The Night Ferry

14

The ferry shifts and I brace myself. We must have reached open water, or maybe it’s my heart lurching. I am sure it was him. Brendan Pearl. He is here because she is here.

My first reaction is to retreat. I pull back and take a few deep breaths on the stairwell, while contemplating what to do. Taking out my mobile, I check the signal. Nothing. The ferry has moved out of range. I should talk to the captain. He can radio ahead and get a message to Forbes.

A member of the crew is climbing the stairs. Although dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt with epaulettes, he looks too young to be at sea. He has a name tag on his chest. Raoul Jakobson.

“Do you have keys to all the cabins?” I ask.

“Is there a problem?”

“There is a man on board who is wanted by the British police. He is staying in cabin 8021.” I point along the passage. His gaze follows my outstretched hand. “I am a British police officer. A detective constable. Is there a passenger list?” I show him my badge.

“Yes, of course.”

He opens a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and retrieves a clipboard, running his finger down the page until he finds the cabin number.

“That cabin is occupied by a Patrick Norris. He is a British driver.”

Pearl has a new identity.

Is it possible to find out what vehicle he drove on board?”

Raoul consults the list again. “V743 LFB. On Deck 5.”

“I need to check this vehicle.”

“Passengers are not authorized to be on that deck.”

“I’m looking for an illegal passenger. She could be locked inside the truck.”

“Perhaps you should talk to the captain.”

“Yes, of course, but there isn’t time right now. You go to the captain. I need him to send a message to this man,” I scribble a phone number on the clipboard. “His name is Detective Inspector Robert Forbes. Mention my name. Tell him that Brendan Pearl is on this ferry.”

“Is that it?”

“He’ll understand.”

Raoul looks at the phone number and glances down the passage toward Pearl’s cabin.

“Is he dangerous, this man?”

“Yes, but nobody is to panic. Let him sleep.” I look at my watch. “We’ll be in Harwich in four hours.” Moving toward the stairwell, I nod goodbye. “Tell the captain. I have to go.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, I swing through the landings and reach Deck 5. Hitting the red button, I hear the air hiss out as the seal is broken. The metal door slides open. The noise of the ship’s engines is amplified in the cavernous space and transfers through the floor in pulsing vibrations.

Stepping over the lip of the door, I begin walking down the first line of vehicles. The trucks are parked seven abreast and nose-to-tail, so close together there is just enough room to squeeze between them. I wish I had a torch. The strip lighting can barely cut through the gloom and I have difficulty reading the vehicle numbers.

I walk the length of the deck and back again, following the lanes. When the ferry pitches and rolls in the swell, I brace my hand against a wheel arch or trailer. My imagination puts me inside them. I can picture Hassan and the others, trapped, suffocating. I want to hammer on the metal sides and fling open the doors, filling them with air.

I’m in the second lane on the starboard side when I find it. The rig has a maroon Mercedes cab and a white box trailer. Stepping onto the running board, I grip the side mirror and pull myself up to peer into the cab. Takeaway coffee cups and food wrappers litter the floor.

Stepping down, I slowly circle the trailer. Pressing my ear against the steel skin I listen for a sneeze or a cough or a whisper, any sound at all. Nothing. The rear doors are sealed with a metal rod and cam lock. The barrel is closed and padlocked.

Someone holding a torch is walking toward me. The beam swings from side to side, blinding me momentarily. I edge away from the trailer. Darkness feathers around me.

“You’re not supposed to be down here,” says a voice.

At that same moment a hand snakes around my face, cupping my mouth. Smothering all sound away.

I can’t breathe. My feet are off the ground. His fingers are digging into my cheek, tearing at my gums. His other forearm wraps around my neck, searching for my windpipe. I brace my hands against it and kick backward, trying to find his instep or his knee. The blow barely touches him.

He lifts me higher. My toes scrabble at the floor, unable to get leverage. I can hear blood pulsing in my ears. I need to breathe.

Karate training taught me about pressure points. There is one in the soft flesh between the thumb and forefinger, above the webbing. I find the spot. He grunts in pain, releasing his grip on my mouth and nose. I still can’t breathe. My windpipe is being crushed. I keep driving my thumb into his flesh.

