CHAPTER 23
She heard the first drops of rainfall after it got dark, the sound magnified as each drop hit the nylon roof of her tent. The tent was not meant for extended use outdoors in inclement conditions; it was more designed for occasional day use, at festivals and suchlike, and although she had been out in the rain with it before, she knew it was only a matter of time before it succumbed to the elements and started to leak. Not tonight. Please. But she remained protected and the sound of the rain had a soothing effect on her so that she soon drifted off.
***
There’s noise in the hallway. Shouting and crashing. Leila’s running towards her screaming and she picks her up and hugs her. Shouting in that strange language. Unintelligible but unmistakeable. A smattering of English, “You pay me now, you bloody bastard,” Mo’s voice pleading, “I will, will, you just have to give me a bit more time. Inshallah,” and then the sound of impact, flesh against flesh, foot against body, slap, screams and she’s terrified and Leila’s terrified and wailing and she has to peer around the kitchen door to see, and Mo’s on the floor and men, his friends, are kicking him and she cries, “No!” and they look at her and they stop and she’s shaking with fear for herself and her baby. They turn and go, one last kick to Mo’s face and they are out, door left wide open and she’s quivering and shaking and she puts Leila down and runs to him and she’s calling his name, “Mo!” and trying to help him but there’s blood everywhere and she doesn’t know what to do. And then he gets up and she tries to support him but he pushes her away. “Mo? Mo? What’s happening? Mo?” and then he crawls his way up the stairs into the bathroom and she is left, crying with Leila, “Mummy, Mummy,” the sound echoes in her head and Leila is drifting away from her, the calls quieter and quieter and then disappearing.
Jess woke up, eyes wide and startled, sweating, whimpering, her mouth dry, lips cracked, breathless. She remembered where she was. Alone in a flimsy pop-up tent in a field in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night in the rain. An owl screeched and she was afraid. Let the morning come. Please.
***
The rain had stopped during the night but the skies were grey and heavy rainclouds continued to threaten. She had no food and no water. She managed to get some of the rainwater that had collected in a fold in the tent into her bottle, and although it was only an inch, it was something. She ran her tongue over the wet fabric of the tent and despite the odd taste, she felt better for it because she was thirsty. No doubt there would be a stream nearby and she could boil up some water on her ministove, provided there was enough gas still left in the canister.
But food? That was trickier. Unless she stumbled across a field of broad beans she would have to find a shop, and that meant a town or a village. She still had about £15 in her pocket, easily enough to keep her going for a day or two, but there was no escaping the fact that, sooner rather than later, she had to find a new place to stay and a new job to do.
On that score, she wondered where and what that might be. Another pub with accommodation was an option, but she would never be able to put her experience of The Navigation out of her mind, however rare that may have been. She couldn’t risk repeating the same mistakes and, as she reminded herself, she was as much to blame for the disaster by failing to spot the warning signs, failing to protect herself. No one was going to do it for her.
She collapsed her tent, trying to direct the stream of raindrops into her bottle but instead getting most of it over herself. She zipped it up in its bag. Time to go.
***
Peter stuck his head out of the forward hatch and climbed out onto the side decking. The boat was soaked but no damage had been done and, apart from a minor leak from the hatch seal, it had remained dry and cosy inside. But the weather was still looking grim and BBC radio had forecast even heavier rain today. He thought about trying to reach Lower Croxley but decided he was in no hurry, and the boat was difficult enough for him to handle by himself without having to cope with thunderstorms. There was no one at home waiting for him, and anyway, he rather enjoyed the isolation.
He had promised to meet up with Michael but he was in no rush and, frankly, he was content to postpone the dreaded day indefinitely if he could. He had plenty of stocks. Eggs, baked beans, bread, tea, milk and most important of all, wine, so he would certainly not starve. He decided to stay on board, listen to the radio and catch up on some reading.
***
By 3 p.m. Jess had been walking for six hours with only two short stops to rest her legs. As expected, she had found a stream, running down the side of a field and overflowing after the rainfall, from which she could draw water and boil up on her stove. She had nothing to put in it, but it quenched her thirst and allowed her to fill up her bottle.
