CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

I WENT BACK to his bed, afterwards; where else could I go? I slid slowly and carefully between the sheets so as not to wake Derek.

He'd made me a whore again. He talked about fresh starts, of new beginnings, but they only applied to him. Marta and I were just clay to make a new family with.

Outside the grimy cabin window it was still dark, thick mist swirling. One of us should be keeping watch. Derek was probably right; we were far from any populated areas, there'd be few if any dead things to contend with, but what if he was wrong? If they boarded us in the night, we'd have no chance.

So? So they would eat me alive, like Marianna. So what? Marianna hadn't been given false hope, a promise of freedom, only to have it betrayed by the same person who'd offered it. It'd be the same ending as hers, only she'd have suffered less. What were all my skills and strengths worth, if that was all the good they did?

But Marta - Marta would die, too...

Even then, I didn't care. Not at that moment. I said I would be honest. I'd said she was the closest thing to family I still had, and I'd meant it. But right then, that meant nothing. I only wanted an end to this. By a bullet, by my own hand - by one of the dead things even, if it came to that.

I looked across at his sleeping bulk, his flabby bare back, pale as a grub. So easy to do something to him - if I could find the weak spots under the fat. It was worth a try, if only to save myself from a repeat performance next time he woke, if that came sooner. Surely if I looked I would find something, a weapon. One sharp thing would be all I'd need.

But I did nothing. I lacked the will. I only wanted the world to go away, however briefly, and leave me alone. So I curled up, my back to him, making sure his greasy, sweaty skin didn't touch mine, and closed my eyes.

As a piece of long-overdue mercy, sleep came.

 

 

THIN LIGHT STUNG my eyes and I woke. The cabin window was white with mist.

At first I just stared at it. I felt leaden and numb. I told myself to go and look. But my limbs felt so heavy. Moving them was too great an effort.

Then I heard Papa's voice again. It would be nice to imagine something more mystical, something with a little more hope involved, but more than likely I was only imagining what he would have said. If you know someone long enough, you can imagine almost exactly what they'll say.

Get up, Katja. You don't give up. You're my daughter; surely I taught you better than that?

Oh piss off, Papa. Go away and leave me alone.

Don't speak to your father that way.

Oh, just fuck off, will you? You never had to deal with this. You were never raped.

You're right, of course, I wasn't. But I faced things as bad as this; ugly things that brought me to the point of despair.

And you always overcame them, didn't you Papa? Were you ever fucking human?

Always, Katja. Another way to look at it is this: you were in this situation before, and you survived.

Yes, but -

But nothing. You thought you'd escaped; it turns out it's not so simple. But this time it is not the same. Think on it and you'll see you're not so helpless. He is only one. He has no sons, no gang of thugs to help him. And you don't have to worry where to go. This place can be your sanctuary, this boat.

But I don't know how to run it!

You're in a safe mooring - you and Marta have time between you to learn. Kill him quickly and be done with it. Don't waste the next opportunity. He is insane; the next opportunity could be your last.

I didn't have an answer for him. I'd never had an answer for him; sooner or later I always ran out of them.

You can do this, Katja. You know you can. But first, look out of the window.

And so I got off the couch-bed. I was still sore, between my legs, but it had faded from a raw burning pain into a dull, persistent ache. I would remember this.

I looked back at the white hump of Derek's body, and started to feel a new sensation, breaking through the cracking pack-ice of my despair.

Anger. It was only a small flicker, a spark amid embers, but it was there to be nurtured. It was like being stranded in an arctic wasteland. Without a fire to warm you, you would die. So you kindled a spark, and you bent your strength to keeping it alive, making it grow.

I felt rage, and I felt humiliation. All the ugly feelings rose. I could have shut them out, retreated from them, into some warm place where I could grow numb again. But I did not, would not. Not this time.