A knee snaps into my kidneys. The pain is like a blast of heat. I don’t let go of his right hand but at the same time I can’t see his left fist cocking. The punch is like a punctuation mark. Darkness sweeps away the pain and the memories. I am free of the ferry and the incessant noise of the engines. Free of Cate and Samira. Free of the unborn twins. Free at last.

Slowly the world becomes wider. Lighter. I am suspended for a moment a few inches above my body, staring down at a strange scene My hands are bound with electrical tape behind my back. Another piece of tape covers my mouth, wrapped around my head like a mask, pulling at my split and swollen lip.

There is a weak light from a torch, lying on the floor near my feet. My head is on Samira’s lap. She leans forward and whispers something in my ear. She wants me to lie still. Light catches her pupils. Her fingers are like ice.

My head is pressed to her womb. I feel her babies moving. I can hear the sough and gurgle of the fluid, the melody of their heartbeats. Blood slides back and forth beneath her skin, squeezing into smaller and smaller channels, circulating oxygen.

I wonder if twins are aware of each other’s existence. Do they hear the other’s heartbeat? Do they hold each other or communicate by touch?

Bit by bit the confusion and darkness work their way into some semblance of order. If I stay relaxed, I can breathe through the tape.

Samira’s body suddenly spasms and jackknifes from the waist, squeezing my head against her thighs. Regaining control, she leans back and breathes deeply. I try to lift my head. She wants me to lie still.

I can’t talk with the gag. She hooks her fingers beneath the plastic tape and lifts it away from my lips just enough for me to speak.

“Where are we?”

“In a truck.”

Our whispers are magnified by the hollowness.

“Are you all right?”

She shakes her head. Tears form at the edge of her eyes. Her body convulses again. She’s in labor.

“Who brought me here?”

“Yanus.”

He and Pearl must be working together.

“You have to untie me.”

Her eyes sweep to the closed rear doors and she shakes her head.

“Please.”

“They will kill you.”

They will kill me anyway.

“Help me to sit up.”

She lifts my head and shoulders until I’m leaning with my back against a wall. My inner gyroscope is totally messed up. I may have ruptured an eardrum.

The trailer appears to be full of pallets and crates. Through a square narrow opening I see a crawl space with a mattress and three plastic bottles. Someone has built a false wall to create a secret compartment in the trailer. Customs officers wouldn’t notice the difference unless they measured the outside and inside of the truck.

“When did the contractions start?”

She looks at me helplessly. She has no way of judging time.

“How far are they apart?”

“A minute.”

How long was I unconscious? Raoul will have gone to the ferry’s captain by now. They will telephone Forbes and come looking for me. Forbes will tell them to be careful.

“Undo my hands.”

Samira shakes her head.

Letting go of the tape, she tugs a blanket around my shoulders. She is more worried about me than herself.

“You should not have come.”

I can’t reply. Another contraction contorts her face. Her entire body seems to lock up.

The rear doors swing open. I feel the draft and hear the intake of Samira’s breath.

“I told you not to touch her,” says Yanus, springing into the trailer. He seizes her, smearing his hands over her face as if covering her with filth. Then he peels back her lips, forcing her jaw open and spits into her mouth. She gags and tries to turn away.

Then he confronts me, ripping off the gag. It feels like half my face is torn off with it.

“Who knows you’re here?”

My voice is slurred: “The captain. The crew…they’re radioing ahead.”

“Liar!”

Another figure is standing in the open end of the trailer. Brendan Pearl. He can’t have been there for more than a few seconds yet I have the sensation that he’s been watching me for a long time.

The light behind him washes out his features, but I can see how he’s changed his appearance since I saw him last. His hair is shorter and he’s wearing glasses. The walking stick is a nice touch. He’s holding it upside down. Why? It’s not a walking stick. It has a curved hook like a fishing gaff or a marlin spike. I remember what Ruiz called him—the Shankhill Fisherman.

Yanus kicks me in the stomach. I roll once and he places a shoe on my neck, forcing it down, concentrating his weight on the point where my spine joins my skull. Surely it must snap.