She followed the stream, and it eventually brought her to the river. Part of her felt heartened by that, as it had been an objective achieved, but it did not mean she was any closer to finding something to eat.
There was a path, however, and she was grateful for that as fighting her way along an overgrown riverbank was not a practical proposition. But she felt drops of misty rain and the sounds of distant thunder so put up her hood and decided there was worse to come.
And she was right. She trudged on regardless and her rucksack seemed to get heavier, the tent bag, flapping in the increasingly bothersome wind, hampering her progress. By the time the footpath had opened out onto a large expanse of flat land, a field with no distinguishing features adjoining the river, the rain began in earnest. She put her head down and leant into the storm but it was getting worse, and a flash of lightning followed almost instantaneously by a crash of thunder made her jump and told her it was time to seek shelter. But where?
There was nothing in the field but distant hedgerows and they would be no use anyway. Neither were there any trees visible, nor bridges in sight. She determined that the best thing she could do was throw up the tent and crawl inside until the storm had passed. But she was tired and she was hungry and she wasn’t thinking straight.
She threw off her rucksack, which landed with a squelch in the sodden grass, and hastily pulled the tent bag off her shoulder. She was only a few feet from the water’s edge and the rain lashed down on the rapidly flowing river, turning it into a bubbling cauldron.
Another flash of lightning made her squeal, and with her hood flapping over her eyes, she fumbled blindly for the zip on the tent bag, willing it to open; but it was stuck, a piece of the tent fabric jamming the cheap mechanism. She pulled and pulled and jerked at the zip while she felt water penetrating her jacket through her hood, dripping down her neck and onto her back, sending a chill which pervaded her entire body and exacerbated her panic.
“Come on! Come on!” she screamed irrationally at the inanimate object in her hands as the rain and wind increased in force, battering her like a water cannon. And then the zip broke, the flap came down and she tugged at the frame of the tent, ripping it out of its sack.
A brief moment of triumph turned immediately to disaster. The tent exploded into shape and at that precise moment, a gust of wind filled it like a sail, ripping it from her grasp and propelling it in a lazy arc into the fast-flowing river.
Jess screamed in shock and flung herself towards the edge in a vain attempt to catch hold of one of the trailing guide ropes, but she was too late. Her tent, her only shelter, her home, sagged forlornly on the surface for a moment then drifted away on the swollen current and headed serenely downstream. Lost.
She sat back on her knees staring at the river, her hood blown back exposing her hair, now drenched by the torrents of rain which continued to pummel her from above. She couldn’t think. She was cold, shivering, hungry, exhausted, soaked to the skin; and now her tent had gone and there was nowhere for her to go. She was completely alone and completely lost.
She sat back on her folded legs, threw her head back and let out a primeval scream of rage that made her throat burn, temporarily drowning out the sound of the storm. Her head tipped forward and she stared down at the water, and the infernal sounds of the thunder and the flashes of lightning began to subside. In reality, they were louder than ever, but in her mind the water offered her peace and sanctuary and beckoned her forwards. This is where it ends, she realised.
She longed for release from the torment she had had to endure, it seemed, forever. She lifted herself up on her knees and looked out across the swollen river. One tip forward and it would be over. This is my fate.
“Mummy, Mummy! Mummy! MUMMY!” Leila’s cries came from a long way off, starting quietly but then increasing in intensity until they broke through the din around her and shook her to her core. She swivelled her head frantically in an effort to see where they came from, expecting to see her daughter standing there in the rain, as soaked as she was, crying for help. But she could see nothing.
The cries persisted and got even louder. “Mummy! MUMMY!” Leila was screaming at her, not for help, but in warning, desperately urging her not to go, willing her to pull back, and as if in harmony, the old lady nagged her mercilessly, “Never give up, never give up, never give up,” again and again, in an interminable, infernal loop that only made her head spin even more.
She clasped her hands to her ears to try and block out the noise but it just got louder. She shook her head and rocked and whimpered and wailed at the onslaught, willing it to stop, willing whatever spirits were at work to cease the torment.
