Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

Then he confronts me, ripping off the gag. It feels like half my face is torn off with it.

“Who knows you’re here?”

My voice is slurred: “The captain. The crew…they’re radioing ahead.”

“Liar!”

Another figure is standing in the open end of the trailer. Brendan Pearl. He can’t have been there for more than a few seconds yet I have the sensation that he’s been watching me for a long time.

The light behind him washes out his features, but I can see how he’s changed his appearance since I saw him last. His hair is shorter and he’s wearing glasses. The walking stick is a nice touch. He’s holding it upside down. Why? It’s not a walking stick. It has a curved hook like a fishing gaff or a marlin spike. I remember what Ruiz called him—the Shankhill Fisherman.

Yanus kicks me in the stomach. I roll once and he places a shoe on my neck, forcing it down, concentrating his weight on the point where my spine joins my skull. Surely it must snap.

Samira cries out, her body wracked by another contraction. Pearl says something and Yanus lifts his foot. I can breathe. He circles the empty trailer and returns, putting his heel on my neck again.

I force my arms out, pointing toward Samira. She is staring at her hands in horror. Liquid stains her skirt and pools beneath her knees.

Pearl pushes Yanus aside.

“Her water has broken.” Desperately, I choke the words out.

“She pissed herself,” sneers Yanus.

“No. She’s having the babies.”

“Make them stop,” says Pearl.

“I can’t. She needs a doctor.”

Another contraction arrives, stronger than before. Her scream echoes from the metal walls. Pearl loops the barbed hook around her neck. “She makes another sound like that and I’ll take out her throat.”

Samira shakes her head, covering her mouth with her hands.

Pearl pulls me into a sitting position and cuts the electrical tape away from my wrists. He pauses for a moment, chewing at his cheek like a cud.

“She don’t look so healthy does she?” he says, in an Irish lilt.

“She needs a doctor.”

“Can’t have no doctors.”

“But she’s having twins!”

“I don’t care if she’s having puppies . You’ll have to deliver them.”

“I don’t know how to deliver a baby!”

“Then you better learn quick.”

“Don’t be stupid—”

The stave of the marlin spike strikes my jaw. When the pain passes, I count teeth with my tongue. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Know that, do you?”

Samira’s hand shoots out and grips my wrist. Her knuckles are white and the pain is etched on her face. She wants help. She wants the pain to go away. I glance at Pearl and nod.

“That’s grand as grand can be.” He stands and stretches, twirling the spike in his fist.

“We can’t do it here,” I say. “We need to get her to a cabin. I need light. Clean sheets. Water.”

“No.”

“Look at this place!”

“She stays here.”

“Then she dies! And her babies die! And whoever is paying you will get nothing.”

I think Pearl is going to hit me again. Instead he weighs the wooden stave in both hands before swinging it down until the metal hook touches the floor and he leans on it like a walking stick. He and Yanus converse in whispers. Decisions have to be made. Their plan is unraveling.

“You have to try to hold on,” I tell Samira. “It’s going to be OK.”

She nods, far calmer than I am.

Why hasn’t anyone come looking for me? Surely they will have called Forbes by now. He’ll tell them what to do.

Pearl comes back.

“OK, we move her.” He raises his shirt to show me a pistol tucked into his belt. “No fuckin’ tricks. You escape and Yanus here will cut the babies out of her. He’s a frustrated fuckin’ surgeon.”

The Irishman collects Samira’s things—a small cotton bag and a spare blanket. Then he helps her to stand. She cups her hands beneath her pregnancy as though taking the weight. I wrap the blanket around her shoulders. Her damp gray skirt sticks to her thighs.

Yanus has gone ahead to check the stairs. I can picture crew members waiting for him. He’ll be overpowered. Pearl will have no choice but to surrender.

He lifts Samira down from the trailer. I follow, stumbling slightly as I land. Pearl pushes me out of the way and closes the rear doors, sliding the barrel lock into place. Something is different about the truck. The color. It’s not the same.

My stomach turns over. There are two trucks. Yanus and Pearl must have each driven a vehicle on board. Glancing toward the nearest stairwell, I see the glowing exit sign. We’re on a different deck. They don’t know where to look for me.

Samira goes first. Her chin is drawn down to her clavicle and she seems to be whispering a prayer. A contraction stops her suddenly and her knees buckle. Pearl puts his arm around her waist. Although in his late forties, he has the upper-body strength of someone who has bulked up in prison weight rooms. You don’t work a regular job and have a physique like his.

We move quickly up the stairs and along empty passageways. Yanus has found a cabin on Deck 9, where there are fewer passengers. He takes Samira from Pearl and I glance at them, fleetingly, sidelong. Surely they can’t expect to get away with this.

The two-berth cabin is oppressively neat. It has a narrow single bunk about a foot from the floor and another directly above it, hinged and folded flat against the wall. There is a square porthole with rounded corners. The window is dark. Land has ceased to exist and I can only imagine the emptiness of the North Sea. I look at my watch. It’s twelve thirty. Harwich is another three and a half hours away. If Samira can stay calm and the contractions are steady, we may reach Harwich in time. In time for what?

Her eyes are wide and her forehead is beaded with perspiration. At the same time she is shivering. I sit on the bed, with my back to the bulkhead, pulling her against me with my arms wrapped around her, trying to keep her warm. Her belly balloons between her knees and her entire body jolts with each contraction.

I am running on instinct. Trying my best not to panic or show fear. The first-aid course I did when I joined the Met was comprehensive but it didn’t include childbirth. I remember something my mama said to my sisters-in-law: “Doctors don’t deliver babies, women do.”

Yanus and Pearl take turns guarding the door. There isn’t enough room in the cabin for both of them. One will watch the passageway.

Yanus leans against the narrow cabin counter, watching with listless curiosity. Taking an orange from his pocket, he peels it expertly and separates it into segments that he lines up along the bench. Each piece is finally crushed between his teeth and he sucks the juices down his throat before spitting out the pith and seeds onto the floor.

I have never believed that people could be wholly evil. Psychopaths are made not born. Yanus could be the exception. I try to picture him as a youngster and cling to the hope that there might be some warmth inside him. He must have loved someone, something—a pet, a parent, a friend. I see no trace of it.

One or twice Samira can’t stifle her cries. He tosses a roll of masking tape into my lap. “Shut her up!”

“No! She has to tell me when the contractions are coming.”

“Then keep her quiet.”

Where does he keep his knife? Strapped to his chest on his left side, next to his heart. He seems to read my mind and taps his jacket.

“I can cut them out of her, you know. I’ve done it before with animals. I start cutting just here.” He puts his finger just above his belt buckle and draws it upward over his navel and beyond. “Then I peel back her skin.”