Samira cries out, her body wracked by another contraction. Pearl says something and Yanus lifts his foot. I can breathe. He circles the empty trailer and returns, putting his heel on my neck again.

I force my arms out, pointing toward Samira. She is staring at her hands in horror. Liquid stains her skirt and pools beneath her knees.

Pearl pushes Yanus aside.

“Her water has broken.” Desperately, I choke the words out.

“She pissed herself,” sneers Yanus.

“No. She’s having the babies.”

“Make them stop,” says Pearl.

“I can’t. She needs a doctor.”

Another contraction arrives, stronger than before. Her scream echoes from the metal walls. Pearl loops the barbed hook around her neck. “She makes another sound like that and I’ll take out her throat.”

Samira shakes her head, covering her mouth with her hands.

Pearl pulls me into a sitting position and cuts the electrical tape away from my wrists. He pauses for a moment, chewing at his cheek like a cud.

“She don’t look so healthy does she?” he says, in an Irish lilt.

“She needs a doctor.”

“Can’t have no doctors.”

“But she’s having twins!”

“I don’t care if she’s having puppies. You’ll have to deliver them.”

“I don’t know how to deliver a baby!”

“Then you better learn quick.”

“Don’t be stupid—”

The stave of the marlin spike strikes my jaw. When the pain passes, I count teeth with my tongue. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Know that, do you?”

Samira’s hand shoots out and grips my wrist. Her knuckles are white and the pain is etched on her face. She wants help. She wants the pain to go away. I glance at Pearl and nod.

“That’s grand as grand can be.” He stands and stretches, twirling the spike in his fist.

“We can’t do it here,” I say. “We need to get her to a cabin. I need light. Clean sheets. Water.”

“No.”

“Look at this place!”

“She stays here.”

“Then she dies! And her babies die! And whoever is paying you will get nothing.”

I think Pearl is going to hit me again. Instead he weighs the wooden stave in both hands before swinging it down until the metal hook touches the floor and he leans on it like a walking stick. He and Yanus converse in whispers. Decisions have to be made. Their plan is unraveling.

“You have to try to hold on,” I tell Samira. “It’s going to be OK.”

She nods, far calmer than I am.

Why hasn’t anyone come looking for me? Surely they will have called Forbes by now. He’ll tell them what to do.

Pearl comes back.

“OK, we move her.” He raises his shirt to show me a pistol tucked into his belt. “No fuckin’ tricks. You escape and Yanus here will cut the babies out of her. He’s a frustrated fuckin’ surgeon.”

The Irishman collects Samira’s things—a small cotton bag and a spare blanket. Then he helps her to stand. She cups her hands beneath her pregnancy as though taking the weight. I wrap the blanket around her shoulders. Her damp gray skirt sticks to her thighs.

Yanus has gone ahead to check the stairs. I can picture crew members waiting for him. He’ll be overpowered. Pearl will have no choice but to surrender.

He lifts Samira down from the trailer. I follow, stumbling slightly as I land. Pearl pushes me out of the way and closes the rear doors, sliding the barrel lock into place. Something is different about the truck. The color. It’s not the same.

My stomach turns over. There are two trucks. Yanus and Pearl must have each driven a vehicle on board. Glancing toward the nearest stairwell, I see the glowing exit sign. We’re on a different deck. They don’t know where to look for me.

Samira goes first. Her chin is drawn down to her clavicle and she seems to be whispering a prayer. A contraction stops her suddenly and her knees buckle. Pearl puts his arm around her waist. Although in his late forties, he has the upper-body strength of someone who has bulked up in prison weight rooms. You don’t work a regular job and have a physique like his.

We move quickly up the stairs and along empty passageways. Yanus has found a cabin on Deck 9, where there are fewer passengers. He takes Samira from Pearl and I glance at them, fleetingly, sidelong. Surely they can’t expect to get away with this.

