‘But keep out of sight.’
‘They don’t look like the coast guard.’
‘No.’
‘What are you going to do,’ she said, palming me the gun.
‘Make it as hard for them as I can. Hopefully, they’ll just give up and go away.’ As long as the wind held, we had a chance. I crouched low, checked the gun, made sure the safety was on and pushed it under my trouser belt. I hoped I would be able to work it if the time came, prayed I would not have to find out.
‘Hold on,’ I shouted, bringing Providence sharply about. As soon as I had reset the sails I fell off until we were running with the wind on our starboard quarter.
‘What are you doing?’ called Francoise.
‘Doubling back.’ Maybe we could lose them, but I doubted it.
And yet, we had put some distance between us, and they now appeared to be heading off in the wrong direction, following our previous course. I tightened up the sails, urged Providence to give us every knot she had.
Steadily, the light dimmed, and sometime around midnight, it disappeared altogether.
52
As day came, the wind died. All that morning we drifted on a flat, dead sea under a strontium sky. The sails hung lifeless from their gallows. By midday the heat was unbearable.
We were lying in the cockpit under the awning when I saw it, just a speck on the horizon. Through the binoculars I made out a small craft, moving quickly, white spray jumping about its hull. It was coming towards us.
I watched it come on. After a while I could make it out unmagnified. It was heading right for us, at speed.
‘What is it?’
I handed Francoise the binoculars. ‘It looks like our friends from last night.’
She frowned. ‘Don’t let them…’ She swallowed her words, reached out to steady herself.
‘Don’t worry, France. I won’t.’
‘I’m going to check on Argent,’ she said as she disappeared down the main hatchway.
I thought about starting the engine but decided against it. The notion that we might have fuel on board would only make us more of a prize. Maybe it wasn’t the men from the night before. It could be a customs boat, I told myself. Perhaps law and order still existed here. I stood at the wheel, the binoculars dangling on their strap around my neck. As it got close, the speedboat slowed and settled into the water, engine idling. They were moving alongside, perhaps twenty metres away now. It was the boat from last night, the same three-man crew. One of them was shouting something in Spanish. His voice bounced across the water. I waved at them, smiled, my insides running steeplechase.
‘They are asking you where you are going,’ Francoise whispered up to me.
I nodded, stood, pointed south. More shouting from the speedboat.
‘They want to know why you rammed them last night. Tell them it was an accident, that you’re sorry. Accidente. Desculpeme.’
I shouted it out, shrugged my shoulders. The men on the boat laughed, glanced at each other. The helmsman called out again.
‘They want to come aboard,’ Francoise said. ‘They ask if you have any food or money.’
I smiled, opened the port cockpit locker and pulled out the fishing rod, held it up, pointed at it. Then I pulled out the pockets of my shorts, stood with my hands open. I could make out the men’s faces now, bearded, rough-looking. One of the men was making ready a coil of rope. He wore shorts and a stained red T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The man at the wheel was shouting, pointing.
‘They ask if you have anything to trade. They are coming alongside.’
‘No,’ I shouted back, shaking my head. I started the engine, gunned the throttle, put some distance between us.
As they closed the distance, one of the men drew a gun. It was a pistol of some sort. Then he pointed at Providence’s cabin, yelled something in Spanish.
‘He asks if you have anyone else on board. I think they saw me.’
They were close now.
‘Estoy solo,’ Francoise whispered up to me. ‘Say it.’
‘Estoy solo,’ I shouted back to them. ‘I have nothing you want.’ I doubted they understood English.
Again, I swerved away, and again they closed. I was about to reach for the pistol when the driver gunned the engine. It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to react. Providence shuddered as the speedboat’s steel prow rammed us forward of amidships. The force of the collision sent me toppling backward as Providence rolled and yawed simultaneously. The last thing I saw was one of the men leaping from the foredeck of the speedboat, airborne between the two vessels.
When You Get There
She is sitting in the chair beside my bed. Outside, the storm rages unabated. She looks up from my notebook which lies cradled in her lap.
Kweku? I ask.
She shakes her head. Nothing.
Ten days.
Twelve.
Really?
You have been in a fever for two days.
Something must have happened.
We have to trust him. That’s all we can do.
Yes. We must. I do.
She opens my notebook to the last written page, runs her index finger along the final line. You are still writing.
I have to.
She says: It doesn’t end here.
No.
Please be careful.
I nod. I can’t do it without you.
I know.
All this time, you’ve never told me what happened.
I know, she says. But I will.
When?
When you get there. When Kweku gets home.
PART VII
Sinners
53
Lucidity comes in bursts. Francoise staring out at me through a veil of blood. The look of surprise on her face, the gentleness of her voice as she works on my head. A gull swooping across an empty sky. But in between there is only chaos. The dirt behind the garage at my childhood home, all of my plastic soldiers afire in their positions. Mid-air in the moment between leaving my motorbike and hitting the windshield of the car, the bugs squashed on the car’s hood, the newly mown ditch. Stumbling through the sleet, May’s body in my arms. Pain breaking like surf, picking me up and spinning me deep so that there is no up or down, only the roar of it filling my head. Burning buildings. Faces staring up from the ground, eyes filming over with dirt. The smells are there, too. Blood. Death. Volatile hydrocarbons, radionuclides, and the pervasive odour of burn. It is as if everything I have ever seen or done is coming at me at once, every thought and dream and vision come unstuck, until the tide of it overwhelms me completely and then there is nothing.
When I come to, night has fallen. I am lying in the cockpit, covered in a blanket. The sails are down, and we are adrift. The sea is calm. A few stars peek through a layer of high cloud. I reach for my head, explore the bandage with my fingertips. I remember the noise of the impact, the other boat so close, just off the starboard beam.
I close my eyes, try to sit up, but a wave of nausea pushes me back down. I lie panting, covered in sweat. I call out for Francoise. I must talk to her, ask her what happened, tell her… What? How to get Providence under way again? Where to point her? How to navigate in an empty sea with nothing to guide you and nowhere to go? A wave of pain rolls over me, picks me up and drags me across another dead reef. I can feel the coral skeletons ripping into my flesh, tearing into my brain, and then I am gone, drowned.
I awake sometime later, panting but lucid. It is night. Sea air flows cool over my face, down into my lungs. We are still adrift. The pirates’ boat is tethered to Providence. I can hear her gunwales thudding gently against Providence’s wooden hull, and I calculate that the frequency of the collisions and the length of the pauses in between must equal the period of the swell, and that the swell has come probably from some much deeper part of the Atlantic, or perhaps from farther still.
Light glows in the cabin. I push myself up, slowly, fighting to hold back the dark peripheries of unconsciousness. When I look below, I see three bodies, one of whom I instantly recognise as Argent, lying heaped on the cabin floor. Blood covers everything. I can’t see Francoise.
I reach for the topside cabin railing, pull myself to my feet. I call for her, move closer to the gangway. She is sitting at the forward end of the main saloon. Her eyes are open, stark white orbs set in a mask of dried blood. The left side of her face is swollen, misshapen. She stares past me. A handgun sits on the table in front of her. And beside her, laid out under a blanket on the main settee, is one of the pirates.
