I stroke the ridges on Vicki’s thighs. I slide my volume to Whisper. ‘I love these.’ I put the phone to Vicki’s ear.
She grabs my sore hand and squeezes. I want to extricate it but she is loving me.
‘Ouch,’ I type.
Vicki giggles, lets go of my hand. She runs her thumb along the fine scar on my cheek, laughs that dark, perverse laugh only I can see through. She is still wicked, this beautiful, ruined woman, but I am in love with her spirit, shining beneath her cruel sarcasm. I will wait forever, if necessary, for glimpses of it. Vicki lays her head against me, shivers against my skin. I kiss her temple with my soft, virgin lips. Bless her.
We churn slowly through the water, only half afloat. Vihaan still worries at the black box like he did with his poor unfortunate teeth. ‘Mayday, mayday, mayday . . .’
We must be out of the satellite shield now. I keep a watch on the sky, still strewn with tiny fires in star patterns. The moon is weary of our drama but it hangs near the horizon, waits patiently.
A voice crackles then clears on the black box. ‘Copy Sea Sprite. This is Saint Helena Rescue Vessel, SH three four seven six two. Fifteen degrees, forty-two minutes south, five degrees, thirty-three minutes west. We have been searching for you. Over.’ The accent is French.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Vihaan nods and spits. He bangs on the black box like it is a bongo drum.
‘Answer him,’ Samuel hisses.
Vihaan adjusts a dial, presses a switch. ‘Where are we?’ he asks sincerely.
There is a stunned incomprehension on the other side. The man murmurs, ‘Are you kidding me?’ Then he says officiously, ‘Repeat your question, Sea Sprite. Over.’
I leap up, crush myself onto the bench next to Vihaan. He digs his elbow into my cracked rib, shouts in a foreign, angry language. The black box is his business. Instinctively I throw my arm around his shoulders, hug him tightly. I stroke his head, hum to him.
Love and the cry for love. That is all there is. Vihaan goes pliant. He kisses my wet sleeve, shifts the black box onto my lap.
I type quickly. ‘Nadras Oil lifeboat here. This is Malachi Dakwaa. We’re in terrible trouble about fifteen miles south of a Nadras Oil rig. Have you seen this rig?’
‘Confirm. Our vessels passed it on Wednesday night. Are you with Frances Shaw of Sea Sprite? Over.’
Something tells me the solo sailor is our only hope.
‘We have her black box.’
‘Where is she? Over.’
‘We have sustained serious damage to our lifeboat. The water is flooding in. How long will it take for you to get to us?’
There is an awkward silence from the black box.
‘We are only authorised to rescue Frances. Is she with you? Over.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry. Race insurance won’t pay. Over.’
‘Free Press,’ Samuel urges me fiercely.
‘If you don’t rescue us we will call the Free Press.’
There is a crackle, some muffled dialogue. A woman answers through the black box. This one sounds Russian. ‘This is Angelika Pasha. I’m a Free Press journalist. I am with them.’
I switch my Samsung tone to Emphasis. ‘They’re coming back. We are under attack from the same party who murdered Frances.’
There is the sound of a muted argument. Angelika speaks tersely, ‘Are you moving?’
‘Very slowly, south.’
‘How many on board?’
I minus the three deserters, minus the dead. ‘Thirty-seven.’
I hear the Frenchman’s muffled growl, ‘Angelika, we are not allowed . . .’
‘I will try,’ she promises me.
The Frenchman chops off our communication like a guillotine. ‘Over and out.’
Samuel stands up, whoops with euphoria. Madame Sophie titters. She asks no one in particular, ‘Will they come?’
‘We’re going to live,’ Andride says uncertainly.
Charmayne scans the silent sky. ‘Raizier will kill us.’ She shrugs her shoulders, tries for nonchalance. ‘And if we live they will send us home to our prisons.’ She breaks into massive sobs. Eulalie strokes Charmayne’s powerful thigh with her maiden’s fingers. In some strange way she is younger than the big beauty, as if the sea air and the prospect of a lover have stripped off a lifetime. Charmayne raises Eulalie’s hand to her eyes, wipes her eyes like it’s a tissue.
Please, Angelika Pasha. Make them come. Please.
I stare down at my attire. I am dressed in sodden, suave black. I even brought my sneakers. It is God-smoothed, this path, surely. I am dressed for the press.
FRIDAY
The moon turns surreptitiously silver. It fades discreetly, begins to rub itself out. The sun hides below the horizon, stains the sea charcoal grey. Inspired now, the prisoners take turns to bail water from our leaky boat. Even Shikorina tries to help. Red swills in the water like a skirt around her shins, follows her everywhere.
I slide my volume to medium distance. ‘Shikorina. Be still. Please.’
She sinks obediently onto a bench.
I find the antibiotics floating in the corner near where I left them. I hand four to Samuel to send down the aisle. ‘One for each surgery. They must drink it.’
‘Is it not intravenous?’ Samuel asks.
I shake my head. ‘It was meant for their feeding tubes. Make sure they finish it.’
I pull my feet up in case the lifeboat pours Shikorina’s blood my way. I bail a few buckets of what I hope is simply sea water.
Meirong stirs for the first time. She pushes back her wet hair, which, astoundingly, is still a neat, shining helmet like an anime heroine’s. ‘Quenton has weapons in Saint Helena.’ But this is not a warrior vixen. She hugs herself in her pink onesie, wipes her nose on her sleeve. ‘If the press get here first, I’m going straight to jail.’
Romano is still sitting in the bath, his legs outstretched as if the news of his daughter has stopped his own heart. He lifts his chin off his chest, nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Conscious Clause is global,’ Meirong intones hopelessly. ‘They will get me.’
‘I hope you go to jail forever, Meirong. You