She twisted her head to her right and then, in a flash of lightning which lasted only a fraction of a second, saw something in the distance, something beside the riverbank about two hundred yards away. She squinted, trying to focus through the torrential rain that poured into her eyes, her hair whipping into her face through the force of the wind. She swept her hair away with one hand and looked again, trying to focus. Another flash. A boat! There was a boat, a large boat, and it was moored downriver. There’s no such thing as fate. Jess knew what to do.
She scrambled drunkenly to her feet, slipping and sliding in the mud, and wrenched her sodden rucksack over her shoulder. She ran.
The rucksack was several kilos heavier now but it didn’t matter. Adrenalin surged through her body, fuelling the strength in legs that propelled her across the waterlogged field as if she were floating on air, her head and body bent forward, cutting through the bombardment of rain and wind that desperately tried to hold her back. But she was not going to give up. Never would she give up.
Her lungs burned and her eyes stung and still she sprinted towards her goal; and then she was there, alongside the vessel, which sat serenely at its moorings, seemingly oblivious to the water that bounced off her and cascaded down her sides.
The boat was dark, no light showing from the side windows. Unoccupied but not abandoned; it was too good for that. The entire stern was covered by a heavy blue tarpaulin or canvas, the boat made ready for inclement weather. She gauged the distance from the bank to the deck at only three feet but now fatigue grabbed hold of her and she felt suddenly weak. She would have to leap across the gap with her insanely heavy rucksack and then find a way to get under the tarpaulin. She looked down at the river swirling rapidly between the bank and the hull and contemplated for a second the consequences of slipping and falling between them. But there was no time for that.
Her chest was heaving from the exertion of the run, but with what remained of her strength she hurled the rucksack across the gap and over the guardrail onto the side decking, and then launched herself across, frantically grabbing the rail with one, then two hands and hauling herself on board. She made it. The rain, seemingly further enraged, pummelled her head and shoulders as she dragged herself and her rucksack to the stern, and the thunder increased in ferocity, deafening her and making her cry out involuntarily in fear.
She swept her hair back again so she could see what she was doing, examining the heavy blue canvas for an opening, any way she could get inside, but there was no door or zip. Eventually she noticed the tarpaulin was held down by six elasticated straps stretched over hooks built into the boat, and off centre, a tiny set of wooden steps that led from the stern deck where she crouched, up under the canvas.
She fumbled with one of the straps and it came loose easily so she worked briskly on either side until she had loosened as many as she needed to be able to lift up the tarpaulin and slide her head underneath. Satisfied the gap was big enough, she dragged her body up and over the tiny staircase, under the tarpaulin and into the dry cockpit, turning herself round immediately to reach back out and drag the sodden rucksack after her.
She flopped on her back, gasping and wheezing, chest thumping like a sledgehammer, water dripping off her body onto the dry caulked decking, forming a rapidly expanding puddle around her. She lay between two heavy leather-upholstered armchairs mounted on thick chrome pillars screwed to the cockpit deck, one of them set in front of an array of dials and levers. She closed her eyes and tried to stabilise her breathing.
Peter sensed the commotion because it was different. Something had thudded onto the deck, perhaps a wayward branch, he thought, broken off and flung around in the wind, but his mind was still only in a state of semi-awareness and he brushed it off as nothing to be concerned about. His drowsiness pulled him back under, and despite the thunder cracks, he drifted away again. Immediately, a second unfamiliar, incongruous noise pierced his senses and it sounded much closer to home, something on the other side of the hatch.
He raised himself up off the banquette seat and instinctively lifted the blinds on the riverside. Good Lord! There’s a bloody tent floating down the river! He had no time to assimilate this information before he heard a ruckus followed by a thump and a cry coming from the stern cockpit on the other side of the hatch.
Without considering the potential for danger, he flicked the lights on, got to his feet and climbed up the few steps to the rear hatch, reaching up to release the bolts keeping it in place.
