The Waiting Time

Chapter Sixteen

The trawlermen on their boats, at their nets and ropes and buckets and brushes, would have heard his agony cry, and the women at the stalls, and the fish gutters in the shed.

Josh pushed her away from him.

He pulled off his coat, and his blazer jacket. They would have seen him stand for a moment on the quay above the darkened boat and the black water. They would have left their boats, their stalls, the gutting shed, left their boxes of fish and powder ice, and have come to the end of the quay where the light did not reach. A narrow, rusted ladder was fastened to the quayside wall. It went down, twice a man’s height, into the darkness, to the black water. It disappeared in the water, close to the bow of the boat, to the figure, half submerged and half floating.

He was a driven man. He did not look back, not at her, not at the men and women and the kids coming from the lit end of the quay. He went over the side, down the ochre rusted rungs of the ladder. It sagged. A bolt into the wall was torn clear by his weight.

The water came chill into his shoes, gripped the legs of his trousers. He shuddered at the cold.

He could see the figure, the back of the torso. It was an outline against the oiled black water that slopped against the bow angle of the boat. The water was against his chest and lapped into his armpits. He held the rung that was level with his head, left hand, and he reached out, right hand, towards the figure that rose and fell in the motion of the water. He stretched, but could not reach it, could not hook his fingers, frozen wet, into the coat.

His hand thrashed in the water and the eddies took the figure a few more inches, so tantalizing, away from him. He reached out and there was only the water for his fingers to snatch at.

The rung, rusted, that he held, gave and broke. He was pitched into the water. The foulness of the oil, the sharpness of salt, was in his eyes and mouth and nose. He kicked, gasped, and came up. It was years since he had last swum, and then in a heated pool. He spluttered, choked. He had to reach it. It was his obligation. His shoes were against the wall of the quay, sliding on underwater weed. He pushed away from the quay wall. Three strokes, four, and he would be within reach, if he stretched. He coughed the oil water clear from his throat, his eyes were closed. He lunged. He could not see ahead.

His hand caught it.

He smelt the stench of it.

It came so easily to him, it had no weight.

He pulled it to him. He trod the water. He lifted above his head a black coal sack from the blackness of the water and rotting herring heads spilled from its neck. Around her, above him, were the trawlermen and the stall women and the fish gutters and the kids who carried the boxes. He saw the glistening light of the eyes that gazed down on him. His screams that had brought them had been of agony and pain. At that moment, Josh screamed with hysterical, lunatic laughter. He threw the sack and its debris away and out beyond the bow angle of the boat. He swam back to the ladder. Hands reached down for him. Men knelt to help him. Hard rough hands caught his wrists, caught at the shoulder of his shirt. He was heaved up. All the time they lifted him he laughed. They pulled him over the broken rung of the ladder. He had no control over his arms, his legs. He shook with the cold and the laughter burst through him.

Below him, the sack drifted away towards the current.

The water spilled from his shoes and ran down his body.

All around her, they laughed with him, as if an idiot should be humoured.

Tracy said, ‘He’s at sea. He’s safe. He’s up the coast and after the herring. A man just told me. They’re due back in tomorrow afternoon. He’s safe from them.’

The words came through his chattering teeth. ‘Wouldn’t have minded knowing that earlier.’

‘He was due in today – stayed out another twenty-four hours. Only the crew of the sister ship knew it.’

He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his trousers and dragged off his shirt. He stood, a moment, in the evening air, in his sodden underclothes and soaked socks. The laughter convulsed him. He shrugged into his blazer jacket and wrapped the arms of his coat around his waist. The body of the coat hung over his legs as an apron would have. He picked up his shoes and shook the last of the water from them.

They walked away. She carried his trousers and his shirt. He hobbled in his socks on the coarse concrete of the quayside and she left a dribbled trail of water behind her. He led her past the back of the gutting shed, where they could hug the shadows of the harbour’s lorry park and slip unseen back towards the car.

Josh said, ‘It was the moment we won, Tracy. Can you see that? It’s the first time that it’s turned for us.’

