by Louise Beech
‘We’ll see,’ I said, and she mimicked my words with a scowl. ‘Let’s do an injection and you can have your bacon. Right – day thirty-nine.’ I paused because we still shared the story sometimes. ‘Shall I begin or shall you?’
She shrugged, sulky, so I began.
The only real event that lifeboat day was a horrid one: the biscuits ran out. Rose argued that Colin hated the things and so was glad they had gone. I agreed but explained that they were the only food of any substance. That the chocolate and milk tablets and Bovril would hardly keep a cat alive. As much as the hard texture had tortured their dry mouths and swollen tongues, Ken and Colin knew that without them they’d be considerably weaker.
But it was water they wanted most and longing for it filled every moment of the day, waking or asleep.
Rose pushed her egg around the plate. ‘I’d not eat for days if I could take my food to the lifeboat,’ she said. ‘All those Selection Boxes in the cupboard and I have to wait for a hypo to have them – such a waste!’
‘I know,’ I said softly.
At lunchtime we let Colin’s diary fall open to reveal a short passage, words written in blue amongst black like water against night sky. Had his pen run out? Had he added these thoughts long after the others or had he purposely recorded them in such a way that they stood out?
I read them carefully; sure that was how he’d want them to be voiced.
I think when I have filled this book I will dispose of it. I should not like to think of anyone else reading my laborious thoughts, my confessions, or about my mistakes. Recording these things has helped me make sense of what happened though I don’t suppose it should matter very much to anyone when I’m no longer here. I’m just an average man who experienced something quite extraordinary.
‘I wonder why he didn’t get rid of it?’ asked Rose.
I closed the book. ‘I don’t suppose any of us know when we’re going to die, do we? Maybe he intended to throw it away and…’
‘Never did,’ she finished, softly. ‘I’m so glad, or we’d never have had it.’
‘He wanted us to have it remember.’
‘Yes.’
‘He told me to find it; then he led you to it, in the shed.’
Rose paused, and then said, ‘And now he doesn’t come as much. In the night, I mean.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t need to,’ I said. ‘We know him so well now, don’t we?’
At teatime we reached day forty. Rose prepared the injection, correctly measuring the dose, testing it, and gripping her tummy’s small bit of flesh, ready to pierce the skin.
‘Not so rough,’ I guided. ‘You don’t want to bruise even more.’
‘I know, I know!’ she snapped. ‘You start the chapter, I’m concentrating.’
‘Okay, day forty began like all the others in many ways,’ I said. ‘The sun began her daily ascent, the sky was as cloudless as …’
‘Is Ken going to live too?’ asked Rose. ‘I need to know, Mum.’
‘I thought you knew the story as well as me.’
‘I do. Grandad Colin’s part anyway.’
‘Haven’t you read the newspaper cuttings?’ I asked her.
‘No, they’re boring,’ she said, wrinkling her nose.
‘What about the last pages of the diary?’
‘Can’t read that fast.’
‘You’ll have to wait and see then,’ I said. ‘Shall I go on?’
The question needed no answer. I went on. We went on.
As did the ocean.
24
THE BEAUTY OF ESCAPE
Still two of us left, but we are getting very weak, can’t stand up now.
K.C.
A curious noise woke Colin. No sounds were curious now – the sea’s infinite rhythm swished all day and all night, over and over and over. So did the wind when it got up. Aside from nature’s tune, the repetitive creak-creak-creak of the weatherworn boat and their occasional words, there was little to break the tedium. Colin longed for the unusual. He prayed many times for a new melody. His prayer for change had been answered only once when a great splash in the night had announced King’s suicide leap overboard.
Not that, that that, he willed, thinking of Ken beside him.
But the curious noise was not watery, more a kind of caw-caw-caw sound. It pulled Colin from a mish-mash of dreams, in which his mother poured great jugs of water into their tin bath and the sunlit-haired girl clapped her hands at amber flashes in an inky sky and books fell violently from a shelf. Caw-caw-caw interrupted the swilling and clapping and thudding.
