The Drift Page 5

  Hans tapped Jessica on the arm and pointed out a magnificent wrasse busy ripping barnacles off a section of bent and twisted railing with its vicious incisors. Clad in an armor of coppery scales like coins in a wishing well and swishing its spiny winglike fins, the creature gave the impression of a mystical sea dragon.

  Snapping shot after shot, Hans noticed a slight discoloration in the sand about the size of a dinner plate. Two almost imperceptible yet wonky angled eyes confirmed it was a flatfish. Evolution had allowed the species to survive through millenniums and this individual to grow to quite some age, but the American had something else on his mind – barbeque! – and the fish’s contribution to the gene pool was about to end.

  Hans whipped out his knife, exhaled deeply and sunk down to spear the flatfish behind its misaligned orbs. The plaice attempted to shoot away, but Hans kept the knife’s point pinned to the seabed, resulting in the startled animal kicking up a storm of whirling sand with its futile butterflying motion. Hans gripped the plaice with one hand, withdrew the blade and reversed his grip, bringing the knife’s hefty metal pommel down sharply to end the creature’s misery, the mere recollection of frying fish and wood smoke triggering the pleasure receptors in his brain.

  Hans was in the process of stowing his catch in a mesh bag when he felt a nudge on his shoulder. He looked to his side to see Jessica, who knew never to venture more than a few feet away, frantically pointing as Guz, Plymouth’s much-loved sea lion, arched backwards in a graceful loop. Hans would have whooped in delight had he not had a regulator in his mouth, for this was a dive experience to beat most others. He gave Jessica the okay sign, which she returned immediately, switching the camera to video mode as he settled beside her. He had no concerns as to Guz’s intentions but remained wary of the sea lion’s excitement.

  Fortunately, Guz just wanted to play, showing off in his natural environment with more loops and turns, like a subaqua stunt pilot. Hans glanced at the rate bubbles rose from Jessica’s exhalations, reassured to see she was relaxed, reading her pressure gauge to find plenty of air. True to her training, she took it as a cue to check his.

  As Guz circuited the two of them, Hans had a feeling the flatfish might be the catalyst behind his display, and, not wishing to risk inviting any unwanted behavior, he pulled it from the bag. Guz’s finely tuned senses saw him turn back on himself so acutely that his head traveling in one direction passed his rear flippers sculling in the other. With a gentle tug of his canine snout, Guz took the plaice from Hans’ fingers and then turned to face them, bobbing his head as if to say thank you before shooting off through the deep green curtain.

  Hans was about to call the dive to an end, unclipping the orange marker buoy ready for inflation, when Jessica banged him on the arm. She made a pincer sign and finned over to a ledge. Hans followed to see she had spotted a lobster caught up in fishing line.

  It was an impressive specimen with a burnt-orange carapace tinged with ruby red and porcelain blue, and, over three feet in length, must have been at least sixty years old. The terrified crustacean thrashed about like a prisoner on the rack, its gigantic serrated claws powerless to extricate itself from the awful scenario.

  Jessica pulled out her diving knife and began to cut the lobster free, her father helping her with the fiddly snarls while making sure the captive didn’t nip them. Had the situation been different, Hans would have nabbed the lobster for dinner, but under the circumstances he was happy to see it scurry backwards under a shelf, with only the tips of its antennae still visible.

  Climbing back aboard Future, Jessica couldn’t get her words out fast enough.

  “Penny! We saw Guz and we saw a lobster!”

  “Wow, a lobster! Daddy said you were a good diver, but he didn’t tell me you were that good! Was Guz behaving himself?”

  “Ut-uh!” She shook her head. “He ate Papa’s fish!”

  “Oh, so we’ve got no lunch, hey? In that case we better find something else.”

  With Future anchored in an idyllic cove nestled amongst verdant-topped cliffs, they spent the afternoon snorkeling in the crystalline water, collecting limpets and mussels to cook over a driftwood fire on the beach. Back at the marina that evening, they rinsed the dive gear in freshwater and stowed it under the bunks, and then Hans hooked his camera up to the TV and played the video.

  As Penny sipped a glass of chardonnay and praised Jessica’s diving skills, her admiration for the father and daughter’s unique relationship grew.

