Maiden Voyage

THIRTY-EIGHT

She dreamed that she was sailing across a strange glassy sea, in an extraordinary woven coracle, with the wind blowing against her face. She could hear singing, high-pitched and distant, and flute-music. She turned and Mark Beeney was standing close behind her, his face slightly inflated as if he had been drowned for a long time.

"The Orange," someone whispered.

She said, "What?" through glutinous lips, but she knew that she was alone.

The Orange. This time the whisper was silent. But suddenly there was a surge of fear; and a feeling that the sea was sliding in through torn-open bulkheads, and a terrible knowledge that the world was going down beneath her feet.

She heard someone arguing. She heard her father's voice, again and again, saying No. No, lad. No. But both she and her father knew that arguing was useless, and that the Orange would sink, however much they protested. Or perhaps he wasn't protesting. Perhaps he was only pretending to protest. Because when she looked across the room, he was smiling in smug satisfaction and swinging his half-hunter as if he were intent on hypnotising her.