The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

statement – ‘IT IS THE MERCY’ – was especially chilling. When the film was over I felt shaken and drained.

By the time I had finished watching the film, it was after midnight. Despite this, I decided to send Clive a message:Hi there, just watched the Crowhurst film. Absolutely amazing! Thanks so much for lending it to me. Still on my way to Shetland – not there yet.

I went into the bathroom to clean my teeth. A few minutes later I fell into bed and I was almost asleep when my phone started to sing its by now familiar tune. Clive had texted me back already. He had written:Glad you enjoyed it! Have a safe crossing and look forward to hearing about your exploits when you get back. X

I looked at this message – or rather, that final ‘X’ – in some puzzlement. Why was Clive, of all people, sending me a virtual kiss? Coming from Lindsay, I could just about understand it, but Clive? I had never, ever, in my life received a text message from another man that ended in a kiss. The idea of Trevor, for instance, putting a kiss at the end of one of his texts or emails was unthinkable. So what was Clive playing at? I wished that it hadn’t been too late to contact Lucy, to ask for her opinion about this. She might at least be able to tell me whether it was normal or not.

Thinking about it made me uncomfortable. At last I began to sink into sleep, but the Crowhurst documentary had left queasy, unsettling images stamped upon my mind. They were still there, swimming before me, as my breathing began to settle. The fall and rise of the waves … Crowhurst’s face – reminding me (more strongly than ever, tonight) of my father’s … the fall and rise of the waves … Rodney Hallworth and his ‘old tin box’ … the fall and rise of the waves … where had I heard that expression before? … Rodney Hallworth … Lindsay Ashworth …the fall and rise … Rodney Hallworth … Lindsay Ashworth … the fall and rise … the fall and rise …

Kendal–Braemar

16

‘OK, Emma, it’s all starting to become clear now. It’s all falling into place.’

– Proceed on the current road.

‘I don’t know how it’s happened, but I seem to be turning into Donald Crowhurst. That’s who I’m about to become. Call it fate, call it predestination – call it whatever you like – but it looks like I have no choice in the matter. It’s going to happen whether I like it or not.’

– In three-quarters of a mile, right turn.

We had left Kendal about ten minutes ago, and were now driving along the A6 in the direction of Penrith. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the windscreen was splattered with heavy drops of something between rain and sleet. The road was climbing steadily in a series of curves through wild, verdant countryside.

‘Here I am, after all, driving a car which is meant to be new and innovative and a radical step forward in design – just like Crowhurst’s trimaran. It’s a sort of modern version of the Teignmouth Electron, and I’m at the helm.’

As we turned off the A6 towards Junction 39 of the M6, on our left we could see the vast chimneys of the Corus limestone works, hidden away at the bottom of a long, somehow intimidating private road which gave it the look of a secret military installation. In a few minutes we had reached the motorway junction.

– Heading left at the roundabout, take first exit.

‘And just think who the other characters in his story were. Rodney Hallworth, Stanley Best – do those names remind you of anyone? It all makes sense.’

– Exit coming up.

‘So what’s going on? Have I become sort of … possessed by him, or am I going mad? And if I am going mad, does that really change anything? Because that could be all part and parcel of me turning into him, couldn’t it? What do you think, Emma? What’s your advice?’

– Proceed on the current motorway.

Well, yes, that was sensible enough, I suppose. There seemed to be little else I could do, at any rate.

It was getting on for 12.30. After a long bath and a late breakfast at the Travelodge, I had driven back into Kendal itself and wandered around the town for a little while, trying to enjoy the experience of being in a different part of the country, and to shake off the unaccountable feeling of strangeness, of foreignness, that had been creeping up on me for the last couple of days, ever since leaving Watford. I had spent three weeks in Sydney and never noticed this sensation, so why did it now feel as though every new English town that I found myself in was slightly more unreal than the last? Perhaps it had something to do with my growing Crowhurst fixation. I was beginning to feel disconnected from myself: I sometimes had the feeling that I was standing outside my own body, looking down on it, and even that morning in Kendal there was a moment when it seemed as though I was looking down on the High Street from above, and watching myself walking along it with all the other shoppers, like extras in a perfectly composed shot from a film, with these hundreds of insect-like people in the foreground and the huge sweep of the hills forming a distant, painted-in, not-quite-believable backdrop.

Late in the morning I saw Caroline again. She wasn’t expecting me, but I decided to surprise her. I knew that she was working as the manager of one of the charity shops in the High Street, so I dropped in, unannounced, not expecting much more than a curt rebuff but in fact finding myself made far more welcome than I might have hoped. She made me some coffee and took me into the back office and we talked for about half an hour or more – mainly about Lucy – and this morning Caroline seemed warm, and kind, and interested in what I was doing, and when I left it wasn’t because she wanted me to but because I wanted to. Because having her being nice to me like this just made me want to be with her more than ever, and I knew that could never happen again and in that case the only thing to do was to get out and move on.

– Proceed on the current motorway.

Now we were somewhere between Junctions 41 and 42. We were heading north, and the further north we went, the thinner the traffic seemed to get. We were averaging 68 miles to the gallon, because here it was easy to drive at a comfortable 55 miles per hour without people tailgating you and flashing their lights to make you hurry up. And oddly, despite the fact that it would have been safer to drive fast here than it would 100 miles south, there didn’t seem to be so many cars exceeding the speed limit. Everybody seemed more relaxed. Are there statistics to show that drivers in the north of England consume less petrol than drivers in the south? It wouldn’t surprise me at all.

– Proceed on the current motorway.

There’s not much you can do when you’re driving for hours at a moderate speed, other than to notice the few