I picked up the bra and knickers and put them on. That was a little better. Only a little, but better. I found my jeans and my T-shirt and I put those on as well. My socks were nowhere to be seen, but I found my trainers and pulled them on, lacing them up as I watched the heavy shape in the bed.

Now I was fully clothed. I felt better still. No longer naked. But he was. And he was asleep. I had a position of strength. I realised how easy it would be. I could see at least two spots where a single blow would cause instant death. He'd never wake. It would be better this way. Simpler.

But first -

I looked out of the window.

The mist was still there, but it had receded, far enough that I could see for quite a distance. The brown water lapped around the pylon. Further along I could just see the top of another one, but nothing beyond that. There was only the wide brown sea, and the mist -

And something else.

Even now, I'm not sure if I really saw it. It registered for a second and then was gone. A brief, momentary gap in the mist? Or an illusion?

Whatever the truth of it, for a second I was sure I saw a low dark hump in the distance. Something that could only be land.

Only for an eyeblink, then gone.

Even if I'd imagined it, there would be land somewhere. There had to be. The seas hadn't, couldn't have covered everything.

But even if they hadn't, the dead things would find it. I'd seen that already. The circle of dead things around the island, closing in. And if anyone was passing by, they'd keep on going. Just as we had. I'm sorry, they'd think, but better you than me. Just as we had.

One problem at a time, Katja. Deal with each situation as it arises. Now, kill that man.

Yes. While he was still asleep. Quickly, while I had the will -

"Morning, love."

Shit.

I turned. Derek blinked and smiled sleepily at me. His face was kind again. Like any loving husband's, waking up to see his wife's face. "Up already, are you? Seeing as you are, fancy getting us a brew?"

 

 

I COULD HAVE killed the Derek of last night without a second thought. But this was the original Derek. The one who'd saved Marta and I. Did he remember what he'd done? Probably, but not as I did. He'd remember me coming to him of my own free will. He'd have erased the chunks that didn't fit with that.

In the galley, I boiled water for the coffee. There was no sound from Marta's cabin, but I could hear Derek thumping about in his. In a moment, he'd be through.

He would be awake and armed. I needed a weapon. And I had little time.

He'd put something in Marta's drink. Where would he have kept that? No, I'd never find it in time.

A knife. There'd be cutlery. Something sharp - a steak knife maybe. I pulled the top drawer open.

"What you after, love?"

Derek lumbered in, barefoot in jeans and t-shirt. The butt of the revolver in his waistband.

Last night I'd had the opportunity, but not the will. This morning it was the other way around. I had to focus on the anger, keep it bright. Wait for my chance and take it without hesitation.

He looped an arm round my waist and kissed my cheek. "After a teaspoon? They're in there."

The gun nudged my hip.

There.

He'd made it so easy.

Now.

I went for the pistol, but for a big man he was quick. I didn't catch him off-guard; it was as if he'd been waiting. One hand caught my arm; the other swept out in a backhanded arc. My lower lip split and I crashed against the cooker.

"Stupid bitch!" he spat at me as I slid down. He drew the gun. "You stupid, ungrateful bitch." He grabbed a fistful of my hair, half-lifting me from the floor; I yelled at the pain, clutching at his wrist. "I fucking saved your life!"

"Katja?" It was Marta. Her cabin door was rattling. "What's going on out there? Are you alright? I can't get out."

"It's alright, love," Derek called out. His flushed, sweaty face twisted back and forth between the rage of a second ago and the kindly rescuer we'd first seen. Trying to be two people at once. "Mummy and Daddy are just messing around, that's all."

"Katja! Leave her alone you mad bastard!"

"Shut up!" Derek half-turned to scream at her. He kept his grip on my hair and it felt like I was being scalped, but he'd given me an opening and I took it; I hit him in the groin with everything I had.

He screamed and doubled up, but the gun was swinging towards my face. I grabbed it with both hands, trying to wrestle it away. It fired once; the report was like a blow to the head and for a second I thought I'd been hit. But I hung on.

