The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2)

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Greggers? Of course. What else would you have us do, sir?’

  ‘It’s Gregory, not Greggers.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir. Intent to cause bodily harm. He’s fully admitting it, so you won’t have to appear in court but he’ll be sent down for it, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Sent down? But he’d been goaded by Parker for… for years.’

  ‘Had it coming to him, did he then, sir?’

  ‘Well… no. But… How long will he get?’

  ‘Depends whether the judge is feeling in a good mood or not. Eighteen months probably.’

  ‘Eighteen months?’

  ‘Out within the year if he keeps his nose clean, and he don’t look the type to be wanting to cause the prison authorities any problems.’

  ‘That’s still too much. He’s not a strong man; prison could destroy him.’

  ‘He should have thought of that before he went round shooting at people. Now, if we could have a bit more detail about the night in question…’

  Twenty minutes later they finally seemed satisfied with what they had, thanked me, and left. I slumped on the settee, exhausted, Angie on my lap.

  A year in prison. I dreaded what it might do to him. I should have protected him more; I should have stood up to Parker. But I couldn’t have – I was still too weak both mentally and physically. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have encouraged Rebecca so much – but I wasn’t aware that I had until it was too late.

  Then, if I wasn’t thinking about Gregory, I was thinking about Owen. I knew I could have kept him alive, I knew that; I could have allowed him to use Beckett’s body as sustenance. Beckett, the despicable man, would not have cared a jot. I would regret it for the rest of my life. I could have brought Owen home to be reunited with his wife. Instead, both were dead, and the more I turned events around in my mind, the more certain I was that it was my fault. He needed my permission; he needed me to be party to the act. I had denied him and he, not I, had paid for my morality. I knew now that my obsession over the ring was merely a means of apologising to Owen, of trying to make good the bad I had done. I had killed him with my squeamish objections as surely as if I had hit him with a rowlock.

  I remembered how the debriefing panel looked at me – Major Bryant and the doctor at his side. How did this man survive when all the others had succumbed? I couldn’t tell them; how could I when I’d shut it off in the darkest corner of my mind?

  Oh, Alice – if only you were here now. You’d understand. But she wasn’t here. She was as lost to me as Owen.

  There was only one person who could help me now.

  Finally, after about three days locked away, I washed and dressed. Life outside had not changed – I had expected everything to be different. It’d been raining, the road was wet, but the sun had come out. The world smelt fresh. I saw Fraser but, not wanting to talk, managed to avoid him. I made my way to the church. I saw Abigail and Dan at a distance, holding hands. They hadn’t made it to Plymouth yet.

  Before going inside, I circled round the church into the graveyard. Joanna’s headstone had been cleaned; not a single trace remained of the hateful sign. I was pleased. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  I found Reverend Pritchard inside the church, still wearing his cassock, rearranging some flowers at the end of a pew.

  ‘Oh, Robert, you caught me.’

  ‘Caught you doing what?’

  ‘I’m just redoing the flowers. Mrs Hamilton does them, but she and I have… let’s call it a difference of opinion on how they should look.’

  ‘Can I talk to you, Reverend?’

  He caught my tone. ‘Yes, of course; anytime, Robert.’

  ‘I meant now.’

  He glanced at his watch and I could tell he felt embarrassed at having done so. ‘Why, of course. Now would be as good time as any. There’s no one here, shall we sit in the pews?’

  Taking the pew nearest the front, we sat side by side which meant I could talk to him without having to see his eyes. Instead I focussed on the altar and the unlit candles upon the table catching the rays of sun piercing the stained glass window above it.

  ‘Something’s troubling you, I know,’ said the vicar. ‘I can see it in your eyes. And I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know anything you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘I know. Thank you.’

  ‘So go on, how can I help?’

  ‘It’s not easy for me to talk about this. It’s… it’s about my time on the boat…’

  ‘That much I guessed.’

