The rail track passed so close to the sea Bel could have felt its spray on her face (if she’d been able to open the train window). She loved travelling. She loved the thrill of stations and airports, the notion of so many different destinations, so many different destinies. She liked to strike up conversation with fellow voyagers, people she would never meet again. And if they turned out to be dull, she would enliven the journey by creating an exotic persona for herself: investigative journalist, solitary yachtswoman, prima ballerina.
She had mixed feelings about the enterprise she’d embarked on, but it beat sitting around getting bored. Winkling a subsidy from Matt hadn’t been as difficult as she’d feared. He was so relieved at the low cost of the fare and so mortified about cancelling Julia’s credit cards that he’d given her a wodge of notes. ‘Whatever you don’t spend on the journey, you’re to give to Mum,’ he’d said. ‘And she can pay me back. It’s not carte blanche to drink yourself silly on the boat.’
‘Fuck off, Matt. I already told you I’m not supposed to drink at all.’ (Although Guinness was such a healthy iron-rich product it was almost medicinal. She thought even Julia might allow her to make an exception for Guinness.)
She’d stashed the money in her wallet, which had bells on it so no thieving hand could slip into her bag and withdraw it without her noticing. That was another aspect of frequent travelling: you could pick up some useful tips. Rachael had lent her a suitcase on wheels. It was a very Rachael suitcase, an expensive and floral Cath Kidston. Nobody could look at Bel and the suitcase and think they belonged together. Nevertheless, the combination of its bright pattern and Bel’s purple jacket and red leggings offered a splash of colour to the dismal docks of Holyhead. North Wales was absurdly tame compared to Sudan, its palette restrained to half a dozen shades of grey: slate, graphite, pewter, gunmetal, steel, dove. It was quiet and thinly populated and no one was walking around with a rifle slung casually over their khakis.
She trundled through the terminal and onto the high-speed hydrofoil. When the engines started churning and the ferry nudged into the Irish Sea, she prowled its corridors in search of something to spark her interest. Unrewarded, she joined the queue at the sandwich bar and bought a hummus wrap, which tasted like paste rolled in wallpaper, and a mug of green tea.
She sat down at a table. Around her, fruit machines juddered and flashed; war escalated between two toddlers; an old couple struggled with a crossword. She couldn’t pick out anyone interesting to talk to. She’d deliberately stowed her headphones away so people wouldn’t think she was trying to shut the world out. Bel was keen to engage.
A small black face popped above the rim of the seat in front of her and rested its chin on the padded red plastic. The child’s hair was braided in neat cornrows, her eyes were round as toffees and she reminded Bel of the kids she’d been working with, who’d been so cute and enthusiastic, so eager to improve their English. When the little girl’s tongue flickered through the gap in her teeth, Bel’s tongue flickered too, licking her lips with brio. The child was delighted. For several minutes they held each other’s gaze and played the copycat game, mimicking every dart and quiver until, abruptly, the head disappeared.
Bel waited for a few moments to see if this were a new phase of the game. Then she rose to tip the debris from her lunch tray into a disposal bin and check the neighbouring booth. It was empty. If even a six-year-old kid had been bored by her company, how could she expect to keep herself entertained? She loitered by the pulsing games machines to absorb some of their warm energy. She fished in her purse for change, pulled the lever and rang up three lemons. A shower of coins toppled into the tray. It took her about ten minutes to lose them again, but there was still nearly an hour to kill.
Beyond the bar at the back of the boat she noticed outdoor access to a limited deck area. She pushed through the doors and leant against the rail, letting the wind lift her hair from her face, inhaling the salt tang of the sea. A man in a leather jacket was also leaning out, gulping air. He had his back to her, his collar was turned up and his knee was bent, raising his foot so she could see the sole of his trainer worn thin. He turned his head as if he’d felt her stare piercing him. It would be too awkward to look away, to pretend to be fascinated by the horizon or the creamy wake of their progress, so she met his eyes and smiled. He smiled back, but then left his spot to return inside, walking in an oddly rigid manner, as if he were in pain.
