They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

62 27 September 2011

‘Baked beans!’ Bruno had suddenly woken up, and to my concern was running excitedly in and out of the wheelhouse onto the rear deck of the boat. He appeared to be pointing up at the sky. ‘Baked beans!’ he said again. ‘Baked beans, Mama!’

I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘You’re full of beans, suddenly, aren’t you, darling?’

‘Noooo, Mama!’ he said, stamping his foot and still pointing upwards. ‘There!’

The sky might have clouded over, giving us cover from the moonlight, but the payback was the sea getting progressively rougher in the rising wind. I was starting to feel a little queasy and was more than happy to go out of the shelter of the cabin into the fresh air of the heaving deck, despite the strong stench of rotten fish and disinfectant.

Adam le Seelleur had become marginally less frosty after we’d left Bouley Bay and headed out into the open sea, telling me we were taking a long route to avoid the slim chance of being picked up on the St Catherine’s radar, and he’d pointed out our position on the satellite screen. We were currently one nautical mile west of the Les Minquiers, a group of islands and rocks nine miles south of Jersey. Nicos, Bruno and I had picnicked there in happier days.

I was looking up, trying to see what Bruno was pointing at so excitedly. And then suddenly I saw it. There were twin aerials on the roof of the cabin. And on top of one was something that did look like a can. I switched on my phone torch and hauled myself up onto the roof, hanging on a little precariously, but the distraction was keeping my seasickness at bay.

I pointed the beam up and saw a tin of Heinz baked beans stuck to the top of the right-hand aerial. ‘You are right!’ I shouted back to him.

Then I jumped down and went back into the cabin, followed by Bruno. ‘Are you aware someone’s stuck a tin of baked beans on the top of one of your aerials, Mr le Seelleur?’

He was sat at the wheel, a swinging, gimballed compass in front of him, staring ahead into the darkness through the windscreen. ‘What of it?’

‘I thought you might want to know,’ I replied, a little taken aback by his curt reply.

‘I do know,’ he said, his voice surly again, then continued staring ahead. He reached up and made an adjustment to the navigation screen. ‘Why would I not know?’

‘I... I thought maybe it had been put there by some kids as a prank, or blown there.’

‘I never put to sea without checking my boat carefully, lady. There’s nothing on board that shouldn’t be here. Except you and the kid,’ he said, rummaging in his oilskin jacket pocket. After a moment he produced a packet of cigarette papers and a pouch.

‘What’s that?’ Bruno asked him, pointing at a green screen with elliptical dots moving across it.

‘The radar, kid,’ he said. ‘I use it to hunt for fish. Except we’re not hunting fish tonight, are we?’

‘Why not? Why aren’t we fishing?’ Bruno asked.

Le Seelleur began rolling a cigarette single-handedly. As he did so he shook his head, turning to me. ‘That’s the transponder aerial. The can muffles the signal. I put it there to stop us being tracked. A beer can would work fine too.’ He sparked his cigarette with a plastic lighter and moments later, as he exhaled, I smelled that delicious sweet, pungent aroma.

It was tantalizing.

I’d quit smoking soon after Roy and I had married, but he had carried on, admittedly only having the occasional cigarette. But there were times when I honestly believed he only did it to piss me off. I was tempted to ask le Seelleur now if he could roll me one. But I hesitated because Bruno — in his awake mode — would see me.

Instead I went down for’ard, and into the boat’s primitive loo. Here I took a small amount of methadone.

Emerging a couple of minutes later, the world without Nicos already seemed a better place. It was amazing to be out here, in the middle of the sea, on the way to my totally new life!

The colour of the darkness seemed so intense. So black. Our wake sparkled like a trillion Swarovski crystals scattered behind us.

Then I remembered something very, very important.

My phone. Well, what was now my old phone. My old ‘job’ phone.

I looked at my watch. 2 a.m. Then at the phone.

And something struck me as odd. No text or WhatsApp from Nicos. No missed call. Odd but good. Great, in fact.

The display glowed a deep blue. I checked quickly through my messages just to be sure there wasn’t anything I had missed or needed to respond to.

Like what, doofus? Duh!

Then I threw it over the side and never even heard the splash.

‘Bye bye, old life!’ I murmured. Aware this wasn’t for the first time. But, hell, who was it who said that life is a series of chapters in a book?

Time to turn the page.

