Lifeboat (12 page)

‘Are you sure? Are you sure this is the man you saw?' He looked at me blankly, and shrugged, turning to his captain.

I repeated my question, louder this time, but still no one responded. Then the chief snapped at me: ‘Translate – what did you say?'

I realised I was speaking in English; I translated my words.

‘Yes, he looks like the man I saw on the deck. He jumped overboard, out of sight,' the sailor said.

My throat tightened and I clenched my fists hard, feeling the nails bite into my palms. I could not fall apart; I was the only one who could speak for the castaways. I swallowed, took a deep breath and translated for the chief. Then I turned to the castaways and told them what the sailor had said. I was interrupted by the chief: ‘That's good enough for me. Officers, arrest the man. The woman stays here for now.'

I translated, my voice working automatically as my eyes took in what happened next.

The officer standing beside my castaway hauled him to his feet. The second officer stepped towards him, handcuffs ready. He informed the castaway of the charges and the first officer tried to wrest his hands behind his back to cuff him. But when he saw the handcuffs, my castaway pulled himself free from the policeman's hold, pushing him to the ground.

The second policeman raised his baton and charged, laying blows to the man's arms and shoulders. I heard the woman scream, then she threw herself at the policeman, spitting like a cat. Her hands flailed at his face – he turned and pushed her away.

The chief stepped forward and grabbed the woman in a bear hug, pinning both her arms from behind. She screamed again, shaking her head and heaving her shoulders. The man fought his way towards her.

‘Leave her,' he bellowed, reaching out a hand to grab the policeman's wrist. He twisted the officer's arm behind him then flung him away like a discarded coat. ‘Leave her alone.'

He reached out for the chief, two hands moving towards him like claws. A policeman lunged from behind.

‘Look out,' I screamed and the man turned, putting up a hand to stop the blow, which smashed his arm away and landed on his forehead. He stood a moment, arms limp at his sides, then fell, almost gracefully.

The woman yelled, and broke free from the chief. She fell down on her knees beside the man.

‘No, no,' she cried. ‘My darling, no.'

A policeman pulled her to her feet; the other rolled the man over and handcuffed him.

‘You've killed him, you bastards,' screamed the woman, struggling with the officer who held her. Getting her hands free she flew at the chief who had stepped up to help. He fought her off while an officer came up behind and grabbed her again, cuffing her.

‘You don't need to do that,' I pleaded.

The chief turned to look at me. Two bright red streaks ran down his cheek, a drop of blood forming at the bottom of one.

‘Ask her who she is,' he shouted at me.

‘But they don't know,' I protested.

‘Don't give me that shit,' he roared. ‘Ask the bitch.'

Shocked, I turned to her.

‘I'm so sorry, I have to ask you who you are.'

She was panting.

‘Have they killed him?' she demanded, ignoring my question.

I turned to the officer who knelt over the man's body and heard myself ask: ‘Is he dead?'

The officer shook his head.

‘No,' I told her.

‘Do your job. Ask her who he is,' ordered the chief.

The woman turned her face from me slowly and looked at the chief of security. Without waiting for me to translate the question, she said: ‘Tell him he is my husband.'

They took both the castaways away. The man was still unconscious. I tried to go with them, but the chief ordered me out, insisting I return to my office until called for.

The woman sobbed as they took him away in an ambulance, imploring them not to hurt him, and even as they pushed her into a police car she fought them. I called out to her to calm down. I tried to put a hand on her, but the chief pushed me aside.

‘Take her to the hospital too,' he ordered the driver when they finally managed to get her in the car. ‘Radio ahead – we'll need someone to sedate her. He turned to me. ‘Wait for me at your office – I want you to take statements.'

The chief told the captain and the sailor to follow him and they set off towards customs. I leant against a wall, feeling weak, confused, fearful. What had I done? What would they do to them?

I did not believe the sailor's allegation, yet I did not think he was lying. He was mistaken, that was all, but no one would believe me, no one would believe the castaways.

I felt tired. Why had she lied to me? ‘My husband'?

I had to get back to my office and wait.

News of the arrests preceded me. I felt the glances and discreet looks of my colleagues as I reached the safety of my desk. I opened a file and took up a pen, seeing nothing and trying to feel less.

