by Chris Speyer
Normally, Zaki would have hurried over to catch mooring lines and help the skipper make fast; it was the friendly thing to do, particularly when someone was bringing a boat alongside single-handed. But instead, Zaki slid off the wall and ducked behind a large green recycling bin. Peeping around the bin, he watched the boat close the last few metres to the harbour wall.
If she’d got the speed wrong, he thought, that long bowsprit would skewer the sailing trawler. But she hadn’t got it wrong – the boat slowed gently, and as the side kissed the harbour wall, the girl reached over and dropped a mooring rope round a bollard, let the line run out, then with a flick of her wrist tied off the other end. In another moment she was ashore securing her bow line. It was so expertly done that Zaki felt like applauding.
Then she dropped and furled the sails before disappearing into the cabin.
* * *
‘Why are you hiding?’
Zaki spun round and found Anusha standing behind him.
‘You weren’t by the tourist information office, so I came looking for you.’
‘Sorry,’ said Zaki, not wanting to take his eyes off the boat for more than a second. ‘I wasn’t hiding from you.’
The girl was still below decks.
‘What are you doing, then? Who are you spying on?’
‘You see that boat there?’
Anusha nodded.
‘There’s a girl on it. And I think I know who she is. Well, I don’t really know who she is. That’s the thing, you see? And I want to know what she’s doing here.’
Anusha examined him quizzically, her head tipped slightly to one side. ‘You’re not making that much sense.’
‘Sorry. It’s just – I don’t have time to explain it all.’
‘All what?’
Zaki could hear the note of irritation in her voice but he couldn’t think of a simple answer.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want to trust me.’ And she turned to leave.
‘Wait! Please . . . I need your help.’
Anusha waited, arms folded, while Zaki struggled to organise his thoughts.
‘On holiday . . . we were on my dad’s boat and I found a cave . . . with a skeleton in it . . .’
‘A what! A skeleton! Are you making this up?’
‘. . . and she’s got something to do with it, but I don’t know what.’
Anusha sucked her lip and said nothing. Zaki knew she was having trouble believing him. Then, a wild idea came into his head.
‘Listen. If she comes ashore, I want you to follow her.’
‘You’re kidding! Me? Why?’
‘I want to know where she goes.’
‘What about you?’
‘I can’t follow her, she might recognise me. Anyway, if she leaves the boat open, I’m going to take a look on board.’
‘Isn’t that against the law, or something?’
‘I need to know who she is.’
‘Well . . . why don’t you just ask her?’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘No – I don’t.’
‘The skeleton – maybe she did it – maybe she killed someone. She made me promise not to tell. She’s keeping it a secret.’
‘So, maybe she’s a murderer, and you want me to follow her?’
‘Yes,’ said Zaki, thinking, when put like that, it didn’t sound such a great idea. Also, he had just broken his promise to the girl who had saved his life.
‘All right,’ said Anusha, after a pause. ‘OK, I’ll follow her. But make sure you’re out of her boat before she gets back. Please?’
‘If she starts coming back suddenly, try to warn me.’
‘How?’ Anusha demanded.
‘I don’t know. Look! She’s coming ashore.’
The girl jumped ashore. She was barefooted and had an old canvas rucksack, the sort with leather straps that you might find in an army surplus store, slung over one shoulder. It looked empty. She took a moment to put her rucksack on properly and then strode off towards the road into town. Anusha allowed the girl to get to the corner of the waterside buildings and then hurried off after her.
Zaki waited until Anusha was out of sight, checked that nobody was watching him, then quickly crossed the dockside to where the boat was moored and climbed on board. He crouched down in the cockpit. The boat’s deck was below the level of the harbour edge so that, by keeping low, he could keep out of sight of anyone ashore, unless they were standing just above the boat.
Curlew – the boat’s name was painted in neat black letters across the edge of the sliding hatch over the steps down to the cabin. A good name for her, Zaki thought. With her long, downward-bending bowsprit she looked quite like the long-beaked wader she was named after.
Now, could he get into the cabin? He tried the hatch cover. A gentle push and it slid forward. Not locked. Carefully, he lifted out the washboards and laid them on the floor of the cockpit.
