The Night Ferry

6

Ruiz’s skin is a pallid gray and his eyes are bloodshot from the morphine. The years have mugged him in his sleep and he looks every one of his sixty birthdays.

“I knew you were gonna be okay,” I say. “Your hide is thicker than a rhino’s.”

“Are you saying my arse looks big in these pajamas?”

“Not in those pajamas.”

The curtains are open and the remains of the day are collecting on the far horizon.

It might be the morphine or his ridiculous male pride, but the DI keeps bragging about the number of stitches he needed in his chest and arm. Next we’ll be comparing scars. I don’t need a comparison—mine are bigger than his.

Why is it always a competition with men? Their egos are so fragile or their hormones so strong that they have to prove themselves. What tossers!

I give him a big wet kiss on his cheek. He’s lost for words.

“I brought you something, sir.”

He gives me a quick look, unsure whether to trust me. I pull a bottle of Scotch from a paper bag. It’s a private joke. When I was lying in hospital with a busted spine Ruiz brought me a bottle. It’s still the only time I’ve ever had alcohol. A one-off drink, sucked through a crazy straw, that made my eyes water and my throat burn. What do people see in alcohol?

I crack the seal and pour him a drink, adding a little water.

“You’re not having one?”

“Not this time. You can have mine.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

A nurse walks in. The DI hides the glass. I hide the bottle. She hands him a little plastic cup with two pills inside. The fact that we’ve stopped talking and look guilty encourages her to pause at the door. She says something in Dutch. It might be “bottom’s up,” but I doubt it.

“I think I’m going to stay here,” says Ruiz. “The food is much better than the NHS muck and the nurses have a certain charm. They remind me of my house mistresses at boarding school.”

“That sounds disturbingly like a sexual fantasy.”

He half grins. “Not completely.”

He takes another sip. “Have you ever thought about what you’d like to happen when you die? The arrangements.”

“I’ve made a will.”

“Yeah, but did you stipulate anything for the funeral? Cremation or burial or having your ashes sprinkled off the end of Margate Pier?”

“Not specifically.” This is getting rather morbid.

“I want my ashes put into a rocket.”

“Sure, I’ll put in a call to NASA.”

“In a firework rocket. I want to be blasted into a thousand falling stars. They can do that now—put ashes in fireworks. I read about it somewhere.”

“Go out with a bang.”

“A blaze of glory.”

He smiles and holds out his glass for more. “Not yet, of course.”

“Of course.”

The truth is, I have thought about it. Dying. During the autumn and winter of my discontent—the months of surgery and physiotherapy, when I couldn’t wash, feed or care for myself—a small, secret, childlike part of me feared that I would never walk again. And an unspoken, guilt-ridden, adult part of me decided I would rather die if that happened.

Everyone thinks I’m so strong. They expect me to face autumns and winters like that and bitch-slap them down, make them heel. I’m not so strong. I only pretend.

“I had a phone call from Miranda today,” the DI announces. “I still don’t know how she got the number or knew I was in hospital. As far as I can tell I was unconscious for most of yesterday.” His eyes narrow. “Try not to look so sheepish, my little lambkin.”

“I told you she still cares about you.”

“But can’t live with me.”

“That’s because you’re grumpy.”

“And you’re an expert in these things, I suppose.”

“Well ‘New Boy’ Dave has asked me to marry him.” The statement blurts from me, unplanned, spontaneous.

Ruiz ponders it. “I didn’t think he had the courage.”

“You think he’s afraid of me?”

“Any man with any sense should be a little bit afraid of you.”

“Why?”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.” His eyes are dancing.

“You said I was too sharp for him.”

“And you said that any man who could fit into your pants couldn’t get into your pants.”

“He loves me.”

“That’s a good start. How about you?”

I can’t answer. I don’t know.

It’s strange talking about love. I used to hate the word. Hate is too strong. I was sick of reading about it in books, hearing it in songs, watching it in films. It seemed such a huge burden to place on another person—to love them; to give them something so unbelievably fragile and expect them not to break it or lose it or leave it behind on the No. 96 bus.

I thought I had a choice. Fall in love. Don’t fall in love. He loves me. He loves me not. See, I’m not so smart!

My mind drifts back to Samira. I don’t know what to do. I’m out of ideas. Up until now I’ve been convinced that I would find Cate’s babies and then—what then? What did I imagine would happen? Cate broke the law. She rented a womb. Perhaps she didn’t realize that Samira would be forced to cooperate. I can give her the benefit of that doubt.

Cate always walked close to the edge. Closer to death, closer to life. She had a crazy streak. Not all the time, just occasionally. It’s like when the wind changes suddenly before a storm and kids go wild, running around in circles like swirling scraps of paper caught in the updraft. Cate would get that same gleam in her eye and drift onto the wrong side of crazy.

She is more memory than reality. She belongs to a time of teenage crushes, first kisses, crowded lecture halls and smoky pubs. Even if she had lived, we might have had nothing in common except the past.

I should let it go. When Ruiz is well enough, I’ll take him home. I’ll swallow my pride and take whatever job I’m offered or I’ll marry Dave and we’ll live in Milford-on-Sea. I shouldn’t have come to Amsterdam. Why did I ever imagine I could make a difference? I can’t bring Cate back. Yet for all this, I still can’t shake one fundamental question: What will happen to the babies?

Yanus and his cronies will sell them to the highest bidder. Either that or they’ll be born in the Netherlands and put up for adoption. Worse still, they’ll be sent back to Kabul along with Samira, who will be ostracized and treated as an outcast. In some parts of Afghanistan they still stone women for having children out of wedlock.

Cate lied and deceived. She broke the law. I still don’t know why Brendan Pearl killed her, although I suspect it was to stop her from talking. She came to me. I guess that makes me partially responsible.

Am I guilty of anything else? Is there something else I should have done? Perhaps I should tell Felix’s family that their son would have become a father in a few weeks. Barnaby and Ruth Elliot are pseudo-grandparents to surrogate twins.