Within the hour a messenger arrived from the chief. Two statements to be translated, from the captain and the crewman. Included was a curt note advising me to remain on standby to record the castaways' confessions.

I translated the statements. As I wrote, the strength of the words took hold and shook my confidence. A man had been seen on board the pirate ship, a man described as tall, with wild grey hair and a thick grey beard. A week later a man of the same description arrives on a lifeboat, claiming to have no memory of who he was.

I put down my pen unable to continue. Could I have been wrong about my castaways? I thought about the look upon her face when she told them he was her husband. The way he attacked the policeman. His skill on the sea. A man who admitted he could not be restrained.

All those little voices, those tiny doubts, that I had ignored, formed a chorus that howled at me in derision from the back rows of my conscience. With a slow-rising sick lurch, I realised everything I had been feeling was foolish, the ill-judged imaginings of an immature girl.

Since leaving the convent I had built for myself an image of self-sufficiency and scholarship, with no unnecessary emotional involvement. As I sat at my desk and stared into the mirror of me, this image cracked, leaving me looking at that seven-year old girl who would do anything to be loved.

‘There you are,' said my boss, coming up behind me. ‘Are those the translations?'

‘Yes, ma'am,' I said, lifting my head and quickly gathering the papers together.

She started towards her office, but stopped and turned back to look at me.

‘Are you alright?' she asked.

‘Yes, ma'am, just a headache,' I replied, and stood.

‘Look at me, please.'

I raised my eyes reluctantly to meet hers. She compressed her red lips together.

‘You look terrible,' she said. ‘Come with me. Bring those.'

She lead the way to her office, closing the door behind us.

‘Sit down,' she said. She sat in her chair and rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a small medicine bottle. She took four tablets from the bottle and held them out to me.

‘Here,' she said. ‘You are to take two as soon as you get home. The other two are for later if you need them. Give me the translations.'

I took the tablets.

‘I haven't typed them yet,' I said.

‘Don't worry, I'll organise that. Now, you are to go home immediately.' She held up her hand as I started to protest. ‘I don't care what the chief of security says, you are under my jurisdiction and I am telling you to go home, take two tablets and go to bed. I will expect to see you here tomorrow in better shape.'

‘But what if I am needed – if the man regains consciousness?'

‘From what I hear neither will be regaining consciousness for some time. The doctors have sedated both suspects, for everyone's safety. And for yours, I think you should be at home. Look at yourself – you are a mess. What kind of contribution can you make like that? But don't worry,' she said in a softer tone, rising and coming to my side. She lifted me gently and walked me to the door. ‘Security has dealt with pirates before – they know what to do. And I need to tell you that the chief of security is not pleased with the way you have handled this matter. I argued that it's outside your level of experience and you should never have been given the problem in the first place, but he will want a good explanation of your conduct, believe me. So go home and get some rest – tomorrow is going to be a difficult day.'

I allowed myself to be led through the office to the front door, where she waved to a taxi.

‘I'm fine, I can walk.'

‘Take a taxi, please, I want to be sure you get there safely.' She held the door open as I climbed in, then closed it and turned back to the office. I gave the driver directions and sat back with my eyes closed. I felt like I'd been dismissed, sent to await my punishment outside the headmistress's office. My head hurt. I realised I'd left my briefcase at my desk.

I did as my boss ordered: took the two pills and went to bed. It was a relief to have someone tell me what to do. Curled up in bed I tried to block out all thoughts of the day's happenings and my foreboding about the next. I was soon drowsy and the pain of my headache felt like it was coming from someone else's head. Within minutes I was asleep.

PIRATES

In fear of foul weather they had moored the night before in a small cove unnamed on the map. Their destination was due south, less than a week away.

The pirates came in the early morning through mist, as if that white blanket had settled down on their command. As the figures floated silently across the shifting white floor towards them, she thought of Jesus.

Their leader was tall, bearded, with wild grey hair and a face weathered into harsh lines that read: I mean you harm. But he spoke their language so sweetly, like a brother. And as he stood beside her husband, like a brother he looked, so alike were the two. They accepted him as an unexpected member of their own tribe and lowered their guard. When he called out to them, they invited him in.

She offered him tea, but he wanted more. He took their boat and their freedom. Only when she begged and promised ransom, did he let them keep their lives.

Later, their own gullibility hurt the man more than the blows of the pirates. If he were poison, he thought bitterly, I would have drunk him.

