The German Numbers Woman

  After lunch he said he would go for another stroll into town. ‘Twice a day now, to get my legs into shape. I shan’t be able to walk much once I’m on board, but I’ll need to be halfway fit.’

  He wanted to go faster than usual, but speed could be dangerous. He counted the steps, tapping the cassette in his pocket every moment or two to make sure it hadn’t gone walkabout, the most important thing in his life at the moment. He must go with care to avoid falling smack on his face; worse if he rolled and damaged the tape. He went with purpose nevertheless, the gulls crying about their hardships in the world. God would look after his own, but even they howled enviously, as if aware of his purpose.

  The tap-tap of his stick lost its usual rhythm, and he didn’t wait the normal time before getting over the road. Brakes failed to disturb him, as did shouts and hooters disputing his passage. ‘You silly old bastard! Are you blind or summingk?’ a skinhead crowed, half out of his van door.

  Two young lads were shouting, but why bother cursing back? – though the impulse was there. When the end came, however it did (and it came for everyone) there’d be only blackness, nothing, a clean finish, neither them nor anyone to be met again.

  He walked along the High Street without smiling, counted the shops till he came to the post office and stationers. Back at the wireless he would write the weather from Portishead, build a picture of what sea and sky would be like when they set out from Plymouth.

  He stood at the counter and pulled the tape from his pocket. ‘I’d like a Jiffy bag for this, please.’

  She knew him, as who didn’t in town? ‘Not your usual time, is it, Howard?’

  ‘I fancied a walk.’

  She fitted the tape in. ‘Is it your favourite pop group?’

  He tried to smile. ‘A little thing I found on the beach this morning. I expect somebody dropped it, so I’ll post it on to lost property. Some poor young person might be pining for it. So will you write for me – Chief Superintendent, Police Station, Sharbrooke Road? Honesty is the best policy I always think.’ He was surprised at how little it cost when the scales had registered, a mere few pence for such a time bomb, if anyone was able to diffuse it.

  ‘You’re right there. It’s good of you.’ She stapled the envelope, and he joined the queue at the stamps counter. Slow and cautious on the way back, he felt nevertheless as if he didn’t belong anywhere, wasn’t part of the world, more in tune now with the squeals of the gulls, whose noise told him they were waiting to be taken to a land of peace and plenty where they would shriek and manoeuvre no more. On the boat he would know where he belonged. Waiting would have been a torment whether blind or not. Too late to pull the packet back.

  Part Three

  A Hero of the Code

  TWENTY-FOUR

  No imagining ever came close to the real thing. You could pitch yourself into the future from the comfort of a room on shore and just about size up what it would be like. Past experience, combined with a sympathetic push of cognition through the limits of understanding into half-known situations – that was more or less it. He should have realised that on the Scoreboard of such a business you’d be lucky to manage two out of ten.

  Penlee Point was behind, Eddystone somewhere ahead, or would be soon enough. This much he knew. In the meantime everything superfluous to his guts was going over the side. At least he had made allowances for that, though the weakness depressed him.

  He’d come aboard with Richard from near Plymouth. ‘We’ll hide the fact that you can’t see for as long as we can. Just keep your eyes down and act drunk.’ And now he was half seas over, and the sea seemed half over him, head against the wood, discouraged by the smell of a savoury meal from Ted Killisick’s galley, the same gulls mocking that might have followed the car from home.

  An hour before departure, Laura was stuffing sweaters and books on tape into his bag. How would he find time to be bored? Unless some unforeseen event turned his holiday into forever, or he never came home and they’d become useful in the next world, or they would form the basis for beginning civilisation from scratch. She was still ironing a white shirt – as if he might be required to dress for dinner at the invitation of some local consul – when Richard came to the door.

  You were never so close to earth as when taking in the salt smell of the sea, droplets hitting hands and face like grits of sand. Even the continual earthquake of his stomach afforded a smile, proof at least that he was on his way; and by the time they found out he was blind there would be no turning back. Equilibrium was doubly precious to a blind man stricken with mal de mer. He didn’t need eyes to see the turmoil of the sky, or the stern old God who may well have been looking down on him. Richard had called it a squall, the last time passing, a bit of nothing, but up the boat went, and down the boat came, all hundred and fifty feet of her, yet bashing powerfully along.

