Ade Grant - The Mariner

“I’m your son, Dad! Don’t you remember?” Tears of anguish flooded down his face. “What about Mum? Remember her?”

But Gregory wasn’t interested in reminiscing. He thrashed like a trapped beast, throwing his body forward until the strap cut into his skin, drawing blood.

Unable to look at his disturbed father anymore, McConnell turned to the road. What could he do? Find a doctor? In Germany? It didn’t seem likely. Perhaps he could find a hospital or police station and throw himself at their mercy? Did they need passports? Wasn’t there some sort of EU medical card you need in situations like this?

If only this fucking mist would pass!

The TV Researcher from Croydon let out a loud desperate sob. He was leaning so far forward he could feel the steering wheel digging into his chest, and yet still couldn’t see a damn thing outside. And all the while his father was snarling and shrieking.

“I’ll do what you want, just please come back,” he whimpered. “I’ll take you to Ziggy-wara if you like. Would you like that? To visit Ziggy-wara?”

With a gurgle the screeching suddenly ceased. McConnell wanted to look, but was too scared to witness again those hate-filled eyes and horrible snarl.

But it was the quiet, gentlemanly voice of Gregory McConnell that reached his badly torn ear.

“I think you’ll find, young man, it’s pronounced Zig-ish-wa-rah.”

They never found Deggendorf. The forest gave way to vast unkempt fields which in turn surrendered to a sporadic collection of hamlets. Nothing that could be called a town. Eventually the rickety car broke free from the thinning mist, although their vaporous pursuer never fully vanished beyond the horizon, it clung to the ever changing line, refusing to give up the hunt.

“You’re going to love Sighisoara,” Gregory said, looking out the window as if he were on a pleasant excursion. “It’s a beautiful medieval town, one of the most significant in Transylvania’s history. Ancient stone houses. Majestic church atop of a central hill. Ah! I can picture it now. I grew up there, you see, before my father insisted we move away. Was dangerous for an Englishman to live in Romania in those days. It was a terrible blow to my mother though, she’d lived there her whole life.”

“I didn’t know you’d actually lived in Romania,” McConnell said. Gregory had mentioned, some years ago, that his Grandmother had been Romanian, but had never elaborated further.

“Why would you? We don’t normally share such things with our drivers, but seeing as how you’re going to take me there, I thought you deserved an explanation. What’s your name?”

“Christopher,” McConnell muttered, deeply worried about state of his father’s mind.

“A fine name. You’ll enjoy Sighisoara, many beautiful young women there, we’ll have the time of our lives! You won’t regret it.”

He doesn’t realise how old he is , McConnell marvelled. He’s regressed to an earlier segment of life. No wonder he has no clue who I am!

“It might be difficult to cross the border, with politics being as they are, but we’ll find a way. My father was resourceful, and so am I. Have you ever driven to Romania?”

“No. And certainly not from Germany.”

“What do you mean Germany?” Gregory laughed. “We’re on the outskirts of Prague, look!”

Ahead, the fields suddenly ended and a city began as if the two landscapes had been hastily sewn together. In the distance he could make out a hill straddled by an enormous castle, a beautiful forest of ornate turrets in the foreground.

“It’s gorgeous,” he remarked, stunned by the old-worldliness of the Czech capital. Through the centre ran a river, snaking in an enormous question-mark, but as it left the city, it flowed through fields, ending the defined route and spilling into a quagmire.

“Shouldn’t a river continue? I mean, if it’s as established up there,” he said, gesturing to the bridges ahead, “shouldn’t it be just as defined out here?”

“I don’t know,” Gregory said. “When I was last here there weren’t fields like this for miles.”

“Hang on,” McConnell said as he applied the brakes. “There’s someone up ahead, let’s have a word.”

A gentleman was wandering beside the road, looking baffled and thoroughly lost. As the car approached he began waving his arms, gesturing for them to stop. Pulling up beside him and winding down his window, McConnell’s heart sank as he realised the man was speaking a language he couldn’t.

He spoke slowly, shaking his head. “English? Do you speak Eng-lish?” The man continued his gibberish, but now produced a leaflet to support his nonsense claims. “What’s that?”

“Ho-Tell!” the man managed to say, nodding his head emphatically with each syllable.

“We don’t know Prague, I’m sorry.” He put the car in gear ready to pull away. This man wasn’t going to be any help, he needed a local.

“Ho-Tell! Weyer Ho-Tell?”

“I. Don’t. Know. P—” His words died in his mouth. The leaflet the gentleman waved like a map proudly displayed a hotel called the Chesterford, Oxford Street.

London.

McConnell put his foot on the accelerator and sped off, leaving the man yelling and waving his little advert in the air. Rather than give reassurance, the interaction had left McConnell even more disturbed.

“Isn’t Prague a long way from Germany?”

His father, always more worldly than he, thought for a moment. “A few hours, yes.”

“It’s only been thirty minutes! At the most!”

“My goodness, you do drive fast.”

“I haven’t been driving f—” he stopped his protest. No need to worry the old sod, he was confused enough.

The tarmac road immediately transformed into cobbled streets as they traversed the fields into the densely packed town. Passing into shadow made McConnell slow to a hesitant crawl, worried he might hit a pedestrian, but as they glided through the streets, not a single figure could be seen. Not a soul.

A tap on his should made him jump. He’d still been leaning forward, out of reach by his father since his strange outburst, and the sudden contact made him feel under attack. Swinging round in his seat, it was kind concern rather than hate waiting for him. Momentary panic registered that his father had been able to reach forward; what if he had another spell like before? Then he realised it was precisely because he’d leaned forward calmly that he’d been able to. The belt restricted in response to sudden jolts, nothing else.

“Are you comfortable Christopher? Your ear looks terribly hurt.”

“Oh? Er… yes it’s fine.”

“Are you sure? How on earth did you do that?”

McConnell glanced in the mirror. His ear did look terrible; the the flesh was torn on both the top and bottom of the join, making the whole thing lean out further than the other. It would look absurd, if not for the mass of dried blood caked around it.

“I fell down,” he lied. Or had he? The head wound he’d sustained was not a careful cut, but a deep scrape as if he’d fallen amongst gravel. Was this all a delusion, conjured as he lay in the dirt, waiting for someone to treat his broken skull?

“We need to cross the Charles Bridge. Take a right here.”

They turned towards a large stone arch, the bridge behind clearly seen rising up over the river below, proud and stern. On either side, decorating the crossing, were statues of saints, silently offering prayers. McConnell hoped they would pray for him, though only in that desperate half-hearted way atheists did when stuck in a jam.

“How things change,” Gregory mused as they began rolling over the bridge, looking out over the water to the rest of the city, the Church of Our Lady boldly rising above the rest.