by C A Devine
4
The Cockpit (Day 2)
Okay, so at this point the sailors among you are probably saying things like, ‘This is so irresponsible: intoxication; no talk of watches. It’s just not salty,’ as my old English sailing instructor used to say.
The truth was, out in the ocean away from the shipping lanes, the chances of us meeting another vessel up close were slim. We were more likely to face a stray container, but even then we’d have to be unlucky. The radio was on, as were the radar and wind alarms. People who sail the oceans single-handed do sleep. So no, we weren’t going strictly by the book, but most people who tell you they do on small craft, are probably liars.
I rose at six to find her in the cockpit staring out at the ocean. I stuck on coffee and climbed up to join her. ‘Here, I have something for you.’
She took it from my hand frowning, ‘A Yankees cap?’
‘Not just any Yankees cap. My lucky Yankees cap. I’ve had it since I was ten. I thought you could …’ I shrugged.
‘Thank you,’ she gave me that small smile and slid below with it grasped in her hand.
We ran atop a gentle swell with a wind of 10 knots across the port bow; she had the sails set tight and full, close hauled up into the wind. We were making 8.6 knots with a fresh breeze in our face and the autopilot doing all the hard work.
She came back up, handing me a mug of coffee. I caught a whiff of whisky from hers. The cap was perched neatly on her head. She looked absurdly wholesome in my t-shirt and cap. She settled herself across from me once again.
‘So you’re a British agent?’
‘I’m nobody’s agent,’ she snorted, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what I am,’ she stretched out those long legs and swallowed a gulp of coffee. ‘Tell me something about you, New York. I feel like I’m with a stranger. Why wouldn’t you talk about yourself?’
‘You were a thriller writer and I was, am, a cop, a Manhattan homicide lieutenant, with … problems. I was trying to avoid my life. I didn’t want to talk about it.’ I looked over and she was frowning. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not for me, but it might be for you because I’m fairly sure kidnapping is breaking the law, Lieutenant.’
I snorted a laugh. ‘Oh and so is breaking and entering, and theft.’
‘What did you steal?’
‘Your iPad is down below.’
‘Really?’ her face brightened. I nodded. ‘Thank you, it has my …’
‘Writing, I know. Hey, do you want to hear something weird. Your dad’s an assistant commissioner with the Met right? Well my dad’s Commissioner of the NYPD. Maybe we bonded over the cop kid thing and just didn’t realise.’
‘As opposed to the hiding from the world thing.’
‘Good point.’
5
The Agreement
I was dragged from some quasi-erotic nightmare by someone banging on the hull. I turned a groggy head to my watch, 6am. The morning after the date. I pulled on baggy shorts and climbed up on deck.
‘We’re taking her out, New York,’ Max was padding barefoot down the side deck. Loose green shorts hung from her hips, a white tank top clung to her chest, illuminating her tanned shoulders, and her mass of curls hung in a loose ponytail. Her eyes were hidden behind pilot glasses.
‘Now?’ I yawned, rubbing my face.
‘That was the deal. And I don’t see you with any other plans.’
‘It’s 6am.’
‘The best time to go. Here, throw me the key.’
‘I’m still asleep, English.’
‘Well, this’ll wake you up, New York,’ she grinned. What the hell, I was awake now. And she was here. I slid below to grab the key and when I returned she was at the helm uncovering the instruments. She stuck out her hand.
‘I’ll take her out,’ I said sticking the key in the ignition.
‘That wasn’t the agreement.’
‘I don’t know anything about you.’
She clutched a hand to her heart, ‘That hurts, after me showing you my arse.’
‘You show everyone your ass, baby.’
‘Ouch. That did not sound complimentary, New York.’
‘If I had an ass as fine as yours, I’d probably show it off too, but it doesn’t mean you’re taking the helm.’
‘And why would that be?’ she stepped up to face me at the wheel.
In case you know nothing about sailing, I should explain. Taking a strange 50-foot yacht out of an unknown slip is not for the faint-hearted. There were three possibilities. One, she knew nothing about sailboats and didn’t understand what she was asking. Two, she was an experienced sailor who knew the risks and how to handle them. Or three, she was completely insane. I knew which one my money was on.