Willi Muller’s life was the sea and his family were the crew and his home was the boat. On a small stove, powered by kerosene fuel, in a wide pan of sliding lard fat, he cooked porkmeat sausages. On the second hot ring of the stove he poured milk from a bottle and water from a kettle on to the dehydrated potato powder. They were far out in the Ostsee, east from the Wittow peninsula of Rugen Island, and north from the island bay that was called Tromper Wiek. They were at the limit range of the trawler boat that carried the designation WAR 79 on the white strip above the red-painted hull. The sister boat, WAR 31, in the early morning, had sailed for Warnemunde with its hold not yet filled with herring, but WAR 79 had stayed out as the wind had freshened and the sea had risen. His life was the sea and he had no fear of the sea wind and the sea waves. The wind hit the boat and the waves made it shudder, but the only fear he knew was when the memories came of the men with the guns dragging the body back to the pier, and aiming the guns at him and ordering him again to start the engine. The guns had been against his neck and his back, and he had helped to pitch the weighted body into the waters of the Salzhaff. He did not believe, ever, that the wind and the waves would make a worse fear for him than the guns had made… They drifted on low power, rolling in the water. The sea spray came across the windows of the small wheelhouse. It would be the third night they were out but the herring run, at last, was good. Because it was the third night, there were only sausages to eat with powdered potato and one apple for each of them. There would be old bread for breakfast in the morning and more coffee. They would fish through the night and before dawn they would head back west for Warnemunde.

His family were the skipper and the mate. They were brothers. They had been at sea together for fifty-two years. They had gone to sea together, the skipper and the mate, in 1944, in the submarines from the port of Brest, out into the dark Atlantic waters when the codes were broken and the enemy’s bombers and destroyers had hunted out the wolfpacks. They had taught him, as fathers and uncles teach, that the sea was not meant to claim them. The old brothers, wizened, thin, gaunt, bent, were the family he loved. There had been another family, long before, and he was shamed by his mother, who had said her son should swear his silence so that she would not lose her house, and she had kept the house. His father had said that he would lose his boat in Rerik unless his son went away, and his father had not lost his fishing boat. He would never go back to them. To go back was to face the shame of them. The old brothers’ boat was the only home he now knew. When they were tied to the quay at Warnemunde, sheltered from the wind and the waves, he slept on the boat. The frayed quilted sleeping bag came out at night, in harbour, from his wood chest below the wheel. His home was a place streaked with engine oil, where the paint flaked loose, where the floor was splintered planks, where all the possessions he owned fitted in the rough-built wooden box that the skipper and mate had made for him. The sea was the life of Will Muller, and the crew were his family, and trawler WAR 79 was his home.

He knew no fear here because the fear was in the past, with the shame.

He had paid a Turk for the use of her. She was 175 DMs for an hour and a half. There would have been a Turk pimping for her in Leipzig and, in Leipzig, a Turk would have charged him 250 DMs, minimum. He had found her on the Am Strande, and he had paid the Turk and driven her, followed her directions, to an apartment in a block in the Sudstadt.

Gunther Peters thought she was new to it. She had the gear, open blouse under a windcheater, and the short skirt, riding high on her thighs, hair rinsed platinum blonde, mouth coated with mauve lipstick. The gear was right but she didn’t know her trade. She wore a wedding ring, a television was playing in the living room, and children were sleeping in the other bedroom. He had done it twice and he had felt nothing. He thought that her husband would be out cleaning streets or polishing cars or washing dishes. She lay on her back and she had her legs still stretched wide as if she thought that necessary. She was skinny, white- fleshed, and dark-haired where it wasn’t rinsed from the bottle. He had come to Am Strande to look for a tart because it was not important for him to watch the harbour at Warnemunde that evening. Tomorrow was important… To use his hour and a half, he had thought about tomorrow, when the boy came back on the boat. Gunther Peters dressed slowly. He had time to kill.

Hoffmann had quit, and Siehl and Fischer, coward bastards. Only himself and the Hauptman would be there tomorrow, at the harbour at Warnemunde. He felt no hostffity to the tart because she was useless.

