The Night Ferry (10 page)

Dave lives in a flat in West Acton, just off the Uxbridge Road, where gas towers dominate the skyline and trains on the Paddington line rattle him awake every morning.

It is a typical bachelor pad in progress, with a king-size bed, a wide-screen TV, a sofa, and precious little else. The wal s are half stripped and the carpet has been ripped up but not replaced.

“Like what you’ve done to the place,” observes Ruiz sardonical y.

“Yeah, wel , I been sort of busy,” says Dave. He looks at me as if to say,
What’s going on?

Pecking him on the cheek, I slip my hand under his T-shirt and run my fingers down his spine. He’s been playing rugby and his hair smel s of mown grass.

Dave and I have been sleeping together, on and off, for nearly two years. Ruiz would smirk over the “on and off” part. It’s the longest relationship of my life—even discounting the time I spent convalescing in hospital.

Dave thinks he wants to marry me but he hasn’t met my family. You don’t marry a Sikh girl. You marry her mother, her grandmother, her aunties, her brothers…I know al families have baggage but mine belongs in one of those battered suitcases, held together with string, that you see circling endlessly on a luggage carousel.

Dave tries to outdo me by tel ing stories about his family, particularly his mother who col ects roadkil and keeps it in her freezer. She is on a mission to save badgers, which includes lobbying local councils to build tunnels beneath busy roads.

“I don’t have anything to drink,” he says apologetical y.

“Shame on you,” says Ruiz, who is pul ing faces at the photographs on the fridge. “Who’s this?”

“My mother,” says Dave.

“You take after your father then.”

Dave clears the table and pul s up chairs. I go through the story again. Ruiz then adds his thoughts, giving the presentation added gravitas. Meanwhile, Dave folds and unfolds a blank piece of paper. He wants to find a reason not to help us.

“Maybe you should wait for the official investigation,” he suggests.

“You know things get missed.”

“I don’t want to tread on any toes.”

“You’re too good a dancer for that, ‘New Boy,’” says Ruiz, cajoling him.

I can be shameless. I can bat my big brown eyelashes with the best of them. Forgive me, sisters. Taking the piece of paper from Dave’s hand, I let my fingers linger on his. He chases them, not wanting to lose touch.

“He had an Irish accent but the most interesting thing is the tattoo.” I describe it to him.

Dave has a laptop in the bedroom on a makeshift desk made from a missing bathroom door and saw horses. Shielding the screen from me, he types in a username and a password.

The Police National Computer is a vast database that contains the names, nicknames, aliases, scars, tattoos, accents, shoe size, height, age, hair color, eye color, offense history, associates and modus operandi of every known offender and person of interest in the U.K. Even partial details can sometimes be enough to link cases or throw up names of possible suspects.

In the good old days almost every police officer could access the PNC via the Internet. Unfortunately, one or two officers decided to make money sel ing the information. Now every request—even a license check—has to be justified.

Dave types in the age range, accent and details of the tattoo. It takes less than fifteen seconds for eight possible matches. He highlights the first name and the screen refreshes. Two photographs appear—a front view and a profile of the same face. The date of birth, antecedents and last known address are printed across the bottom. He is too young; too smooth-skinned.

“That’s not him.”

Candidate number two is older with horn-rimmed glasses and bushy eyebrows. He looks like a librarian caught in a pedophile sweep. Why do al mug shots look so unflattering? It isn’t just the harsh lighting or plain white background with its black vertical ruler measuring the height. Everybody looks gaunt, depressed, worst of al , guilty.

A new photograph appears. A man in his late forties with a shaved head. Something about his eyes makes me pause. He looks arrogant; as if he knows he is cleverer than the vast majority of his fel ow human beings and this inclines him to be cruel.

I reach toward the computer screen and cup my hand over the top of the image, trying to imagine him with a long gray ponytail.

“That’s him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

His name is Brendan Dominic Pearl—born in 1958 in Rathcoole, a Loyalist district of north Belfast.

“IRA,” whispers Dave.

“How do you know?”

“It’s the classic background.” He scrol s down the screen to the biography. Pearl’s father was a boilermaker on the Belfast docks. His elder brother, Tony, died in an explosion in 1972

when a bomb accidental y detonated in a warehouse being used as a bomb-making factory by the IRA.