‘You’re worried I don’t know what I’m doing? Am I not living on a yacht? Don’t you trust me?’ I raised my eyebrows in response to that one. ‘Okay, how can I prove it to you? What does she draw?’
‘What does she draw? What does that mean?’
‘Her draught, sailor boy?’
‘Five three.’
‘We have, what?’ she leant across me to look at the wind reading on the instrument panel, ‘5 knots of wind over the port bow, we’ll have to adjust slightly for that as we exit the berth, turn the wheel slightly to starboard, later than we would on a calm day. We have a bow thruster for the marina fearful sailor,’ she pointed to a button. ‘What colour marks are going to be on our port as we exit the marina, New York?’
‘Red,’ strange question, ‘why?’
‘Are you so sure? Ever heard of region A and B?’ I vaguely remembered something, but I’d only ever sailed in New York. ‘It’s green. You’re not in Kansas now Toto.’ She slumped down onto the cockpit bench and looked up at me, ‘She’s an Island Packet 485, built for comfortable circumnavigation, will easily cruise at 8 knots. The length of the hull at waterline is 43.2, and the square route of that is 6.6 give or take, and that, multiplied by 1.34 gives us a top speed of approximately 9 knots. Are you happy?’
I didn’t know what I was now.
‘We had a deal. Now go drop the lines.’
‘Am I going to regret this?’
‘No, I’ve been sailing since before I could walk. Now go on,’ she said stepping up to the wheel.
She pulled us out of the slip flawlessly. We were turning without the bow thruster when she said, ‘I have a photographic memory, I read incessantly, I’ve probably read a dozen sailing manuals at this stage, academically I’m a sailing genius. Never been behind the wheel though, this is great.’
I scrambled for the helm, pushing her aside. ‘You are fucking kidding me.’
A cackle erupted from her lungs. ‘I am,’ she winked, ‘joking that is. Your face was a picture, New York.’ She reached for the helm again.
‘Not a chance.’
‘You afraid I’ll sink your friend’s half million yacht?’ she asked through a howl.
‘You bet your ass.’
‘You are so right. What were you doing letting someone you hardly know take the helm?’
The sea was flat calm with only a light breeze. She pointed me east along the coast then set the sails full, handling the sheets and winches like a pro. We took off, running with the wind, picking up 6 knots. She made fine adjustments inching her speed up to 6.5. She was in her element here. That was obvious. I switched on the autopilot and enjoyed the view.
Sheer cliffs soared above golden sands, framing tiny bays. A sparkle was slowly covering the water as the sun eased up the sky.
We dropped anchor a few miles down the coast in a cove of aquamarine milky water. She stripped off and dived in, disappearing under. ‘Come on, New York,’ she shouted as she surfaced. I stepped down to the swimming platform. ‘No shorts.’ Hey, I had no problem getting naked when no-one was watching.
I dived off the back, letting the late summer water swallow me. I stretched my left arm in a crawl and was relieved to feel little pain. I swam lazily around the bo
at, tension easing out of my stiff muscles in the warm and soothing liquid. ‘The lime cliffs cause the milky water,’ Max said swimming up next to me.
‘You like to swim, English?’
‘It’s like sailing; life never feels so complicated out here.’ A wave bounced us in the water. Two At A Time rocked imposingly above us. I followed the movement to shore where white crashed off the rocks. I turned back to Max, squinting as the bright morning light reflected off the water, ‘Why’d you run off last night, English?’
She cast her eyes down, ‘You had ideas.’
‘You gave me ideas.’
She swam away, pulling herself through the water with a long confident stroke. I lay back floating, a sky of endless blue hanging over me. What was going on? Was I imagining this, the flirting, the chemistry, what I was feeling?
I climbed back aboard wrapping a towel around my waist. ‘Coffee?’ I shouted down to her. She nodded. ‘Cream, sugar?’
‘Hot milk,’ she said.
‘Hot milk?’
‘You’re in Europe now, New York, get used to it.’