‘Hear that?’ he croaked.
Only Ken would understand his question. Parched vocal tracts meant the pitch and volume of their voices had deteriorated, but since the decline had taken time and happened in the sole company of the other, each man understood his companion as if they communicated by telepathy.
Ken didn’t move though.
‘Hear that?’ Colin repeated with effort.
Ken still didn’t move. He was curled up in the same position he’d assumed last night after evening rations and a half-hearted prayer. Colin was afraid to turn his chum over. Afraid not to.
Yesterday they had begun sipping seawater. Now, Colin could hardly believe they had done it. The one thing he knew might be their undoing. What had possessed them? They had only sipped a little, each punching the other if he got carried away. No verbal agreement was ever made about doing so; maybe the two men had been together so long now that they knew each other as well as they knew themselves. Often, they did other things in synchrony. Colin would take out his button to suck at exactly the same moment Ken did. Ken would begin a sentence that Colin mirrored simultaneously. Both would cry out during a dream, their anguish colouring the dark.
Now, after yesterday’s foray into seawater drinking, Colin felt awfully thirsty. Drier than he had in all the forty days so far. It was a huge mistake. They should not have given in to the cold, abundant, inviting seduction of the ocean. How could they have forgotten what it had done to Leak and King?
And now Ken wasn’t moving.
‘Ken,’ croaked Colin. ‘Chippy?’
Last night’s prayer had been a disjointed collection of pledges, to each other, to God, to their future. ‘Chum, promise me…’ Ken had begun.
‘What?’ Even breathing was an effort now and Colin had wondered if Platten died so suddenly simply because he hadn’t the energy to do so.
‘Promise … you’ll still … be … here … when I wake,’ Ken had said.
It was something they feared more than rations running out; waking up and being the only one left. Often, when they dozed during the day, Colin thought, I’ll sleep when Ken wakes. It’ll comfort him to see me sitting here when he comes round. But then he could never manage it and would wake, his face cooking in the sun, and his tongue as fat as a feather pillow in his mouth.
‘I’ll … I’ll try to be … here…’ Colin had said last night, mindful of his ability to keep such a promise now. He knew Ken just needed to hear it. But had hearing that and gulping seawater yesterday been all he’d needed to let go? Had he gone as Platten had, well one minute, dead the next?
Colin still hadn’t the heart to shove Ken and find out the truth.
Sometimes they clung together, made desperate oaths; sometimes they felt nothing, not for each other, not for themselves. The previous morning they had glared at one another from opposite ends of the boat. Their hearts dried up with their minds and bodies. Ken cursed Colin for rescuing him that first day, said he should have left him in the ocean so he’d not be suffering now. Colin called Ken a bastard, said he was a useless friend and a coward of a man. An hour later they wordlessly ate rations and fell asleep muttering further insults. By evening, in the calmer cool of twilight, they could barely remember their hatred and prayed together as fervently as children in Sunday school.
‘You’ve been a good friend,’ Colin said now, to Ken’s inert body. In the dawning sun it was bathed in
holy light. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.’
It hurt so much to talk that he resorted to merely moving his mouth, playing his old If I See Three Fish Then a Ship game and imagining he could actually hear the words. If I hear that sound again I’ll get up, if I hear caw-caw-caw I’ll see to Ken, if I don’t I’ll wait here and see what God does with me.
Colin must have dozed off because the next he knew was a shove and Ken’s gaunt face looming over him.
‘Am I dreaming?’ he croaked. ‘Are we both goners?’
‘Shake a leg, you fool,’ said Ken. ‘We’ve got company.’
‘Huh?’ Colin pulled himself up, his bones cracking and scraping without the cushion of flesh.
‘Scarface. Been following a while.’
Colin glared at his friend. ‘I thought you…’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter now.’
The sun was higher in the sky and Scarface swam at a leisurely pace about ten feet from the stern, no companions, no fear. With one eye on the shark, Ken poured three ounces of water and gave it to Colin. Both had noticed yesterday how few tins there were, but neither had voiced his concerns. Only three. How long would they last? Fortunately neither had the energy to work it out. Colin realised this might have led to their foolish seawater consumption. Trying to avoid using those final three water tins.