  Pushing him up the gangway, Richard had called to George Cleaver one side of the rail and Paul Cinnakle the other: ‘I got him out of the pub. Been soaking his bloody self all day. Blind drunk isn’t the term for it.’

  ‘It’s a good thing Waistcoat ain’t here yet,’ Cleaver said. ‘He don’t like lushes.’

  Richard helped him to a bunk, came back later with a sandwich and tin of Coke, telling him to stay wide of the bridge till they were well at sea, and even then not to push his way in. ‘They’ll probably sling us both over the side when they know.’

  Howard was in no state to bother. Richard watched him from the stern. He hadn’t banked on having a helpless twelve-stone baby on board. On shore he’d been chipper enough, so assumed he’d be getting about the boat on his own by now. No use trying to shame or bully him, and he was best in his hideaway in any case, Waistcoat being nervy and jumping at everyone, as always at the start of a trip. It would be better if he didn’t find out till calmer times, though he’d still do his little spectacular, probably bigger than they’d ever seen. He touched Howard on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be all right in a while, shipmate.’

  ‘Oh, I know I shall.’ His face was serene, a smile in spite of the dark waters of ages past trying to engulf him. He rejected the picture absolutely, knowing he must. ‘I’ll try a walk soon.’

  ‘Hold on tight when you do. We don’t want to lose you. Or I don’t anyway.’

  He could even laugh. ‘You won’t.’

  ‘Scoff these, in the meantime.’ He took a packet of biscuits from his pocket. ‘They’re the best things out.’

  A dying man feels better after eating, Howard supposed, though he still dies. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  ‘I’ll get you to your bunk. You’ll be OK tomorrow.’

  But would he, so soon? He might. He had to be. The radio had given a low synopsis, though not so bad, with wind variable, northwest, two to three in strength, and visibility fair, outside the squalls. ‘I’m sure I shall,’ though his putty face didn’t suggest as much to Richard. ‘You won’t hold me soon. I’ll be all over the boat.’

  ‘That’s the stuff.’ Richard made his way to the bridge, where Cleaver was at the wheel. ‘We’re doing well. Dead on two-o-five at twelve knots. As long as that light don’t go out in front. God swept it away once, didn’t He? But it won’t crack up in this I think.’

  ‘Where’s the chief?’

  He turned. ‘How should I know? In his cabin sewing a button on his waistcoat, I expect. The less I see of him the better. He’s in his usual bad mood.’

  Richard hoped he would stay out of the way for the first few days. ‘A lot of lows lurking about.’

  ‘I’m ploughing on, that’s all I know. We’ll lose ’em later. I can’t wait to see the dolphins.’

  He played with the idea that maybe it would be wise to tell Waistcoat about Howard’s disadvantage as a sailor before he discovered it himself. His usual feeling would have been to leave well alone, but for the first time in his life he wasn’t sure. ‘You don’t advise disturbing the chief?’

  ‘Not a good idea. Wait for him to disturb you. He will, soon
enough. He’ll find something to go off his head about. He always does. There’s the light. We’re spot on. By the time we pass it’ll be your turn to take over.’

  ‘I’ll have a stroll beforehand.’

  ‘How’s that pie-eyed chap you brought on board?’

  ‘He’s getting over it,’ Richard said.

  ‘He looked as if he’d been swimming in it. Never seen such eyes. Fluttering like a butterfly just out of the pickle jar.’

  ‘He’ll be all right soon. You’d better watch that tanker coming up the Channel.’

  The lighted flank of a building slid towards them on the other side of the light. ‘I’ve seen him,’ he snapped, as if his competence was being queried. ‘I’ll pass behind.’

