The Night Ferry

“The doctors say she was never pregnant,” he says. “She didn’t lose the baby. There was no miscarriage or termination. Mum and Dad are beside themselves. They don’t know what to think.”

“She must have had a reason.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t think of one.” A trickle of air from the ceiling vents ruffles his hair.

“Do you think Felix knew?”

“I guess. How do you keep a secret like that from your husband?” He glances at his watch. “Have you been to see her?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

Jarrod leads me upstairs to the intensive care unit, along painfully white corridors that all look the same. Only two visitors per patient are allowed in the ICU. Masks must be worn and hands must be scrubbed with disinfectant.

Jarrod isn’t coming with me. “There’s someone already with her,” he says, adding as an afterthought, “She won’t bite.”

My stomach drops. It’s too late to back out.

The curtains are open and daylight casts a square on the floor. Mrs. Elliot in her wheelchair is trapped in the light like a hologram, her skin as pale and fine as white china.

Cate lies beside her, hostage to a tangle of tubing, plasma bags and stainless steel. Needles are driven into her veins and her head is swathed in bandages. Monitors and machines blink and buzz, reducing her existence to a digital computer game.

I want her to wake now. I want her eyes to open and for her to pluck away the breathing tube like a strand of hair caught in the corner of her mouth.

Wordlessly, Mrs. Elliot points to a chair beside the bed. “The last time I watched my daughter sleeping she was eight years old. She had come down with pneumonia. I think she caught it at one of those public swimming pools. Every time she coughed it sounded like someone drowning on dry land.”

I reach across the marble sheets and take Cate’s fingers in mine. I can feel her mother’s eyes upon me. A cold scrutiny. She does not want me here.

I remember Mrs. Elliot when she could still walk—a tall, thin woman who always offered Cate her cheek to kiss so as not to smudge her lipstick. She used to be an actress who did mainly TV commercials and was always impeccably made-up, as though perpetually ready for her close-up. Of course, that was before she suffered a stroke that paralyzed her down her right side. Now one eyelid droops and no amount of makeup can hide the nerve damage around her mouth.

In a whisper, she asks, “Why would she lie about the baby?”

“I don’t know. She was coming to see me. She said she had done something foolish and that someone wanted to take her baby.”

“What baby? She was never pregnant. Never! Now they say her pelvis is so badly shattered that even if she survives she’ll never be able to carry a baby.”

Something shudders inside me. A deja vu from another hospital and a different time, when my bones were being mended. A price is paid with every surgery.

Mrs. Elliot clutches a cushion to her chest. “Why would she do this? Why would she lie to us?”

There is no warmth in her voice, only accusation. She feels betrayed. Embarrassed. What will she tell the neighbors? I feel like lashing out and defending Cate, who deserves more than this. Instead I close my eyes and listen to the wind washing over the rooftops and the electronic beeping of the machines.

How did she do it—maintain such a lie for weeks and months? It must have haunted her. A part of me is strangely envious. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something that much, not even Olympic medals. When I missed out on the team for the Sydney Games I cried on the edge of the track but they were tears of frustration rather than disappointment. The girl who took my place wanted it more.

I know that I shouldn’t compare Olympic selection with motherhood. Perhaps my opinions are clouded by the medical reality of a patched pelvis and a reinforced spine that can never withstand the trials of pregnancy and labor. Wanting children is a dangerous ambition for me.

Squeezing Cate’s hand, I hope she knows I’m here. For years I wanted her to call, to be friends again, to need me. And just when it finally happened, she’s been snatched away like a half-finished question. I have to find out what she wanted. I have to understand why.

Euston Traffic Garage is in Drummond Crescent, tucked between Euston Station and the British Library. The spire of Saint Aloysius Church rises above it like a rocket on a launchpad.

The Collision Investigation Unit is an odd place, a mixture of high-tech gadgetry and old-fashioned garage, with hoists, grease traps and machine tools. This is where they do the vehicular equivalents of autopsies and the process is much the same. Bodies are opened, dismantled, weighed and measured.

The duty officer, a roly-poly sergeant in overalls, peers up from the twisted front end of a car. “Can I help you?”

I introduce myself, showing him my badge. “There was a traffic accident on Friday night on Old Bethnal Green Road. A couple were knocked down.”

“Yeah, I looked at that one.” He wipes his hands on a rag and tucks it back into his pocket.

“One of them is a friend of mine.”

“She still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Lucky.”

“How far are you with the investigation?”

“Finished. Just got to write it up.”

“What do you think happened?”

“Thought it was pretty obvious. Your friend and her husband tried to tackle a minicab.” He doesn’t mean to sound callous. It’s just his way. “Maybe the driver could’ve put the brakes on a bit sooner. Sometimes you can be unlucky. Choose the wrong moment to check your mirrors and that fraction of a second comes off your reaction time. Might’ve made a difference. Might not. We’ll never know.”

“So you’re not going to charge him?”

“What with?”

“Dangerous driving, negligence, there must be something.”

“He was licensed, insured, registered and roadworthy—I got nothing on this guy.”

“He was traveling too fast.”

“He says they stepped out in front of him. He couldn’t stop.”

“Did you examine the car?”

“At the scene.”

“Where is it now?”

He sighs. “Let me explain the facts of life to you, Detective Constable. You see that yard out there?” He motions to an open roller door leading to a walled yard. “There are sixty-eight vehicles—every one of them involved in a serious accident. We have thirteen reports due for the coroner, two dozen submissions for criminal trials and I spend half my time in the witness box and the other half up to me elbows in motor oil and blood. There are no good traffic accidents but from my point of view the one on Friday night was better than most because it was simple—sad, but simple. They stepped out from between parked cars. The driver couldn’t stop in time. End of story.”

The genial curiosity on his face has vanished. “We checked the brakes. We checked his license. We checked his driving record. We checked his blood alcohol. We took a statement at the scene and let the poor guy go home. Sometimes an accident is just an accident. If you have evidence to the contrary, hand it over. Otherwise, I’d appreciate if you let me get on with my job.”

There is a moment when we eyeball each other. He’s not so much angry as disappointed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question your expertise.”

“Yes you did.” His face softens. “But that’s OK. I’m sorry about your friend.”