Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“I had a phone call from Miranda today,” the DI announces. “I still don’t know how she got the number or knew I was in hospital. As far as I can tell I was unconscious for most of yesterday.” His eyes narrow. “Try not to look so sheepish, my little lambkin.”

“I told you she still cares about you.”

“But can’t live with me.”

“That’s because you’re grumpy.”

“And you’re an expert in these things, I suppose.”

“Well ‘New Boy’ Dave has asked me to marry him.” The statement blurts from me, unplanned, spontaneous.

Ruiz ponders it. “I didn’t think he had the courage.”

“You think he’s afraid of me?”

“Any man with any sense should be a little bit afraid of you.”

“Why?”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.” His eyes are dancing.

“You said I was too sharp for him.”

“And you said that any man who could fit into your pants couldn’t get into your pants.”

“He loves me.”

“That’s a good start. How about you?”

I can’t answer. I don’t know.

It’s strange talking about love. I used to hate the word. Hate is too strong. I was sick of reading about it in books, hearing it in songs, watching it in films. It seemed such a huge burden to place on another person—to love them; to give them something so unbelievably fragile and expect them not to break it or lose it or leave it behind on the No. 96 bus.

I thought I had a choice. Fall in love. Don’t fall in love. He loves me. He loves me not. See, I’m not so smart!

My mind drifts back to Samira. I don’t know what to do. I’m out of ideas. Up until now I’ve been convinced that I would find Cate’s babies and then—what then? What did I imagine would happen? Cate broke the law. She rented a womb. Perhaps she didn’t realize that Samira would be forced to cooperate. I can give her the benefit of that doubt.

Cate always walked close to the edge. Closer to death, closer to life. She had a crazy streak. Not all the time, just occasionally. It’s like when the wind changes suddenly before a storm and kids go wild, running around in circles like swirling scraps of paper caught in the updraft. Cate would get that same gleam in her eye and drift onto the wrong side of crazy.

She is more memory than reality. She belongs to a time of teenage crushes, first kisses, crowded lecture halls and smoky pubs. Even if she had lived, we might have had nothing in common except the past.

I should let it go. When Ruiz is well enough, I’ll take him home. I’ll swallow my pride and take whatever job I’m offered or I’ll marry Dave and we’ll live in Milford-on-Sea. I shouldn’t have come to Amsterdam. Why did I ever imagine I could make a difference? I can’t bring Cate back. Yet for all this, I still can’t shake one fundamental question: What will happen to the babies?

Yanus and his cronies will sell them to the highest bidder. Either that or they’ll be born in the Netherlands and put up for adoption. Worse still, they’ll be sent back to Kabul along with Samira, who will be ostracized and treated as an outcast. In some parts of Afghanistan they still stone women for having children out of wedlock.

Cate lied and deceived. She broke the law. I still don’t know why Brendan Pearl killed her, although I suspect it was to stop her from talking. She came to me. I guess that makes me partially responsible.

Am I guilty of anything else? Is there something else I should have done? Perhaps I should tell Felix’s family that their son would have become a father in a few weeks. Barnaby and Ruth Elliot are pseudo-grandparents to surrogate twins.

I didn’t imagine ever feeling sorry for Barnaby—not after what happened. I thought I saw his true nature on the day he dropped me at the railway station in Cornwall. He couldn’t even look at me or say the word goodbye.

I still don’t know if he told his wife. I doubt it. Barnaby is the type to deny, deny and deny, until faced with incontrovertible proof. Then he will shrug, apologize and play the tragic hero, brought down by loving too much rather than too little.

When I first saw him at the hospital, when Cate was in a coma, it struck me how he was still campaigning, still trying to win votes. He caught glimpses of his reflection in the glass doors, making sure he was doing it right, the grieving. Maybe that’s unfair—kicking a man when he’s down.

Ruiz is asleep. I take the glass from his hand and rinse it in the sink. Than I tuck the bottle into my bag.

I’m still no closer to knowing what to do. It’s like running a race where I cannot tell how many laps there are to go or who’s winning or who’s been lapped. How do I know when to kick on the final bend and start sprinting for home?

A taxi drops me at the hotel. The driver is listening to a football game being broadcast on the radio. The commentator has a tenor voice that surges with the ebb and flow of the action. I have no idea who is playing but I like the thunderous sound of the crowd. It makes me feel less melancholy.

There is a white envelope poking out of my pigeonhole at the reception desk. I open it immediately.

Three words: “Hello, sweet girl.”

The desk clerk moves her eyes. I turn. “New Boy” Dave is standing behind me.

His arms wrap around me and I bury my face in his shirt. I stay there. Holding him tightly. I don’t want him to see my tears.

One second I’m sleeping and the next I’m awake. I look at the clock. Four a.m. Dave is lying next to me on his side with his cheek pressed flat against the sheet and his mouth vibrating gently.

Last night we didn’t talk. Exhaustion and a hot shower and the touch of his hands put me to sleep. I’ll make it up to him when he wakes. I’m sure it doesn’t do much for the male ego, having a woman fall asleep on them.

Propped on one elbow, I study him. His hair is soft and rumpled like a tabby cat with tiny flecks of blond amid the ginger. He has a big head. Does that mean he would have big babies, with big heads? Involuntarily I squeeze my thighs together.

Dave scratches his ear. He has nice ears. The one I can see has the faintest hint that at one time it might have been pierced. His hand is stretched toward me on the sheet. The nails are wide and flat, trimmed straight across. I touch his fingers with mine, awkward at being so happy.

Yesterday was perhaps the worst day of my life, and I held him last night like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to the debris. He made me feel safe. He wrapped his arms around me and the pain leaked away.

Maybe that’s why I feel this way, lying so still—not wanting this moment to end.

I have no experience of love. Ever since adolescence I have avoided it, renounced it, longed for it. (Such a dichotomy is one of the symptoms.) I have been an agony aunt for all my girlfriends, listening to their sob stories about arranged marriages, unfaithful husbands, men who won’t call or commit, missed periods, sexual neuroses, wedding plans, postnatal depression and failed diets. I know all about other people’s love affairs but I am a complete novice when it comes to my own. That’s why I’m scared. I’m sure to mess it up.

Dave touches my bruised cheek. I flinch. “Who did that?” he asks.

“His name is Yanus.”

I can almost see him storing this information away for future reference. He and Ruiz are similar in that way. There is nothing halfcocked or hotheaded about them. They can wait for their shot at revenge.

“You were lucky he didn’t break your cheekbone.”

“He could have done a lot worse.”

I step closer and kiss him on the lips, quickly, impulsively. Then I turn and go to shower. Spinning back to say something, I catch him punching the air in victory.