Jess felt the movement before she heard a sound. The boat had rocked slightly as if its weight had shifted and she could only guess what it meant. Before she could react, she heard the distinct clatter of bolts: one, two, three, and then the rattle of wooden doors thrown open, light flooding into the cockpit, and with mounting horror, realised she was not alone.
Peter took two more steps on the wooden ladder, bringing his head up to the level of the cockpit, and peered into the gloom, intrigued but unperturbed.
“Are you all right?” he said with an insouciance that suggested incidents like this were a regular occurrence on his boat. The person lying flat on their back with their head towards him and arms and legs outstretched like a crucifix was clearly not a threat. Jess was still struggling to come to terms with what she imagined might turn out to be the biggest misjudgement of her life.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” was all she could manage, and then, “I didn’t know there was anyone here.” She gabbled incoherently. “I’ll go.”
Peter realised instantly that he was dealing with a young female so made every attempt not to react to the crass nonsense she was babbling and tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.
“Wait! You can’t go back out there! Here, give me that,” and before she could do anything he reached over, grabbed her sodden rucksack and dragged it down the steps into the saloon below. She twisted onto her front and made a vain attempt to reach out and catch hold of it before it disappeared, but she was too late and saw him striding off down the boat, rucksack in hand.
“You’ll need something warm,” he shouted from the galley as he reached for the kettle and started filling it. She could see the man was old and grey-haired but bulky and fearsome, and all she could think was how she was going to extricate herself from this mess; not least because he had taken all her belongings.
“Come on. Come on!” he bellowed from the galley, further aggravating her fear. She crawled further towards the hatch opening so she could see a little better.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” she said limply, thinking the first step perhaps was to placate the old boy. He was having none of it.
“Look. You’ll catch your death out there. Come down at once!” Realising resistance was futile, she swung her body around and climbed backwards down the steps into the saloon, where she stood shivering, arms around her body, head down in submission, lank wet hair dangling over her face.
She heard him approach and was momentarily afraid he might attack her, but to her surprise, he moderated his aggression, sounding suddenly concerned as he took in the image before him. He thrust a towel under her nose and she took it, burying her face in it and then using it to rub the back of her head.
“Goodness me, you’re soaking! Have you got anything to change into?” Head still down, she sniffed, and not daring to look at him, mumbled through her dangling hair.
“In the rucksack, but I expect it’s all wet. Don’t worry, I’ll soon dry off,” she said without conviction.
“Hmm,” he snorted at this latest piece of nonsense and marched off, huffing and puffing. After a moment or two, during which it sounded as if cupboards and drawers were being ransacked, he returned clutching two items of clothing in one hand.
He thrust them at her. “These are the best I can do, I’m afraid. Go up for’ard, take that wet stuff off and put these on,” he said, poking a grey tee shirt and green woollen pullover in her direction.
She hesitated but then thought it best not to argue. She swept her wet hair back to see what she was doing and turned to face him for the first time, holding out one hand to take the clothes. He froze.
They stood for a moment staring at each other and she thought her worst fears were about to be realised. What’s the matter? Why is he looking at me like that? She felt the panic rise again and her heart begin to thump. He remained immobile, transfixed, eyes cold and dark and disturbed, as if he were in a trance. They stood, gripping the clothes like protagonists in a tug of war: she, terror-stricken by his numb expression; he, rooted to the spot, frozen by her hypnotic spell. She decided not to make any sudden movements, simply draw back slowly. She gulped and broke the awkward silence.
“No. It’s okay. I’m fine, thanks,” she said guardedly, lowering her hand. The trance ended and he exploded.
“Now look here!” he bellowed, shoulders back, standing rigidly to attention. “I’m captain of this ship and whilst on board, you will do as you’re told. I will not tolerate insubordination on my vessel!”
She stepped back, jaw dropping open, eyes wide in fear, but in the same instant, the rant was over. He relaxed, collected himself and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Habit of a lifetime, giving orders.” He smiled at her and the fear subsided, if only a little. He went on, and this time his words were gentle but firm. “But you know I’m right.”
She nodded unconvincingly and carefully took the clothes from him. “Go on,” he said, directing her with a nod of the head. She slid past him gently and went to the for’ard cabin, closing the door behind her.