  ‘I’ll have to start at the beginning… otherwise you won’t understand the strain I was under, we were all under. There were ten of us…’ And so I began. I could feel the salt on my skin, could smell it in the air. I could feel the sun burning my back, the lack of moisture in my mouth. I could see all around us the sea, the unforgiving sea. I could see their faces, all of them changing day by day as hunger and thirst took its toll – Palmer, Davison, Hodgkin, the rest of them. The strange thing is I rather missed them all now. I wondered whether Beckett’s wife was still seeing her butcher. I thought of Palmer and all the kids he and his wife were planning on having. I thought of John Clair’s mother, grieving for her young boy dead at just nineteen. So many lives. What a waste, such a terrible waste. I remembered the storm and the utter feeling of vulnerability, being at the mercy of the sea as it tossed us around like a cork. And I knew as I told Reverend Pritchard my story I would never finish it. It was too much. I’d tried too soon; I hadn’t left enough time to come to terms with what happened on that boat. Christ looked down at me, an orange glow round his head, the nails riven into his palms; Mary to his left, St Paul to his right, their hands clasped in prayer kneeling prostate before his figure on the cross. Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.

  I felt a hand on my wrist. ‘Slow down, Robert.’

  I realised I was crying. ‘I can’t… I can’t do it.’

  He turned to look at me. ‘Can’t do what, Robert?’

  ‘I’m sorry; I’ve wasted your time. Nothing can take away the sins I have committed. I can’t tell you.’

  A streak of disappointment flashed across his face. He tried to hide it but it was too late – I’d seen it. I knew then that this had been a mistake; for I saw next to me not a man who could absolve my sins but just an ordinary, plain man, a man as fragile, as impotent and as weak as myself.

  ‘I have to go.’

  He made to reach for me. ‘No, don’t, Robert, whatever is troubling you, you can tell me.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

  I stumbled back down the aisle, holding onto the side of the pews as I headed towards the main doors, feeling dizzy, feeling relief that I had avoided telling a man who could do nothing for me, feeling the mournful eyes of Christ on my back.

  *

  I’d been dreading reporting back to duty but now it was almost upon me, I was rather looking forward to it. I needed to get away from the village; I felt suffocated here. I felt conscious of my every move, especially since the incident. I knew I’d been judged guilty by association. I may have been a victim of the war and of the sea, but first, through Abigail and now through her father, I was again viewed with barely-concealed hostility. I wanted to be somewhere where I could blend in and go by unnoticed, away from unspoken prejudices and unfounded accusations.

  The following day, I went to visit Gregory at his home. He was on bail with strict instructions not to leave the village. Both he and Parker, he told me, were to have no interaction whatsoever. ‘Suits me fine,’ he said. The courts had yet to set a date for his appearance. Considering he was fully expecting a custodial sentence, he seemed in fine fettle. His shooting of Parker had purged him of some of his insecurities. Rebecca, he told me, had just been and gone. ‘Her piano playing is still fairly atrocious,’ he said, ‘but I’m not going to disillusion her. Hey, R-Robert, if… I mean when I g-go to prison, you will c-c-come visit me,
won’t you? They’re b-bound to send me to Princetown. It’s not too f-far.’

  ‘Of course, old man. You try keeping me away.’

  He smiled.

  I left with a deep well of affection for him.

  *

  Later that afternoon, there was another knock on the door. Thinking it might be the policemen returning, I thought it best to answer it. It wasn’t the police – it was Mr Redman, Alice’s father, standing there. Now this, as they would say, was a turn up for the books. He looked sprightly, wearing a linen jacket and a pink shirt. I showed him through to the living room and offered him a cup of tea, which he politely declined. He made friends with Angie and asked how I was. I’d been better, I told him.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve come to discharge a rather unpleasant duty,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

  ‘No, well, you won’t,’ he said fishing inside his jacket. ‘I’ve come to return you this.’

  He held it out for me in the palm of his hand. I recognised it immediately – it was the box with my engagement ring to Alice. I sighed.

  ‘I told you you wouldn’t like it. Here, take it.’

