Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

“I do hate it when you get into a Galahad mood. I remember how it used to make me miserable when we were married.”

“So phone him,” I urged her. “You can find out which hotel he’s in, can’t you?”

She lit a cigarette. “His secretary might tell me,” she allowed cautiously.

“Then phone him and say that you think it’s all nonsense. Blame me, if you like. Say I’m mad. But say you promised to pass on the message. The message is that Mulder is Kassouli’s man and always has been.”

“I won’t speak to that little television upstart.”

“You want Bannister to die?”

She looked me up and down, noting my dirty trousers and creased shirt. “You’re being very dramatic, Nick.”

“I know. But please, my love, please?”

She havered, but plumped for safety. “I’m not going to make a fool of myself…”

“You want me to tell the Hon-John about you and Bannister?”

“Nick!”

“I’ll do it!”

She considered me for a few seconds. “If you withdraw that very ungentlemanly threat,” she said acidly, “then I will consider telephoning Tony for you. I won’t promise it.” She frowned. “On the other hand, it would be decent to congratulate him on his wedding, would it not? Even if it was to that vulgar little gold-digger.” I knew I would get no more from her. “I withdraw the threat,” I said, “and I apologize for making it.”

“Thank you, Nick. And I will promise to consider talking to Tony.” She looked pleased with her tactical victory. “So what are you going to do now?”

“I’ve got a job,” I said, “working in the boat trade.” I had no intention of telling Melissa that I was leaving England. If I had, then her lawyers would have been round my stern like sharks smelling blood.

I fabricated my casual work for George Cullen into a fantasy of yacht-broking, which mildly pleased her.

“So you’re not sailing into the sunset?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m physically up to it, you see.”

“Quite right. So have you got a proper address now?” I invented an address in Plymouth, which satisfied her. By the time she discovered there was no such place as 17b Institute Road, I would be long gone. I reckoned I would be ready in three or four days, after which I would slip my warps and head out past Drake Island, past the Breakwater, and thus into the Western Approaches.

I would pass Ushant on the French coast, then go to the great emptiness.

I made Melissa promise once more that she would try to phone Bannister, or at least think about it, then I took the bus back to Plymouth. Buses were cheaper than trains, and I had no Angela now to tempt me into high-speed but expensive travel. Another bus took me to George’s boatyard.

George, his workers gone for the weekend, was peering down at Sycorax . I saw he’d moored the fishing-boat outside Sycorax again.

“You’re not going this weekend, are you?” he asked me.

“Monday or Tuesday.”

“I’ll be glad to have the dock back,” he said as though there were yachts lining up in the Hamoaze for his skilled attentions. “So you’ve got everything you need, Nick?”

“I still need fenders, a Dan buoy, jackstays, a rigid tender”—my old dinghy was still at Bannister’s house, and somehow I did not think I would see her again—“fuel filters, radar-reflector, sail needles, courtesy flags, a couple of spare impellers, medicines…”

“All right!” He checked the flow. “I’m going home. Look after the yard.”

It began to rain. I went into Sycorax ’s cabin and made myself a cup of tea. I screwed a framed photograph of Piers and Amanda over the navigation table and tried not to think of how many months it would be before I saw them again. Instead I wondered whether Melissa would telephone Bannister, and decided she probably wouldn’t.

Yet I had done all I could to preserve his life, save going to France and confronting him. Yet confrontation would do no good, for Bannister undoubtedly would not believe me. He doubtless would not believe Melissa either, but I had tried. Kassouli would win.

I told myself I had behaved decently in trying to save Bannister.

Melissa had asked me why, and I’d given her the answers of truth and justice which she believed, for she knew how important those things were to me, yet the real truth was both simpler and far less noble. The real truth was that I cared very little whether Bannister lived or died, or whether he deserved punishment for his wife’s death; the truth, however ignoble it might be, was that I had struggled to warn Bannister because that was my only way of staying in touch with Angela.

I had done it all for Angela. Each attempt to reach Bannister was a way of reminding Angela that I lived and loved. Each high-minded attempt to save his life was a pathetic protestation of my love. That was why I had tried so hard. It was unsubtle and demeaning, but also irresistible, for Angela had lodged in my desire, and life without her seemed flat.

I needed to go to sea. I needed winds and waves to blow that flatness clean away. I sipped my tea and jotted down what few items of equipment I still needed. I started a list of perishable supplies; the very last things I’d buy before I turned Sycorax towards the earth’s end.

Through the rain outside, coming from George’s locked offices above me, I heard a phone start ringing. I could not concentrate on the list of supplies, so instead I teased my anticipation by unfolding my chart of the Azores. The season would be ending by the time I reached Horta, which was good because berthing fees would be low.

I could resupply with fresh food and renew friendships in the Café Sport. I smiled in anticipation, then noticed that the phone in the offices still rang. And rang. And rang.

I banged my right knee as I scrambled up the side of the wharf. The curved coping stones were wet, throwing me back down the wall, but I seized one of Sycorax ’s warps and scraped my way over the top. My knee was numb and my back laced with pain as I limped across the yard. The rain had begun to fall harder so that it bounced in a fine spray from the cobbles.

The phone, dulled by the window and the rain, still rang.

I slipped in a puddle. I had the keys to the yard’s outer gate in my pocket, but George never trusted me with the office keys in case I made phone calls that he could not monitor. I pulled at the door, but he’d remembered to lock it. I swore. The phone still rang.

I told myself it was probably only a customer asking about one of George’s endlessly delayed jobs, but it was a bloody stubborn customer who’d phone at this time of the evening. I found an abandoned stanchion and swung it to shatter the door’s pebbled glass. I reached through for the latch. The phone sounded louder now that I was inside the building.

I limped upstairs, thanking providence that there was no burglar alarm. I knew the phone would stop before I reached it. I smashed the glass in the door of Rita’s office, then tripped on the frayed carpet as I lunged across the room. I stumbled and, as I fell headlong, my right hand grabbed the telephone’s old-fashioned braided lead and the ancient Bakelite instrument slid off the desk to shatter its case on the floor. I fumbled for the fallen handset and prayed I had not cut off the connection. “Hello!”

There was silence. Except for the airy and echoing hiss that told me the line was not dead. I straightened the broken phone on the carpet and twisted myself round so that my back was against Rita’s desk. “Hello?”

“Nick?” The voice was very small and unnaturally timid.

“Oh, God.” I felt tears in my eyes. Then, stupidly, I really was crying with the relief of it. “Angela?”