With Your Crooked Heart

  It’s getting colder. It’s not light yet, but the darkness has a greyish feel. The kitten’s mewing: maybe he can feed it without waking Anna.

  There she is, lying on her back. Every time her breath comes out it whistles, like a sigh. It’s a lonely sound, and he wonders if he makes a sound like that when he’s sleeping. He leans over her, close, trying to see her face. Suddenly she moans, as if she’s got a pain. But she’s still asleep. He doesn’t want to wake her. Very gently, he pats her cheek.

  ‘It’s all right, Anna, I’m here,’ he says. ‘I’ll look after you.’ He’s never said anything like that to anybody. He’d never dare say it, at home. There, it’s his mum who does the looking after, and she doesn’t want anyone interfering with it, any more than she wants him and his dad messing about in her kitchen.

  He’d better stay awake and keep a look-out, in case Anna moans like that again. It’ll be morning soon, and they can try the little stove. He chose a dark-blue one, with a little brass burner, and he’s stored the gas cylinder well away from it, like the man told him. They bought a cool-box, and bread and butter, and milk and chocolate powder. He was going to buy bacon, but then he thought better of it. The neighbours would be on to them, at the smell of frying bacon. The stove’s perfect: it hasn’t a scratch or a splash of fat on it. He hugs the thought of the little stove, and waits for morning.

  Thirty-four

  There’s a rap at the door.

  ‘Room service.’

  You turn to Johnnie. ‘Who’s that?’

  He’s out of the bunk, fast and silent, stepping soundlessly to the door. He motions to you to keep back.

  ‘It can’t be room service in the middle of the night.’ You mouth the words more than say them.

  Then the rapping comes again.

  ‘Room service. Room service.’ The voice is flat, loud, bored.

  You can hear the chink of china — or is it glasses?

  For a second you still don’t know why the words stroke your skin with ice, and then you do.

  ‘Johnnie,’ you whisper. ‘I didn’t order anything, did you?’

  The rapping again, even louder. Don’t they know they’re disturbing people? Johnnie stumbles as the boat swings, and catches at the door handle.

  ‘Room service. Pot of tea ordered for Cabin 30.’

  Johnnie still has his hand on the handle. To open it you have to press the middle of the handle in, then twist.

  You hold his hand still. ‘They’ll go away if you don’t answer. They don’t know you’re here.’

  You look behind you at the bright box of your cabin, the round black porthole, the heap of bedclothes. The bunks are bolted to the floor. There’s nothing you can wedge against the handle to stop them coming in.

  ‘Don’t, Johnnie. Don’t open it.’

  But his hand is on the door handle, and you’re fighting to unpeel his fingers.

  ‘Keep out of it, Lou. It’s got nothing to do with you. I’ll sort it out.’

  You grab at him but he throws you off against the bathroom wall. And you’re splayed there, staring, as he twists the knob and pulls the door open.

  There is no one there. You see Johnnie step forward, peering right and left, and you come into the doorway. The corridor is bright and empty. To the right are Cabins 31—40, to the left Cabins 20—29. There are arrows pointing to the emergency exits, with the figure of a running man. On the floor outside your cabin there is a tray with a teapot on it, two cups and saucers, and several foil-topped packages of milk. The china clinks with the movement of the ship. It’s the sound of tea-time, safety, home. There’s a littie note folded on the tray. Johnnie stoops and unfolds it, and you both read: Complimentary Service, With the Goodwill of the Management.

  ‘And there was I thinking all sorts,’ you say. ‘Is the tea hot?’ Johnnie bends to feel the pot, nods.

  ‘They must have just left it and gone away,’ you say. But you can’t help looking up and down the corridor again. ‘You going to bring that tea inside, Johnnie? We might as well drink it, seeing as it’s here.’

  ‘You have it if you want,’ says Johnnie. ‘I’ve had enough of being stuck down here. I want some fresh air.’

  ‘You can’t go up on deck. They had the doors barred, remember?’

  ‘They’ll be open now. You have a sleep if you want. I’ll bring you something down.’

  But you don’t feel right. You don’t want to be down here in the cabin on your own, with people banging on the door bringing you stuff you haven’t ordered. You’ll be glad to get off this ship. ‘I’ll come up with you. Just give me a minute, and I’ll wash my face.’

  Johnnie waits while you peer into the mirror, wiping your face with Baby Wipes. Your skin’s greasy, even though you haven’t slept. Thank God you’ve still got the kind of thick, wavy hair that only needs a comb through it. It’s about all that’s left on the plus side. Your face squints back at you in the metal mirror and you spit on a tissue to get a fleck of mascara out of your eye. There. That’ll do for now. Just a coat of fresh mascara and some powder and you’ll be respectable.

  ‘Pour me a cup of that tea, Johnnie,’ you call through the bathroom door. You hear the cups clinking. Johnnie hasn’t bothered to bring in the tray. He must be crouched down in the doorway pouring it. Then a cup smashes.

  ‘You OK, Johnnie?’ you call, but he doesn’t answer. You won’t rush out to help, he hates it when you fuss. Probably trying to open one of those stupid milk things, then he knocked the cup over.

