The Night Ferry

3

Someone has spilled a Bloody Mary mix on my shoes. I wouldn’t mind so much, but they’re not mine. I borrowed them, just like I borrowed this top, which is too big for me. At least my underwear is my own. “Never borrow money or underwear,” my mother always says, in an addendum to her clean-underwear speech which involves graphic descriptions of road accidents and ambulance officers cutting off my tights. No wonder I have nightmares.

Cate isn’t here yet. I’ve been trying to watch the door and avoid talking to anyone.

There should be a law against school reunions. They should come with warning stickers on the invitations. There is never a right time for them. You’re either too young or too old or too fat.

This isn’t even a proper school reunion. Somebody burned down the science classrooms at Oaklands. A vandal with a can of petrol rather than a rogue Bunsen burner. Now they’re opening a brand-new block, with a junior minister of something-or-other doing the honors.

The new building is functional and sturdy, with none of the charm of the Victorian original. The cathedral ceilings and arched windows have been replaced by fibrous cement panels, strip lighting and aluminum frames.

The school hall has been decorated with streamers and balloons hang from the rafters. A school banner is draped across the front of the stage.

There is a queue for the mirror in the girls’ toilets. Lindsay Saunders leans past me over the sink and rubs lipstick from her teeth. Satisfied, she turns and appraises me.

“Will you stop acting like a Punjabi princess and loosen up. Have fun.”

“Is that what this is?”

I’m wearing Lindsay’s top, the bronze one with shoestring straps, which I don’t have the bust to carry off. A strap falls off my shoulder. I tug it up again.

“I know you’re acting like you don’t care. You’re just nervous about Cate. Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Lindsay reapplies her lipstick and adjusts her dress. She’s been looking forward to the reunion for weeks because of Rocco Man-spiezer. She fancied him for six years at school but didn’t have the courage to tell him.

“What makes you so sure you’ll get him this time?”

“Well I didn’t spend two hundred quid on this dress and squeeze into these bloody shoes to be ignored by him again.”

Unlike Lindsay, I have no desire to hang around with people I have spent twelve years avoiding. I don’t want to hear how much money they make or how big their house is or see photographs of their children who have names that sound like brands of shampoo.

That’s the thing about school reunions—people only come to measure their life against others and to see the failures. They want to know which of the beauty queens has put on seventy pounds and seen her husband run off with his secretary, and which teacher got caught taking photographs in the changing rooms.

“Come on, aren’t you curious?” Lindsay asks.

“Of course, I’m curious. I hate the fact I’m curious. I just wish I was invisible.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport.” She rubs her finger across my eyebrows. “Did you see Annabelle Trunzo? My God that dress! And what about her hair?”

“Rocco doesn’t even have any hair.”

“Ah, but he’s still looking fit.”

“Is he married?”

“Hush your mouth.”

“Well, I think you should at least find out before you shag him.”

She gives me a wicked grin. “I’ll ask afterward.”

Lindsay acts like a real man-eater, but I know she’s not really so predatory. I tell myself that all the time, but I still wouldn’t let her date my brothers.

Back in the hall, the lights have been turned down and the music turned up. Spandau Ballet has been replaced by eighties anthems. The women are wearing a mixture of cocktail dresses and saris. Others are pretending not to care, in leather jackets and designer jeans.

There were always tribes at Oaklands. The whites were a minority. Most of the students were Banglas (Bangladeshis) with a few Pakis and Indians thrown into the mix.

I was a “curry,” a “yindoo,” an “elephant trainer.” Brown Indian in case you’re wondering. As defining details go, nothing else came close at Oaklands—not my black hair, braces or skinny legs; not having glandular fever at seven, or being able to run like the wind. Everything else paled into insignificance alongside my skin color and Sikh heritage.

It’s not true that all Sikhs are called Singh. And we don’t all carry curved blades strapped to our chests (although in the East End having this sort of rep isn’t such a bad thing).