He let go of my hair. And then clenched his fist and brought it down, in a brutal, clubbing blow to the side of my head.

I vomited. I let go of the gun and fell to the galley floor and I vomited. There was a shrill whining tone in my left ear and through it I heard the bang and rattle of the cabin door and Marta screaming my name.

"Bitch!"

Derek staggered to his feet above me, aiming down. I was on the floor, woozy. I tried to wriggle away. He turned the gun towards me. I kicked out with my right leg, driving the heel out straight. It slammed into his kneecap; I felt the bone crunch, and heard it even over Derek's shriek. He fell; the revolver clattered from his hand. He was howling and sobbing in agony. He lashed out at me blindly and started crawling away.

The gun. I reached for the gun. Picked it up. Managed to stand. My neck was throbbing. God, what had he damaged? He was crawling up the steps, towards the bow door, dragging his ruined leg behind him. One hand fumbled in his pocket -

"Derek!" I screamed, aiming at his back.

He kept crawling. I pulled back the hammer. Aimed. And then fired.

The recoil drove me back, the gun flying up towards my face. I pulled my head aside just in time; the barrel clipped my ear nonetheless. The back of Derek's t-shirt ripped, blood flying out. A bright, vivid crimson fan of it exploded up the steps. There was a splintering crack as the bullet ploughed into wood. Derek's body jerked and fell forward. His legs tremored and kicked. And then he was still.

"Katja?" Marta's voice had grown strangely calm. "Katja?" Now it was small, despairing and forlorn.

"I'm alright," I called out. Probably louder than I needed to, but my ears still rang from the gunshots. "I'm alright."

 

 

I LET HER out of the room. But first I checked on Derek. I had to make sure he was dead.

I was almost certain he was long before I checked his pulse; there was a stench coming off him; shit and piss. A dark wet stain was spreading out from between his legs, dripping down the steps, mixing with the blood. The galley stank of it, of the blood; it overwhelmed the rest. I had to walk into it to get close enough. It squelched underfoot, and my trainers began to stick.

I put the gun behind his ear and cocked it, then reached down and felt for a pulse in his neck. There was nothing.

I uncocked the gun and stepped back. His hand had come out of his pocket. It held a bunch of keys. It took several tries to unlock the door of Marta's room, but soon she was out.

She didn't cling to me, or cry.

"You're OK, then?" she asked.

I nodded.

She looked down the corridor towards Derek's body. Her face stayed calm, like a Madonna. She turned and looked back at me and nodded.

"I told you," she said. "I told you there was something wrong with him."

I put the gun in my waistband and held her. She was stiff to begin with, like wood, but finally she hugged me back. "That's right, little one," I told her. "You did."

 

 

WE NEEDED TO find out where everything was. The bullet I'd fired into Derek had been soft-nosed; it had expended most of its energy on him and embedded itself in the step beneath. The other round had punched a hole out through the galley wall.

We went through the boat to take stock of what we had. In the gas locker beneath the well-deck, we found a rubber dinghy, complete with oars in unscrewed sections. Obviously Derek had liked having a getaway option.

The guns were there too. Two pump-action shotguns, the rifle, the automatic pistol he'd carried and the one he'd taken from me. Both pistols were the same calibre, so I could reload mine.

When I'd done that, I dragged Derek's body onto the well-deck and propped him against the bow. His head lolled back over the gunnels. I tried to tilt it forward but it kept falling back.

I stepped back and drew the revolver. Aimed. Clicked back the hammer.

Now he was dead, my pity for Derek resurfaced. He was no longer a threat, just a man who'd lost too much and been unable to cope with it. He'd saved our lives, even if it had been for distorted and insane motives. We were alive because of him.

And so this was as much to ensure death was the end for him, and that he found whatever peace there was to be found, as for mine and Marta's safety.

So I told myself, at least, as I pulled the trigger.