The Night Ferry (35 page)

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

He lifts Samira down from the trailer. I fol ow, 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 stairwel , 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 wal . 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, pul ing her against me with my arms wrapped around her, trying to keep her warm. Her bel y bal oons 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 wil 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 final y 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 whol y 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 rol of masking tape into my lap. “Shut her up!”

“No! She has to tel 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.”

Samira shudders.

“Just shut up, wil you?”

He gives me his shark’s smile.

Night presses against the porthole. There might be five hundred passengers on board the ferry, but right now it feels as though the cabin light is burning in a cold hostile wasteland.

Samira tilts her head back until she can look into my eyes.

“Zala?” she asks.

I wish I could lie to her but she reads the truth on my face. I can almost see her slipping backward into blackness, disappearing. It is the look of someone who knows that fate has abandoned them to a sadness so deep that nothing can touch it.

“I should never have let her go,” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault.”

Her chest rises and fal s in a silent sob. She has turned her eyes away. It is a gesture that says everything. I vowed to find Zala and keep her safe. I broke my promise.

The contractions seem to have eased. Her breathing steadies and she sleeps.

Pearl has replaced Yanus.

“How is she?”

“Exhausted.”

He braces his back against the door, sliding down until he settles on his haunches, draping his arms over his knees. In such a smal space he appears larger, overgrown, with big hands. Yanus has feminine hands, shapely and delicate, fast with a blade. Pearl’s are like blunt instruments.

“You’l never get away with this, you know that.”

He smiles. “There are many things I know and many more things I don’t know.”

“Listen to me. You’re only making this worse. If she dies or the babies die they’l charge you with murder.”

“They won’t die.”

“She needs a doctor.”

“Enough talk.”

“The police know I’m here. I saw you earlier. I told the captain to radio ahead. There wil be a hundred police officers waiting at Harwich. You can’t get away. Let me take Samira.

There could be a doctor on board or a nurse. They’l have medical supplies.”

Pearl doesn’t seem to care. Is that what happens when you spend most of your life in prison or committing acts that should put you there?

My scalp tingles. “Why did you kil my friend Cate and her husband?”

“Who?”

“The Beaumonts.”

His eyes, not quite level with each other, give the impression of lopsidedness until he talks and his features suddenly line up. “She was greedy.”

“How?”

“She could only pay for one baby but wanted both of them.”

“You asked her to
choose
?”

“Not me.”

“Someone else did?”

He doesn’t have to answer.

“That’s obscene.”

He shrugs. “Pitter or Patter—seems simple enough. Life is about choices.”

That’s what Cate meant—at the reunion—when she said they were trying to take her baby. They wanted her to pay double. Her bank account was empty. She had to choose: the boy or the girl. How can a mother make a decision like that and live for the rest of her life gazing into the eyes of one child and seeing a reflection of another that she never knew?

Pearl is stil talking. “She threatened to go to the police. We warned her. She ignored it. That’s the problem with folks nowadays. Nobody takes responsibility for their actions. Make a mistake and you pay for it. That’s life.”

“Have you paid for your mistakes?”

“Al my life.” His eyes are closed. He wants to go back to ignoring me.

A knock. Pearl slides the pistol from his belt and points it toward me while holding a finger to his lips. He opens the door a fraction. I can’t see a face. Someone is asking about a missing passenger. They’re looking for me.

Pearl yawns. “Is that why you woke me?”

A second voice: “Sorry, sir.”

“What does she look like?”

I can’t hear the description.

“Wel , I ain’t seen her. Maybe she went for a swim.”

“I hope not, sir.”

“Yeah, wel , I got to sleep.”

“Sorry, sir, you won’t be disturbed again.”

The door closes. Pearl waits for a moment, pressing his ear to the door. Satisfied, he tucks the pistol back in his belt.

There’s another knock on the door. Yanus.

“Where the fuck were you?” demands Pearl.

“Watching,” replies Yanus.

“You were supposed to fucking warn me.”

“Would have made no difference. They’re knocking on every door. They won’t come back now.”

Samira sits bolt upright screaming. The contraction is brutal and I scissor my legs around her, holding her stil . An unseen force possesses her, racking her body in spasms. I find myself drawn to her pain. Caught up in it. Breathing when she breathes.

Another contraction comes almost immediately. Her back arches and her knees rise up.

“I have to push now.”

“No!”

“I have to.”

This is it. I can’t stop her. Sliding out from behind her, I lie her down and take off her underwear.

Pearl is unsure of what to do. “Take deep breaths, that’s a good girl. Good deep breaths. You thirsty? I’l get you a drink of water.” He fil s a glass in the smal bathroom and returns.

“Shouldn’t you be checking the cervix?” he asks.