When he was dressed, when the Makharov was back in his tight, stretched belt, he gave her a good tip and said that he would drive her back to the Am Strande. After he dropped her, he had forgotten her thin white body within five minutes and was thinking only of tomorrow…

‘We are off the record, nothing is attributed to me?’

Albert Perkins nodded his agreement. It had been a long wait outside the office of the police chief. It would have been worthwhile. It was his luck that the police chief had served in Dortmund and, there, had worked closely with the British military, had been liaison officer between the German authorities and the British intelligence people trying, fingernail stuff, to keep a track on the Irish bombers targeting the British bases.

‘This is not a conversation that is happening?’

Albert Perkins tapped his lips with an index finger. He had already flattered the younger man: without the excellent cooperation of the German police the Irish shits would have had free rein to bomb and kill.

‘The correct procedure would be for me to report your arrival to BfV in Cologne, and to seek guidance, but I do not think you wish that?’

Albert Perkins shook his head and a grimace of mock pain crossed his face.

The police chief for Rostock said, ‘I went two years ago, Doktor Perkins, to Berlin. There was to be a seminar on the investigations into criminal acts by the former officers of the Stasi. There were two days of lectures and, I tell you very frankly, the two days passed slowly. It was the evening between the days that was interesting, my eyes were opened. I went to dinner that evening with an officer from Berlin on the special-investigation team, codenamed Zerv, and I met with a bitter man. The unit was denied the federal funding and the manpower it needed to be operationally efficient. A combination of covert obstruction and lack of a political will created, my dinner guest told me, a de facto amnesty for the Stasi. He said the attitude of government was that the prosecution of the Stasi for criminal offences would lead only to a further alienation of the people of the eastern part of our country. He was a disillusioned man – twice in a lifetime the German nation was confronted with the crimes committed by a totalitarian regime, and twice the blind eye had been turned to illegality. You give me the opportunity, Doktor Perkins, to stand beside that bitter and disillusioned officer.’

Albert Perkins ducked his head, the motion of respect. He could have done without the lecture, but listening to it was his route towards the facility he required for the next day.

‘The failure to prosecute the Stasi left the organization intact and emboldened, my dinner guest told me. He listed for me the prosecutions that could, should, have been brought. The theft of twenty-six billion DMs that should have gone to the treasury of a united Germany, four hundred cases of murder, torture and kidnapping, the destruction of the personality of many thousands of innocents. But that is the cold world of statistics. It was a good meal, we had the opportunity to eat well. But one story he told so disgusted me that the meal was an irrelevance. My guest investigated the death of a young man in the Stasi prison at Jena. He killed himself after the interrogation during which they played him a tape of the screams of a young woman and told him the screams, under torture, were those of his nine-months- pregnant girl-friend. There have been no prosecutions of the Stasi officers responsible for driving that young man to the despair of suicide.’

A deep frown of concern cut Albert Perkins’s forehead.

‘They are intact, Doktor Perkins. They have a network, an organization, to which we give the name of Seilschalften. They are the source of organized crime in the old East. They have links with criminals in Russia. They are behind the illicit movement of arms, the narcotics trade, the theft of cars, they are expert in the recycling of fraudulently obtained monies. Through inaction, when the chance was there, Doktor Perkins, we have made a monster. I offer you co-operation.’

Albert Perkins reached across the table and, with warmth, shook the hand of the police chief.

‘If the politicians can determine who is to be prosecuted, and who is not, then they have destroyed a cornerstone of democracy. You say, Doktor Perkins, that tomorrow is the critical day in this matter. I wish to help. I wish to do something in the name of that officer who was my guest at dinner in Berlin. Tomorrow you are welcome to sit with us.’

Albert Perkins went on his way, out into the night.

‘I think it is necessary that you lose him, for a month, for two months. I think he is damaged.’

The three video-cassettes, copies from the originals, had been couriered from the Lubyanka to the minister. He had watched the first fifteen minutes of the first cassette, then turned away, his face a lined, wearied portrait of pain. The General of military intelligence, GRU, his friend, had switched off the video player.