‘I don’t have any milk.’
‘Black is fine,’ she laughed.
When I came back up, she was hidden in a big beach towel on the cockpit bench, her chin resting on knees drawn up to her chest. I handed her a mug. We sat, me staring at the cliffs, her staring out to sea, miles away, sipping coffee. The only sound was the boat lapping in the water. I lay my head back and closed my eyes, luxuriating in the peace and ease of the moment. It had been a very long time since I felt this.
‘Do you ever go to sleep hoping that when you wake up you’ll have the chance to do everything over again?’ her voice was quiet.
‘Everyday,’ it was such an easy answer. I opened my eyes, she was studying me. She stood, dropping her towel, stretched out her arm and touched her hand to my face. She was looking down at me and once again I felt exposed. She slid the mug from my hands and placed it on the cockpit table. Then she drew me up to her and pressed her moist mouth to mine, urged my lips apart, exploring with her tongue, letting out a small moan. I felt the same throb of my pulse, the same taste of exotic heat, the same hunger. Her warm hands slid down my back and pulled me tight into her. She ran fingers around to the front of my towel and I grasped them stopping her. I hadn’t been with anyone since … before. And after last night I wasn’t feeling particularly restrained. ‘You’re not going to run away again are you?’ I only managed a husky whisper. She looked up at me with those huge blue eyes, her teeth biting her bottom lip. She shook her head. I let her drop the towel to the floor.
The sex was sweaty and energetic, and noisy and totally physical. She was the most sensual creature I ever had the pleasure of sleeping with. I made love with a hunger I didn’t realise I possessed. And her greed matched mine. Sex they say is better in a loving relationship, but I was finding that hard to believe. The ache in my shoulder and leg were totally worth it. I now knew what mind-blowing meant.
She lay on top of me afterwards, running fingers in circles through the wiry hairs on my chest, not speaking. Her eyes were focused far out to sea. I lifted my hand and ran it through her hair and she straddled my legs reaching for me, ‘Again, New York, again.’ Well, if I had to.
*
It was still early when we got back to shore. ‘Breakfast?’ It was her first word since our second aggressive bout of sex, so I was relieved at her invitation.
‘I thought we already had that?’
‘That’s way too corny for my lip to even twitch, New York.’
We stopped at a café in the marina. ‘Ah there she is again,’ the waiter said as we grabbed two chairs.
‘Pepe, how are you? This is my friend Mac.’ He grabbed my hand shaking it. He was wearing a pink t-shirt with the words Candy Lover on it. ‘I didn’t realise you were gay, Pepe,’ Max said.
‘No, I’m for the ladies. Why do you think?’
‘Your t-shirt,’ she pointed to it.
‘Si?’ he looked down, pulling at it with his hands.
‘Si,’ Max nodded.
‘One of my gay friends gave it to me. He thinks he is being funny.’ He shuffled off and returned a couple of minutes later carrying two cups of café-con-leche and wearing a plain blue shirt. ‘Si?’ he asked and Max nodded.
We spent an easy day together, exploring the town, eating, drinking and avoiding the closed subjects of Mac and Max. And then there was the night.
I watched her sitting alone in the cockpit the next morning. I was brewing coffee, this time with warm milk. She stared out at the other boats wearing nothing but my t-shirt. She was miles away. I knew why I didn’t want to talk about myself, but why didn’t she? ‘Let’s take the boat out again,’ she said as I climbed the ladder and handed her a mug.
She let me read the first chapter of her novel that morning as we anchored in another idyllic bay. She handed me her iPad. We lay naked together on the deck as I read.
6
The Lie
Moments after my first steps, so the story goes, I pulled myself up the ladder of my cousins’ bunk beds, fell off the top rung, and broke my leg. When I was five, I dive-bombed off the shed roof, playing parachute. I landed on my head and spent two weeks in a coma. When I woke up everyone kept saying how I was lucky to be alive, lucky I wasn’t crippled, lucky I could think straight, just lucky. From then on, that was the one and only name my mother would call me, Lucky. I forget sometimes I have a real name.