The two-berth cabin is oppressively neat. It has a narrow single bunk about a foot from the floor and another directly above it, hinged and folded flat against the wall. There is a square porthole with rounded corners. The window is dark. Land has ceased to exist and I can only imagine the emptiness of the North Sea. I look at my watch. It’s twelve thirty. Harwich is another three and a half hours away. If Samira can stay calm and the contractions are steady, we may reach Harwich in time. In time for what?

Her eyes are wide and her forehead is beaded with perspiration. At the same time she is shivering. I sit on the bed, with my back to the bulkhead, pulling her against me with my arms wrapped around her, trying to keep her warm. Her belly balloons between her knees and her entire body jolts with each contraction.

I am running on instinct. Trying my best not to panic or show fear. The first-aid course I did when I joined the Met was comprehensive but it didn’t include childbirth. I remember something my mama said to my sisters-in-law: “Doctors don’t deliver babies, women do.”

Yanus and Pearl take turns guarding the door. There isn’t enough room in the cabin for both of them. One will watch the passageway.

Yanus leans against the narrow cabin counter, watching with listless curiosity. Taking an orange from his pocket, he peels it expertly and separates it into segments that he lines up along the bench. Each piece is finally crushed between his teeth and he sucks the juices down his throat before spitting out the pith and seeds onto the floor.

I have never believed that people could be wholly evil. Psychopaths are made not born. Yanus could be the exception. I try to picture him as a youngster and cling to the hope that there might be some warmth inside him. He must have loved someone, something—a pet, a parent, a friend. I see no trace of it.

One or twice Samira can’t stifle her cries. He tosses a roll of masking tape into my lap. “Shut her up!”

“No! She has to tell me when the contractions are coming.”

“Then keep her quiet.”

Where does he keep his knife? Strapped to his chest on his left side, next to his heart. He seems to read my mind and taps his jacket.

“I can cut them out of her, you know. I’ve done it before with animals. I start cutting just here.” He puts his finger just above his belt buckle and draws it upward over his navel and beyond. “Then I peel back her skin.”

Samira shudders.

“Just shut up, will you?”

He gives me his shark’s smile.

Night presses against the porthole. There might be five hundred passengers on board the ferry, but right now it feels as though the cabin light is burning in a cold hostile wasteland.

Samira tilts her head back until she can look into my eyes.

“Zala?” she asks.

I wish I could lie to her but she reads the truth on my face. I can almost see her slipping backward into blackness, disappearing. It is the look of someone who knows that fate has abandoned them to a sadness so deep that nothing can touch it.

“I should never have let her go,” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault.”

Her chest rises and falls in a silent sob. She has turned her eyes away. It is a gesture that says everything. I vowed to find Zala and keep her safe. I broke my promise.

The contractions seem to have eased. Her breathing steadies and she sleeps.

Pearl has replaced Yanus.

“How is she?”

“Exhausted.”

He braces his back against the door, sliding down until he settles on his haunches, draping his arms over his knees. In such a small space he appears larger, overgrown, with big hands. Yanus has feminine hands, shapely and delicate, fast with a blade. Pearl’s are like blunt instruments.

“You’ll never get away with this, you know that.”

He smiles. “There are many things I know and many more things I don’t know.”

“Listen to me. You’re only making this worse. If she dies or the babies die they’ll charge you with murder.”

“They won’t die.”

“She needs a doctor.”

“Enough talk.”

“The police know I’m here. I saw you earlier. I told the captain to radio ahead. There will be a hundred police officers waiting at Harwich. You can’t get away. Let me take Samira. There could be a doctor on board or a nurse. They’ll have medical supplies.”

Pearl doesn’t seem to care. Is that what happens when you spend most of your life in prison or committing acts that should put you there?

My scalp tingles. “Why did you kill my friend Cate and her husband?”

“Who?”

“The Beaumonts.”

His eyes, not quite level with each other, give the impression of lopsidedness until he talks and his features suddenly line up. “She was greedy.”

“How?”

“She could only pay for one baby but wanted both of them.”

“You asked her to choose?”

“Not me.”

“Someone else did?”

He doesn’t have to answer.

“That’s obscene.”

He shrugs. “Pitter or Patter—seems simple enough. Life is about choices.”