  I flicked open the box and gazed at the gold ring with its ruby on a nest of silver leaves. It seemed no time ago I was buying it. ‘She doesn’t have to return it.’

  ‘I know but I think she felt it was the right and proper thing to do. My condolences, Robert; I would’ve liked having you as my son-in-law. I don’t think my daughter’s covered herself in glory over this. It beats me why she broke it off. She’s not told me. Even if she had, I’d probably still be no nearer to understanding. She’s a woman, after all, isn’t she?’ he said loudly to Angie, patting her rigorously on the back. Angie gazed up at him, her head tilted to one side. ‘You’re a girl, aren’t you? Life’s much simpler with dogs, eh? My wife reckons it was something to do with that accident she had but I’m not so convinced. She was very upset when her uncle died, my brother, but I wouldn’t have thought that’d be grounds for breaking off her engagement to a thoroughly decent egg like yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Redman. She didn’t want to come herself?’

  He grimaced. ‘No, afraid not.’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have that cup of tea?’

  ‘No, much as I would like to.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In fact, I ought to be getting back. I need to keep Alice on an even keel.’

  ‘Even keel?’

  ‘Ah, yes. I knew there was something else. She’s spending the day packing and she’s got into a right old flap about it. She’s leaving us, Robert.’

  The words hit me in the stomach. ‘Leaving? Where?’

  He sighed. ‘London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘She’s got some friends there. You can imagine what me and the wife think of it. If Herr Hitler starts bombing us again, we all know what will be his first port of call. I think she’s mad and I’ve told her so. But I’m the last person in the world she listens to. Honestly, if the milkman told her she was mad, she’d listen to him. But not me. No.’

  ‘London.’ It wasn’t so far but she might as well have been moving to Shanghai. I knew that was truly it – that I would never see her again.

  ‘You all right, Robert? It’s a bit of a shock, I know.’

  ‘She did tell me once she had a couple of friends there who were trying to persuade her to join them.’

  ‘Ah, there you are then. You know more than I do. But nothing unusual in that, is there, girl?’ he said again addressing Angie.

  ‘When does she go?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’m taking her to the station in Plymouth. She’s catching the 2:22 to Paddington. Oh dear, I fear I’ve thoroughly depressed you now, as I knew I would. It’s not easy being the bearer of bad news. I’d better get back.’

  ‘Thank you anyway, Mr Redman.’

  I escorted him to the front door, Angie running between our feet. He paused. ‘I suppose you’ll be back at sea soon.’

  ‘Yes, another week.’

  ‘I wish you luck.’ He shook my hand firmly. ‘I shall miss her, you know. I shall miss her very much.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry it turned out this way.’

  I watched him get in his car, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. The village seemed quiet for once, no one about, not even the children, as if everyone was having a post-lunch nap. Donning a pair of sunglasses, Alice’s father revved up his engine, waved cheerily and drove off.

  Chapter 38

  I had a hideous night. The thought that Alice was leaving, going to London, to start a new life without me, I found hard to bear. I couldn’t believe she could forget me so easily. I’d placed the ring in the back of my bedroom drawer, deciding that was where it should remain forever more.

  Unable to sleep, I took Angie for a walk even though it was the middle of the night. The moon was as bright as it could be, throwing its eerie light over the village, not a cloud in sight, long shadows at every turn. Walking through to the far side of the village, I could see the moors looming ahead. Incapable of resisting, it drew me in like a magnet. I soon found myself at the moor gate, the beacon in front of me silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Angie darted round, perfectly visible with her white coat. A group of sheep and lambs kept their eyes on us. The night was warm, cooled slightly by a gentle breeze; the smell of bracken and damp grass filled the air. From somewhere I heard the crying of a vixen. I stopped to say hello to the piebald horse, who trotted over to the gate expectantly. I apologised for not having brought any sugar with me. And then I headed up towards the top of the beacon. I think perhaps I thought I was in a dream, labouring up and up the hill. I didn’t stop to ask myself what I was doing. A couple of times I slipped on the dew, but still I climbed on, determined to get to the top.

