The cursor on his screen flashed. It was dark outside the little barred window above his desk. Strong winds made the roof of the office moan and sigh. Everyone had gone home, apart from Mr Okamatsu, who was at the printer station near Sam.
A bond existed between Sam and Okamatsu that wasn’t there with the rest of the British staff, who clocked out at five on the dot and spent a lot of the day on Facebook or surfing holiday sites, yet complained the work conditions were too severe.
‘Mr Okamatsu, can I ask you something?’ he said.
Mr Okamatsu looked up from the printer.
‘The ship that sank. Do you ever think why the man who went down with it did it? I mean, would you do that? Give your life just to save some stock?’
Mr Okamatsu paused, the papers from the printer hanging gently in his hands.
‘He was doing his job,’ he said. ‘It is sad, but maybe, if everyone was like him, the boat would not have sunk in the first place.’ He stacked the papers neatly and then said, mysteriously, ‘There are always long consequences to action.’
It was misty out. Rain was close, headlights like young suns in early galactic clouds.
He churned through thoughts and emotions, inhaling, digesting, expelling as he ran.
Chemicals streamed along his veins.
That summer holiday before he went to university was the happiest of his life. Sam had learned to drive and he’d take Tango and Blotchy on regular excursions to the coast or the country or the city in his mum’s car. Sam had wangled some extra shifts at the video shop, giving him considerably more disposable income, part of which he saved, part of which he spent on alcohol and comics, and part of which he used to buy presents for the twins.
When he finally arrived at Warwick he missed home terribly, but was determined to embrace the student experience. He could be anyone he wanted, and this gave him a new kind of freedom. He found himself creating an alternative Sam, pushing down the things he disliked about himself (his lack of confidence, his wish to be alone more than most people, his nervousness) and bringing to the fore the things he did like (he could occasionally be funny, he was kind, he could even be outgoing at a push and with a little drink). And this slight alteration of the dials paid dividends. In the Student Union bar he found himself being able to talk to girls quite easily and even put the moves on some of them, with varying degrees of success.
He dispensed with his virginity in the sunny days following his first year-end exams, bedding a girl called Amelia after the student ball. The whole thing was a bit of a mess and, in his mind, at the moment of penetration, this strange thought: There we are then, I’m in, this is what all the fuss is about. It was an awkward session and though she made the right noises he couldn’t shake the feeling of there being an element of theatre at work. They had sex a few more times before summer break, but Sam soon discovered that having his alone time was more important to him than he’d ever realised. Amelia wanted to be with him all the time, and the feeling was oppressive. Fortunately for him, she Facebooked Sam in the summer to inform him she’d found someone else (a seventeen-year-old from her hometown).
Halfway through the final term of his second year, his parents visited and said they were going on a family holiday to South America. Images of the Amazon, Mayan ruins, of the Nazca Lines and Machu Picchu raced through his mind, but Sam was unable to go because he had signed up for a field trip to the Brecon Beacons in Wales, the results of which would make up the backbone of his dissertation. His parents said they’d postpone but Sam would have none of it. He knew it was their dream holiday and, being the new, well-adjusted young man he’d invented, he insisted they go.
It was incredible to observe the development of the twins. They were changing all the time. Steve was fully conversant by this point and had developed an adult neurosis, insisting on placing a clean handkerchief beneath his dining plate or bowl at mealtimes. And Sally was even more impressive, having mastered the basics of reading.
Just before they left that day Sam’s father took him to one side and told him, ‘You’re doing really well, kiddo. Me and your mum are so proud of you.’
It was odd. Despite his semi-sarcastic maxims, his father wasn’t one for speeches and it meant a lot to Sam. In the golden sunlight the warmth in his bones came from more than a burning star. Sam watched them drive away at dusk that day, down the hill, with the twins in the back seat turning round and waving through the window to him. Down the hill they went, between the blocks of student high-rises, disappearing around a corner, a deep-red sky beyond them.
Showered and changed into his pyjamas, Sam went to the conservatory with his tablet but couldn’t concentrate on anything. As he sat there, staring out the window into the blackness, he felt his leg shaking. Something was starting to become clear. If there was to be any future with Sarah the time would come when he would have to tell her about the Event, about what had happened. He would have to speak about it. Out loud, to another person. He wasn’t sure he could do it. It wasn’t fear, or guilt for moving on, it was more the unwillingness to face what had happened. God, why did the gravity of others have to have such an unbalancing effect on his own orbit?
He lifted the tablet and reflexively scrolled through the news stories on BBC.
His phone buzzed, making him start.
Hey, how are you? Everything OK? x
He froze, then sat up in his chair, leaning over the phone. Something was happening, he sensed it; some deep undercurrent taking place in the universe. Just as she texted he’d noticed a weird story on the right hand side column of his tablet. He zoomed in on it, understanding instantly the connection between that story of the sinking ship and the girl who’d come into his life. He tapped the link and then looked back to his phone screen. It buzzed again, a vibration in his hands.
What are you doing tonight? X
He read the headline on the tablet again. Was this right? He imagined an image of a rope being thrown over the side of a ship. A lifeline.
Missing Sailor Found Drifting On Red Sea In Stolen Lifeboat.