My father, when asked in my company, ‘Who’s this little lady?’ was fond of saying, ‘Trouble’. So it could have been worse. But when real trouble did finally catch up with me, I was lucky to escape with my life.
I was pulling off my jumper when the doorbell chimed. I heard the front door open, then a voice in a language I barely spoke, ‘I know who your informant is.’
I flew to the dressing room and grabbed my already packed bag, then doubled back to the bathroom. I thumped the mirror twice and the cabinet sprung out from the wall. I grabbed a wad of euros and a little piece of plastic flipped out and hit the floor. I bent down and scooped it up. It was a thumbnail flash drive. I shoved both into the bag. I grasped the bedroom door and checked the hall. I crept down to the room at the end.
I ran to the window, pushed it open and climbed out onto the trellis. I scrambled down, ran around the terrace and jumped over the stone wall into the field. I was running for the Mini, clicking the remote, inside thirty seconds. I grabbed the door and jumped in. Key. Ignition. Gear. Accelerator. I was flying towards the road when lights flashed on behind me and a powerful engine revved.
I hit the remote for the electric gate. Seconds flew as it lumbered open wide enough to squeeze through. I was almost out when I heard the metal ding hitting the boot.
‘The boot?’
‘The trunk.’
‘Ah.’
I stepped on the accelerator, flying down the country road, left at the first sharp bend. I sped through the second one in the middle of the road. The little Mini Cooper handled the manoeuvres with grace, clinging to the road. I pushed up into fifth, hitting sixty when headlights flooded the rear window. I pumped the gas, spraying gravel from the side of the road as the car swung wide, approaching the familiar hairpin bend. I hurtled towards the crash barrier; I didn’t slow. Closer, I held my nerve. Closer. Closer. I yanked up the handbrake with my right hand and grasped the wheel throwing it over to the left. The tyres screeched into a skid, the smell of burning rubber choking my nostrils. I straightened out of the handbrake turn just into the verge. I floored the pedal and shot forward.
I had always made a point of living life to the full, but this whole episode was reining in my perspective. Right at this moment, most of all, I just wanted to live.
I raced into the forest, the track turning to dirt. My small size was my only advantage. I wasn’t going to outrun them on the straight. The back roads were my only chance. The canopy blocked the light from the bright moon and the narrow beam of th
e headlights shone dim on the packed earth. I squealed right and the car flew off the top of a hole. I pressed on, increasing speed. I couldn’t see the lights now, I was gaining ground. I flew left around another bend and the front wheels dropped off the edge of the road.
The tyres grappled for grip on the steep verge. I threw the wheel right and stepped on the accelerator, the tyres spun, the engine screamed. I leaned forward in my seat willing the car up and on to the road. I wasn’t moving. I straightened the steering, pumped the accelerator, then spun to the right. The tyres gripped, the car turned and shot up onto the road.
I was free, back on the road and careering straight across – and down into a tree on the other side. Pain seared across my chest as my body slammed against the seatbelt. The airbag exploded in my face and an instant of panic gripped me as I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get out.
My hand shot to the buckle; hitting the button, it didn’t budge. I banged on it one, two, three times. It gave and I tumbled forward onto the wheel.
The door sprung open and an arm reached in and grabbed me, dragging me out. I fell onto my knees, the stony ground jagging through my jeans. The air was thick with pine and petrol, but still I could smell him.
Angelo grabbed me by my hair and dragged me to my feet. I heard the safety catch of a gun click off. I turned slowly, raising my hands.
Anger clouded his face, ‘You are a filthy fucking liar.’ He was right, but I had my reasons. ‘Why did you run, Lucky?’ He cocked his head to the side, his face a sudden picture of calm, his eyes huge and glassy.
‘I heard you downstairs. I wasn’t hanging around to see the wrong end of your temper this time. I wanted you to calm down first.’
‘You told them about the boat.’
We had a mole. ‘What boat?’
‘Was it all just a job to you? Were you just one big fucking tease? Playing with me. Playing with my life,’ he pointed his gun at my head.
‘I’m not playing with you. I don’t know what you think you know but …’