  - 12 -

  “Arnold Schwarzenegger,” Ahmed whispered, lying on the top bunk amid the stench of stale urine, biting fleas and the muffled sob of a child.

  “Jean-Claude Van Damme,” Mohamed replied from the darkness below.

  The young Moroccans were inseparable, blood brothers to the end, with scar tissue on their palms to prove it. Neither recalled exactly when they first met in the orphanage in Tangier. Ahmed’s mother had left him on the steps as a baby. Mohamed arrived some years later when the French mission station ran out of funding. What they did remember was the bond forged between them and the promise, if called upon, to die for one another.

  Now twelve and thirteen, the boys still played the Hollywood game occasionally, fantasizing that in reality their parents were movie stars, who would one day return to pluck them from obscurity with loving arms and reassurances of “We never forgot you.”

  “Mimi Farrar.” Ahmed claimed Morocco’s very own goddess of the silver screen as his birthright.

  “She’s my mother, you thief.” Mohamed hissed.

  “I thought you didn’t know your mother.” Ahmed giggled, which set Mohamed off for the umpteenth time that evening.

  The door creaked open. Ahmed and Mohamed fell silent. Lamplight bathed the crowded dormitory.

  Abu Yazza, the orphanage’s elderly patron, cast a drunken bloodshot eye over the sleeping children, beckoning the boy who was sobbing with a bony finger.

  “Pious old pig!” said Ahmed as the door closed. “He may have the respect of the imam, but one day . . .” He leant over the side of the bunks and drew a finger across his throat.

  “Abu Yazza and his baboon-faced wife are gonna show poor Omar some hanan.” Mohamed spat the term “tenderness.”

  “And he will have to slave all day tomorrow, no sleep and bleeding.”

  In exchange for squalid accommodation and measly food, the orphans worked twelve-hour shifts in the airless basement of Abu Yazza’s carpet factory.

  The next morning the boys sat on their haunches in front of a traditional wooden loom strung with a half-finished rug, their nimble fingers weaving shuttles of polypropylene thread to create a striking blue, cream and red paisley motif. Mohamed coughed and rubbed his red-raw eyelids, for chemicals in the synthetic fibers often resulted in festering infections, dermatitis and asthma.

  “Are you okay, brother?” Ahmed asked out the side of his mouth.

  “It’s painful.” Mohamed blinked, trickles of sticky yellow fluid dribbling onto his cheeks.

  “It’s not for much longer. Remember the plan.”

  As youngsters, Ahmed and Mohamed had put up with the cruelty meted out to them by the heinous couple, internalizing the pain and developing coping strategies – lying, cheating, fighting and stealing – to get them through another day. Yet the pair were smart, hardening to their circumstances. Cunning replaced indifference. Plotting, the luxury of dreaming – and woe betides anyone who got in their way.

  “Brother,” Mohamed whispered, watching Omar scurrying around on his haunches, unable to look anyone in the eye as he swept up stray tufts with a dustpan and brush, “I remember the plan.”

  - 13 -

  Over the next few days, while Penny spent time with Jessica fishing from the dock, rowing the tender and visiting museums, Hans made final preparations for the voyage.

  Using a state-of-the-art software package, he interfaced Future’s electronic equipment with charts downloaded to his laptop to create a sophisticated navigati
on arrangement, making sure to back up the important files.

  Travel visas would not be an issue, but Hans still had to make sure the yacht’s paperwork was in order ready for inspection by harbormasters in the ports they intended to visit. He had the relevant tide tables and an almanac detailing the Atlantic’s predicted conditions, together with a list of meteorological websites and frequencies for weather bulletins in the regions ahead. Giving a rough estimate of their arrival time, Hans emailed yacht clubs and marinas along their route to reserve moorings.

  After buying scuba weights and fishing tackle in a nearby sports store, they provisioned the yacht with dried and canned victuals and enough fresh food to last them until reaching port in France. Penny helped, her knowledge of seafaring staples and British supermarkets making things a lot easier.

  All Hans had to do now was take Old Glory from his suitcase and replace the English ensign flying astern.