When Colin had supped his portion, Ken drained his. Scarface was the best deterrent against further seawater. Though black and skeletal now, hands wouldn’t be safe cupping drinks from the ocean with him there.
‘If he attacks,’ said Ken, ‘I don’t reckon I’ve the strength to spear him, lad.’
‘He knows,’ said Colin.
‘Knows what?’ Ken split a bit of chocolate in two, handed one to Colin.
‘That it’s just us two now.’
‘So why not attack?’ croaked Ken.
‘He doesn’t need to. He’ll wait us out.’ Colin paused, sucking his chocolate square. Though tiny, the twice-daily chunk perked them up for at least half an hour. ‘We’ll not make it like this, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With what we’re eating. If a ship comes in a week we’ll not live to meet it. They’ll find this boat and our corpses and a few tins and bits of chocolate and Bovril. We can up the rations again now there’s just us.’
‘But isn’t that risky? We already did … was it last week?’
‘Look what a difference the food makes when we have some,’ insisted Colin. ‘We can almost function. An hour later we’re washed out. No strength to talk, to watch. Set rations to tinier portions but five times a day.’
‘He’s gone,’ said Ken, nodding towards the stern.
Colin did not hate Scarface. The shark did not mean them harm, he only followed his instinct, lived his ocean life. He had become as much a part of their existence as log writing and rations and morning and night and prayers. Colin imagined that should he make it home, he might miss the great creature, might wonder whether he still swam these waters, looking for prey, for them.
‘So? The rations?’ insisted Colin.
‘We up them,’ agreed Ken.
Colin tried to change position, but none lessened the ache that tortured his whole body. ‘Did you hear it?’ he asked.
‘Hear what?’
‘That sound. At dawn. Curious. Sure I heard it.’
‘No. Nothing … but … the sea…’
They slept again. Like babies, they now napped as much as they were awake. Half an hour of existing needed half an hour of recovery, and sleep, when dreamless, was escape. When dreams did come they were mostly an endless sequence of nightmares, tortured visions of the passed away crew, of great pools of crystal water, of home, of parents, of childhood places visited.
Colin searched in the dark for the girl, yearned to hear again her softly saying Grandad. But it was as though the more he looked the farther away she went.
He heard instead his companions’ many dying words; Scown begging him to hear the message he’d given Ken, and Young Arnold saying, Ken, may I pray, one last time, and always Fowler. Fowler glaring at him, Fowler holding his arm after the punch, Fowler dead against the mast – again and again and again. Was this where the cliché that your life flashes before you as you die came from?
When Colin woke the sun had reached her peak and bore down from cloudless skies. Ken was already awake, trying to hold the pencil stub between his blackened fingers so he could write on the torn canvas sail. Colin leaned closer and read over his pal’s shoulder.
Not seen a ship. Where is our navy patrol? Looking for a ship or plane any day now. We must be near land. Many sharks around. Still two of us left, but we are getting very weak, can’t stand up. We will stick it to the end.
‘If this outlives us,’ said Colin, ‘it’ll make quite a read for someone one day.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Ken threw the pencil down. ‘We’re getting home! Stop that talk!’
‘Would it be so bad if we didn’t?’
‘What?’
‘Get home.’
Colin’s mood was not depressed. Rather he felt calm, accepting of what might come. How good might it be to sleep forever? A vivid recollection came to him now. He recalled plunging through the dark, straight like an arrow, to the sea, as the Lulworth Hill sank too. Strange words had come to him then, but made no sense.
I’m just going to go and lie in bed from now on and that’s it. Stay there and wait for my long-forever sleep.
Colin had thought they were born of fear and adrenalin. Now he recognised the voice; it belonged to the girl who said Grandad, the girl with sunlit straw hair. Had she been inviting him to sleep forever?