He punched at the wall, forgetting that his hands were tied.

His cell lay below deck, in constant night. The damp boards groaned like sick men turning in their sleep and smelt like nightmares.

He did not sleep. His head was bowed. In the darkness he closed his eyes and concentrated on small things: her fingers fluttering over his skin, finding the Braille of his body. Standing at a bus stop, pulling out his handkerchief, surprised by the smell of geraniums and their petals falling from its folds, scattering to his feet. ‘I love you' written across the white cloth. Her letters, love notes written on bus tickets, napkins, the torn corners of newspapers, slipped into his pocket to be found anytime. He thought: we will escape and I will marry her again, and those notes will be our confetti.

He thought of the small moments strung like glass beads across their lives. The days he had filled with small things while he waitedfor her to return to him. The tiny signs, precursors to her return, like ripples heralding a giant wave: the travel brochure she found in a London cafe, with his stamp-sized photograph, tour guide, African adventurer; a message pinned to the board at the office, that a woman had telephoned but left no name; the small plume of dust in the distance signalling the arrival of the jeep that carried her to him. The small chance that in this giant world she would ever find him again.

He thought of these slim chances, of tiny opportunity, the crack in the door of the world – all he needed to make good their escape.

And in the darkness, surrounded by small things, his body shrank and the ropes slipped from his wrists.

When he heard machine-gun fire, he knew his wait was over. The door of his cell gave easily enough, masked by the confusion on deck. He found her in the pirate captain's cabin, that same grey-haired man he had welcomed aboard his own boat just days before. They were sitting side by side – like a couple. Before death, he looked into the eyes of his foe and thought: this man could be me.

DAY ELEVEN

I slept a dreamless sleep, waking at dawn fully alert. The weight of the day before was still heavy upon me as I rose, fully dressed in the clothes I'd gone to bed in. I changed quickly and washed my face and teeth.

The face that looked back at me from the small bathroom mirror wore a cautious expression, thoughtful. I peered closer, tracing the line of my cheekbone to my eyes. My cheekbones protruded, no longer lost in the rounded cheeks of childhood. Tiny wrinkles were forming at the corners of my eyes. It was not the face of a child. I thought of our discussion that day on the boat and realised that the seven-year-old girl was gone; in her place was me, the person I had become. I gave that person a quick smile and walked out to the verandah.

A lone yacht made its way to sea, working slowly between the moorings with only a main set. My spirits lifted with the breeze.

Images from our day sailing returned to me: his delight to be on the water, the way he handled the boat, his gentle insistence that I not sail north alone. I thought of the breakfast he cooked for us, and his gardening. It occurred to me that these were not the actions of a villain, and no acting could disguise the lines of kindness that time had etched into his face.

I checked myself, looking for deception, looking for neediness, but found only a sense of outrage on their behalf. I didn't know what had happened to them and I was prepared to consider that they were lying to me. But if they were, I wanted to confirm it for myself. Because, if they weren't, I was the only one who could help them.

I dismissed my chorus of doubts before they could awaken and undermine me. I looked at myself in the mirror again, at that woman I had become, and nodded to her. I had faith in that me. I had learnt to rely on that me.

I walked quickly to the hospital. I didn't expect to be allowed to see them. On the way I stole a few fresh flowers, still wet with dew. I wrapped them in my hanky, on which I scribbled a short note, sending them my love.

Their doors were locked and a policeman was on guard, although when I got there he sat enjoying a cup of coffee with the night nurse.

‘Can I see them?' I asked, having identified myself as an officer from immigration.

‘No. He's still unconscious and she's sedated,' said the nurse.

‘May I leave these flowers then?' I asked, offering the bunch.

‘I don't see why not; it's up to him,' she said, inclining her head towards the policeman, who gave them a cursory inspection and nodded.

‘You take them in to her,' he said to the nurse.

He pushed a small bunch of keys across the desk.

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' I said hurriedly, ‘the flowers are for the man.'

The policeman looked at me, pulling his mouth down at the corners. ‘Suit yourself,' he said. ‘I'd better take them in though. And he can't have a vase – nothing that could be used as a weapon.'

‘That's all right. Thank you very much.'

He left to deliver the flowers. I didn't wait around, anxious to avoid any questions from the nurse.