  Finally, they went to say good-bye to Old Bill, a tinkling bell above the chandlery door signaling their entrance. On bended knees, Bill stroked Jessica’s cheek and pressed a good-luck gift into her hand. It was a pocketknife with a tiny silver anchor screwed to its ebony handle.

  Her face lit up.

  “Remember, don’t cross the Biscay without a five-day window, and be sure to give her plenty of sea room when you do, mate.” He winked.

  “Aye aye, skippa!”

  “Aye aye, me little hearty. And fair passage to ’e.”

  When Hans and Jessica left, Bill flipped the sign in his window to “Closed,” then went into the backroom and poured himself a shot of rum. He massaged his gray-stubbled chin, knowing he would miss that nice American and his kid.

  - 14 -

  “It is our time,” Ahmed whispered, gathering his few possessions in the darkness. “There is no going back.”

  “Our future is bright.” Mohamed retrieved his knife from under the mattress.

  “Inshallah.”

  Using a key stolen by one of the younger children on a “visit” to the Yazza’s bedside, Ahmed unlocked the dormitory. He felt nauseous, though unsure why.

  Mohamed pulled a box of matches from his pocket. “Let’s get the others out and torch this devil-forsaken fleapit while the filthy pigs sleep!”

  Ahmed chuckled, having gotten used to his friend’s impetuousness over the years.

  “Not now, brother. Their time will come. Inshallah.”

  They hightailed into the night.

  Heading in no particular direction, the boys soon found themselves walking along narrow cobbled streets deep in Tangier’s Old Town. Water trickled down dank mossed walls as the faint sound of laughter emanated from underground taverns. In the glow of a streetlight, a scruffily dressed boy stood looking up and down the road. He appeared on edge, stepping from one leg to the other as the two of them approached.

  “Salaam alaikum,” Ahmed greeted.

  “And may peace be upon you too,” the boy mumbled, staring at Ahmed’s palm for a moment before accepting it.

  “What’s your name, friend?” asked Mohamed.

  “Faar,” said the boy, which meant “mouse.”

  Mohamed wondered why Faar stood here alone in the middle of the night but didn’t ask, instead letting Ahmed explain their plight.

  Faar’s timid brown eyes flicked alternately from Ahmed to Mohamed, until eventually “Come” he said, leading them down a winding alleyway and across a patch of wasteland. He stopped next to a pile of rubble overgrown with weeds and lifted up a sheet of rotting plywood to expose an open manhole.

  “Down, down,” Faar ordered, scanning the area like a soldier on patrol.

  Clinging to the iron rungs of a service ladder, the boys descended into what at first was pitch-black silence, but nearing the bottom of the shaft they began to detect the flicker of firelight as the stench of human excrement and hushed conversations floated up to greet them. They stood at the base of the ladder, their vision adjusting to the dark in the cavernous space.

  “This way,” said Faar.

  Following him along the sewer’s walkway, they passed small fires and oil lamps, the flames illuminating haunted young faces and prone figures.

  “Shemkara?” Mohamed whispered. “Glue children?”

  “Yes,” Faar muttered. “Here is my place.”

  They sat down on dirty bedding insulated from the cold stone by sheets of cardboard. Faar retrieved an empty tuna can from his shoulder bag. He levered up the lid and dripped oil from a plastic drinks bottle onto the wadding packed inside it, pulling a short length of the fabric through a hole spiked in the top of the can to serve as a wick. He lit it with a cigarette lighter and waited for the flame to take hold. Ahmed noticed Faar kept the bag strapped over his shoulder.

  “Tonight you can share my blanket, but tomorrow you must find your own space. It gets cold down here.”

  Faar pulled a half-eaten flatbread from his bag and ripped it into three pieces.

  Their eyes attuned to the darkness, the boys could make out the sewer’s ancient brickwork conduit, the platform they were on set off to one side. Sewage trickled along the bottom of the pipe a few feet beneath them.

  In the light of the fires, Mohamed could only see male faces. He was about to ask Faar why there were no girls when – “Urrhk!” – a bark shattered the subdued atmosphere, and their friend rushed to blow out the lamp.