Even now the Banglas are sticking together. People are sitting next to the same people they sat alongside at school. Despite everything that has happened in the intervening years, the core facets of our personalities are untouched. All our flaws and strengths are the same.

On the far side of the hall I see Cate arriving. She is pale and striking, with a short expensive haircut and cheap sexy shoes. Dressed in a long light khaki skirt and a silk blouse, she looks elegant and, yes, pregnant. Her hands are smoothing her neat, compact bump. It’s more than a bump. A beach ball. She hasn’t long to go.

I don’t want her to see me staring. I turn away.

“Alisha?”

“Sure. Who else?” I turn suddenly and put on a goofy smile.

Cate leans forward and kisses my cheek. I don’t close my eyes. Neither does she. We stare at each other. Surprised. She smells of childhood.

There are fine lines at the corners of her eyes. I wasn’t there to see them drawn. The small scar on her left temple, just beneath her hairline, I remember that one.

We’re the same age, twenty-nine, and the same shape, except for the bump. I have darker skin and hidden depths (like all brunettes) but I can categorically state that I will never look as good as Cate. She has learned—no, that makes it sound too practiced—she was born with the ability to make men admire her. I don’t know the secret. A movement of the eye, a cock of the head, a tone of voice or a touch of the arm, creates a moment, an illusion that all men gay or straight, old or young buy into.

People are watching her now. I doubt if she even realizes.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I answer too quickly and start again. “I’m all right.”

“Just all right?”

I try to laugh. “But look at you—you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“When are you due?”

“In four weeks.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

The questions and answers are too abrupt and matter-of-fact. Conversation has never been this hard—not with Cate. She looks nervously over my shoulder, as if worried we might be overheard.

“Didn’t you marry—?”

“Felix Beaumont. He’s over there.”

I follow her eyes to a tall, heavy-set figure in casual trousers and a loose white shirt. Felix didn’t go to Oaklands and his real name is Buczkowski, not “Beaumont.” His father was a Polish shopkeeper who ran an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road.

Now he’s deep in conversation with Annabelle Trunzo, whose dress is a scrap of material held up by her chest. If she exhales it’s going to be bunched around her ankles.

“You know what I used to hate most about nights like this?” says Cate. “Having someone who looks immaculate telling me how she spent all day ferrying children to ballet or football or cricket. And then she asks the obvious question: ‘Do you have any kids?’ And I say, ‘Nope, no children.’ And she jokes, ‘Hey, why don’t you have one of mine?’ God that pisses me off.”

“Well, it won’t happen anymore.”

“No.”

She takes a glass of wine from a passing tray. Again she glances around, looking distracted.

“Why did we fall out? It must have been my fault.”

“I’m sure you remember,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. By the way, I want you to be a godparent.”

“I’m not even a Christian.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

Cate is avoiding whatever she really wants to talk about.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

She hesitates. “I’ve gone too far this time, Ali. I’ve risked everything.”

Taking her arm, I steer her toward a quiet corner. People are starting to dance. The music is too loud. Cate puts her mouth close to my ear. “You have to help me. Promise me you’ll help me…”

“Of course.”

She holds back a sob, seeming to bite down upon it. “They want to take my baby. They can’t. You have to stop them—”

A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps, startled.

“Hello, gorgeous pregnant lady, who have we here?”

Cate backs away a step. “No one. It’s just an old friend.” Something shifts inside her. She wants to escape.

Felix Beaumont has perfect teeth. My mother has a thing about dental work. It is the first thing she notices about people.

“I remember you,” he says. “You were behind me.”

“At school?”

“No, at the bar.”

He laughs and adopts an expression of amused curiosity.

Cate has backed farther away. My eyes find hers. The faintest shake of her head tells me to let her go. I feel a rush of tenderness toward her. She motions with her empty glass. “I’m just going to get a refill.”

“Go easy on that stuff, sweetheart. You’re not alone.” He brushes her bump.

“Last one.”