The office was empty when I arrived, my briefcase still beside the desk. On the walk from the hospital I decided to pursue the psychiatrist. If he could reach just a tiny part of their memories for them, a name, some clue as to why the man was aboard the pirate ship, I could convince the police that all was not as it seemed. It was the only option I could think of.

I rang the doctor's number; I did not record my call in the logbook. I knew my boss would certainly veto any further investigation on my part.

This time the telephone was answered, by a woman claiming to be the housekeeper. She told me the doctor was out until late morning. She also said that he was retired and didn't see patients anymore. I could write to him if it was an emergency, but I should not expect an answer. Then she hung up on me.

It was a setback, but I refused to allow it to upset me. Instead, I returned to my desk and resumed work. I saw my boss go in to her office; she looked my way, but said nothing. At about ten she left for a few minutes and I took the opportunity to call the doctor again. He still wasn't in, so I left my details with the housekeeper, trying to sound as official as possible, requesting he return my call. I went back to my desk to wait.

Over the next two hours the telephone rang twice, but neither call was for me. I watched the clock, worried that I might be called to the police station to take statements from the castaways, and that then they would be placed in jail. My stomach had started to ache also, just small, intermittent twinges, but I knew it heralded a storm.

By the time my boss left for lunch at twelve I could wait no longer. I rang the doctor's number again; the housekeeper answered: ‘Yes?'

‘It's me – from immigration – I called earlier today. Please tell the doctor I'm coming to see him.'

‘But, I'm afraid—'

‘I'm sorry, it is an emergency. I will be there on the next ferry.' I hung up.

I put the necessary files in my briefcase and left without a word to anyone. I knew I was taking a risk but reasoned that they could do nothing without me, the interpreter. I also knew that if I was wrong I would lose my job.

As I hurried from the building I could feel a storm coming.

The ferry trip took two hours, past bays and promontories I had never seen before. Normally the novelty of the passing landscape would have held my attention, but that day I barely noticed it; my eyes were everywhere, but took in nothing as I sat in the shade of the boat's small awning.

My fellow passengers were few: a woman with shopping and two men who appeared to be farm labourers. The men disembarked first, met at the stop by a farmer in an old truck, loaded high with bales of hay. The woman alighted some stops on, seemingly in the middle of nowhere; I could see no houses and there was no one there to meet her. She paused a moment on the end of the slight wooden jetty to pull her straw hat down firmly onto her head, then heaved her bags from the ground and set off up a dusty roadway. The ferryman tooted as he pulled away, out into the bay. My stop was still an hour away.

It was a glorious afternoon to be on the water, sunny and calm. Ominously calm, by the feeling in the pit of my stomach, but the ferryman seemed unconcerned as he whistled quietly to himself at the helm. We didn't speak. I spent my time running through possible conversations in my head, to convince the psychiatrist that he should help me. Any fee he demanded I would pay myself.

My boss's words came back to me, and I realised why I disagreed with her. I believed I was doing what any caring person would, but not from neediness or loneliness or lack of friends my own age – from empathy. She had no idea what it felt like to be so alone.

The ferry puttered on, its lulling metronome occasionally punctuated by the calls of seabirds wheeling overhead. My mind drifted across the sunlit water to the treetops shimmering on the hillsides, thick and green. We passed deserted jetties lurking in quiet bays. I wondered what sort of man lived so far from the people whose minds were his business.

I imagined a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and a pipe, even though this was an old-fashioned image. At university the psychology crowd were the wildest; the age of psychedelic exploration had started, although I knew that such philosophies would not be given much credence in this quiet country.

We reached my stop just before three; it was the last on the ferry's route. The sun hung heavy and ripe above the horizon, spreading light across the surface of the sea like golden oil.

As the jetty loomed into sight I felt apprehension beneath my bravado. The isolation of the bay did not speak of a person who welcomed strangers dropping in. It was impulsive, and possibly foolish, to force myself upon a man who so obviously sought seclusion. I'd been given no invitation and no encouragement. I gripped my briefcase tightly and disembarked, my step showing more determination than I felt.

Standing on the jetty, listening to the ferry motoring away, I realised I had no idea how to find this doctor. One lone road crooked like a dusty finger between the hills, which were covered in lush foliage that glowed with the thick lustre of a wet oil painting.