Before he reached the glass doors he stumbled, or else some motion of the hydrofoil caused him to lurch towards her. The collision took her by surprise. They reached out simultaneously to steady each other, hands on arms. Bel wasn’t easily embarrassed. She laughed and apologised, joked about her feet – her red ankle boot inter-locking with his trainer. His face wore an expression of alarm.
‘Are you okay?’ They both stepped back, a little clumsily.
‘Sure,’ he said in a soft Irish whisper, but then bludgeoned away from her into the bar, leaving Bel with the feeling that she was toxic. He had dropped a cigarette lighter, as they tangled, an orange cylinder that fitted neatly into her palm when she picked it up. She wondered if there was something in the air to cause his bizarre behaviour. Causing other bizarre behaviours, come to that. Some chemical in the volcanic particles that encouraged a certain freakishness?
She began to spin a fantasy to herself, compelling enough to drive her back to her seat and take out the notebook she devoted to her graphic novel ideas. As she sketched she became aware of breathing at her elbow, the light quick breathing of a child. Bel’s pencil halted; she looked up. It was the little girl again and this time she spoke, a faint twang of south London in her voice.
‘What are you drawing?’
‘I’m drawing a story.’
‘Is it about me?’
And Bel saw that, inadvertently, she’d sketched a character with a headful of dainty plaits. ‘Would you like it to be about you?’ The child nodded. ‘Then tell me your name.’
‘Clementine Alice Beaumont.’
‘Hey, cool! Is that Clementine after the fruit or the song?’
‘It’s for my granny, but you can call me Clemmie.’
‘Okay, Clemmie. You can call me Bel.’ She glanced around for a handy parent. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She’s not on this boat – she’s not coming.’
‘Oh… right. So who are you with then? Your granny? Your daddy?’
‘He left me,’ said Clemmie in a matter-of-fact way. She was a tidy well-dressed child, a vision of pink candyfloss; she didn’t look the type to mislay parents. Nor was she rattled. ‘My daddy was being sick,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Bel. ‘Yeah, I can see that would be tricky. Is he in that Gents over there? Does he know where to find you?’
‘What’s going to happen next in your story?’
‘Well, everybody’s been breathing magic dust,’ Bel explained. ‘And it’s made short people grow very tall and it’s given some people special powers while others have sprouted horns or started speaking in strange languages and—’
‘Have I got special powers?’
‘Sure. What would you like them to be?’
Clemmie considered. ‘I want to fly,’ she said at length. ‘We was going to fly on an aeroplane. I never been on an aeroplane.’
‘Well a boat can be fun too, you know. Let me draw you some wings. Do you want little fairy ones or big feathery wings like a bird or an angel?’
Naturally Clementine Alice Beaumont chose angel wings. She flapped her arms. ‘Like, massive!’
They were both engrossed in watching the soft plumy strokes of the lead pencil, the cross-hatch shading of the sky, the little earthbound figure soaring like an eagle into flight. As Bel worked, they debated the content of the next frame: how would Clemmie use her magic powers? Gradually they became aware that the other passengers were gathering their belongings together, getting ready to disembark.
‘Watcha know,’ said Bel. ‘I think we’re nearly there.’ She had assumed that at some point the child’s parent would arrive in search of his daughter. It seemed preferable to keep her safe and occupied rather than hand her in like lost luggage. There was a risk that a monstrously irate father would come and bellow at her, but hey, he’d just been vomiting – how scary could he be?
What concerned her more, as families funnelled themselves towards the stairs to the car decks, was that no one appeared at all. Surely the guy couldn’t have forgotten her? Was it possible that his illness wasn’t seasickness but something more serious? Wouldn’t the crew have noticed a body passed out in the toilets?
‘I’m going to have to take you to the help desk,’ she told Clemmie.