Felix watches her leave with a mixture of sadness and longing. Finally, he turns back to me.

“So is it Miss or Mrs.?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you married?”

I hear myself say “Ms.” which makes me sound like a lesbian. I change it to “Miss” and then blurt, “I’m single,” which appears desperate.

“That explains it.”

“What?”

“Those with children have photographs. Those without have nicer clothes and fewer lines.”

Is that supposed to be a compliment?

The skin around his eyes crinkles into a smile. He moves like a bear, rocking from foot to foot.

“So what do you do, Alisha?”

I hold out my hand. “My name is Alisha Barba.”

He looks astonished. “Well, well, well, you really exist. Cate has talked about you a lot but I thought you might be one of those imaginary childhood friends.”

“She’s talked about me?”

“Absolutely. What do you do, Alisha?”

“I sit at home all day in my slippers watching daytime soaps and old movies on Channel 4.”

He doesn’t understand.

“I’m on medical leave from the Metropolitan Police.”

“What happened?”

“I broke my back. Someone dropped me across a wall.”

He flinches. My gaze drifts past him.

“She’s coming back,” he says, reading my mind. “She never leaves me talking to a pretty woman for too long.”

“You must be thrilled—about the baby.”

The smooth hollow beneath his Adam’s apple rolls like a wave as he swallows. “It’s our miracle baby. We’ve been trying for so long.”

Someone has started a conga line on the dance floor, which snakes between the tables. Gopal Dhir grabs at my waist, pivoting my hips from side to side. Someone else pulls Felix into another part of the line and we’re moving apart.

Gopal yells into my ear. “Well, well, Alisha Barba. Are you still running?”

“Only for fun.”

“I always fancied you but you were far too quick for me.” He yells to someone over his shoulder. “Hey, Rao! Look who it is—Alisha Barba. Didn’t I always say she was cute?”

Rao has no hope of hearing him over the music, but nods vigorously and kicks out his heels.

I drag myself away.

“Why are you leaving?”

“I refuse to do the conga without a person from Trinidad being present.”

Disappointed, he lets me go and rocks his head from side to side. Someone else tries to grab me but I spring away.

The crowd around the bar has thinned out. I can’t see Cate. People are sitting on the steps outside and spilling into the quadrangle. Across the playground I can see the famous oak tree, almost silver in the lights. Someone has put chicken wire around the trunk to stop children climbing. One of the Banglas fell off and broke his arm during my last year—a kid called Paakhi, which is Bengali for bird. What’s in a name?

The new science block squats on the far side of the quadrangle. Deserted. Crossing the playground, I push open a door and enter a long corridor with classrooms to the left. Taking a few steps, I look inside. Chrome taps and curved spouts pick up faint light from the windows.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see someone moving. A woman with her dress pushed up over her waist is arched over a bench with a man between her legs.

Backing away toward the door, I sense that someone else is watching. The smallest shift of my gaze finds him.

He whispers, “Like to watch do you, yindoo?”

I catch my breath. A half breath. Paul Donavon pushes his face close to mine. The years have thinned his hair and fleshed out his cheeks but he has the same eyes. It’s amazing how I can hate him with the same intensity after all this time.

Even in the half-light, I notice the tattooed cross on his neck. He sniffs at my hair. “Where’s Cate?”

“You leave her alone,” I say too loudly.

There are curses from the darkness. Lindsay and partner pull apart. Rocco is dancing on one leg, trying to hoist his trousers. At the far end of the corridor a door opens and light washes from outside as Donavon disappears.

“Jesus, Ali, you frightened the crap out of me,” says Lindsay, tugging down her dress.

“Sorry.”

“Who else was here?”

“Nobody. I’m really sorry. Just carry on.”

“I think the moment’s gone.”

Rocco is already heading down the corridor.

“Give my best to your wife,” she calls after him.

I have to find Cate now. She should be told that Donavon is here. And I want her to explain what she meant. Who wants to take her baby?

