‘Sorry Romano,’ I type. ‘I am so, so sorry about Milja.’
It only makes his keening louder.
The desert runner clips open a hatch somewhere near the back of the boat. He hands out five bright orange buckets on ropes. He scoops a load of water, pours it into the ocean. While Romano cries, some prisoners take up his respectful, careful movement. Vicki dips her orange bucket, pours water into the sea. The wind blows softly at our backs now that we are not moving.
Something white floats towards us, lifting and dipping in the golden water. It is Mr Rawlins in a white vest and white boxer shorts, floating on his back like he is on vacation. His hair is swept to one side, just as he likes it, his complexion smooth in the fading moonlight. As the current pulls him close, I see that he has shaven legs. He must have been a cyclist. Or perhaps a cross dresser. Either way, Mr Rawlins is dead.
A black shining ball bobs past him. Meirong shoots up, sucks a breath, sinks again. She is swimming the breaststroke. A tiny wave swamps her. She thrashes up, gasping, her nose streaming with mucous.
I can’t watch her drown. ‘Josiah. Fetch Meirong!’ I thrust out an arm like a pirate captain.
Strangely, Josiah obeys me. He switches on the engine, turns the tiller. We churn through the water, an overcrowded refugee ferry sinking at sea. Josiah ploughs towards Meirong’s little head. She raises a diminutive hand above the waves.
‘Malachi,’ she chokes.
Josiah swings to miss her. I hang off the railing, reach down with my crushed fingers. Something hits me hard from the side, rams me from the railing.
‘Let her drown!’ Romano bellows.
He picks me up like I am a matchstick, flings me to the floor at the social worker’s feet. Andride does something odd. He leans forwards, pats my head like I am a spaniel looking for affection. I grab my phone from my pocket before the water reaches it.
I crouch, type quickly. ‘It is murder, Romano!’
Romano blocks my way to the sinking, swimming woman. ‘She murdered Milja. She made her wait.’
I shake my head. ‘Milja is watching you right now.’
Romano stares at me, terrible hope flaring in his sodden eyes.
‘She doesn’t want you to live with a dead woman around your neck,’ I type desperately.
Romano clenches his huge hands. ‘I will kill you, Malachi!’ He guards the side where Meirong is sinking and surfacing, scratching at the hull with what sounds like her fingernails.
‘Malachi is right,’ Eulalie shouts. She shakes her silver head, her crone’s face miraculously smoothed in the moonlight. ‘You are still her Sun Chief.’
I gasp in surprise. This is what his daughter calls him.
Romano crumples to the floor of the lifeboat. He sits with straight legs, his head sagging back like he is in a warm bath. He stares up at the stars, showing him home movies of his sweet Milja.
Vicki acts quickly. She grabs the lifebelt off its hook and flings it towards Meirong’s submerged head. But it is too late, Meirong is sinking. I rip up my shirt, peel off the plastic sacs grafted onto my skin. I drop them on the bench, thrust my Samsung at Vicki. She clutches it against her breasts as if I have entrusted her with my tongue. I climb onto the railing of the lifeboat. I take a deep breath, ready to race across the crocodile pit. I dive through the air, cleave through the sea.
It is icy. The crack in my rib feels like a savage bite. The sharks, the cold sea, they will tear out my insides. I have never in my life swum in the ocean but I dive down deep, flailing. I feel slippery skin. I lock my arms around Meirong’s thighs, thrust her up like a rogue great white, my eyes wide open. Her one tiny hand grips the lifebelt. Then another.
I break the surface. Meirong pulls her head from whatever sea we are in, lays her cheek against the lifebelt like it is a pillow. She seems to fall asleep. Strong arms pull on the rope that ties the lifebelt to the boat. Who is it?
There are three of them forming a chain gang, Charmayne, Andride, Gibril. Gibril grabs Meirong’s small hands, hauls her up the side of the boat while Vicki throws the lifebelt back to me. The other two get behind her, drag me into our flooded vessel. Near me, some prisoners scoop slow, futile buckets of water into the sea.
Meirong is shivering as if she has touched a live wire. ‘Malachi?’ she whispers.
I bend close, listen attentively. She tries to say something, but she is too weak. Meirong is wearing a pale pink onesie. I think she is dying. I sink down next to her in the shallow water, begin to tremble.
‘What is she saying?’ Romano growls. He slouches in the shallow water, his hands hanging off his knees. ‘Bitch killer.’
I look around for Vicki. She splashes over a bench, lets me dry my fingers on her soft stomach. She gives my Samsung to me.
I take the liberty of writing Meirong’s silent truth for her. ‘She says her parents should have kept her.’
Meirong begins to splutter.
‘Not left her in an orphanage.’
Meirong cries uncontrollably. Josiah starts the engines, forces the broken boat through the water. Now that their adrenalin has subsided, a fever of cold spreads through the prisoners. They huddle and shiver, their teeth chattering.
But near the bow, Eulalie seems to have a secret fire smouldering inside her. Her smoky eyes drift to me. I smell a fleeting fragrance of burning wild thyme. ‘Love. And the cry for love,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’ I type urgently.
Eulalie shrugs her bony shoulders, swathes me with her gentle smoke. ‘That is all there is.’
I get it. The simplicity of it.
The rape,