The General said, ‘He climbed too fast. He is a shooting star, brilliant in the night sky but burning out fast as it falls. He takes to bed with him the wife of a Stasi officer. That Stasi officer is now a prize exhibit of the Germans and talks to whoever will listen of his knowledge of Pyotr Rykov. Did the German share his wife with Pyotr Rykov? Was there compliance? If there was compliance where does it end? Or does it continue? Is he still linked with the German who calls him his closest friend? You would trust Rykov with your life, and I believe I would, but the cassettes ask questions that we cannot answer. If you protect him you make yourself vulnerable. He has damaged himself but he should not be permitted to damage you. You should lose him. If there is nothing else to compromise him, in a month or two months, you might call him back, with discretion. You should not seek to help him, if there is anything else. For now, you must distance yourself from him. It must not be you who is vulnerable.’

They cruised on the wide street.

Olive Harris was tolerably rested. She had read the local file and thought it inadequate. She had eaten, alone, in the staff canteen, apart from the security men and the night-duty secretaries and the communications team who worked late. The food had been indifferent.

They passed the surveillance car. She was pleased to see it in place. The city, until the moment she saw the car, had seemed disappointing. It was without threat, until she saw the car with the misted windows and the fumes spilling grey-white into the night air and the glow of the cigarettes. She had thrived on that feeling of threat and danger, half a career ago, when she had been here before and run agents and sidled to the dead letter boxes and played games with the tails. In London, she missed, more than anything else, that feeling. In London, in her small personal office, on the train and the bus that took her to and from work, she made a fantasy each day of threat and danger, as if to fill a void. They were ahead of the surveillance car and he murmured the number of the floor on which the target lived. Theie were three windows. Two were darkened; in the third a dull light speared the gap in the curtains. It was a shabby little block of apartments, which told her something of the target man. He was pulling away, one run down the street only. It was all in her mind, the street door, the width of the pavement, where they would stop in the morning and the position of the surveillance car. She eased back in her seat.

‘May I, Mrs Harris, ask a question of you?’

‘You can try.’

He stared straight ahead, eyes on the road, and his voice was clipped. ‘I’m just wondering what Rykov has done to us that he deserves our targeting him? That’s my question.’

‘For God’s sake, have you a problem?’

His voice was quiet and without emotion, and she thought he had stored the question through the day. ‘It’s pretty straightforward. What has Rykov done to deserve the action we are taking against him?’

‘Where are you starting from?’

‘Starting from? I’ve never met Rykov. I’ve only watched him from a distance and evaluated him. I listen to what people say about him. Actually, Mrs Harris, I’ve not heard a bad word said of him. He’s a patriot. He’s a man who cares about his country. You saw that grubby little apartment block – that’s not the home of a man on the make. With his position, his connections, he could live in style, snout in the trough, hand in the till, running rackets. What’s evil in this country is the degree of corruption and criminality. He’s not corrupt, he’s not criminal. That’s where I’m starting from. Why are we mounting a hostile operation against Pyotr Rykov?’

She said, tried to cut him down, ‘Been here a long time, haven’t you, David? Started to get to you? Going native, are you?’

He said, without anger, ‘I quite understand, Mrs Harris, if you are not willing to answer my question. I think he’s a good man. I think he’s a brave man. Of course, Mrs Harris, you have no obligation whatsoever to answer my question. I think also he was doomed before you came here. I think what he has fought against here would have beaten him anyway within a few months. He’d know that. Without you, in a few months or a couple of years at maximum, beaten, he’d have been pushed aside, shoved off to some mission in Ulan Bator or some crap job in Transbaikal, put out to grass. But that’s not your game, Mrs Harris. Your game is the immediate destruction of a fine man. You won’t mind me saying it, Mrs Harris, but I find your game distasteful and immoral. Well, here we are. I’ll see you in the morning.’

He stopped the car. The policeman at the embassy gates eyed them.

‘Not just gone native, gone squeamish.’