I check the hall and the quadrangle. There is no sign of her. She might have left already. How strange it is to be conscious of losing her when I’ve only just met her again.

I walk to the school gates. Cars are parked on either side of the road. The pavement is dotted with people. I catch a glimpse of Cate and Felix on the far side. She is talking to someone. Donavon. She has her hand on his arm.

Cate looks up and waves. I’m closing the distance between us, but she signals me to wait. Donavon turns away. Felix and Cate step between parked cars.

From somewhere behind them I hear Donavon cry out. Then comes a tortured high-pitched screech of rubber against tarmac. The wheels of a car are locked and screaming. Heads turn as if released from a catch.

Felix vanishes beneath the wheels, which rise and fall over his head with scarcely a bump. At the same moment Cate bends over the hood and springs back again. She turns her head in midair and the windscreen suddenly snaps it in reverse. She tumbles through the air in slow motion like a trapeze artist ready to be caught. But nobody waits with chalky hands.

The driver brakes and slews. Cate rolls forward, landing on her back with her arm outstretched and one leg twisted beneath her.

Like an explosion in reverse, people are sucked toward the detonation. They scramble from cars and burst from doorways. Donavon reacts quicker than most and reaches Cate first. I drop to my knees beside him.

In a moment of suspended stillness, the three of us are drawn together again. She is lying on the road. Blood seeps from her nose in a deep soft satin blackness. Spittle bubbles and froths from her slightly parted lips. She has the prettiest mouth.

I cradle her head in the crook of my arm. What happened to her shoe? She only has one of them. Suddenly, I’m fixated on a missing shoe, asking people around me. It’s important that I find it. Black, with a half heel. Her skirt has ridden up. She’s wearing maternity knickers to cover her bump.

A young chap steps forward politely. “I’ve called 999.”

His girlfriend looks like she might be sick.

Donavon pulls down Cate’s skirt. “Don’t move her head. She has to be braced.” He turns to the onlookers. “We need blankets and a doctor.”

“Is she dead?” someone asks.

“Do you know her?” asks another.

“She’s pregnant!” exclaims a third person.

Cate’s eyes are open. I can see myself reflected in them. A burly man with a gray ponytail leans over us. He has an Irish accent.

“They just stepped out. I didn’t see them. I swear.”

Cate’s whole body goes rigid and her eyes widen. Even with blood in her mouth she tries to cry out and her head swings from side to side.

Donavon leaps to his feet and grabs the driver’s shirt. “You could have stopped, you bastard!”

“I didn’t see them.”

“LIAR!” His voice is hoarse with hate. “You ran them down.”

The driver glances nervously around the crowd. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. It was an accident, I swear. He’s talking crazy—”

“You saw them.”

“Not until it was too late…”

He pushes Donavon away. Buttons rip and the driver’s shirt flaps open. The tattoo on his chest is of Christ and the Crucifixion.

People have piled out of the reunion to see what the commotion is about. Some of them are yelling and trying to clear the street. I can hear the sirens.

A paramedic pushes through the crowd. My fingers are slick and warm. I feel like I’m holding Cate’s head together. Two more crews arrive. The paramedics team up. I know the drill: no fire, no fuel leaks and no fallen power lines—they secure their own safety first.

I look for Felix. A dark shape is pinned beneath the rear axle of the car. Unmoving.

A paramedic crawls beneath the wheel arch. “This one’s gone,” he yells.

Another slides his hands beneath mine, taking hold of Cate’s head. Two of them work on her.

“Airways are blocked. Using the Guedels.”

He puts a plastic curved tube in her mouth and suctions out blood.

“One seventy systolic over ninety. Right pupil dilated.”

“She’s hypotensive.”

“Put a collar on.”

Someone talks into a two-way. “We got serious head trauma and internal bleeding.”

“She’s pregnant,” I hear myself saying. I don’t know if they hear me.

“BP is climbing. Low pulse.”

