The Night Ferry

Yanus watches and waits, as though expecting his cue. My heart jolts on the reality of having killed him. Yes, he deserved it, but I did this. I took his life. His blood still stains my clothes, along with Samira’s.

Paramedics are lifting her onto a stretcher. The towel is still wedged between her thighs. The medics gently shunt me to one side when I approach. She can’t talk to me now. I want to say I’m sorry, it was my fault. I should never have left her. I should have stayed with them. Perhaps I could have stopped Pearl.

Some time later Forbes comes looking for me.

“Let’s walk,” he says.

Instinctively, I take his arm. I’m frightened my legs might fail.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Five thirty.”

“My watch says five fifteen.”

“It’s slow.”

“How do you know yours isn’t fast?”

“Because the ferry company has those big fucking clocks on the wall that say your watch is wrong in four different time zones.”

We walk down the ramp, along the dock, away from the ferry. Refinery tanks and shipping containers create silhouettes against the brightening sky. Wind and smoke and scudding clouds are streaming over us.

“You don’t think he’s on the ferry, do you?” asks Forbes.

“No.”

There is another long pause. “We found a life buoy missing from the starboard railing. He could have gone over the side.”

“Someone would have seen him.”

“We were distracted.”

“Even so.”

I can still smell the twins and feel the smoothness of their skin. We’re both thinking the same thing. What happened to them?

“You should never have put yourself on that ferry,” he says.

“I couldn’t be sure she was on board.”

Taking a packet of cigarettes from his pockets, he counts the contents.

“You shouldn’t smoke with a cold.”

“I shouldn’t smoke at all. My wife thinks men and women can have precisely the same ailment with the same symptoms but it’s always the man who is sicker.”

“That’s because men are hypochondriacs.”

“I got a different theory. I think it’s because no matter how sick a woman is there’s always a small part of her brain thinking about shoes.”

“I bet you didn’t tell her that.”

“I’m sick, not stupid.”

His demeanor is different now. Instead of sarcasm and cynicism, I sense anxiety and a hardening resolve.

“Who’s behind this?”

“Samira mentioned an Englishman who called himself ‘Brother.’ She said he had a cross on his neck. There’s someone you should look at. His name is Paul Donavon. He went to school with Cate Beaumont—and with me. He was there on the night she was run down.”

“You think he’s behind this?”

“Samira met ‘Brother’ at an orphanage in Kabul. Donavon was in Afghanistan with the British Army. The traffickers targeted orphans because it meant fewer complications. There were no families to search for them or ask questions. Some were trafficked for sex. Others were given the option of becoming surrogates.”

“The pregnant illegals you asked about. Both claimed to be orphans.”

Forbes still hasn’t lit his cigarette. It rests between his lips, wagging up and down as he talks. He glances over his shoulder at the ferry.

“About the other night.”

“What night?”

“When we had dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Did I conduct myself in a proper fashion? I mean, did I behave?”

“You were a perfect gentleman.”

“That’s good,” he mumbles. “I mean, I thought so.” After a pause. “You took something that didn’t belong to you.”

“I prefer to think that we shared information.”

He nods. “You might want to reconsider your career choice, DC Barba. I don’t know if you’re what I’d call a team player.”

He can’t stay. There is a debriefing to attend, which is going to be rough. His superiors are going to want to know how he let Pearl get away. And once the media get hold of this story it’s going to run and run.

Forbes looks at my clothes. “If he’s not on the ferry, how did he get off?”

“He could still be on board.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No. What about the crew?”

“You think he took a uniform?”

“It’s possible.”

He turns abruptly and strides back toward the waiting police cars. The CCTV footage will most likely provide the answer. There are cameras on every corner of the dock and every deck of the ship. One of them will have recorded Pearl.

“Eat bananas,” I yell after him.

“Pardon?”

“My mother’s remedy for a cold.”

“You said you never listened to her.”

“I said almost never.”

***

There have been too many hospitals lately. Too many long waits on uncomfortable chairs, eating machine snacks and drinking powdered coffee and whitener. This one smells of boiled food and feces and has grim checked tiles in the corridors, worn smooth by the trolleys.

Ruiz called me from Hull, after his ferry docked. He wanted to come and get me but I told him to go home and rest. He’s done enough.

“Are they looking after you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Samira?”

“She’s going to be OK.”

I hope I’m right. She’s been asleep for ten hours and didn’t even wake when they lifted her from the ambulance and wheeled her to a private room. I have been waiting here, dozing in my plastic chair, with my head on the bed near her shoulder.

It is mid-afternoon when she finally wakes. I feel the mattress shift and open my eyes to see her looking at me.

“I need the bathroom,” she whispers.

I take her by the elbow and help her to the en suite.

“Where am I?”

“In a hospital.”

“What country?”

“England.”