‘If you say so, Mrs Harris. You do know what will happen to him – yes, you’d know that… Sleep well, Mrs Harris.’

The wind on the street buffeted her. She gathered her coat around her and ran across the pavement on clattering heels, through the gates towards the lights and the warmth of the doorway.

‘What do you do, Josh, afterwards?’

She sat cross-legged on her bed. The carton of chips was on the blanket beside her hips, an opened can of Pepsi between her bare feet, and the cardboard tray for the pizza was on her lap.

‘There’s a bit has to happen yet.’

‘You said it, Josh, wasn’t me that said it. It was you said it had turned.’

‘Guilty, I said it. Probably shouldn’t have. When you’ve been kicked – we’ve been kicked – you need a light to walk towards. Just have to hope that was our light.’

He was hunched down on his mattress beside the door. He wore a clean white shirt that was already specked with leaked chilli sauce from his hamburger. He had already brushed the mud off his blazer jacket, as if it were important to him that he should smarten himself for a dinner of a hamburger with a young woman who had chosen pizza, fries and Pepsi.

‘Tomorrow it’s over – win, lose or draw,’ Josh said. ‘I shouldn’t dare to, but I believe it turned for us this evening. What you’ve waited for, nine years, tomorrow it’s over.’

‘What do we do tomorrow, when he comes in?’

Josh hung his head. He held the remnant of the hamburger. ‘Don’t know…’

She grinned, not cruel. She mocked so gently. ‘But you always krLow what to do, Josh.’

‘Not this time.’

She ate the last of her fries, crumpled the carton, threw it at the rubbish bin, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. The empty rooms of the pension below them, were cemetery quiet, with only the far murmur of the streets’ traffic.

‘Why did you go into the water, Josh?’

He blinked. He chewed the last mouthful. With a clean handkerchief he dabbed the sauce from his shirt. ‘Because of you, because of him, because of where your love for him has taken you, because of what you’ve given me… because you have shown me a road of honesty and truth and courage. I try to live on a creed of principles, and of course I fail. I try to be, and I can never achieve it, my own man. You gave me the strength, Tracy, to go into the water. I owed it to you.’

‘What will you do, afterwards?’

He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. ‘I go back. I have a couple of rooms on the top floor of this house – not too far from your mother’s street – and I’ll dump my bag. It will be precisely and exactly as I left it. I’ll load up my dirty washing and go down the stairs and if I meet anyone they’ll nod to me, but they won’t have noticed I’ve been away. The woman at the launderette wifi see my stuff through. I’ll walk over to the high street, the office of Greatorex, Wilkins amp; Protheroe, and I’ll look contrite and I’ll say it won’t happen again and I’ll grovel for my job. They’ll puff a bit, there’ll be a deal of talk about last chances and ingratitude, and there will be a pile of work about a mile high on my desk. At the end of the day I’ll go home past the launderette. In the evening, when it’s dark, private, I’ll go and talk to my wife and tell her about it. Back home, I’ll do my ironing, and I’ll go to bed and read a book, and I’ll sleep. Next morning, back to work – the magistrates’ courts, police interview rooms, the Britwell Estate, and the morning after, and the morning after that. That’s it, that’s afterwards.’

‘It’s not much, Josh.’

He pushed himself up. The rueful smile played at his mouth… It wasn’t much, it was sweet bugger all, but it was the truth of afterwards. The memories would be precious, and he would tell Libby, in the dark of the night, of his memories before he went back to the lonely solitariness of the rooms on the top floor of the house behind the London Road. He picked up her chips carton and her pizza tray and put them in the bin with her Pepsi can. He loosed his tie, pulled it from his collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

‘I’m sorry, Tracy, I’m dead on my feet, and I’m bloody poor company.’

She sat cross-legged on her bed and watched him.

‘It is policy and it is principle. When they go together it is when we walk with honour. When they are apart, conflict, then we crawl on our guts, in confusion.’