“And I suppose you know al about it.”

“I seen movies.”

“Take over anytime you want.”

His tone softens. “What can I do?”

“Run some hot water in the sink. I need to wash my hands.”

Samira unclenches her teeth as the pain eases. Short panting breaths become longer. She focuses on Pearl and begins issuing instructions. She needs things—scissors and string, clips and towels. For a moment I think she’s delirious but soon realize that she knows more about childbirth than any of us.

He opens the door and passes on the instructions to Yanus. They argue. Pearl threatens him.

Samira has another instruction. Men cannot be present at the birth. I expect Pearl to say no but I see him wavering.

I tel him: “Look at this place. We can’t go anywhere. There’s one door and a porthole fifty feet above the water.” He accepts this and glances at his watch. It’s after two. “An hour from now she has to be back in the truck.” His hand is on the door handle. He turns and addresses me.

“My ma is a good Catholic. Pro-life, you understand? She’d say there were already five people in this room, babies included. When I come back I expect to see the same number.

Keep them alive.”

He closes the door and Samira relaxes a little. She asks me to fetch a flannel from the bathroom. She folds it several times and wedges it between her teeth when she feels a contraction coming.

“How do you know so much?”

“I have seen babies born,” she explains. “Women would sometimes come to the orphanage to give birth. They left the babies with us because they could not take them home.” Her contractions are coming forty seconds apart. Her eyes bulge and she bites down hard on the flannel. The pain passes.

“I need you to see if I’m ready,” she whispers.

“How?”

“Put two fingers inside me to measure.”

“How do I tel ?”

“Look at your fingers,” she says. “See how long they are. Measure with them.”

Opening her legs, I do as she asks. I have never touched a woman so intimately or been so terrified.

“I think you’re ready.”

She nods, clenching the flannel between her teeth through the first part of the contraction and then breathing in short bursts, trying to ease the pain. Tears squeeze from her eyes and mingle with her sweat. I smel her exertions.

“I have to get to the floor,” she says.

“Are you going to pray?”

“No. I’m going to have a baby.”

She squats with her legs apart, bracing her arms between the bunk and the bench table. Gravity is going to help her.

“You must feel for the baby’s head,” she says.

My hand is inside her, turning and dipping. I feel a baby’s head. It’s crowning. Should there be blood?

“They wil kil you after the babies are born,” whispers Samira. “You must get out of here.”

“Later.”

“You must go now.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

There’s a knock on the door. I undo the latch and Pearl hands me scissors, a bal of string and a rusty clip. Yanus hisses from behind him. “Keep the bitch quiet.”

“Fuck you! She’s having a baby.”

Yanus makes a lunge for me. Pearl pushes him back and closes the door.

Samira is pushing now, three times with each contraction. She has long slender lemurlike feet, roughly cal oused along the outer edges. Her chin is tucked to her throat and oily coils of her hair fal over her eyes.

“If I pass out, you must make sure you get the babies out. Don’t leave them inside me.” Teeth pul at her bottom lip. “Do whatever you have to.”

“Shhh.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Am I bleeding a lot?”

“You’re bleeding. I don’t know if it’s too much. I can see the baby’s head.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

Existence narrows to just breathing, pain and pushing. I brush hair from her eyes and crouch between her legs. Her face contorts. She screams into the flannel. The baby’s head is out.

I hold it in my cupped hand, feeling the dips and hol ows of the skul . The shoulders are trapped. Gently I put my finger beneath its chin and the tiny body rotates within her. On the next contraction the right shoulder appears, then the left, and the baby slides into my hands.

A boy.

“Rub your finger down his nose,” gasps Samira.

It takes only a fingertip to perform the task. There is a soft, shocked sob, a rattle and a breath.

Samira issues more instructions. I am to use the string and tie off the umbilical cord in two places, cutting between the knots. My hands are shaking.

She is crying. Spent. I help her back onto the bunk and she leans against the bulkhead wal . Wrapping the baby in a towel, I hold him close, smel ing his warm breath, letting his nose brush against my cheek. Which one are you, I wonder, Pitter or Patter?

I look at my watch and make a mental note of the time: 2:55 a.m. What is the date? October 29. Where wil they say he was born? In the Netherlands or Britain? And who wil be his true mother? What a mixed-up way to start a life.

The contractions have started again. Samira kneads her stomach, trying to feel the unborn twin.

“What’s wrong?”

“She is facing the wrong way. You must turn her.”

“I don’t know how.”

Each new contraction brings a groan of resignation. Samira is almost too exhausted to cry out; too tired to push. I have to hold her up this time. She squats. Her thighs part stil further.

Reaching inside her, I try to push the baby back, turning her body, fighting gravity and the contractions. My hands are slick. I’m frightened of hurting her.