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s near where you board if you’re on foot. Or did you come in a car?’
‘In a car.’
‘Okay, well maybe we should go and find it then.’ Curiously, the tannoy announcement she kept expecting never came. ‘I can’t think why he isn’t looking for you. Can you remember what make of car it is?’
Clemmie shook her pigtails solemnly. ‘No.’
‘But you must know the colour,’ persisted Bel. ‘Haven’t you ridden in it loads?’
‘No. Just today.’
This was becoming troubling. ‘He is your dad, isn’t he? You do live with him?’
‘No.’ Then she added, ‘It’s my uncle’s car.’
‘What, is he like a real uncle?’
Clemmie cocked her head as if she were giving this some thought. ‘I don’t know. What d’you mean, real?’
‘Oh Lord…’ Bel took the child’s hand and patted it. ‘Well, you’d be related to him by blood. You might even look a bit like him. Whereas if he was your mum’s boyfriend…’
‘He isn’t mum’s boyfriend,’ said Clemmie. ‘He don’t look like me neither.’
This was not helpful. ‘Right then. We’ll have to get them to put out a call and I’ll stay with you till they find him. You’re being a very brave girl.’
‘I am!’ said Clemmie with a huge smile, tracing the outline of the flowers on the wheelie case, while Bel packed her things away.
There was a crush of bodies to negotiate, an obstacle course of suitcases and golf clubs, backpacks and buggies. There also appeared to be a hold-up near the top of the steps but neither of them could see over the heads of the queue. After a slow shuffle forward, Bel spotted two men in the midst of exasperated argument. One was slumped against the wall with his hands on his knees, the other was stooping to admonish him. She stopped, for the jacket was familiar. She tapped his leather arm and pulled the cigarette lighter from her pocket. ‘I think this might be yours,’ she said.
Startled, he glanced at it in her palm. ‘Ah yes… How did you know…? Where did you find it?’
‘You dropped it when we bumped into each other.’
‘When we what?’ He raised his head to look at her and she was confused again. She’d been misled by the jacket. It wasn’t this man she’d seen before, but the other. She recognised his mobile, finely chiselled face, although it was decidedly green at the moment, a pale glassy green like a slice of melon. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘Clemmie!’ he croaked.
Clemmie was gripping the hem of Bel’s coat. She regarded the sick man with a kind of dispassionate resignation.
‘Is this your daughter?’ Bel was fired with scorn. ‘And you just abandoned her? Didn’t even try to find her? Didn’t you worry about what might have happened to her, whether she’d fallen overboard or… anything? The poor kid!’
The man she’d seen on the deck muttered, ‘No fucking sea legs.’ Then he put out a hand and patted the child’s dark head. ‘Were you worried, sweetheart?’
‘No,’ said Clemmie stoically, ‘not a bit.’ And Bel was reminded of the tactics and deals she had struck in her own childhood, with Leo.
‘He gets seasick,’ said the other man with a shrug. ‘Not that he’ll do anything to help himself.’ He spun the wheel of the lighter. ‘Like lay off the drink and fags. But it isn’t as bad as it looks. We got separated and I thought Clem was with Tom and vice versa. It’s only just now we’ve realised she was missing and I’ve been trying to get my bloody useless dickhead of a brother to come to his senses.’
Their resemblance was striking – the curling brown hair, the horizontal eyebrows, the truculent set of the chin – but the uncle had broader shoulders, the jacket was a better fit on his sturdier frame.
‘I can’t believe anyone would leave you two in charge of a postage stamp. Anyway, she’s been good, really good…’ She paused, reluctant to leave the little girl, yet wishing she hadn’t got involved, that she could cut loose and walk away. A large family group flooded past, squashing the four of them into closer proximity.
Tom swept his hair off his forehead. His irises were an intense blue but the whites of his eyes were webbed with a fine tracery of blood vessels. ‘Isn’t this the trip from hell?’