Julius Goldstein threw clothes from the drawers and wardrobe on to the floor. She walked the room and smoked. What she smoked, Moroccan stuff, was enough to have him thrown out of the BfV without question. They lived together in the Kreuzberg district of Berlin, in her apartment, alongside the immigrants, the students, the artisans and painters, because his girl said it was a stimulating place for her work. The apartment was her studio. She worked big canvases with oils and next year, maybe, she would sell one.

‘When they walk together, policy and principle, then I am happy and I applaud. This time they don’t, this time they fight, so we are in shit. The policy is easy. We have a man who gives us status. We take the man to America and feed off the status of the man. We are maggots, we wriggle around and we are happy little maggots, and the Americans love us and give us more status, and we are happier.’

He loved her, part for her mind and part for her body. She wore only her knickers and her roll-neck sweater, the bed was, as always, unmade, and her canvases were propped around the walls. She came from a big-shot family, industrials, from Frankfurt, and she didn’t have to live in a dump in Kreuzberg, and she didn’t have to live with a Jew. He was a token of fair- mindedness at BfV, and a token of her goddamn obstinacy. He didn’t know, didn’t ask, but he thought she might screw around while he was away. He began to throw the clothes, haphazard, into the bag.

‘The principle is not easy. It is full of shit. Our valued asset is guilty, unprovable but guilty, of murder. Never mind that he is an arrogant fuck-pig, he is a killer. We protect him, don’t investigate him.’

He had no dinner suit. For the Pentagon speech, and at dinner afterwards, he would wear a crumpled jacket and an open shirt. He believed he was safe from censure, whatever he wore, because he was the token Jew. His passport and the sachet of travellers’ cheques were on the table with her paint tubes and rags.

‘He should be investigated, prosecuted, locked up. All right, I am a Jew, but I don’t have the heavy thing. I am not obsessed with the camps, but… I go and buy a lottery ticket from an old man in a kiosk and he smiles so kindly at me – was he on the trains that took my grandparents to the camps? Was he in the camps’ watch-towers when my grandparents came off the train? I don’t know. I only know that the guilty were protected then. I see any old man who smiles at me and I have no trust for his smile. It is the same now – there can never be trust unless the guilty are prosecuted. Same then, same now, conflict of policy and principle, and it makes for a shit time.’

She stubbed out the joint of Moroccan stuff. She pulled on paint-smeared jeans. They liked a little Vietnamese place on the Mehring Damm. They’d eat there, and then he would drive to Rostock. That conflict, policy and principle, would be decided the next day.

‘I detest him. He is the same man that killed my grandparents. The same man… I try to be, first, a German, but for me it is impossible. I try to do my German duty and to obey my German orders, but it is impossible. Before I am a German, first I am a Jew. I detest him, and I will never forgive him and never forget what he has done. I am a Jew, I walk in the shadow of such a man. It does not mean that I am obsessed, as are my father and my mother, but it is inevitable. It is what I cannot escape from. I cannot forgive, as a Jew, and I cannot forget. Let’s go..

He went past the lines of the unlit windows.

He had taken them back from the tennis, after the applause. His daughter had punched the air in victory and the coach had come to congratulate him and Eva. The final of the under-fifteen tournament, girls, for Mecklenberg-Vorporren, would be played the next evening. He had driven them home in his wife’s car and left them.

Dieter Krause did what he had never done before: he sidled, walked slowly, past the unlit windows of the big block of red brick and dun concrete on August-Bebel Strasse.

He had never before felt the need to catch at the past. It was, to him, an act of weakness. His window had been on the second floor, the fifteenth window to the right of the main door. The building was now a district court for family and commercial affairs. There was a light in the hallway, behind the main door, but the windows of the second floor were darkened.

He lingered. He stared up. On a Tuesday night, nine years before, the panic call had been switched through to the room on the second floor. Eva had said she was working late that night at the shipyard. If she had not said that she would be working late, he would have been at home when the panic call had come through and the Duty Desk would have handled it, and there would have been delay in finding him. If there had been delay in finding him, if he had been later at the seashore at Rerik then, perhaps, the boy would have drowned in the Salzhaff or, perhaps, the boy would have been taken from the water by the Soviets or, perhaps, the boy would have come ashore and staggered away into the night, but the past could not be altered

The telephone had carried the call, a shrill bell of panic, into his office as he had been slipping on his coat, and he had answered it..