  ‘Johnnie?’

  You frown into the mirror. You hope he hasn’t spilled the whole caboodle, because you were looking forward to that cup of tea. Or that’s what you tell yourself, to quieten the chatter of panic in your ears.

  ‘Johnnie?’

  He still doesn’t answer. Slowly, watching your own hands, you put down your make-up bag. You turn away from the mirror. The cabin is so tiny you could reach out and touch him if the shower-room door didn’t get in the way. You take a breath, and push open the door.

  But the cabin is quite empty. The outer door is still open, and there’s the tea-tray on the floor. A cup lies in pieces in a swill of pale-brown tea that is slowly spreading across the corridor lino. That was the noise you heard, but now everything is perfectly still, perfectly quiet, apart from the groaning of the ship. There is no one there. For a moment the thought possesses you that Johnnie’s gone to get a cloth to wipe up the mess. But something in your body is thinking quicker than you, and in less than ten seconds it has turned you back, made you pick up the cabin key and step out into the corridor on silent feet. You click the door shut behind you. You tread noiselessly along the white corridor where the lights buzz, captured in their wire cages. You have your balance now. Nothing that this sea can throw at you is going to frighten you. You know these narrow, pitching gangways now, and the steep flights of stairs. You can find your way. You carry on, keeping close to the wall. At the turn of the corridor, you inch forward, smoothing yourself against the wall. Again there’s nothing. Another blank, shining tunnel of lino and cream paint. Someone’s left a pair of trainers with ripped soles outside a cabin door. Halfway down the corridor there’s a stairway, but it doesn’t take you anywhere: as you open the door, a thick, oily wave of smell and noise rolls out towards you. The stairway goes down to the car-deck. Could he be down there? It’s a good, quiet place. But they have video cameras on car decks, don’t they, in case of fire? He’ll be somewhere dark, where a camera can’t reach. You let go of the door and its rubber seal wheezes as it shuts.

  At the end of the corridor there are more arrows, pointing upwards. You’ll follow them. There’ll be people up there. If you go through the barriers that say CREW ONLY you’re sure to find someone. There’s got to be a captain to steer the ship. You go on up. At the top a noise makes you jump, but it’s only a video game beeping to itself in an alcove. Ahead there’s a darkened room, marked RESTAURANT. More stairs lead upwards on to the boat deck, and a draught moves agai
nst your legs.

  You climb into colder air which smells of metal. No one’s about. There are two deck doors here, one on your right and one on your left. You can feel a thin, fresh slice of wind piping through the gaps. You go over and push down hard on the bar, and it gives way. The bars must have been unlocked in the night.

  Wind seizes the doors, bellying into your mouth and hair and dress. You snatch at your skirt but it flies up, and then you’ve slammed the door shut and you’re on the outside, slithering on the wet deck in your bare feet, crushed by the industrial noise of the sea. You’re by the engine vents. There’s enough light seeping out for you to see the shiny deck tipping away from you. You hardly dare look at the sea. But the sky isn’t black now. The rain has stopped and there’s a dirty wash of grey on your right. The ship ploughs and shudders but your heart rises. It’s the dawn. Daylight’s coming and the ship’s on its way to land. You know it’s going to be all right now that the night is over, if you can just find Johnnie.

  Behind you are the black outlines of the lifeboats. You’ll go that way first. You hold on to the railings, and go hand over hand, your feet catching in the puddles. Far below you the sea churns, but you don’t look at it or think about it. The lifeboat hangs over your head, monstrous. You are past the middle of the ship and you can look down the deck, but still you don’t see anyone, and you don’t hear anything but the ship and the sea. You don’t dare to call out.

  You almost miss them. You almost fall on them. On your right, in the shadow of a tarpaulined stack of life-rafts, there are three men. You don’t connect them with Johnnie. You think you’ve stumbled on sex. One man with another lying in his lap, a third kneeling between the legs of both, applying something to the face of the man with his face upturned, who looks as if he is sprouting black roses on his cheeks. Then you hear the noise the man is making, deep in his throat. You’ve heard it before, you know you have. A panting noise, a noise you’ve made yourself as you fought not to push.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ says the kneeling man. He is working hard, concentrating, and you watch mindlessly for half a second before the picture falls into shape and you know what they are doing.

  They haven’t seen you or heard you. You could dip down now, melt behind the pile of rafts and wait for it to stop. It will stop.

  You dive. You come on the kneeling man from behind, your hands spread. You bring them in and go for his eyes. Your fingers rake for the soft balls of his eyes, your nails rip and tear. He screams out and rears up backward to knock you off, and your feet slip. He knocks you back and you fall with his weight on you, and strike the back of your head on the deck.

  When you can see again there’s a man facing you, astride you. There’s enough light for you to see the tears of blood down his face, but you don’t connect them to yourself. The man astride you lifts your head and slams it back against the deck again. You feel the salt spray in your mouth as you bite your own tongue. You kick and try to bring your knees up but you can’t do anything. Again, he cups your head and drags it up. Your faces stare into each other, then he bangs you down. He grabs your wrists and grinds them against the deck, grunting with effort so that a thread of his spit drops on your face. You writhe sideways and suddenly there is Johnnie’s face within six inches of your own. His eyes are open, staring, his cheeks black with blood. He sees you and recognizes you but he says nothing. His arms don’t come out to touch you and you see that they are behind him, tied. Another man is standing over you now and his shoe stamps on your hand. You jerk up and then you can’t see Johnnie any more.