The cabin was dark by contrast with the sunlight outside. The sudden thought struck Zaki that she may have left the boat unlocked because there was someone else on board, someone who had remained in the cabin. Gingerly, Zaki climbed down the steps. There was no one in the small saloon. Zaki listened at the door to the forward cabin. If anyone was aboard he or she was keeping very still. There was just enough height below the deck for Zaki to be able to stand; anyone taller would need to remain stooped.
In the flickering, reflected light off the water that entered through the small brass portholes Zaki examined his surroundings. All was neat and tidy. Two narrow bunks, a drop-sided table, a spirit stove; no room for a chart table. He opened the wet-locker by the companionway and found a single set of old-fashioned oilskins hanging inside that looked to be the girl’s size and a pair of sea boots. He closed the locker. A spirit lamp hung from a deck beam aft of the mast. It was the only visible form of artificial lighting. There were no electrical fittings. Whoever owned this boat was a true traditionalist; there was no radio and no modern navigation aids, no GPS, no depth, speed or wind gauges, not even electric lights. Zaki bent down and looked through the steps of the companionway; there was no motor. No wonder the girl had brought the boat in under sail! His gaze took in the fittings – wood, brass and bronze – no stainless steel. She was like a boat out of a museum, out of a different time.
‘Get a move on!’ Zaki told himself. He was supposed to be finding out about the girl, not the boat. But what to look for? Cautiously, he moved forward and opened the door to the forward cabin. A small crowded space, but again, everything neat and tidy. There was a locker on each side, beyond which were canvas sailbags containing spare sails, coils of cotton and hemp rope and other bits of gear.
Zaki opened the locker on the starboard side. Clothing that Zaki guessed to be the girl’s, although there was nothing particularly feminine about any of it. Still, he was now pretty certain that she was sailing alone.
He closed the locker and opened the one on the port side. Behind the door were two shelves and below them a set of drawers; the shelves were full of cloth-covered writing books. It was clear from the state and style of their covers that the books had been purchased at different times. Zaki picked one at random and flicked through the pages. It was a logbook: dates, passage plans, ports of departure and arrival, weather details, notes, each entry written in the same sloping handwriting. He read the date of the last entry ‘6th July, 1965’. Too long ago to have been written by the girl. He replaced the log on the shelf and took down the one that looked the newest. Over half the pages were empty, so it had to be the current log, and this was borne out by the most recent entry; it was dated the previous day and gave details of a passage from Plymouth to Salcombe. It gave no reason for the journey, revealing nothing beyond the bare facts. She’d had a favourable wind and made good time, averaging, by Zaki’s reckoning, around five knots. But the handwriting! . . . Zaki took down the book he’d just put away; he opened it and compared entries in the two books. Yesterday’s entry was written in the
same handwriting as an entry made over forty years ago. How could that be? She must have an older companion, the log keeper, perhaps the boat’s real owner; someone she’d put ashore in Salcombe before today’s short trip up to Kingsbridge?
Perhaps his assumption about the clothing was wrong, perhaps it wasn’t all hers. Then why one set of oilskins? Maybe the other person had worn his or her set ashore.
Zaki put away the logbooks and turned his attention to the drawers. Hurriedly opening and closing them, he quickly surveyed their contents without disturbing anything. Personal belongings, toiletries – he felt he was prying where he shouldn’t, like a burglar in somebody’s bedroom. In the third drawer, a locket on a golden chain lay open, but the two little pictures it contained were so faded that Zaki could only make out the vague outlines of the faces. He opened the fourth drawer and froze, staring at what he had revealed. Two bracelets, identical in size and design, except that one was tarnished and the other polished. He lifted the tarnished bracelet from where the girl had nestled it among her scarves and woollen gloves. There was the design of engraved symbols or runes that he had seen when he held it in the cave. He ran a finger over its convex outer surface and around the flat inner surface, and then slipped it over his hand and on to his wrist. So she hadn’t returned it to the cave, she had kept it, and what’s more it was one of a pair. The other, judging by the way it was polished, she wore herself from time to time. Lying in the drawer, it glowed like pale gold even in the dim light in the cabin. What were they made out of? Not gold, since they tarnished, but they were too pale for copper or brass. The bracelet on his wrist felt warm against his skin, as though it had been lying in the sun before he put it on. It was a comforting warmth that seemed to flow up through his arm to his injured shoulder. He pushed it further up his arm, under his sweatshirt sleeve, past the sling.