  Howard stood, as if he too wanted to see the light blinking in the dusk, and the tanker going by. He might swim to it and get a lift home, certainly felt the backwash. If Laura was on the beach she would see it in the morning, but she was a minuscule figure, no longer real. Richard put a hand on his shoulder. A zone of murky orange flooded from the west: fires being stoked, moiling and fusing northwards, metal blue between the clouds. ‘I’m not sure the weather’s going to be all that much improved tomorrow.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m feeling better,’ not so much in his stomach but from the shock of leaving everything behind. He’d left even himself out there in the darkening east, tapping his way, day in and day out, around the dull town. ‘I’ll have a go at the radio in the morning.’

  ‘It’s early days,’ Richard said. ‘There’ll be a meal later, if you can take it.’

  He turned towards the sunset as if he too could see the closing of the day. ‘I’ll stick to biscuits for a while. Then I can look forward to breakfast. I suppose the boat will be pretty loaded on the way back.’

  Richard saw no point not being open. ‘We’ll keep the deck above water, though what won’t go in this boat can be put in another.’

  ‘The one Judy’s on?’

  ‘That I don’t know. If they’re still there. They could be going in another direction altogether.’

  ‘Where might that be?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. At least I don’t. It may be irrelevant to us where they’re going.’

  Howard guessed that he did know, but wasn’t saying. ‘Maybe I can pick them up on the radio later.’

  ‘I hope not. Everybody’s supposed to keep to radio silence. Anyone breaks that, and they’re dead – a bullet in the brain, and tipped overboard.’ No doubt about that, whoever it might be. The silly bitch had done enough damage already. ‘You won’t hear her anymore.’

  ‘Unless we meet her?’

  ‘There’s always that. Maybe she’ll come on board when we get to the beach. Everything’s in the air, except where we’re concerned.’

  His stomach was no longer a needle floating in alcohol, the man from home having joined him now, back together in one body on the bouncing boat, forging towards the end point of his search. All those nights of talking to her girlfriend had built up a picture in his planetarium of a mind, and in a few days he might stand close, hearing nuances in her voice not possible or apparent over the radio.

  Richard took his arm. ‘You’re wet and cold. Be a shame to go down with hypothermia. Better get to your bunk.’

  He would fall asleep by thinking of Judy, then dreaming about her. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Laura said I was to take care of you, but it might not be possible every minute of the day.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but we ought to stay close.’ Should Howard go overboard, for whatever reason, expedient or otherwise, Richard knew he could have Laura to himself for as long as he wanted, or as long as she could go on caring for him. ‘I’m so easy to seduce, aren’t I?’ she said, after the first time. ‘Only when you want to be,’ he told her. Recalling the three occasions they had been together, he knew he must see her again, and it would make no difference whether Howard got back or not, though because of his promise he would have to make sure he did. The responsibility bothered him, a bond he didn’t know how to unravel.

  Having no right to be on board didn’t worry Howard. He was at last where he wanted to be, and this was his life for as far as he could see ahead – now they were so far from land. He was alone, in spite of the crew around him, and whatever happened he was indestructible, because the boat was going exactly where he wanted it to go.

  Following Richard, he registered every plank of the architecture, feeling his way so that he would sooner be able to move on his own, a small world to master. Obstacles were noted, he counted steps, the height of a door latch. They met Scuddilaw coming on deck. ‘Still out of action, is he?’

  ‘He won’t be in the morning.’

  Scud’s laugh had a touch of envy. ‘I’d be lucky to get over a bender like that, at least without getting a string of ulcers.’

  Howard tried a suitable growl. ‘It ain’t the first I’ve had. Nor the last, I expect.’

  Scud looked close. ‘Can’t you see at all, though?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the light o’ the sun to come back.’

  ‘He’ll stand watch for me at the radio,’ Richard said. ‘You don’t need eyes for that.’

  Scud whistled his way up the steps, leaving Howard to fumble a twisting path into a lower bunk, which smelled of mildew and sweat. Richard drew off his boots, unpeeled him from the anorak. ‘There’s a bowl, if you have to throw up again.’

  ‘Thanks, a lot.’

  ‘There’ll be time for thanks when we get back. I’ll wake you in the morning, and sit you down to a Killisick fry-up. I expect real life will start then, but we’ll be fifty miles off Brittany, so it won’t much matter.’