***
Still shaking from her bizarre and terrifying encounter with the old man, Jess stepped into the cabin and pulled the sliding door shut behind her. It was compact to say the least, if not claustrophobic, but she could stand up, which was more than could be said of her tent. The walls curved inwards following the shape of the bow and on each side was a single banquette bed, curving in to meet at one end in the middle.
There were several varnished wood drawers and lockers fixed under the bed and similarly finished shelves, cubbyholes and pockets above. A small window was set into the hull on each side, and she leant over to open one as she needed some air; and anyway, if her clothes were to dry, they would need a flow of air to help.
The rain continued to fall steadily outside but it had relented a little and the thunderstorm had passed. Her sodden rucksack lay on one of the beds and dripped water on a floor covered in coarse matting. She shivered despite the relative warmth of the boat and decided there was no option but to strip everything off and put on the dry clothes he had given her.
Naked, she rubbed herself down with a towel, but hearing him clattering around in the galley on the other side of the door again made her feel vulnerable and nervous. “Milk and sugar?” The sound startled her and she instinctively clutched the towel to her chest.
“Oh, er, just milk, thanks.” She tried to hang her wet things on anything she could find: hooks, window catches, cupboard knobs, but knew they would take time to dry. She gave her hair a brisk rub with the towel and soon felt better. She was still nervous about the old man. He had shown he had a fierce temper when provoked but then he had calmed down instantly when she had acquiesced. She wondered what his attitude might be to someone invading his space without asking and, cautious as ever, what his motives were. He was entitled to be upset, but then she could not understand the look he gave her when she tried to take the clothes.
There was a small mirror on the back of the door and she examined her face to see if she had a black eye or a scar or something which might have explained his shock at seeing her. All she saw was Jess. Plain Jess, drawn, weary, pale with soggy dangling hair. Maybe that had been enough. Although maybe he sensed an opportunity?
She began to think the worst. It was possible he was just another man whose “needs” were for her to satisfy. She felt dismayed at the thought but, as always, was philosophical about it. She had no choice at the moment. As long as he didn’t hurt her.
She decided she wouldn’t stay any longer than necessary. She needed an escape plan, but what was there to plan? If she had learnt anything about her life on the road it was that plans were pointless, as what lay around the next bend was always unexpected. One step at a time, she told herself. Everything will drop into place.
She examined the tee shirt he had given her. It was huge. The label said 5XL and she thought that might well be his size. She pulled it over her head and it stretched all the way to her knees, the arms reaching below her elbows like a baggy nightdress, but she was relieved to find it covered her modesty.
The heavy woollen sweater was dark green, with green leather patches on the elbows and khaki cotton epaulettes fastened by faux brass buttons. It was the same size as the tee shirt though not quite as stretched and shapeless, but the sleeves were a good nine inches too long for her and she rolled them up so she could at least use her hands. The sweater, too, fell way beyond her thighs but stopped above the level of the tee shirt.
She felt swamped but relieved to be out of her wet clothes. She did her best to arrange her hair in the mirror, and took a deep breath. Time to re-emerge.
Peter sat in the saloon, contemplating his encounter with the young woman and the profound effect it had had on him. He was a little ashamed of his outburst, especially as it had frightened her so much and that was the last thing he had wanted to do. He had just been taken by surprise, that was all. Still, he cursed himself for his lack of self-control – wouldn’t have happened back in the army – and like most things, put it down to age. No, he told himself. This had nothing to do with age, nothing at all.
He heard the for’ard cabin door slide open and he could feel his heartbeat rising again. Maybe it had been a trick of the light or maybe he had just been tired and mildly hallucinating. Perhaps when he saw her again in the full glare of the cabin lights, he might realise it was simply his imagination running riot. Michael’s well-meaning intervention the other day had ensured the issue remained at the forefront of his mind.