The warmth now flooded through the rest of his body, and as it spread it brought a delicious drowsiness, forcing him to sink down among the sailbags. He heard music and singing, chatter and laughter – faces crowded around him and he retreated deep into himself, where he hid for a long time, until he heard one voice, more persistent that the rest, saying, ‘Zaki! Zaki!’
Anusha was there! She was in the cabin! She was shutting the drawers, closing the cupboard.
‘Zaki, get up! She’s coming back! Get up! Get up!’
Zaki struggled back to consciousness. It was like climbing up from the bottom of a deep well.
‘I lost her. She just disappeared, so I ran back here. Then I saw her coming down the road. If we go out now, she’ll see us. What are we going to do?’
Zaki scrambled to his feet. He felt dizzy but there was no time to lose. Quickly, he went to the main hatch, retrieved the washboards and, from the inside, slotted them into place, then slid the hatch cover shut.
‘You’ve trapped us! She’s sure to come in here!’
‘Quick, into the forward cabin and shut the door. Perhaps we can get out of the forehatch while she stows things in the saloon.’
It was a desperate plan but Zaki could think of no alternative except trying to explain to the girl why he had been searching her boat, and he didn’t fancy doing that.
No sooner had they shut themselves in the forward cabin than they heard the girl jump lightly down on to the deck. They waited, huddled among the sailbags, listening, trying to guess what she was doing. They heard the main hatch slide open and then her footsteps on the stairs. There was the thump of the now full rucksack being dropped on the cabin floor and then she went back up on deck. There was no time to get the forehatch open and make their escape. Zaki and Anusha exchanged anxious glances and Anusha pulled a face. They could hear the girl’s bare feet padding about above them and the creak of rigging.
‘What’s she doing?’ whispered Anusha.
‘She’s putting the main up.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means she’s getting ready to leave.’
Sure enough, the footsteps went quiet for a moment and were followed by the sound of ropes being tossed from the shore on to the deck.
‘She’s casting off!’ hissed Zaki.
‘So, what now?’
‘Maybe she’s not going far. It’s a bit late to be setting out to sea and she’s towing the dinghy. Could just be going to anchor in deeper water down the estuary.’
‘Great! So we’ll be stuck in the middle of the harbour!’
‘I think she left someone in Salcombe. She might stop at the ferry wharf to pick them up.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
Zaki shrugged.
There was a soft thud as the girl landed back onboard and they could feel the boat heel gently to the wind as it swung away from the dockside.
Zaki pictured what was happening above him: the girl pushing off and hurrying back to the helm. There was the splash of a rope dropping into the water and the sound of it being hauled aboard. She’d have her hands full right now, managing the sail and steering through the moored boats.
‘Can you swim?’ asked Zaki.
‘Oh my God! You’re not serious?’ Anusha saw that he was. So she said, ‘Yes,’ and then added, ‘if I have to.’
‘Sorry,’ said Zaki. ‘Sorry I got you into this.’
Anusha gave a little toss of her head that seemed to say, ‘I must have been mad.’
The wind was light. Curlew was running down the estuary in almost total silence, the only sound the lap of little ripples against her bow. Zaki and Anusha no longer dared risk even whispered conversation. Minutes passed slowly and the boat continued steadily on. Zaki’s faith in his theory that the girl would stop when she reached Salcombe began to fade. He gathered his courage and got to his feet. He would go and speak to her, try to explain. But before he could open the door the boat tipped suddenly and he was thrown across the cabin, jarring his injured shoulder.
‘What’s happening?’ Anusha’s eyes were wide.
‘She’s turned into the wind. Shhh! If she’s going to anchor, she’ll have to come on to the foredeck.’
