Come, Time

by Richard Jenkins

CHAPTER TWELVE

  I crawl calmly out of my sleep with a yawn and a slow, growing stretch. I am at peace, lying face down on a vinyl padded seat that runs the length of my body. Reality then enters without knocking. I feel, then see, my right arm chained to the wall. I am a prisoner, and this is my cell. As information floods in, I stand and hone my senses.

  The room is small and cramped, the two birth galley of a boat that is steaming gently ahead. A closed door is beyond my reach. The only noise, a low revving diesel engine mixed with the sound of displaced water rushing out of the way. I pull at the chain to free myself but quickly and knowingly fail. My instinct now is simple, kick at the wall. Let my captor hear I live. Let them sink with the cat in the bag. I lash out and boot the wooden hull. It holds, so I kick again with added force and violence. The door flies open. I stare at a man, the Sailor Man. He speaks:

  ‘Is that the best plan you got, son? Well carry on, cos I’m a fuckin’ good swimmer.’

  He looks at me without fear or even concern. His laidback voice and loose casually held body seem disconnected from his deep, intense stare. His age is mid-forties. Physically, he looks healthy, with a thick-set strength forged by work, not leisure. His face wears the trials of life with a rugged, contented ease. His body surfs the rocking boat, absorbing all movement. His presence commands calm, if not obedience.

  ‘I’m taking you to France. You’re paying me of course, but, I know who you are, Samuel Dean.’

  Clear, simple information that serves only to confuse me. His accent is hard to define, although hints at an Irish past.

  ‘I knocked you out. A fist for the trespass, then something a little stronger to get you on board and us away. Here.’

  He throws me a key, which I clumsily catch.

  ‘Free yourself, but look at me.’

  I look him in the eye. His voice seems almost throw-away, but his stare carves his words deep into time and memory.

  ‘Make one move against me, and I promise you, I will kill you.’

  I believe him. I trust him. I have no other option. I must live in the seconds.

  I unlock the padlock, the chain falls from my wrist. The Sailor Man places my rucksack on the table.

  ‘Your possessions, minus £400, which I’ve taken as my fee. A fair, honest price, I think you’ll agree.’

  I nod. He helps me, a man accused of a terrible crime, and he frees me for £400.

  ‘Shall I answer your question?’ he asks.

  I look at him. What question?

  ‘I’m helping you, why? You! The scum that you are. Well, are you guilty, Sam?

  I shake my head.

  ‘Good. I believe you.’

  How can he believe me? No one can read the truth or detect a lie. People think they can, but they can’t. If we could, how long would we last?

  ‘Do you believe that? Do you believe I believe you didn’t do it? Or do you think, maybe rightly, I’m a man who simply doesn’t give a shit?’

  I shrug. I have no answer. He smiles.

  ‘Do you think you’ll need a weapon, Sam?’

  From under his coat, he pulls a handgun, an automatic with a matt black finish. I answer honestly, I nod my head. He tosses me the gun. I catch it with firm, steady hands.

  ‘It’s loaded. The safety catch is on, but other than that, it’s ready to use.’

  More confusion, clogging my thoughts.

  ‘Take it. You’ll be doing me a favour. If you don’t, the sea will take it.’

  He turns and exits through the door. My stare finds the gun. Questions try and enter my mind, but I solidly refuse them access. Forcing action, I put the gun in my coat pocket then grab my rucksack, which looks and feels correct. I slip it on then sit and wait, my stare fixed to the door. After several seconds, without thought or reason, I pull the gun from my pocket, find the safety switch and push it to the off position. The feel of the switch and the sound of the click are solid and somehow satisfying. I return the gun to my pocket, where it and my hand, continue their embrace.

  The door opens and the Sailor Man returns.

  ‘All on course. Twenty minutes and you’re away on land…Do you know France?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘We’ll dock out of sight, close to a town called Grand-Fort-Philippe…Do you have a plan?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Good. Improvise.’

  He sits opposite me. A small table separates us. He stares at me calmly, without a hint of self-consciousness. Two strangers, men at that, staring at each other in silence. Neither feeling awkward nor needing a prop such as a drink or a cigarette.

  ‘I know France, well. I served in the Legion, the Foreign Legion. Served a full ten years. Not that they take mutes, or murders from across the channel, so don’t think I’m offering you an option. I’m just telling you something about myself…I served in the Legion, and other forces. Had a few sticky fingers in a few sticky pies. Some for profit, others not. There’s a surprising amount of opportunity out there for men like me, and you.’

  Meaning what, I wonder. Who does he think I am?

  ‘Did the quiet life suit you, Sam?’

  With stillness, I refuse an answer.

  ‘Silence, is good. Underrated. It’s an asset. Look after it…You know, I could’ve left you on the beach, took your money anyway, but I didn’t, you know why?’

  I nod as if I know, but I don’t.

  ‘Unfinished business.’

  He grabs the collar of his shirt and coat, pulls them down and exposes a six inch scar running from his lower neck to his upper chest.

  ‘Unfinished business. Finished now though. Completely dead. Anyway, we better get you to France.’

  He stands, pulls a business card from a back trouser pocket and places it on the table.

  ‘Take this, there’s a phone number on it. If you’re desperate, use it. Send a text. You might find it useful. But only if you’re desperate, hey.’

  He steps away and exits through the door. I grab and examine the business card. It is a blank, white, devoid of any print. The number on it is hand written in black biro. I have no intention of calling the number, but I keep the card anyway.

  The night is calm and peaceful, the sea completely at ease. As the boat brushes against a jetty, I step off and land in France. Once again, I am alone and feeling in control. Having already bid farewell to the Sailor Man, I pace quickly away. Darkness prevents certainty, although it seems a deserted strectch of rural coastline is ahead of me.

  The land of France is new to me, but the language I know well. My mother was Spanish. Before she met my father, she criss-crossed Europe working in various hotels. She learnt several languages with ease and passed them on to me. My mother, if only she could see me now, if only she could see the waste.

  My plan is simple, steal the first car I can and use it to drive to Paris.