  Because the men stay silent you know what kind they are. But you’re no longer able to know much, because of the breaking up inside your head. For a moment you see some writing but before you have time to read it, it disappears. Hands grasp your elbows, hands grasp your ankles. The wind rushes as you are lifted up into it. Gently, you start to swing. They let you dandle there, to give you time to guess what’s going to happen next, or maybe they’re just working out how to do it. They breathe hard, because you are a heavy woman. You try to scream but cough instead because of the blood in your mouth. They swing you harder. Up you go, and down, and up again, and down, hitting your foot against the life-rafts, and then you are flying.

  You strike the sea at the best possible angle. There is no chance of swimming, though you are a good swimmer. The waves are on top of you at once, and they take care of you in the way the sea’s always done. All those times you’ve stepped near it and got away: it won’t happen now. When you leaned out over the dirty Thames and your dad’s hands swung you back.

  You are aware of him coming towards you in a small boat with an outboard engine, negotiating the treacherous currents as skilfully as any paid pilot. He is sitting in the back of the boat, steering, but his eyes never leave your face. He knows exactly where you are. All you have to do is to keep swimming until he catches up with you. He is coming in fast, judging the angle at which he will turn and sweep alongside you, then kill the engine and lift you over the side of the boat.

  You think you are swimming strongly, with the slow and steady stroke he taught you Saturday morning after Saturday morning. You were always first in the water when the Baths opened. You can go on for ever like that, your Dad told you. Just relax. The water’s there to hold you up. But you are not swimming at all.

  Thirty-five

  It’s another of those rare, hot April mornings. The birds sing with a brilliance they’ll have forgotten in another month. Louise’s garden is packed with still, blue air, but the stone of the terrace is cold. It’s April, not August, and the sun hasn’t yet come round the side of the house.

  The French windows are shut, and locked from the inside. In the tent both children sleep, and will sleep on until ten o’clock in the morning, in spite of the noise of a London day outside the walls. They are exhausted. David stayed awake until the sun came up, and fed the kitten while Anna slept. The kitten sucked up the milk instantly, spat out the teat of the medicine dropper, shook his head, and sneezed. He wants more than that, thought David, and he poured milk into a plastic bowl from their new camping set. He set the wobbly kitten down on the floor of the tent, and showed him the milk. The kitten dipped his head, and his muzzle sank deep into the milk, shocking him into another sneeze. He quivered all over, backing off from the bowl. David tipped the bowl and a small stream of milk ran out and puddled at the kitten’s feet. The kitten bent to it, sniffed it, and suddenly he found his tongue and was lapping as if he’d done it all his life. The milk shrank away and was gone: he’d drunk it, all on his own. Wait till I tell Anna, David thought, and poured another puddle of milk. Soon he’d have him trained to the bowl.

  The kitten is back in his basket, the boy in his sleeping-bag. There’s a shiver in the undergrowth and a cat steps out, her back high, her nose twitching. She can smell the kitten. She halts by the rolled-up tent-flap, and paws it delicately. She is feral, orange, thin as a whip except for the taut bundle of kittens that stretches the skin under her ribs. She knows this garden better than anyone. She was born here. The smell of the kitten goads her, strange and yet not strange, spreading out on to her territory. She wants to get close enough to it to turn it over and over with her paw. She might take to it, on some whim as steely as her thin backbone.

  She takes one step into the tent, puts a paw on to Anna’s sleeping-bag and kneads the fabric enquiringly. Something flies past the tent, at the edge of her field of vision. She springs round and upwards, her paw flashing as she leaps to knock the butterfly out of the air. But the kittens in her belly make her heavy, and she misses. The white butterfly spirals higher, like blown paper, out of her reach. Instantly the cat walks away from her failure, to the patch of sunlight which has just struck the corner of the terrace. She settles into the stone, moving her body from side to side as if she is nesting. The patch of sun spreads as she settles, covering her, lighting up sparks in her orangeness. She kneads her belly against the stone so that even while she lies down she s
eems to prowl, searching, assessing, defying the weight of her pregnancy to be a hunter still. Suddenly she arches, opening out her body to its full length, revealing the swollen underside of her body and her nipples. She squirms on the stone, and lashes her tail from side to side in an ecstasy of sunlight. A few seconds later, she is asleep.

  The boat from Harwich heads north-east on a quietening sea. The drum of the engines is steady, although occasionally the contents of the boat shudder, like a crateful of bottles. Things slip and slide, and are put back in place. There is a flash of sun from time to time, and a few people have finished their breakfast and are going up on deck. A member of the crew is busy unlashing a heap of deckchairs which have been stowed under canvas, as if the sun might really come out and people might come on deck to lie with their faces turned upward, their heads nodding to a private dribble of music. Someone might even consider it worth taking a photograph.