I stepped out on the road, as the ferry rounded the headland and disappeared. The scuffing of my shoes on the sandy gravel was now the only sound in the empty bay, apart from the ever-present ocean.

After half a mile I began to worry, so deserted was my location. But I kept going, trusting that the librarian's aunt had not mistaken the address. My anxiety drove me; in leaving the office without permission I had disobeyed both the chief of security and my boss and placed my employment in jeopardy. I could not return empty handed now.

The road narrowed to a cart track, tall weeds marching in a line down the middle. The trees closed in overhead, forming a canopy that dimmed the light of the already receding sun. I carefully placed my briefcase down on a clear patch of grass and wiped the hair from my damp brow. I was dressed for the office: dark knee-length skirt, white blouse buttoned at the wrist and neck, and a short, formal jacket with contrasting white stitching. I removed my jacket and undid one of my shirt buttons, flapping the front to cool myself.

Suddenly, a small black goat scampered around the bend, giving tiny leaps, in a way that would have seemed cute or comical to anyone not scared of goats. I shrieked and grabbed my briefcase, holding it up like a shield. The goat skidded to a halt and lowered its tiny horns in a manner I found quite threatening. We stood, face to face, either side of the track, me with my briefcase, the goat with its horns. As the horns looked more capable of doing damage, I backed away slowly. The goat followed.

‘Shoo! Shoo!' I said lamely, thrusting my case towards it as one might swish at a fly. The goat half-reared and shook its horns at me. I leapt back in fright; my foot found a hole in the bank and I fell, with a terrified squeal, legs in the air.

Then the nightmare got worse. I looked up from where I lay, case still clutched to my chest, as the air about my head became a mass of goats, crashing and surging in a devilish tide about me. I curled into a ball, sure I was about to be flayed by a dozen tiny hooves. The thick smell of unwashed animal choked me and a cacophony of bleating battered my ears. I lay there, wishing for the good sense to faint when I heard a barking, and the sea of goats parted to reveal a shaggy black-and-white dog. I was only slightly less scared of dogs, but fortunately this one seemed my saviour, driving the goats away, stopping only for a cursory sniff of my quivering body. Released from the goaty forest, I could see the trees again.

‘Hello there!' called a voice.

I peered up through my dishevelled hair and saw a man in a big straw hat carrying a rough walking stick.

‘I see you've met the goats,' he called cheerily. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring his helping hand and scurried away as fast as I could, putting the goat herd firmly between his flock and me. He sang out to the dog and it ran off, driving the herd back around the bend, whence they had come.

‘I take it you're not a goat person?' he asked, with an amused smile. I didn't reply.

‘We were coming to meet you, but were delayed,' he said. ‘You telephoned earlier today?' he continued, starting to speak a little slower and looking at me intently. ‘And spoke to my housekeeper?'

I nodded. There was no tweed jacket and definitely no elbow patches. The doctor wore old cord trousers, pulled up into cuffs at the ankles, revealing sandal-shod feet. Where I had imagined tweed, he wore a T-shirt. He looked to be in his late fifties, his hair cut very short. An entwining tattoo decorated his left forearm. His eyes were a light blue, and at that moment twinkled in an amused and friendly way; at least he was more welcoming than his housekeeper. He looked like a souvenir from some strange, exotic land and not at all what I expected. And then there were the goats. I wished I had not come.

‘Very pleased to meet you,' he said, ignoring my silence. He held out his hand to shake mine. In those days it was not customary to shake hands with a female and his gesture warmed me to him. I managed a smile.

‘Very good,' he said jogging my arm up and down vigorously. ‘Now, shall we follow the herd?'

We walked in silence, the doctor taking the occasional swipe at the weeds with his stick. As we rounded the bend the track opened up into a grassy paddock, bordered by hills, with a fence and open gate to the left. Beyond the gate the dog waited, keeping an eye on the herd of goats, now grazing peacefully. The doctor gave a fluting whistle, which sent the dog off with a bark, driving the goats through the gate and then up a steep tree-lined track. The goats knew the routine, trotting docilely in front of their keeper.

‘But I don't suppose you came about the goats,' said the doctor, carrying on from his first remarks to me as if the conversation had never stopped. ‘My housekeeper tells me you're from immigration.'

‘Yes. I hope you don't mind me arriving this way?'