‘What about your ship?’ demanded Ken. Colin saw in his eyes that he too tasted the beauty of escape, of no more thirst, of no more feeling pain at every breath and every movement, of sleep.
‘It’s so beautiful.’ Colin looked out over the ocean’s soothing ripples. ‘And it would be quick and merciful relief. A quick dip, just like you did that night so long ago. Shall we?’
‘I don’t…’ Ken faltered, but his eyes looked longingly at the water.
‘We can probably only last another two or three days on what rations we have, lad. I could do it. Go into the water. We’d not have to wait long. Think how cooling the sea will be on our skin. I could do it.’
‘But Scarface…’
‘Don’t worry about him.’ Colin smiled, felt his body go limp at the thought of finally surrendering. ‘He won’t get a decent meal off the pair of us. Only make it quicker. Shall we? There’ll be no ship, Chippy. I’ve looked and looked. I’ve counted fish and sharks and waves.’
Ken listened, tempted, resisting, tempted, resisting.
‘Our chums are waiting for us.’ Colin’s eyelids grew heavy with weariness. ‘I might see our Stan again. We might … lash ourselves … together … we could not struggle … that way … be over even quicker…’ Half-heartedly he reached for the line as though to bind his body to Ken’s and go there and then.
‘Tell them I died a true Christian,’ said Ken. ‘Some of you are going to be saved.’
‘What’s … that … you say…’
‘Not me, lad – John Arnold.’ Ken sat up, the jolt causing him to wince in pain. ‘He said it to me once. It just came to me now!’ He shook Colin roughly. ‘Don’t you realise what it means?’
‘Let me be.’ Colin was barely conscious. ‘I’ll swim … later … rest first … then swim … escape…’
‘No, don’t you see? He said some of you are going to be saved – more than one. That means us. So we must hang on!’ Ken watched Colin sleeping, the line still in his hand. ‘You rest, lad. Do you good. Need it.’ Then he repeated softly to himself, ‘Some of you are going to be saved’, and slept too.
When Colin woke again the sun was approaching the horizon and though he couldn’t remember his dream it must have been a good one for he felt considerably more hopef
ul than he had earlier. Breaking their general synchronistic behaviour, Ken was snoozing still, spear at his side as though to make sure Death didn’t attack while he slept.
Something drew Colin’s attention to the rope trailing astern. How long had it been dangling there? Why did it matter? What made him care so now? Still, something made him crawl to the foredeck and grasp the line to reel it in. Made fast to the bows, it had dragged right under the boat and was out of reach.
‘I’ll lie across your legs,’ said Ken, behind him. ‘Not got the strength to hold them. What do you hope to find?’
‘Let’s just get it in,’ said Colin.
‘Be quick,’ said Ken, and Colin knew he feared letting him go. What price they were prepared to pay for Colin’s random instinct.
‘Got it!’ cried Colin. ‘Help me!’
For a moment he thought he might slip under, but Ken grabbed his shoulder. ‘This had better be worth it,’ he said.
It was. Shellfish had attached to the length of submerged rope, dozens and dozens of them. Delighted, the two men opened their shells and slowly munched their fleshy contents so as not to lose any of the flavour.
Tackling the long, juicy stems, Colin winked at Ken and said, ‘Water, lad, they’re full of fresh water,’ and they devoured every one.
As was always the case with any amount of water, they felt immediately stronger, able to think more clearly, look for a ship again.
‘What made you think of it?’ asked Ken, as they enjoyed the coolness of twilight and their meagre late meal.
‘Not sure, lad.’
Ken studied him. ‘Are you alright now?’
Colin nodded. He knew how close he had come to jumping earlier. It had never come over him quite like that until then, and he feared it happening again. At the time all he’d been able to think was that not being there anymore would be purest bliss. Now it served to comfort as an escape plan; if the water ran out before a ship or land was seen, then he meant to take control and see out his own end.
Caw-caw-caw disturbed his thoughts. Caw-caw-caw. That sound again, the one that had woken him so brutally earlier. Caw-caw-caw. He frowned, looked around, and realised Ken was searching too.