  “Shh!” Faar flattened himself against the wall. “Rat Boy!”

  Sensing the fear in his voice, Ahmed and Mohamed did likewise, knowing better than to ask questions. Huddling in the shadows, they made out the silhouette of an older teenager staggering down the walkway, grunting and kicking sleeping children.

  Close to Faar’s bed space, two shemkara had fallen asleep with their lamp still burning. Mohamed lurched to extinguish it, but a terrified Faar gripped his arm.

  “No!”

  Taking Faar’s lead, Ahmed and Mohamed buried their faces, as if in slumber, but whoever this frightening character was, it didn’t fool him.

  “Urrhk!”

  He booted Faar’s head, cracking it against the brickwork. The kid stifled a yelp.

  In the same instant Ahmed and Mohamed went for their knives but froze at the sight that met them – a hideously disfigured head, bald with burn tissue, face melted and shriveled like a mummified corpse.

  “Sssssssss,” the creature hissed, like a snake weighing up its prey, a sole lock of hair fluttering in the subterranean breeze. Despite having no discernible features, Rat Boy appeared to give a jeering smile, pulling a knife of his own and drawing it slowly across his throat in mock slaughter.

  “Urrhk!”

  He stumbled off down the walkway and disappeared into the gloom.

  - 15 -

  Future carved out into the bay, responding to the slightest command like an obedient mare. For Hans it was a relief to get under way, a homecoming in every sense. Penny stood relaxed at the helm, wearing white three-quarter-length pants, Reef sandals and a blue crop top, her bronzed face glistening with sea spray. Jessica occupied herself by teaching Bear everything a stuffed toy should know about seamanship, particularly the drills her father drummed into her around safety. With sunlight dancing in the wave crests, the ocean was a delightful place to be, and at a speed of six knots Penny estimated they would reach France in twenty-two hours.

  Hans settled on the cockpit cushions and opened their guidebook. He learned that Brest was the twin city of Plymouth, the siblings having a great deal in common – large universities, a strong maritime connection and a challenging vernacular. Both underwent extensive reconstruction after the Second World War, resulting in a similar conflict of architecture, although in their attempts to bomb an enemy submarine base, it was the Allies, not the Germans, who had reduced Brest’s skyline to rubble.

  Sailing Future into port in the morning, Hans mused on the likeness, as new buildings clashed with the remnants of centuries-old design. They passed the magnificent Château de Brest standing guard o
ver the city’s river mouth, the castle’s crenulated walls forming a series of geometric shapes contouring the cliff side in a similar manner to the Great Wall of China. Restored to former glory, it was a formidable sight.

  They rounded a point and the marina came into view, its craft nudging against lines of pontoons like components in a gigantic Airfix kit.

  “Okay, me hearties.” Hans interrupted a breakfast of sausage sandwiches and cereal. “Fenders in please, then hop ashore and tie us up.”

  “Aye aye, skipper!” Penny jumped at the task with her seemingly endless energy.

  “Aye aye, skippa!” Jessica replied through a mouthful of Weetabix, unclipping her safety line and scurrying after her friend.

  They each threw in a fender, and then Penny held Jessica’s hand as they neared the pontoon. Hans had radioed the marina to find out their berth, and just as Future came abeam he blipped the engine in reverse, halting the yacht’s forward momentum to allow the girls to step onto the floating dock.

  “Whoooarh! That’s it, shipmate.”

  Penny made a big deal out of pulling the boat in with Jessica and then showed her how to tie up to a cleat. With both lines secure, they climbed back on board to finish their food.

  Later, as the three of them lounged in Future’s luxurious cockpit soaking up the morning’s rays under a heavenly blue umbrella, the sound of distant rock music carried across the water.

  . . . around the edge

  A long way to get here

  You won’t see me cryin’

  Just see me disappear

  Without you

  There is no way ahead

  Without you-ooh-ooh-ooh . . .

  Screening her eyes from the sun, Penny made out a yacht heading straight for them.

  “Wow!” She reached for the binoculars. “She’s a classic.”

  “What’s a classic?” asked Jessica.

  “It’s a really old boat made from wood, honey.”

  “How many aboard?” asked Hans as the music grew louder.