He gazed up at the window, on the second floor, fifteenth on the right from the main door.

He was the prisoner of the building on August-Bebel Strasse.

If he had not interrupted the shrill call of the telephone so long ago…

Josh lay on his back, the mattress on the floor hard under him.

He tried to think it through and make a plan for the morning, when the trawler boat returned to Warnemunde.

He heard her turning in her bed, and he knew she could not sleep.

There must be a plan for the morning, but he could not make the plan because his mind was cluttered with the day gone by, and the day before that, and the day before that. She heaved on the bed beside him, sighed, grunted as if a decision were made. Her blankets and sheets were pushed back, and he sensed the warmth of her foot close to his head. Her hands lifted the blankets that were tight around him. She snuggled against him, the heat of her body was with him, raw heat. He lay on his back and he clenched his hands tight together.

‘Is it wrong? It can’t be wrong.’

‘I don’t know whether it’s wrong or whether it’s right.’

‘You think of her?’

‘Only the bloody bad times. Only the times I was foul and shouldn’t have been, like it’s guilt. Calling back the good times gets harder.’

The warmth of her was against him. ‘She doesn’t own you, Josh, not now.’

His fingers were locked, entwined, hard as he could hold them. ‘She is all that I have to hold to.’

‘What you said, about afterwards, it doesn’t have to be that.’

Josh said, ‘Her funeral, I can remember it. It’s like it was an hour ago. There was the vicar, the box, the men who carried the box, the solicitor and the accountant, and there was me. We had two hymns and only the vicar sang. They carried the box out and put it in the ground and there was a man behind me with a long-handled shovel and a cigarette cupped in his palm. I wasn’t supposed to see the cigarette. I didn’t want to go, to leave the box, but he coughed, like he was telling me that it happened every day and he’d a bloody schedule to keep to, and would I, please, let him get on? The vicar knew the schedule, he shifted me.’

‘Your wife was lucky to have a proper prayer said over her, luckier than my Hans…’

His hands broke apart. He stretched out and she wriggled over his arm. Her head was on his shoulder.

‘It was the little that I knew about love, and it was the little that you knew, Tracy, about love.’

‘You’re making bloody speeches, Josh.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It can be better, afterwards…’

He held her. He felt a fear of her. The fear was that she would laugh at his clumsy love of her. He held her, small, against him. He heard the chuckle murmur from her, and she kissed his neck below his ear and her fingers unfastened the buttons of his pyjama top. He clung to her. He found the small shape, squashed against his chest, of her breasts where the fingers of the boy had been, and the boy was the past, and he believed himself to be the future. The blankets climbed above them. She kissed his mouth and seemed to take from him the oiled salt stench of the water and the cold. He whispered, apologized, that he did not have anything. She whispered, cheerful, that it did not matter. They loved in quiet deep desperation. She was, to him, a child, and his hands moved with gentleness down from the smoothness of her stomach, and he no longer thought of the boy. She was the love light in his life. She gripped, narrow, muscled, small legs, around the width of his hips and across the breadth of his back. Her nails raked his back. He was deep within her. The sweat warmth of his stomach and her stomach shut away the cold. It was love, it was beauty, it was together. She shouted his name… his name, not the boy’s name… He had reached her and touched her… He felt a great slow growing sense of pride, because they were together, because they shared love.

‘You are brilliant, you know that? Not just now, all the time, you are fantastic.’

He came off her, out of her. She lay with her wet warmth on him.

‘Thank you, Knautschke, for giving me happiness, thank you little hippopotamus for coming out of the mud.’

She giggled, ‘Daft bugger.’

She broke his hold. Her thigh was across his waist and her heel massaged between his legs. She leaned across him, her breasts hung fluttering on his chest.

‘What’s afterwards, Josh, for us? Not the crap you told me. What’s afterwards, Josh, for you and me?’