He heard the wooden floorboards creak as she moved towards him but avoided turning his head until the girl had come through the galley and climbed the two steps up into the saloon. She appeared nervous and embarrassed in her ridiculous outfit so he gave her a welcoming smile to try to put her at ease. “Sit down there,” he said, gesturing to the banquette seat opposite, “and get warm.” Two mugs of tea sat steaming on a low-slung coffee table separating them and she leant forward to pick one up, cupping the mug in both hands, clearly savouring the warmth. She took a mouthful and closed her eyes.
He watched her intently as she drank, and a wave of emotion washed over him. She was exactly as he had remembered; not surprising since she had only been away for fifteen minutes. No trick of the light. No hallucination. He considered for a moment that he was in fact still asleep and this was a cruel dream, a wicked punishment; but then if this was punishment, he didn’t want to wake up, ever. He would happily sit there, locked in this dream, and look at her for all eternity. But it was no dream, it was all real. Time to act real.
“I must say you picked a poor day to be out walking,” he admonished her gently “Where on earth were you trying to get to? There’s nothing around here for miles.” She swallowed another mouthful of the nectar and shrugged.
“I was just seeing where the path took me,” she said. He thrust a hand across the table.
“Peter Jeffries, colonel, retired.” She cautiously held out her hand. His huge hand enveloped hers completely, warm and soft and comforting. He held on for a second. She was real, all right.
“Alice,” she said shyly.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Alice.” Reluctantly, he let go of her hand, aware that he might be squeezing it a bit too hard. “Don’t get many visitors on board.”
“The lights were off,” she pleaded in self-defence, “I thought there was no one here.”
“Afternoon snooze,” he explained. “It’s an age thing. Recharges the batteries, though, and there’s not much else you can do in weather like this.” He looked up at the ceiling to indicate the sound of the rain that continued to pound the top of the boat.
“Now, you’ll need some food, too. When did you last eat? I’m not much of a cook, but I’m an expert when it comes to beans on toast. Years of practice,” he announced with pride and a wide grin, slapping both thighs and getting out of his seat.
“Please don’t go to any trouble,” she said anxiously as he stepped towards the galley. “I’ll have to be making a move soon anyway.” He turned to face her and put both his hands on his hips. She appeared to wilt under his gaze, but he was smiling in his gentle reproach.
“Now that is preposterous. No one is going out there in this weather. You can bunk down in the for’ard cabin tonight and see what it’s doing in the morning.”
“Oh …no, it’s okay. I’ve got my tent, you see!” she blurted out without thinking. He looked at her and stifled a laugh.
“You mean the one floating down the river?” He said it with a heavy irony but she looked embarrassed and, sensing her disquiet, did his best to put her mind at ease. He adopted a soft but authoritative tone.
“Now look, Alice. It’s raining, it’s getting late and your things are wet. I assure you, you will be much better off here in the warm than out there in that.” He thought she still looked worried, and reading her mind, said, “You can lock the door to your cabin. You’ve nothing to fear from a silly old fool like me.” She looked up sheepishly and he smiled broadly, gently.
“Are you a gentleman as well as an officer?” she asked, at which he snapped to attention and saluted.
“Colonel Jeffries at your service, Ma’am!” He stomped one foot on the deck, whirled around and marched down to the galley.
Jess had felt uneasy, not being in control of events and the colonel was clearly a force to be reckoned with, despite his effusive character. She was nervous about arguing with him again, afraid that he may react the same way as he had earlier and fly into a rage, but she was desperately hungry and it made sense to take him up on his offer of food while trying to keep her options open. But when he had mentioned staying the night, her alarm bells had started ringing. This was going too far. She wasn’t ready to trust him. She might never be ready to trust him, and she needed to stay in control. Yet, for the moment at least, she had to trust him. She had no choice.
***
The rain had stopped, just a few stray drops sporadically dripping from the superstructure and hitting the roof over their heads.
Jess forked the last few baked beans into her mouth and smacked her lips. She carefully put the cutlery down on her plate and noticed he had been watching her with a broad smile as she ate, grinning foolishly in delight.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “That was delicious.”
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed in mock surprise. “Never heard my beans on toast described as delicious!” And then, as if bolstered by thi