It was easy.

He had got on the train to Tilbury, same as her. He didn’t see why she should think she could go to New Caledonia without him. Then he hung about on the quayside next to the RMS Orion, searching for the right kind of face. He noticed a steward helping a boy to catch a balloon. He waited until the steward was alone, and then he got talking with him and he said that his mother had always wanted to take a cruise. Could he have a look? The steward told him visiting was not possible, with all the passengers about to board. Mundic said yellow was his mum’s favorite color. She’d had yellow flowers at her funeral. She’d loved yellow so much.

The steward said it would have to be quick.

He had shown Mundic the berths in first-class. There were proper beds and windows, and young men polishing the woodwork with little dusters on sticks, like that was all there was to do in life. Before they’d even got to the stairs, the steward said, “Well, sir, I’m afraid that’s all we have time for. But you see what a fine vessel she is?” They were walking to the exit when Mundic elbowed a vase of flowers. It crashed to the floor, spilling water everywhere. The steward had to call for help, the dusting men dropped their sticks and found mops instead, and Mundic slipped free. He waited in the restroom until he heard the great noise of other passengers, then came out to join the crowd that was surging through the ship, like the sea itself, though he had to hold back when they came too close.

It got on his nerves. All those people calling and laughing and full of excitement, like the world was suddenly a good place. He had to put his hands on his ears to stop the noise.

Mundic made his way to the bottom of the ship and found a door that said NO ENTRY. That was where he went. Inside, it was all engines, and smelled of oil. He crept under a tarp in a corner, and he liked it because it was dark and hot. Then he saw a bit of rope, and he started to shake and get the sweats, thinking it was snakes but it wasn’t: it was just rope. He threw up, and after that he felt a bit better, and he told himself to sleep if he could. He told himself the rope wasn’t snakes, it was just rope. It was rope.

By the time he was freed from the POW camp, he hadn’t known himself. He’d got used to the other blokes with faces like skeletons and their rib cages all bulging out, their skin scarred with the beatings, but he hadn’t believed he looked as bad. He was so ill, he could barely remember the voyage home. There was supposed to be a welcome party at Liverpool docks with the mayor and a brass band, but the mayor didn’t turn up. A few blokes said they would change their names. Start a new life. Even immigrate to Australia. They could do what the hell they liked. He wanted never to see them again.

But he liked this. Being hidden down here, in the bowels of the ship, under a filthy old tarp, where no one could find him. He had his passport, so he was okay, and he had her map, with the cross she’d made to mark the spot. He had his notebook and pencil, the RMS Orion pamphlet, and the label from her tin of soup.

It looked like he was following her to New Caledonia.