A year later, aged fifteen, Brendan Pearl was convicted of assault and firearms offenses. He was sentenced to eighteen months of juvenile detention. In 1977 he launched a mortar attack on a Belfast police station that wounded four people. He was sentenced to twelve years.

At the Maze Prison in 1981 he joined a hunger strike with two dozen Republican prisoners. They were protesting about being treated as common criminals instead of prisoners of war. The most celebrated of them, Bobby Sands, died after sixty-six days. Pearl slipped into a coma in the hospital wing but survived.

Two years later, in July 1983, he and fel ow inmate Frank Farmer climbed out of their compound onto the prison roof and gained access to the Loyalist compound. They murdered a paramilitary leader, Patrick McNeil , and maimed two others. Pearl’s sentence was increased to life.

Ruiz joins us. I point to the computer screen. “That’s him—the driver.”

His shoulders suddenly shift and his eyes search mine.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why? What’s wrong?”

“I know him.”

It’s my turn to be surprised.

Ruiz studies the picture again as if the knowledge has to be summoned up or traded for information he doesn’t need.

“There are gangs in every prison. Pearl was one of the IRA’s enforcers. His favorite weapon was a metal pole with a curved hook something like a marlin spike. That’s why they cal ed him the Shankhil Fisherman. You don’t find many fish in the Maze but he found another use for the weapon. He used to thread it through the bars while prisoners were sleeping and open their throats with a flick of the wrist, taking out their vocal chords in the process so they couldn’t scream for help.” Cotton wool fil s my esophagus. Ruiz pauses, his head bent, motionless.

“When the Good Friday peace agreement was signed more than four hundred prisoners were released from both sides—Republicans and Loyalists. The British government drew up a list of exemptions—people they wanted kept inside. Pearl was among them. Oddly enough, the IRA agreed. They didn’t want Pearl any more than we did.”

“So why isn’t he stil in prison?” asks Dave.

Ruiz smiles wryly. “That’s a very good question, ‘New Boy.’ For forty years the British government told people it wasn’t fighting a war in Northern Ireland—it was a ‘police operation.’

Then they signed the Good Friday Agreement and declared, ‘The war is over.’

“Pearl got himself a good lawyer and that’s exactly what he argued. He said he was a prisoner of war. There should be
no
exemptions. Bombers, snipers and murderers had been set free. Why was
he
being treated differently? A judge agreed. He and Frank Farmer were released on the same day.” A palm glides over his chin, rasping like sandpaper. “Some soldiers can’t survive the peace. They need chaos. Pearl is like that.”

“How do you know so much about him?” I ask.

There is sadness in his eyes. “I helped draw up the list.”

10

“New Boy” Dave shifts beside me, draping his arm over my breasts. I lift it away and tuck it under his pil ow. He sleeps so soundly I can rearrange his body like a stop-motion puppet.

A digital clock glows on the bedside table. I lift my head. It’s after ten on Sunday morning. Where are the trains? They didn’t wake me. I have less than an hour and a half to shower, dress and get ready for my father’s birthday.

Rol ing out of bed, I look for my clothes. Dave’s clothes. My running gear is stil damp from yesterday.

He reaches for me, running his thumbs beneath the underside of my breast, tracing a pattern that only men can find.

“You trying to sneak away?”

“I’m late. I have to go.”

“I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“You can drive me home. Then you have to find Brendan Pearl.”

“But it’s Sunday. You never said—”

“That’s the thing about women. We don’t
say
exactly what we want but we reserve the right to be mighty pissed off when we don’t get it. Scary isn’t it?” Dave makes coffee while I use the shower. I keep pondering how Brendan Pearl and Cate Beaumont could possibly know each other. They come from different worlds, yet Cate recognized him. It doesn’t
feel
like an accident. It never did.

On the drive to the East End, Dave chats about work and his new boss. He says something about being unhappy but I’m not real y listening.

“You could come over later,” he says, trying not to sound needy. “We could get a pizza and watch a movie.”

“That would be great. I’l let you know.”

