Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

The skin around his eyes crinkles into a smile. He moves like a bear, rocking from foot to foot.

“So what do you do, Alisha?”

I hold out my hand. “My name is Alisha Barba.”

He looks astonished. “Well, well, well, you really exist. Cate has talked about you a lot but I thought you might be one of those imaginary childhood friends.”

“She’s talked about me?”

“Absolutely. What do you do, Alisha?”

“I sit at home all day in my slippers watching daytime soaps and old movies on Channel 4.”

He doesn’t understand.

“I’m on medical leave from the Metropolitan Police.”

“What happened?”

“I broke my back. Someone dropped me across a wall.”

He flinches. My gaze drifts past him.

“She’s coming back,” he says, reading my mind. “She never leaves me talking to a pretty woman for too long.”

“You must be thrilled—about the baby.”

The smooth hollow beneath his Adam’s apple rolls like a wave as he swallows. “It’s our miracle baby. We’ve been trying for so long.”

Someone has started a conga line on the dance floor, which snakes between the tables. Gopal Dhir grabs at my waist, pivoting my hips from side to side. Someone else pulls Felix into another part of the line and we’re moving apart.

Gopal yells into my ear. “Well, well, Alisha Barba. Are you still running?”

“Only for fun.”

“I always fancied you but you were far too quick for me.” He yells to someone over his shoulder. “Hey, Rao! Look who it is—Alisha Barba. Didn’t I always say she was cute?”

Rao has no hope of hearing him over the music, but nods vigorously and kicks out his heels.

I drag myself away.

“Why are you leaving?”

“I refuse to do the conga without a person from Trinidad being present.”

Disappointed, he lets me go and rocks his head from side to side. Someone else tries to grab me but I spring away.

The crowd around the bar has thinned out. I can’t see Cate. People are sitting on the steps outside and spilling into the quadrangle. Across the playground I can see the famous oak tree, almost silver in the lights. Someone has put chicken wire around the trunk to stop children climbing. One of the Banglas fell off and broke his arm during my last year—a kid called Paakhi, which is Bengali for bird. What’s in a name?

The new science block squats on the far side of the quadrangle. Deserted. Crossing the playground, I push open a door and enter a long corridor with classrooms to the left. Taking a few steps, I look inside. Chrome taps and curved spouts pick up faint light from the windows.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see someone moving. A woman with her dress pushed up over her waist is arched over a bench with a man between her legs.

Backing away toward the door, I sense that someone else is watching. The smallest shift of my gaze finds him.

He whispers, “Like to watch do you, yindoo?”

I catch my breath. A half breath. Paul Donavon pushes his face close to mine. The years have thinned his hair and fleshed out his cheeks but he has the same eyes. It’s amazing how I can hate him with the same intensity after all this time.

Even in the half-light, I notice the tattooed cross on his neck. He sniffs at my hair. “Where’s Cate?”

“You leave her alone,” I say too loudly.

There are curses from the darkness. Lindsay and partner pull apart. Rocco is dancing on one leg, trying to hoist his trousers. At the far end of the corridor a door opens and light washes from outside as Donavon disappears.

“Jesus, Ali, you frightened the crap out of me,” says Lindsay, tugging down her dress.

“Sorry.”

“Who else was here?”

“Nobody. I’m really sorry. Just carry on.”

“I think the moment’s gone.”

Rocco is already heading down the corridor.

“Give my best to your wife,” she calls after him.

I have to find Cate now. She should be told that Donavon is here. And I want her to explain what she meant. Who wants to take her baby?

I check the hall and the quadrangle. There is no sign of her. She might have left already. How strange it is to be conscious of losing her when I’ve only just met her again.

I walk to the school gates. Cars are parked on either side of the road. The pavement is dotted with people. I catch a glimpse of Cate and Felix on the far side. She is talking to someone. Donavon. She has her hand on his arm.

Cate looks up and waves. I’m closing the distance between us, but she signals me to wait. Donavon turns away. Felix and Cate step between parked cars.

From somewhere behind them I hear Donavon cry out. Then comes a tortured high-pitched screech of rubber against tarmac. The wheels of a car are locked and screaming. Heads turn as if released from a catch.

Felix vanishes beneath the wheels, which rise and fall over his head with scarcely a bump. At the same moment Cate bends over the hood and springs back again. She turns her head in midair and the windscreen suddenly snaps it in reverse. She tumbles through the air in slow motion like a trapeze artist ready to be caught. But nobody waits with chalky hands.

The driver brakes and slews. Cate rolls forward, landing on her back with her arm outstretched and one leg twisted beneath her.

Like an explosion in reverse, people are sucked toward the detonation. They scramble from cars and burst from doorways. Donavon reacts quicker than most and reaches Cate first. I drop to my knees beside him.

In a moment of suspended stillness, the three of us are drawn together again. She is lying on the road. Blood seeps from her nose in a deep soft satin blackness. Spittle bubbles and froths from her slightly parted lips. She has the prettiest mouth.

I cradle her head in the crook of my arm. What happened to her shoe? She only has one of them. Suddenly, I’m fixated on a missing shoe, asking people around me. It’s important that I find it. Black, with a half heel. Her skirt has ridden up. She’s wearing maternity knickers to cover her bump.

A young chap steps forward politely. “I’ve called 999.”

His girlfriend looks like she might be sick.

Donavon pulls down Cate’s skirt. “Don’t move her head. She has to be braced.” He turns to the onlookers. “We need blankets and a doctor.”

“Is she dead?” someone asks.

“Do you know her?” asks another.

“She’s pregnant!” exclaims a third person.

Cate’s eyes are open. I can see myself reflected in them. A burly man with a gray ponytail leans over us. He has an Irish accent.

“They just stepped out. I didn’t see them. I swear.”

Cate’s whole body goes rigid and her eyes widen. Even with blood in her mouth she tries to cry out and her head swings from side to side.

Donavon leaps to his feet and grabs the driver’s shirt. “You could have stopped, you bastard!”

“I didn’t see them.”

“LIAR!” His voice is hoarse with hate. “You ran them down.”

The driver glances nervously around the crowd. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. It was an accident, I swear. He’s talking crazy—”

“You saw them.”

“Not until it was too late…”

He pushes Donavon away. Buttons rip and the driver’s shirt flaps open. The tattoo on his chest is of Christ and the Crucifixion.

People have piled out of the reunion to see what the commotion is about. Some of them are yelling and trying to clear the street. I can hear the sirens.

A paramedic pushes through the crowd. My fingers are slick and warm. I feel like I’m holding Cate’s head together. Two more crews arrive. The paramedics team up. I know the drill: no fire, no fuel leaks and no fallen power lines—they secure their own safety first.