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‘Is it your father?’
‘He’s an old man.’
‘David Buchan?’
‘Ye’re gettin’ warmer.’
What does that mean? Someone close to Buchan; in his circle? A right-wing agitator or disrupter. Another thought occurs to me. Someone closer still. David Buchan described his brother Simon as the nation’s biggest people smuggler. He said it facetiously because Migrant Watch provided weather reports and tidal charts and navigation advice to small boats crossing the Channel. It was labelled as humanitarian work and registered as a charity – but could also be brilliant cover for the Ferryman – a means of making money at both ends of the journey: charging migrants for safe passage and using them as cheap labour when they arrive in Britain.
My mind races, putting together the pieces and making the connections. When we dined together, Simon Buchan asked me about Arben, pumping me for information. He offered to provide him with clothes, accommodation, a phone, an education. He said that he would fund his asylum application. And then he gave me a bullshit narrative about the perils of philanthropy, and I ate it up with a spoon and washed it down with an expensive French pinot noir. I admired him. I wanted to be him. And I felt sorry that he had a brother like Lord David Buchan.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. At least Lord Buchan spoke up for what he believed. Yes, it was reactionary and xenophobic, but I didn’t doubt his sincerity, even if I disagreed with his arguments. And I’d rather deal with an articulate, honest bigot than a fake progressive like Simon Buchan, who creates charities and good causes so he can hide his true nature, profiting from desperate people.
The boat is still motoring eastwards, and the shore has slowly receded to become a dark outline. The sea is all around us now, the hiss and rush of it, the collapse of waves into white water. Even the seagulls have deserted us, blown back towards the land.
Angus takes another slug from his hip flask and gets to his feet. He takes two paces to the stern of the boat and undoes his trousers, pulling out his penis to urinate.
Evie turns her face away.
‘Nothing you haven’t seen before,’ he says grinning, as a stream of urine arcs towards the waves. His shotgun is propped against the bench seat.
In that instant, I charge forward, head down, and ram him in the small of his back before he can step away. He cries out in surprise and fights for balance, but neither of us can defy gravity. We’re falling, over the railing, into the churning wake of the Watergaw.
The cold hits me like a slap, and I immediately inhale a mouthful of water. My hands are useless, bound behind me, but I kick with my legs to keep my head above the surface, coughing and snatching a breath. I roll beneath the waves again and fight to free my hands, twisting back and forth, feeling the tape cut into my wrists. Exhaustion is slowing me down. My legs are burning and my arms aching and panic squeezes my heart. This can’t be how it ends?
Thrashing to the surface, gasping for breath, I kick off my shoes and try to rip my hands out of the bindings. My chest spasms and water spurts from my mouth and nose. The Watergaw is already a hundred feet away. Angus Radford is closer, yelling for his father, waving his arms. He’s not interested in me – he’s more worried about saving himself.
His head goes under. He surfaces again, looking distressed. Coughing. Spluttering. Drowning.
29
Evie
One moment Cyrus was here and then he was gone. It happened so quickly that I couldn’t react. At the same time, it had an almost dream-like quality, like in one of those action films where everything slows down and the bullets travel at walking pace and people lean out of the way to dodge them. I saw Cyrus moving and I thought, No, he won’t, he can’t, that’s crazy stupid. But he did and now both men are in the water, but only one of them is shouting and waving his arms.
Cyrus disappears below the surface. His hands are taped behind his back. He can’t stay afloat. Did he expect me to go with him? He knows I can’t swim.
An orange lifebuoy is attached to the railing, secured by clips and a monkey grip. My hands are taped to my waist, but I can move my fingers. I pull it free, but it’s heavier than I expect. Unable to throw it, I drop it over the side and the rope uncoils. I glimpse a flash of orange bouncing over the whitewash.
The boat turns suddenly, and I lose my balance. The old man has heard the yelling. The shotgun skitters across the deck. I crawl towards it. The old man yells at me to stop, but he doesn’t leave the wheel. He’s trying not to lose sight of his son.
I have to lie on my stomach to pick up the shotgun, but there’s no way I can reach the trigger and aim. Looking down into the galley, I see a dining area with bench seats and a table. Hugging the shotgun against my stomach, I stumble down the steps and try to close the door behind me, but the latch is too high for me to reach.
Putting the shotgun down, I begin opening drawers and cupboards.
Angus is still yelling, but less often now. I don’t know if Cyrus is alive. There is a cooktop with a steel cover. On the wall is a magnetised knife-rack, but I can’t reach it with my hands.
Leaning over the benchtop, I use my forehead to butt at the handles until a blade falls onto the electric hob, within reach. Holding the knife in my fingertips, pointed towards me, I move the blade back and forth across the tape.
I’ve drawn blood, but keep cutting, not feeling the pain. Cyrus is going to drown. He can’t swim without hands. Why did he do that? He can’t die. Not now. Not ever. He can leave me, but he can’t die on me.
I free my right hand and rip the tape from around my waist. Using my teeth and fingers, I loosen the rest of the binding until both hands are free. The boat is slowing. The engine idles. The old man comes down the steps and goes to the stern.
‘Swim this way,’ he yells, lowering steps over the side.
I pick up the shotgun and climb out of the galley.
Angus Radford is thirty feet away, floating on his back. Cyrus is holding him around the chest, pulling him towards the ladder with strong strokes. Masking tape trails from one hand as he swims.