Poor Dave. I know he wants something more. One of these days he’s going to take my advice and find another girlfriend. Then I’l have lost something I never tried to hold.

Things I like about him: He’s sweet. He changes the sheets. He tolerates me. I feel safe with him. He makes me feel beautiful. And he lets me win at darts.

Things I don’t like about him: His laugh is too loud. He eats junk food. He listens to Mariah Carey CDs. And he has hair growing on his shoulders. (
Gorillas
have hair on their shoulders.) Christ I can be pedantic!

His rugby mates have nicknames like Bronco and Sluggo and they talk in this strange jargon that nobody else can understand unless they fol ow rugby and appreciate the finer points of mauling, rucking and lifting. Dave took me to watch a game one day. Afterward we al went to the pub—wives and girlfriends. It was OK. They were al real y nice and I felt comfortable.

Dave didn’t leave my side and kept sneaking glances at me and smiling.

I was only drinking mineral water but I shouted a round. As I waited at the bar I could see the corner tables reflected in the mirror.

“So what are we doing after?” asked Bronco. “I fancy a curry.”

Sluggo grinned. “Dave’s already had one.”

They laughed and a couple of the guys winked at each other. “I bet she’s a tikka masala.”

“No, definitely a vindaloo.”

I didn’t mind. It was funny. I didn’t even care that Dave laughed too. But I knew then, if not before, that my initial instincts were right. We could share a bath, a bed, a weekend, but we could never share a life.

We pul up in Hanbury Street and straightaway I realize that something is missing.

“I’l kil him!”

“What’s wrong?”

“My car. My brother has taken it.”

I’m already cal ing Hari’s mobile. Wind snatches at his words. He’s driving with the window open.

“Hel o?”

“Bring back my car.”

“Sis?”

“Where are you?”

“Brighton.”

“You’re joking! It’s Dad’s birthday.”

“Is that
today
?” He starts fumbling for excuses. “Tel him I’m on a field trip for university.”

“I’m not going to lie for you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No.”

“Al right, I’l be there.”

I look at my watch. I’m already late. “I hate you, Hari.”

He laughs. “Wel , it’s a good thing I love you.”

Upstairs I throw open wardrobes and scatter my shoes. I have to wear a sari to keep my father happy. Saris and salvation are mixed up in his mind—as though one is going to bring me the other, or at least get me a husband.

“New Boy” Dave is downstairs.

“Can you cal me a cab, please?”

“I’l take you.”

“No, real y.”

“It won’t take more than a few minutes—then I’l go to work.”

Back in my room, I wrap the sari fabric around my body, right to left, tucking the first wrap into my petticoat, making sure the bottom edge is brushing my ankles. Then I create seven pleats down the center, making sure they fal with the grain of the fabric. Holding the pleats in place, I take the remaining length of sari behind my back, across my body and drape it over my left shoulder.

This one is made of Varanasi silk, elaborately brocaded in red and green, with delicate figures of animals sewn with metal ic silver thread along the border.

Pinning up my hair with a golden comb, I put on makeup and jewelry. Indian women are expected to wear lots of jewelry. It is a sign of wealth and social standing.

Sitting on the stairs, I buckle my sandals. Dave is staring at me.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Wel , what are you gawping at?”

“You look beautiful.”

“Yeah, right.”
I look like a Ratner’s display window.

I bat his hands away as he reaches out for me. “No touching the merchandise! And for God’s sake, don’t have an accident. I don’t want to die in these clothes.” My parents live in the same house where I grew up. My mother doesn’t like change. In her perfect world, children would never leave home or discover how to cook or clean for themselves. Since this is impossible, she has preserved our childhoods in bric-a-brac and become the ful -time curator at the Barba family museum.

As soon as I turn into the cul-de-sac I feel a familiar heat in my cheeks. “Just drop me off here.”

“Where’s the house?”

“Don’t worry. This wil be fine.”

We pul up outside a smal parade of shops. Fifty yards away my niece and nephew play in the front garden. They go tearing inside to announce my arrival.

“Quick, quick, turn round!”

“I can’t turn round.”

It’s too late! My mother appears, waddling down the road. My worst nightmare is coming true.