Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

Across the table, picking at a croissant , she looked confused, at a loss. Two other couples had come into the breakfast room. One pair spoke in accents of the south of England and the other ones, from the flags sewn on to their windcheater sleeves, came from New South Wales. Both wives would have thought the boy at the corner table looked decent enough, and both husbands would have run their eyes over her and thought her attractive: all four would have sensed the tension between them, and he was mostly looking at the cornice work on the ceiling edge and she was locked on her plate. They had exchanged a meaningless greeting, and something about the forecast being good for a dry day, and a bit of sunshine, and was it not a shame that the wind had a chill in it. Andy had made a smile of sorts, she had responded with a stare, the old one of the rabbit in the headlights, and neither had replied.

An evening meal in a bistro off the main street. He would damn near have killed for a beer but had declined: alcohol and work mixed a sour cocktail. The place was expensive but she had insisted on paying and she’d bought a half-bottle of wine for herself – like she was steeling her courage for later. They had eaten and he’d noted her growing impatience with the slow service, and they had walked back, collected the keys from the desk and gone up the stairs together. It was pretty much as laid down in the bible of SC&O10. He doubted he had made a good enough job of the tiredness from the drive and the headache racking his brain. Bald excuses given… she had turned on her heel on the landing, had had difficulty slotting her key in the lock, had finally managed and had – sharp temper – kicked open her door. It had slammed behind her. He had felt lousy, inadequate… had seen the anger flash in her eyes and had believed then that he had demeaned himself, sold her short, believed also that she was a picture of prettiness when fury blazed across her face.

He finished his juice, could not manage more coffee. She pushed away her plate, left the croissant unfinished, and scraped her chair back. He looked across at her, then reached out and let his fingers rest on her wrist. She stood. Andy watched.

Zeinab – no backward glance – strode out of the breakfast room, went into the lobby area. She had a small notebook in her hand, and was rummaging in a pocket for her mobile. She made a call. He could not hear what she said. Rang off, dialled another number, was briefer. Then came back and stood beside his chair. Her expression had changed, as if business had been done and matters settled. In a clear voice she told the English and the Australians that they would now be heading off to do the tourist bit, see that bridge that was short of a span, and the Papal Palace, and… she tapped his shoulder, flicked her head. Time for them to move… like a shower had passed, like the sun now shone… In the night he had heard her footsteps in the corridor, had reckoned she paused at his door, would have listened. He had done the snore, loud enough for her to hear. She might have been outside his room for half a minute, then she had retreated, and her door had clicked shut, and he stopped the snoring.

‘You have a great day,’ the English wife said.

They were in the lobby, and she paid the bill for their two rooms.

The Australian husband called after her, ‘Have a brilliant time – don’t do anything we geriatrics wouldn’t do – or couldn’t.’

Laughter played behind her. She might have blushed.

They went upstairs, each to their own room. The silky new nightdress was neatly folded on top of her clothes but she ferreted deep in the bag and pulled out the bulging money belt. Zeinab hooked open the waist of her jeans, lifted her blouse and fastened the strap around her waist. She heard the knock on the door, and it was pushed open. She pulled down her blouse, covered the belt, and zipped up her jeans. He carried his rucksack.

She looped her arms round his neck, straightened his head, made him look into her face, then kissed him… It had been so cold in the corridor in the night and she had shivered outside his door, only the nightdress covering her, and she had heard the noise from inside, the same as her father made when he slept in the room at home next to hers… They talked about it in the Hall of Residence. The girls on her landing gathered in huddles and part of the talk was whispered and part was covered with laughter, and they swapped stories of good times, funny times and horror times. All except her. She was on the periphery, had nothing to contribute. They exchanged detail on size, and how long it lasted, whether he knew what to do or had to be shown, and who put the condom on and who was prescribed the pill, and whether – afterwards – it felt good or was just a sweaty experience and not as satisfactory as a run round a few pavements. Zeinab did not know the answers, and did not join in… kissed him, was content that her phone calls were made, her belt in place, the bill paid. She felt him soften, tension dripping away from his muscles, and his eyes lost their stress.

She took his hand and they came down the stairs and his rucksack was hitched on his shoulder and he carried her bag, and the money belt was tight on her skin and cold. She led him towards the outside door and they passed the breakfast room.

The Australian wife called out, ‘A really great day, that’s what you need.’

The husband said, raucous in his own humour, ‘That’s the way, guys, best foot forward and no mischief.’

The sunlight caught her face, and she pushed some strands of loose hair back from her forehead. The first call had been good, and she had made her request and heard a little snigger in response, and the second call had been answered. The sunlight was powerful but the wind gusted down the side road and lifted spent, dried leaves against her body… Briefly, in the depths of the night, she had believed she had lost control – now had regained it. She held his hand. They walked along the street as the boutiques were opening, and shutters were noisily lifted. Either, or both, of those couples might have been in front of her in a shopping mall in Manchester’s Arndale, or a mall anywhere, and she’d not have cared, would have dropped them, had taken back control. She gripped his hand and they went down the street, towards the Palace and the bridge.

What had happened in the night? Nothing had happened… It would happen, at the end of the day, tonight, it would happen then.

The freighter, with a schedule to keep, and poor stabilisers, ploughed into the swell, broke through the white crests of the waves, rocked and shook, and seemed at times to hit a wall of water, then staggered and pushed on. The wind that whipped the storm was the mistral , and it could rise in intensity to gale force. The captain, rarely off the bridge, was experienced in travelling the routes of the Mediterranean and understood the area south of the French coastline, taking in the islands of Corsica and Sardinia, and crossing as far south as the shores of Libya and Tunisia, some of the most treacherous on any of the world’s oceans. The motion was merciless, and no crew member without a specific job was on deck. He talked constantly to the engineer of the need for speed, but also to safeguard the health of the elderly turbines. Radio silence was not broken. There was a connection he could make on the ship-to-shore system, but he was to be paid healthily for keeping to a timetable, and the promise was on the table of further runs and further increments in cash. The cargo that mattered, the one for which the Margarethe tossed in the storm, was small, wrapped in greaseproof and tougher protection, and in his cabin. The captain felt he was on trial. If his work prospered then bigger cargoes were promised, and money was talked of that would smooth and speed his progress to retirement… maybe a villa on the Italian coast north of Genoa… but the cargo had a deadline for delivery. The freighter pitched and sank and was tossed upwards. Away in a haze to the north was the indistinct line of the shore, but offering no shelter. It was a bad wind, the mistral had no lovers among the seamen working those waters… bad for him and his crew but worse, far worse, for those who’d meet the planned rendezvous at sea. In spite of conditions, the Margarethe made good time.