We listen to the clank of his metal tool, the click, click of some stubborn ratchet. Tamba’s fingers are poised on his table top as if he is about to play a piano piece. He refuses to look at Lolie, but Meirong’s eyes are stripping the poor girl’s bare skin inch by inch. I think I hear her snort.
The engineer raises his radio to his mouth. Tamba presses a switch.
Lolie’s cage sways wildly, shunts towards the shadowy opening.
‘Good luck, Lolie,’ someone says dolefully.
Meirong watches us with her hands on her hips. Some kind of silence thickens in the glass box, I can almost see it.
* * *
I keep my eyes down for five more prisoners. When I get to the desert strangler, he says urgently, ‘I worked for three months on an oil rig off Eritrea. They taught us the lifeboats.’ He frowns anxiously. ‘I will try to remember, Malachi.’
Try, Gibril, try.
I glance up. Meirong gives me a wisp of a smile. She gives Tamba’s shoulder the ghost of a stroke, perhaps some kind of frail apology. Then she turns on her heel and departs with just a shimmer of her pale thigh.
I cleanse the strangler’s sinful hands for the last time in my life. I thought he was from the desert. How the heck did he end up working offshore? Perhaps he will regale me with his story while we die slowly of thirst on a mysterious sea.
* * *
The tooth-extracting Indian whoops with joy as I catch his hands, then frets compulsively in Hindi or some dialect. Will he cooperate tonight, or will he make a big noise and sabotage the mission? I cross the space the good giant inhabited. Sneak my Samsung beneath my brace, type to the Australian, ‘Can you keep him quiet tonight?’
‘I can try.’ Barry scratches behind his ear. ‘Maybe we should leave him.’
Upstairs, Tamba is tapping the screen of an app. Is he playing Fruits against Ghouls?
‘We can’t. It’s all or nothing. There’s only one power switch.’
The skinny rapist nods, incredulous. ‘They’re not even leaving me.’
Barry gives me his flabby fingers. ‘Do you think we have a chance?’
I hide my terror, type, ‘No clue.’
‘One thing I can do is swim. My father let me eat as much KFC as I wanted, but he made me go to swimming lessons.’ Barry gives me his soft feet. ‘I loved it once I was in. But it’s a long way from the changing rooms in your speedo when you’re a fat kid.’ He laughs, asks desperately, ‘Do you think we’ll have to swim?’
I type beneath the brace, ‘We will have to see.’ This is all I have to offer him.
* * *
The skinny rapist bestows an awed gratitude on me, but he and Josiah are the ones I would leave behind. If the rapist survives this crazy mission, I must personally make sure that someone, somewhere takes him into custody. Josiah too. And the Australian. They should never be released into society.
I finish the rapist’s feet, bury his towel in the disinfectant. I sigh, exhausted by the terrible responsibility.
As Hamri used to say, I will have to cross that bridge.
The next few prisoners thank me in languages I can’t even guess at. Stop, I want to say. The chances are you will drown or be shot down by a desperately tired war vet.
I am relieved to reach Andride, my fellow Bhajoan. As I lop off his nails, he picks up my secret tremors. ‘Are you scared, Malachi?’
Tamba’s knees are up, his chin digging into his chest. His shoulders twitch with the ecstasy of killing ghouls with his thumbs. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was masturbating.
I shrug. ‘My life is not worth living if I turn a blind eye.’
But my fear keeps hitting me in sickening waves. Am I about to orchestrate another massacre?
‘I’m scared too.’ Andride laughs feverishly. ‘I can’t swim.’
‘Oh, shit.’
Sorry Hamri.
I say nothing to Andride about the size of the sharks’ teeth. I wipe his hands gently, hope he knows to keep his fingers pressed together while he is scratching towards the surface of the sea.
* * *
When I reach the priest killer, he interrogates me. ‘I worked on the docks in Larache in the winter. Does the lifeboat have an electric winch? I knew those ones from the big ships.’
I think of the metal mount near Romano’s lifeboat. Is that it? I nod uncertainly.
‘What is the distance to the water? Maybe fifty metres?’
I nod. At least.
The priest killer sighs. ‘It’s not as easy as you think.’ He watches me work on his feet. ‘Do you have a radio to call for help if we get onto the sea?’
I glance up at the glass. Tamba is still smashing ghouls with pieces of fruit.
‘Maybe.’ I type quickly. ‘Do you know anything about yacht radio systems?’
The priest burner shakes his head. He translates my question into Arabic. Andride translates into what must be French. There is a thoughtful, frightened silence.
I try the magic concept. ‘Does anyone know how to work a black box?’
The tooth-pulling Indian starts to chatter. I turn his way. He is tapping at his head with a good, short nail that I have just clipped.
‘What’s he saying?’ the priest killer asks. ‘Does anyone know Hindi?’
Charmayne snaps at the Indian, ‘Speak English, Vihaan.’
The Indian stares at Charmayne, taps his head manically, ‘In the navy. In the navy.’
Oh, please. A crazy man as my communications assistant. I cast around, plead wordlessly, Can anyone else help me?
‘Leave it, Malachi,’ Charmayne warns me. ‘Tamba’s watching.’
Tamba stands up, kneads his eyes with his knuckles like a tired child.
He announces through my intercom, ‘Time to eat.’ His microphone clicks off. He disappears from the window.
Down the aisle, Madame Sophie says tremulously, ‘I’m so scared of big waves.’
Big waves? I want to laugh. Is this what Madame Sophie thinks of the mountainous sea thrashing with a
