I grip my phone, shine my white beam inside the huge, hollow cylinder. A chain thicker than my body plunges through the middle of a chasm, about ten metres across. I shine my torch upwards. The chain is wound around a massive winch. My light catches a thin ladder running up the wall of the cylinder. I aim my light down. The ladder plunges into eternal darkness. I put one foot on a rung. The metal is slimy from decades of darkness and salty sea mist. I need my sneakers. I cling like I have suction pads on my fingers and my feet.
I have got to save Vicki from dying like a lab rat.
The breath in my hollow body matches the rush and the roar of the insomniac sea. I climb down, down fifty-seven rungs that I pray someone has welded with obsessive care.
I hang on with one hand, shine my light down. My torch finds a splintered curve hanging five metres below me. A shattered hull, it must be. A snapped metal beam swings at ninety degrees. A ragged canvas hangs off it. The boom of a boat, what else could it be? It looks like the mast is entirely missing. The yacht is pointing directly up, its bow lifted clear of the water while the sea chews mercilessly on its back end. The massive chain drifts sideways, tightens, suspends the yacht in the middle of the column.
Help me, I plead to the ghost of the girl sailor. Help me to find your precious communication device.
I climb the ladder past an expanse of broken deck. Past a jagged hole in the hull smashed by a container of corn submerged in the sea, or car engine parts on their way from Africa. I stop at the place where the boom and the amputated mast meet, shine my light on some letters painted in cursive. Sea Sprite RF547. She must be about twelve metres.
BANG. The boom swings towards me.
‘Arggh!’ I duck just in time. It jerks, hangs like a torn limb.
Who is stronger, the malevolent sea or the spirit of Frances?
I take three convulsive breaths, watch the boom as if it is a striking snake. The sea stops gnawing on the tail of the boat for a moment. I stretch my hand to the snapped railing. Where to put my feet? I shine my torch on a silver winch the size of a tortoise. Measure the distance. I secure my phone between my teeth.
I kick for the silver fitting. Find it.
I am part of this yacht.
I grab on to the splintered hatch, swing a leg inside it. Beautiful, beautiful strong body.
I shine my torch inside the waterlogged yacht. My brain makes a frightened inventory. Sea water, lapping five metres below me. Soggy beds, upended. Floating orange life jackets, a tin that says, TEA. The wooden walls of the yacht are bowed and smooth. Beneath the navigation table, Frances said. Where would I find such a thing?
Ah, a board with switches to the right, three metres above the water line. A table top tilted vertical. I hang by my fingers in the dark cavity. One big toe is all that can reach. I hang on with one hand, shine my torch down. If I fall I will plunge into a black, wet chasm deep enough to drown me. The plastic cover of a paper book floats beneath me. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Is that supposed to be funny?
My fingers must be bleeding. I am not, after all, a red-haired orangutan. I use my throbbing arms to pull myself back out.
Oh, God, what’s the time?
Think, Malachi. You have promised thirty-nine prisoners the chance to live with their dead albatrosses slung around their necks.
That’s it.
I drag at a thick wet rope wound around the winch. I haul out five metres, tie a double knot on the fitting. As I tie the free end of the rope around my chest I taste the unmistakeable flavour of blood. My lips are bleeding from their desperate grip on my only communication device. My sun, my moon, my tongue.
I snarl deep in my trachea, slither into the hatch. This time I get a foot to the navigation table, let myself fall. I land across the thin edge of the desk, utter a ghostly scream. Someone has lit a fire in my left lung. I shriek with each breath, keep rhythm with the rocking sea.
Come on, Malachi. You have survived worse than a cracked rib in your uncharmed life.
I slide down the table top. Please. My toes hit something solid. I feel with my bare feet. Is it a treasure chest?
I shine my light. It is grey, not black. And it is certainly not a box. It has a lower edge and a raised face with empty cable inlets. A padded black case is taped to it with silver duct tape. I pull my phone from my mouth, read the lettering along the bottom edge. Garmin 1000945 Voyage Data Recorder plus Very High Frequency Radio.
‘Bayunga na.’ My father’s voice comes to me.
Good boy.
Now how the heck do I get it up? The black box weighs the same as a two-kilogram chicken, I remember the weight from the millions of mistakes I stopped on their way to China. I press it into my broken rib. I have survived self-inflicted mutilation, I can handle a sore rib. I release the noose from beneath my arms, tie the black box up like a parcel for the post. I clamber onto it, stand up.
I kick off the table, swing. The black box hits something glass. A microwave perhaps. On the return swing my toes find a metal object, perhaps a tap. I thrust off it, reach for the faint reprieve in the darkness above me.
‘Agh!’