“She’s bleeding into her skull.”

“Let’s get her inside.”

“She needs volume now.”

The spine board is placed beside her and Cate is log-rolled onto her side and lifted onto a stretcher.

“She’s pregnant,” I say again.

The paramedic turns to me.

“Do you know her?”

“Yes.”

“We got room for one. You can ride up front.” He is pumping a rubber bag, forcing air into her lungs. “We need her name, DOB, address—is she allergic to any drugs?”

“I don’t know.”

“When is she due?”

“In four weeks.”

The stretcher is in the ambulance. The paramedics climb inside. A medical technician hustles me into the passenger seat. The door shuts. We’re moving. Through the window I see the crowd staring at us. Where did they all come from? Donavon is sitting in the gutter, looking dazed. I want him to look at me. I want to say thank you.

The paramedics continue working on Cate. One of them talks into a two-way using words like bradycardia and intracranial pressure. A heart monitor beeps out a broken message.

“Is she going to be all right?”

Nobody answers.

“What about the baby?”

He unbuttons her blouse. “I’m running two units.”

“No, wait. I’ve lost her pulse.”

The monitor flatlines.

“She’s asystolic!”

“Starting compressions.”

He rips open the final buttons, exposing her bra and torso.

Both paramedics suddenly stop and raise their eyes to each other—a single look, no words, but it conveys everything. Strapped to Cate’s midriff is a large piece of upholstery foam, trimmed to fit over her stomach. The prosthetic is pulled away. Cate is “pregnant” no more.

Pushing down hard on her chest, a paramedic counts the compressions, yelling the numbers. The heart monitor is competing with the siren.

“No response.”

“We might have to crack her open.”

“One amp of adrenaline.” He bites off the cap and stabs the contents into her neck.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of flashing lights and fractured conversations. I know they’re losing her. I guess I’ve known it all along. The dilated pupils, the bleeding inside her head—the classic signs of brain injury. Cate is broken in too many places to fix.

A thin green line on the monitor rises and falls and flattens again. They’re counting each inflation with the chest compressions. One squeeze to every five compressions.

“Thommo.”

“What?”

“I’m stopping the chest compressions.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re making her brains come out of her head.”

Cate’s skull is broken behind her right ear.

“Keep going.”

“But—”

“Just keep going.”

Half a minute passes. Hard as they try, Cate’s heart won’t answer.

“What are you going to do?”

“Crack her chest.”

A wave of nausea washes into my mouth. I don’t remember the rest of the journey or arriving at the hospital. There are no crashing doors or white coats rushing down corridors. Instead, everything appears to slow down. The building swallows Cate whole, less than whole, damaged.

Hospitals, I hate them. The smell, the pall of uncertainty, the whiteness. White walls, white sheets, white clothes. The only things not white are the bodily fluids and the Afro-Caribbean nurses.

I’m still standing near the ambulance. The paramedics return and begin mopping up the blood.

“Are you gonna be OK?” one of them asks. The pillow of upholstery foam hangs from his fist. The dangling straps look like the legs of a strange sea creature.

He hands me a damp paper towel. “You might want to use this.”

I have blood on my hands; blood all over my jeans.

“You missed a bit.” He motions to my cheek. I wipe the wrong one.

“Here, do you mind?”

He takes the towel and holds my chin in the palm of his hand, wiping my cheek. “There.”

“Thank you.”

He wants to say something. “Is she a close friend?”

“We went to school together.”

He nods. “Why would she—I mean—why did she fake a pregnancy?”

I glance past him, unable to answer. It doesn’t serve any purpose and makes even less sense. Cate needed to see me. She said they wanted to take her baby. What baby?

“Is she—will she be OK?”

It’s his turn to not answer. The sadness in his eyes is rationed carefully because others will need it later.

A hose spits. Pink water swirls down the drain. The paramedic hands me the prosthetic and I feel something break inside me. Once I thought I had lost Cate forever. Maybe this time I have.