That’s what Cate meant—at the reunion—when she said they were trying to take her baby. They wanted her to pay double. Her bank account was empty. She had to choose: the boy or the girl. How can a mother make a decision like that and live for the rest of her life gazing into the eyes of one child and seeing a reflection of another that she never knew?

Pearl is still talking. “She threatened to go to the police. We warned her. She ignored it. That’s the problem with folks nowadays. Nobody takes responsibility for their actions. Make a mistake and you pay for it. That’s life.”

“Have you paid for your mistakes?”

“All my life.” His eyes are closed. He wants to go back to ignoring me.

A knock. Pearl slides the pistol from his belt and points it toward me while holding a finger to his lips. He opens the door a fraction. I can’t see a face. Someone is asking about a missing passenger. They’re looking for me.

Pearl yawns. “Is that why you woke me?”

A second voice: “Sorry, sir.”

“What does she look like?”

I can’t hear the description.

“Well, I ain’t seen her. Maybe she went for a swim.”

“I hope not, sir.”

“Yeah, well, I got to sleep.”

“Sorry, sir, you won’t be disturbed again.”

The door closes. Pearl waits for a moment, pressing his ear to the door. Satisfied, he tucks the pistol back in his belt.

There’s another knock on the door. Yanus.

“Where the fuck were you?” demands Pearl.

“Watching,” replies Yanus.

“You were supposed to fucking warn me.”

“Would have made no difference. They’re knocking on every door. They won’t come back now.”

Samira sits bolt upright screaming. The contraction is brutal and I scissor my legs around her, holding her still. An unseen force possesses her, racking her body in spasms. I find myself drawn to her pain. Caught up in it. Breathing when she breathes.

Another contraction comes almost immediately. Her back arches and her knees rise up.

“I have to push now.”

“No!”

“I have to.”

This is it. I can’t stop her. Sliding out from behind her, I lie her down and take off her underwear.

Pearl is unsure of what to do. “Take deep breaths, that’s a good girl. Good deep breaths. You thirsty? I’ll get you a drink of water.”

He fills a glass in the small bathroom and returns.

“Shouldn’t you be checking the cervix?” he asks.

“And I suppose you know all about it.”

“I seen movies.”

“Take over anytime you want.”

His tone softens. “What can I do?”

“Run some hot water in the sink. I need to wash my hands.”

Samira unclenches her teeth as the pain eases. Short panting breaths become longer. She focuses on Pearl and begins issuing instructions. She needs things—scissors and string, clips and towels. For a moment I think she’s delirious but soon realize that she knows more about childbirth than any of us.

He opens the door and passes on the instructions to Yanus. They argue. Pearl threatens him.

Samira has another instruction. Men cannot be present at the birth. I expect Pearl to say no but I see him wavering.

I tell him: “Look at this place. We can’t go anywhere. There’s one door and a porthole fifty feet above the water.”

He accepts this and glances at his watch. It’s after two. “An hour from now she has to be back in the truck.” His hand is on the door handle. He turns and addresses me.

“My ma is a good Catholic. Pro-life, you understand? She’d say there were already five people in this room, babies included. When I come back I expect to see the same number. Keep them alive.”

He closes the door and Samira relaxes a little. She asks me to fetch a flannel from the bathroom. She folds it several times and wedges it between her teeth when she feels a contraction coming.

“How do you know so much?”

“I have seen babies born,” she explains. “Women would sometimes come to the orphanage to give birth. They left the babies with us because they could not take them home.”

Her contractions are coming forty seconds apart. Her eyes bulge and she bites down hard on the flannel. The pain passes.

“I need you to see if I’m ready,” she whispers.

“How?”

“Put two fingers inside me to measure.”

“How do I tell?”

“Look at your fingers,” she says. “See how long they are. Measure with them.”

Opening her legs, I do as she asks. I have never touched a woman so intimately or been so terrified.

“I think you’re ready.”

She nods, clenching the flannel between her teeth through the first part of the contraction and then breathing in short bursts, trying to ease the pain. Tears squeeze from her eyes and mingle with her sweat. I smell her exertions.

“I have to get to the floor,” she says.

“Are you going to pray?”

