The Night Ferry

nowhere.

“The police are going to find the twins,” I announce, as if we’re deep in conversation.

She doesn’t answer.

I try again. “You do want to find them?”

“My debt is paid,” she whispers, chewing at her lower lip.

“You owe these people nothing.”

Again she doesn’t answer. How can I make her understand? Without warning she offers an answer, placing her words in careful sentences.

“I have tried not to love them. I thought it would be easier to give them up if I did not love them. I have even tried to blame them for what happened to Hassan and Zala. This is unfair, yes? What else can I do? My breasts leak for them. I hear them crying in my dreams. I want the sound to stop.”

Twin hearses are parked outside the chapel at the West London Crematorium. A carpet of artificial grass leads to a ramp where a small black sign with movable white letters spells out Felix and Cate’s names.

Samira walks with surprising grace along the gravel path—not an easy thing to do. She pauses to look at the marble and stone crypts. Gardeners lean on their shovels and watch her. She seems almost alien. Otherworldly.

Barnaby Elliot is welcoming people and accepting condolences. Ruth Elliot is next to him in her wheelchair, dressed in mourning clothes that make her skin seem bloodless and brittle.

She sees me first. Her mouth twists around my name. Barnaby turns and walks toward me. He kisses me on each cheek and I smell the sharp alcohol scent of his aftershave.

“Who did you see in Amsterdam?” he asks.

“A detective. Why did you lie about Cate’s computer?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he raises his eyes to the trees, some of which are clinging to the yellow-and-gold remnants of autumn.

“I feel you should know that I have instructed a lawyer to gain custody of the twins. I want both of them.”

I look at him incredulously.

“What about Samira?”

“They’re our grandchildren. They belong with us.”

“Not according to the law.”

“The law is an ass.”

I glance across at Samira, who is hanging back, perhaps sensing trouble. Barnaby shows no such discretion. “Does she even want them?” he says, too loudly.

I have to unclench my jaw to speak. “You stay away from her.”

“Listen to me—”

“No! You listen! She has been through enough. She has lost everything.”

Glaring at me with a sudden crazed energy, he lashes out at a hedge with his fist. His coat sleeve snags and he jerks it violently, tearing the fabric, which billows and flaps. Just as quickly he regains his composure. It’s like watching a deep-breathing exercise for anger management. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a business card.

“The trustee of Felix and Cate’s will is having a meeting in chambers at Gray’s Inn on Monday afternoon at three. He wants you there.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. This is the address.”

I take the card and watch Barnaby return to his wife. Reaching for his hand, she cocks her head into his palm, holding it against her cheek. I have never seen them share a moment—not like this. Maybe it takes one tragedy to mend another.

The chapel is softly lit with red lights flickering behind glass. Flowers cover the coffins and spill out down the center aisle almost to Ruth Elliot’s wheelchair. Barnaby is beside her, alongside Jarrod. All three of them are holding hands, as if steeling one another.

I recognize other family and friends. The only person missing is Yvonne. Perhaps she didn’t think she could cope with a day like this. It must be like losing a daughter.

On the other side of the church are Felix’s family, who look far more Polish than Felix ever did. The women are short and square, with veils on their heads and rosary beads in their fingers.

The funeral director is holding his top hat across his folded arm. His son, dressed identically, mimics his pose, although I notice a wad of chewing gum behind his ear.

A hymn strikes up, “Come Let Us Join Our Friends Above,” which is not really Cate’s cup of tea. Then again, it must be hard to find something appropriate for a person who once pledged her undying love to a photograph of Kurt Cobain.

Reading from the Bible, Reverend Lunn intones something about the Resurrection and how we’re all going to rise together on the same day and live as God’s children. At the same time, he rubs a finger along the edge of Cate’s coffin as if admiring the workmanship.

“Love and pain are not the same,” he says, “but sometimes it feels like they should be. Love is put to the test every day. Pain is not. Yet the two of them are inseparable because true love cannot bear separation.”

His voice sounds far away. I have been in a state of suspended mourning for Cate for the past eight years. Trivial, sentimental, everyday sounds and smells bring back memories—lost causes, jazz shoes, cola slushies, Simply Red songs, a teenager singing into a hairbrush, purple eye shadow…These things make me want to smile or swell painfully in my chest. There it is again—love and pain.

I don’t see the coffins disappear. During the final hymn I slip outside, needing fresh air. On the far side of the parking lot, in the shadows of an arch, I see a familiar silhouette, waiting, tranquil. He’s wearing an overcoat and red muffler. Donavon.

Samira is walking through the rose garden at the side of the chapel. She is going to see him when she clears the corner.

Instinctively, I close the gap. Any witness would say that my body language borders on violence. I grab Donavon’s arm, twisting it behind his back, before shoving him against a wall, pressing his face to the bricks.

“Where are they? What have you done with them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I want him to struggle. I want to hurt him. Samira is behind me, hanging back.

“Do you know this man?”

“No.”

“The Englishman you met at the orphanage. You said he had a cross on his neck.” I pull aside Donavon’s muffler, revealing his tattoo.

She shakes her head. “A gold cross. Here.” She traces the outline on her collar.

Donavon laughs. “Wonderful detective work, yindoo.”

I want to hit him.

“You were in Afghanistan.”

“Serving Queen and country.”

“Spare me the patriotic who-dares-wins crap. You lied to me. You saw Cate before the reunion.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

I let him go and he turns, blinking slowly, his pale eyes a little more bloodshot than I remember. Mourners are leaving the chapel. He glances at the crowd with a mixture of embarrassment and concern. “Not here. Let’s talk somewhere else.”

I let him lead the way. Leaving the cemetery, we walk east along the Harrow Road, which is choked with traffic and a conga line of buses. Sneaking sidelong glances at Donavon, I watch how he regards Samira. He doesn’t seem to recognize her. Instead he keeps his eyes lowered in a penitent’s demeanor, framing answers to the