  Howard pulled the blanket close, though needed no covering to keep out the light, of which it seemed there couldn’t be much. He felt harrowed and helpless with exhaustion, as if he hadn’t fallen asleep for months. Flashes of light dominated his human sphere, tail ends of phrases stabbing like toothpicks sticking out of delectable titbits, the sort Laura had put between his fingers at a party they’d given for the neighbours when first moving into the house.

  He was happier for being away, gammy stomach or not, though Richard would be on the carpet for bringing someone like him on board. Hard to think why he had, even though I know so much. He could have told me to get lost or do my worst, but supposed I would give the game away, which I have in any case. Stolen a march on them there. Having me on board was safer, but they didn’t imagine someone so far at the end of his tether, who could do nothing more to stay alive than get mixed up in a stunt that would either push me into another world, or get off the world altogether.

  He gripped the boards, hung on for fear of being thrown out. Neither sea hands nor sea legs were with him yet, and at such bumping around he couldn’t see how they ever would be. A scene of Richard talking to Laura played, and to get the picture right he put an age on Laura and gave Richard a more distinctive face, though the one from the first meeting stayed clear enough. He heard him denying there was any option but to give permission for the trip. Out of darkness came enlightenment, for what it was worth, at this late stage. He knew Richard’s arguments but couldn’t place his tone of voice, or the persuasive phrases he must have used, and sensed a mystery in what had been exchanged between them, something finally powerful enough on Richard’s part to win her agreement. From the day she had returned with an altered view of the matter he picked up a connection between her and Richard which no longer existed between the two of them.

  He was now in the mind to think about it, with the crunching bump of water against the bunk, and a low whistle of wind carrying down the companionway, feeling emptiness and fatigue, alone in the narrow space, shouts and laughter from the others who seemed all over the boat. Happy to be on their way, they were light headed, relieved that the die had been cast. So was he. When Laura returned from her call on Richard, and said he could go to the Azores after all, he had f
inally made his decision to send the letter in morse to the police. Searching the labyrinth as to why, he lost consciousness into sleep.

  Not a light anywhere, no land between them and the northern hump of Spain, five hundred miles away. On the bridge Richard almost disdained to look at the murk. As always on the first day aboard he wanted to sleep, so much that he felt a pain at the ribs, as if months would be necessary to get him back to normal, though by the second day his alertness was always as sharp as ever.

  Slight swell, sea moderate, as they termed it, but one bash after another sent them all over the place. A sunshot tomorrow would show how much they had strayed. Satellite navigation was on its way in, but this trip (probably the last without it) they would go by sextant and radio, which had never failed them before.

  George Cleaver was hot stuff with sextant and almanacks, taught to him as a youth by one of the trawler skippers going back and forth to Iceland. He’d practised and studied all his life, and Richard admired his professional stance as he stood on deck like a ramrod to clean and adjust the mirrors, as if he were Captain Cook himself, but with a swinish temper when the midday sun didn’t show, as if it stayed hidden to spite him alone. He never took a drink to smooth the creases out of his frown. Richard could work sunsights but preferred to let Cleaver do it so that he would never stop assuming he was top of the class, as indeed he was. The log was also his to keep, and he measured the distance run like a fussy old hen at times, though never cursing when it wouldn’t come right. Nothing to do but keep a straight course, he was as reliable as any man could be.

  Richard saw Laura, but would she have shot so clearly to mind if Howard hadn’t been on board? The answer had to be yes, for such a magnificent woman who had given herself so completely. How he had come to be lumbered with her husband was a puzzle, and he recalled his impulse while driving by Plymouth to stop the car and push him out, leaving him to wander like a blind beggar until – till what? The police would pick him up and he would tell them his story as they drove him home. An intriguing scene, that of shooting off at top speed while Howard fumbled his way around a lay-by looking for a place to piss. The rest was nightmare material. Waistcoat would have so many guts for garters they’d think they were at the Moulin Rouge. So here Howard was, dead to the wide and crippled by seasickness, like an anchor waiting to go overboard.