Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“So why isn’t he still in prison?” asks Dave.

Ruiz smiles wryly. “That’s a very good question, ‘New Boy.’ For forty years the British government told people it wasn’t fighting a war in Northern Ireland—it was a ‘police operation.’ Then they signed the Good Friday Agreement and declared, ‘The war is over.’

“Pearl got himself a good lawyer and that’s exactly what he argued. He said he was a prisoner of war. There should be no exemptions. Bombers, snipers and murderers had been set free. Why was he being treated differently? A judge agreed. He and Frank Farmer were released on the same day.”

A palm glides over his chin, rasping like sandpaper. “Some soldiers can’t survive the peace. They need chaos. Pearl is like that.”

“How do you know so much about him?” I ask.

There is sadness in his eyes. “I helped draw up the list.”

“New Boy” Dave shifts beside me, draping his arm over my breasts. I lift it away and tuck it under his pillow. He sleeps so soundly I can rearrange his body like a stop-motion puppet.

A digital clock glows on the bedside table. I lift my head. It’s after ten on Sunday morning. Where are the trains? They didn’t wake me. I have less than an hour and a half to shower, dress and get ready for my father’s birthday.

Rolling out of bed, I look for my clothes. Dave’s clothes. My running gear is still damp from yesterday.

He reaches for me, running his thumbs beneath the underside of my breast, tracing a pattern that only men can find.

“You trying to sneak away?”

“I’m late. I have to go.”

“I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“You can drive me home. Then you have to find Brendan Pearl.”

“But it’s Sunday. You never said—”

“That’s the thing about women. We don’t say exactly what we want but we reserve the right to be mighty pissed off when we don’t get it. Scary isn’t it?”

Dave makes coffee while I use the shower. I keep pondering how Brendan Pearl and Cate Beaumont could possibly know each other. They come from different worlds, yet Cate recognized him. It doesn’t feel like an accident. It never did.

On the drive to the East End, Dave chats about work and his new boss. He says something about being unhappy but I’m not really listening.

“You could come over later,” he says, trying not to sound needy. “We could get a pizza and watch a movie.”

“That would be great. I’ll let you know.”

Poor Dave. I know he wants something more. One of these days he’s going to take my advice and find another girlfriend. Then I’ll have lost something I never tried to hold.

Things I like about him: He’s sweet. He changes the sheets. He tolerates me. I feel safe with him. He makes me feel beautiful. And he lets me win at darts.

Things I don’t like about him: His laugh is too loud. He eats junk food. He listens to Mariah Carey CDs. And he has hair growing on his shoulders. ( Gorillas have hair on their shoulders.) Christ I can be pedantic!

His rugby mates have nicknames like Bronco and Sluggo and they talk in this strange jargon that nobody else can understand unless they follow rugby and appreciate the finer points of mauling, rucking and lifting. Dave took me to watch a game one day. Afterward we all went to the pub—wives and girlfriends. It was OK. They were all really nice and I felt comfortable. Dave didn’t leave my side and kept sneaking glances at me and smiling.

I was only drinking mineral water but I shouted a round. As I waited at the bar I could see the corner tables reflected in the mirror.

“So what are we doing after?” asked Bronco. “I fancy a curry.”

Sluggo grinned. “Dave’s already had one.”

They laughed and a couple of the guys winked at each other. “I bet she’s a tikka masala.”

“No, definitely a vindaloo.”

I didn’t mind. It was funny. I didn’t even care that Dave laughed too. But I knew then, if not before, that my initial instincts were right. We could share a bath, a bed, a weekend, but we could never share a life.

We pull up in Hanbury Street and straightaway I realize that something is missing.

“I’ll kill him!”

“What’s wrong?”

“My car. My brother has taken it.”

I’m already calling Hari’s mobile. Wind snatches at his words. He’s driving with the window open.

“Hello?”

“Bring back my car.”

“Sis?”

“Where are you?”

“Brighton.”

“You’re joking! It’s Dad’s birthday.”

“Is that today ?” He starts fumbling for excuses. “Tell him I’m on a field trip for university.”

“I’m not going to lie for you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No.”

“All right, I’ll be there.”

I look at my watch. I’m already late. “I hate you, Hari.”

He laughs. “Well, it’s a good thing I love you.”

Upstairs I throw open wardrobes and scatter my shoes. I have to wear a sari to keep my father happy. Saris and salvation are mixed up in his mind—as though one is going to bring me the other, or at least get me a husband.

“New Boy” Dave is downstairs.

“Can you call me a cab, please?”

“I’ll take you.”

“No, really.”

“It won’t take more than a few minutes—then I’ll go to work.”

Back in my room, I wrap the sari fabric around my body, right to left, tucking the first wrap into my petticoat, making sure the bottom edge is brushing my ankles. Then I create seven pleats down the center, making sure they fall with the grain of the fabric. Holding the pleats in place, I take the remaining length of sari behind my back, across my body and drape it over my left shoulder.

This one is made of Varanasi silk, elaborately brocaded in red and green, with delicate figures of animals sewn with metallic silver thread along the border.

Pinning up my hair with a golden comb, I put on makeup and jewelry. Indian women are expected to wear lots of jewelry. It is a sign of wealth and social standing.

Sitting on the stairs, I buckle my sandals. Dave is staring at me.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Well, what are you gawping at?”

“You look beautiful.”

“Yeah, right.” I look like a Ratner’s display window.

I bat his hands away as he reaches out for me. “No touching the merchandise! And for God’s sake, don’t have an accident. I don’t want to die in these clothes.”

My parents live in the same house where I grew up. My mother doesn’t like change. In her perfect world, children would never leave home or discover how to cook or clean for themselves. Since this is impossible, she has preserved our childhoods in bric-a-brac and become the full-time curator at the Barba family museum.

As soon as I turn into the cul-de-sac I feel a familiar heat in my cheeks. “Just drop me off here.”

“Where’s the house?”

“Don’t worry. This will be fine.”

We pull up outside a small parade of shops. Fifty yards away my niece and nephew play in the front garden. They go tearing inside to announce my arrival.

“Quick, quick, turn round!”

“I can’t turn round.”

It’s too late! My mother appears, waddling down the road. My worst nightmare is coming true.

She kisses me three times, squeezing me so hard that my breasts hurt.

“Where is Hari?”

“I reminded him. I even ironed his shirt.”

“That boy will be the death of me.” She points to her temple. “See my gray hairs.”

Her gaze falls on “New Boy” Dave. She waits for an introduction.

“This is a friend from work. He has to go.”