“No. I’m going to have a baby.”

She squats with her legs apart, bracing her arms between the bunk and the bench table. Gravity is going to help her.

“You must feel for the baby’s head,” she says.

My hand is inside her, turning and dipping. I feel a baby’s head. It’s crowning. Should there be blood?

“They will kill you after the babies are born,” whispers Samira. “You must get out of here.”

“Later.”

“You must go now.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

There’s a knock on the door. I undo the latch and Pearl hands me scissors, a ball of string and a rusty clip. Yanus hisses from behind him. “Keep the bitch quiet.”

“Fuck you! She’s having a baby.”

Yanus makes a lunge for me. Pearl pushes him back and closes the door.

Samira is pushing now, three times with each contraction. She has long slender lemurlike feet, roughly calloused along the outer edges. Her chin is tucked to her throat and oily coils of her hair fall over her eyes.

“If I pass out, you must make sure you get the babies out. Don’t leave them inside me.” Teeth pull at her bottom lip. “Do whatever you have to.”

“Shhh.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Am I bleeding a lot?”

“You’re bleeding. I don’t know if it’s too much. I can see the baby’s head.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

Existence narrows to just breathing, pain and pushing. I brush hair from her eyes and crouch between her legs. Her face contorts. She screams into the flannel. The baby’s head is out. I hold it in my cupped hand, feeling the dips and hollows of the skull. The shoulders are trapped. Gently I put my finger beneath its chin and the tiny body rotates within her. On the next contraction the right shoulder appears, then the left, and the baby slides into my hands.

A boy.

“Rub your finger down his nose,” gasps Samira.

It takes only a fingertip to perform the task. There is a soft, shocked sob, a rattle and a breath.

Samira issues more instructions. I am to use the string and tie off the umbilical cord in two places, cutting between the knots. My hands are shaking.

She is crying. Spent. I help her back onto the bunk and she leans against the bulkhead wall. Wrapping the baby in a towel, I hold him close, smelling his warm breath, letting his nose brush against my cheek. Which one are you, I wonder, Pitter or Patter?

I look at my watch and make a mental note of the time: 2:55 a.m. What is the date? October 29. Where will they say he was born? In the Netherlands or Britain? And who will be his true mother? What a mixed-up way to start a life.

The contractions have started again. Samira kneads her stomach, trying to feel the unborn twin.

“What’s wrong?”

“She is facing the wrong way. You must turn her.”

“I don’t know how.”

Each new contraction brings a groan of resignation. Samira is almost too exhausted to cry out; too tired to push. I have to hold her up this time. She squats. Her thighs part still further.

Reaching inside her, I try to push the baby back, turning her body, fighting gravity and the contractions. My hands are slick. I’m frightened of hurting her.

“It’s coming.”

“Push now.”

The head arrives with a gush of blood. I glimpse something white with blue streaks wrapped around its neck.

“Stop! Don’t push!”

My hand slides along the baby’s face until my fingers reach beneath her chin and untangle the umbilical cord.

“Samira you really need to push the next time. It’s very important.”

The contraction begins. She pushes once, twice…nothing.

“Push.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. One last time, I promise.”

She throws back her head and muffles a scream. Her body stiffens and bucks. A baby girl emerges, blue, slick, wrinkled, cupped in both my hands. I rub her nose. Nothing. I hold her on her side, sweeping my index finger round her mouth and throat, trying to clear the dripping goo.

I drape her over my hand, with her arms and legs dangling and slap her back hard. Why won’t she breathe?

Putting her on a towel I begin chest compressions with the tips of my index and middle fingers. At the same time I lower my lips and puff into the baby’s mouth and nose.

I know about resuscitation. I have done the training and I have witnessed paramedics do it dozens of times. Now I am breathing into a body that has never taken a breath. Come on, little one. Come on.

Samira is half on the bunk and half on the floor. Her eyes are closed. The first twin is swaddled and lying between her arm and her side.

I continue the compressions and breathing. It is like a mantra, a physical prayer. Almost without noticing, the narrowest of chests rises and eyelids flutter. Blue has become pink. She’s alive. Beautiful.