‘This!’ said Bel, riled again. ‘A little paddle across the Irish Sea? I’ll give you a trip from hell. Try waiting in a corrugated shack in forty-five degrees centigrade for a tin-can aeroplane; then try flying in it. Or—’
‘It’s not just the boat,’ he said with a sigh.
‘Enough of that,’ said his brother. ‘We need to get moving. You should thank the girl, Tom, for rescuing Clem. You’ve had a lucky escape as usual. You know that.’
‘Thank you darlin’,’ said Tom, making an effort to pull Clemmie close to him and showing the shadow of a smile that she imagined could dazzle on a better day.
‘I don’t want you to go, Bel. I want you to stay with me.’
‘Bel, is that your name?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Kieran.’ He shook her hand, although it seemed a little late for such formalities. ‘What deck is your car on?’
‘Actually I’m a foot passenger.’ She indicated her decorative suitcase.
‘Well maybe, if you want to come with us, we could give you a lift somewhere. Where are you off to?’
‘Oh, the station in Dublin. I have to get a bus I think.’
‘Let us drop you off there. It’s the least we can do.’
‘Well…’ She became aware that Clemmie was watching her intently. ‘Okay then, thanks.’
As they filed down the narrow metal staircase, a call was put out for the driver of a Renault Megane that was blocking the passage of other vehicles. Kieran cursed softly. ‘Is that you?’ said Bel, as the registration number was repeated.
He nodded. ‘We’ve got off to a bad start, what with one thing and another.’
‘She doesn’t seem to know you very well,’ observed Bel. Clemmie continued to clutch at her sleeve as if she didn’t want to become separated.
‘Ah, you see, it’s a complicated situation.’
On the car deck a strong smell of petrol fumes assaulted them. Engines revved impatiently, as if noise alone could shift the green Renault that wasn’t going anywhere. Kieran unlocked the boot and slung Bel’s case inside.
‘Will you sit in the back with me?’ said Clemmie.
‘Yeah, sure.’
The two brothers settled themselves in the front seats. They crawled off the boat onto dry land and were waved through the customs sheds. Kieran ground up a gear and they skimmed past the palm trees and pastel-painted terraces facing Dun Laoghaire marina. ‘And where will you be going from Dublin?’
‘I’m getting the train to Tralee. My mother’s picking me up there tonight. She’s renting a cottage near Dingle and I’m joining her for a week. I’ve been ill and she thinks your Irish air will help me get better.’
He slammed on the brakes for a red light. ‘No kidding? Dingle?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s where we’re headed ourselves.’
‘Really?’
‘It is, yes, would you believe. Though it’s kind of a tense trip for us. That’s what I meant about the complications. We’re on our way home to see our father. It’s his birthday this week. He’s supposed to be in remission, but you know how it is with cancer…’
‘Oh God, that’s awful.’ Bel could not imagine Leo as anything less than a vivid, thundering presence.
‘And here’s the thing.’ Kieran lowered his voice. ‘He’s never met Clemmie before.’
The little girl was looking out of the window. Bel shot a glance at the reprobate parent dozing against his headrest, eyelids lowered, his hands – flexible long-fingered hands like a pianist – splayed limply on his jeans.
‘Holy Moses.’
‘So you see, we could take you all the way. Clem would appreciate the company. Of course, this may not be a set-up you bargained for…’
This was true enough, though Bel relished spontaneity. ‘Well I do already have a train ticket…’
‘I never take the train. I’ve no idea what they’re like. It’ll be a long journey though. One change or more.’
Clemmie bounced up and down on the seat. ‘Please say yes! Please come with us.’
Another, sleepy, voice spoke: ‘Come with us, Bel.’ And then Tom turned and threw her a smile of such tremendous wattage the interior of the Renault felt alight.
‘Well I guess if it’s no hassle for you, it would save Mum having to fetch me.’
‘And you’ll get there sooner, so you will.’