Now the boat was full of noise: sails flapped, shaking the rigging, blocks rattled, ropes beat against the deck, every sound amplified down in the cabin. Footsteps overhead were followed by the splash of the anchor and the clatter of the anchor chain. The beating sails quietened as they were lowered and furled. The footsteps retreated back to the stern and then Zaki heard the girl descend into the cabin. His eyes met Anusha’s and they both held their breaths. Zaki willed Anusha not to move; her knuckles were white as she gripped a sailbag. They could hear the girl moving about in the saloon. What was she doing? Would she come forward? At last, she went back on deck and closed the main hatch. There was a pause and then the distinctive rattle of oars in rowlocks followed by the splash . . . splash . . . splash of the girl rowing steadily away in the dinghy.
‘She’s gone,’ breathed Zaki.
‘Ohhh! Thank goodness!’ groaned Anusha, slowly unfolding herself from her cramped seat on the sailbag.
Zaki eased the forehatch open, enough to see out. Curlew was anchored amongst the local moorings on the East Portlemouth side of the harbour. Zaki could see the girl rowing across to the quayside.
‘She’s either going ashore, or to pick someone up. Either way, we’ve got at least quarter of an hour,’ said Zaki.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ urged Anusha, stepping into the saloon.
‘Wait! There’s her logbooks. I’ve read bits of them already. They’ll maybe tell us where’s she’s been, what she’s been doing.’
‘Are you crazy? We can’t hang about reading stuff! Anyway, she’s not going to have written “I just killed so-and-so, and stuck the body in this cave”, is she? Not unless she’s completely bonkers!’
Anusha was already sliding back the cover of the main hatch. Zaki hesitated then opened the port-side locker. There were the logbooks. He already knew, or thought he knew that she wasn’t their author. He took down the one that looked the oldest and flip
ped through it quickly. The handwriting was still the same, although a little less regular; there were crossings out and corrections, notes written in the margins. Then he saw the date of an entry. It was impossible! That entry was dated 1908.
‘Now what are you doing?’ called Anusha.
Zaki closed the locker. In the saloon he found an empty carrier bag. He dropped the logbook into it and followed Anusha up on deck. ‘Keep your head down,’ warned Zaki. ‘She might still see us.’
They crouched in the cockpit.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Anusha.
‘One of the logs.’
‘What? You mean you’re going to steal it?’
‘Yes,’ said Zaki simply.
Anusha let out a low groan. ‘Well, how are we going to get off here, anyway?’
It was a good question. It was fifty metres at least to the shore and the girl had the dinghy. Of course they could swim, but it was a ten-mile walk back to the main road from East Portlemouth, it was already getting dark and Zaki wasn’t sure how well he could swim with his injured shoulder. He looked around, hoping for inspiration. His eyes fell on the familiar shape of Morveren tied to her mooring a little to starboard and about six boat-lengths away. If they could get to Morveren, they could use the sailing dinghy that was stored upside down on her deck to get across to Salcombe.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Zaki. ‘You see that yacht there? That’s our boat. If we can get to her, we can get ashore.’
‘So we still have to swim,’ said Anusha gloomily.
‘No, we have to let out the anchor chain,’ said Zaki.
The ebb tide was running quite fast, with the anchor chain let right out, they could use the flow of the tide over the rudder to swing Curlew across to Morveren. At least, that was Zaki’s theory.
They waited until the solitary rower reached the pontoon and then allowed her a few more minutes to tie up her dinghy and go ashore.
‘Come on,’ Zaki said, ‘I’ll need a hand.’
Up on the bow, Zaki opened the hatch over the chainlocker; most of the chain was already out, but there looked to be a good length of anchor rope after the chain. Zaki wished he had two good arms; Anusha would have to do most of the work and Curlew was a heavy boat. He explained what needed to be done and together they began to pay out the anchor, easing Curlew back on the tide until she was lying just forward of Morveren. Zaki peered into the chainlocker; they were almost out of rope. ‘Hold her there,’ said Zaki, ‘I’m going see if I can steer her across.’