And I had another phone. The one I had bought in England two days ago, with a great package allowing me to make calls in Europe at no more cost than those in England. Nicos didn’t know this number, of course, and I had no intention of ever giving it to him. In my mind, Nicos was already part of my history.

It seemed only minutes later that our captain was pointing ahead, through the wheelhouse window. There was a faint yellow glow in the distance, but as I looked I could see a clear bright red light to our left and an equally clear green one to our right.

‘See them?’ he asked. ‘The red and green?’

‘I can.’

‘Marking the channel taking us to Saint-Malo harbour entrance.’

He hit a couple of switches on the panel in front of him, turning on the port and starboard navigation lights as well at the masthead light, and looked back at me, still taciturn but at least not frosty. ‘Now we’re legal.’

It seemed he had warmed to me — to us. Not that I thought he was ever going to be my best mate, but at least — maybe I’m flattering myself — he did seem to be a little more friendly as we approached the harbour moles, still in the pitch darkness of the cloudless night.

Bruno was now fast asleep on a bunk down below, seemingly oblivious in his tiredness to the musty smells of damp and the noxious reek of diesel fumes. It was just a relief he’d not been seasick on the entire voyage.

Dawn would be starting to break soon. Dawn of a new day and the start of my — our — new life.

I’d booked a rental car from Sixt, who were located at the Saint-Malo ferry terminal. The only problem was they didn’t open until 8.30 a.m. Our skipper had already made it clear he wasn’t going to hang around and risk getting questioned by any port officials. As soon as we were off his boat, he was back out to sea and looking to do some proper fishing, so that he would return to Jersey with a catch and not arouse any suspicion by berthing empty-handed.

The sea was calm and the air was much warmer now we were in the shelter of the harbour. If we couldn’t find a cafe, we’d hunker down on a bench or in a doorway. My sleepless night was starting to take a toll on me.

I woke a grumpy Bruno and, perfunctorily assisted by Adam le Seelleur, who had reverted to his default setting of surly, we managed to safely get the luggage and Bruno up a steep, slippery stone staircase and onto the quay.

‘Good luck,’ le Seelleur said, with a level of enthusiasm that reminded me of one of the miserable croupiers at the Casino d’Azur every time I placed a bet.

I watched the fisherman descend those steps, agile as a mountain goat, unwind the rope from around a bollard, then jump aboard his boat, which was already drifting away from the quay.

I sat on a bench, holding Bruno’s hand, our bags on the ground in front of us, watching the lights of the boat as they headed towards the harbour mouth, both the lights and the beat of his engine getting weaker and quieter with every second that passed.

‘Mama, why can’t we go fishing with him?’ Bruno asked, suddenly.

‘Because,’ I said, and paused, searching for an answer. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us.’

‘Why?’

I looked at my son, almost too tired to answer. ‘Because we have a long way to go.’

‘Is Nicos coming with us?’ he asked.

‘He’s busy, darling. I don’t think he is.’

Bruno gave me a strange look. Then, out of the blue, he said, ‘I’m glad!’

Astonished and delighted by how perceptive he was, I said, ‘You’re glad, my darling? Why?’

‘He’s not nice. You’re sad when you are with him, Mama.’

Those words, those few words, coming from my little son, almost brought tears to my eyes. How could he be so wise?

God, I just wanted to scoop him up into my arms and hug and hug him. And hug him again.

I put my arm around him, staring down at the fishing boats and the yachts, their rigging clattering in the wind. I sat there like that for a long time, and although I had no idea what really lay ahead, other than a twelve-hour drive, I felt a sudden burst of optimism.

Everything was going to be all right. It was going to be just fine. And this child of mine was my biggest ally.

I looked down at him and mussed his hair with my right hand. He swept my hand away, irritated. ‘Don’t do that, Mama.’

I grinned. There were so many times when he seemed far too advanced for his age. ‘Why not, my darling?’

He did not reply for some moments. When I looked at him, I saw the reason — he was asleep.

God, how I envied him that, at this moment. We had a twelve-hour drive ahead of us and I’d not so far had one wink of sleep. I closed my eyes and tried, sitting upright, with Bruno leaning against me. And managed at least five minutes.

Then I was wide awake again, fretting about the journey ahead, and about what we would find on arrival.

Meantime, there was something much more pressing. My methadone was running dangerously low. I really needed more. I had enough to get me through the next three days, but beyond that I was on my own.

And on my own was not a good place.