  Finally, out of breath, I reached the summit. I gazed upon the landscape below me, the village nestled amongst the trees, the church spire visible. I saw the viaduct, and the neighbouring hamlets and villages beyond. I looked up at the moon. Was it really the same moon I spent so long gazing at from the boat?

  I sat down on the grass, crossing my legs. ‘I want to be as far away from here as possible. I want to be up there – on the moon.’ Those were among the last words he said before slipping into a sleep from which he never woke. If I had allowed him to nourish himself on Beckett’s flesh, he would be here now – asleep in his little house, lying next to his wife, a cat at their feet.

  I called for Angie. Obediently, she came and made herself comfortable in my lap. Would he have lived with the remorse? No, a man does what he has to do to stay alive. Would he have replayed it in his mind every moment? Probably. Would he regret that his existence had depended on the flesh of a comrade? No. ‘After all,’ I said aloud to the dog, ‘I did it. I did, Angie, I did.’ She looked up at me. I could see the whites of her eyes. I stroked her. ‘I stopped Owen but I didn’t stop myself.’

  I remember I stared at him for hours, his body laid out on the bottom of the boat, the bilge water lapping round him. I remember struggling to my feet and finding a tin lid. Every movement hurt like hell. But I had a purpose now. Oh, Angie, you’re a good dog. May God forgive me. It wasn’t easy. Morally, it wasn’t easy – that is obvious, but physically it wasn’t easy either; I was so, so weak. With shaking hands, I sliced a small piece of his flesh from his thigh. I gagged as I placed this minute sliver of a man’s flesh against my lips. I prayed. Muttering, trying to hold back my tears, I said the words, ‘Take, eat; this is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ Taking a mouthful of water from the little that remained, I gulped the flesh down. The act of swallowing caused such pain, my gullet had seized up. I could feel the insides of my stomach rebelling. Fearing I would be sick, it took me a while before I could take a second piece. How much more I ate I cannot remember. All I know was that those little morsels of nourishment kept me alive for a few hours longer; long
enough for that plane to appear.

  Major Bryant knew. He could see it in my eyes. He knew all right.

  This was the first time I had allowed myself to remember. I retched. Pushing the dog away, I turned onto my side and vomited. I puked until there was no more to give. I stumbled up onto my knees but then, exhausted, I fell onto my front onto the wet moorland grass and sobbed.

  ‘Owen, if you can hear me, please forgive me. I failed you. I’m sorry. May God forgive me. May you, my friend, forgive me.’

  *

  I awoke with a start. I thought I could hear the creaking of the boat. I shuddered at the memory. I looked at the clock – it was almost one in the afternoon. Pulling back the curtain to a bright, sunny day, I saw old Fraser pushing a wheelbarrow up the road. So that was the creaking sound. I almost laughed. Angie stretched and wagged her tail. I realised I felt lighthearted. I opened the drawer of my bedside table and pulled out the metal figurine of Christ on the cross. I remembered I’d hidden it away my first day back in the village. I hadn’t wanted to see it every day. Now, I felt different. One could still see the shadow of the cross on the wallpaper. I returned it to its former place on the wall, hitching the little hook onto the nail. The house felt different somehow – airier, lighter. I felt different too. I placed my hand against my heart. Something within me had changed. A pigeon landed on the windowsill, its wing beating against the glass. Angie leapt at it, and the pigeon flew away. ‘It’s gone, you silly dog.’

  I reached for my dressing gown hanging from a bedpost. I froze. In that moment, reaching for my dressing gown, I realised why I felt different. Since coming back to the village I had, without knowing it, a pain inside of me, like a hand gripped round my heart – but it had gone. The pain I had endured without realising had vanished. Owen had forgiven me. I knew it. I had gone to the top of the beacon a broken man, burdened by the weight of guilt, and had come back down it a forgiven man. In the course of one night, my life had been returned to me. I had been granted a future.