“Miss, as I have already explained,” he began firmly, as if lecturing a fractious child, “firstly, we don’t know for sure that anyone is missing. Secondly, if, and I stress the ’if,’ if someone fell overboard, they could not have survived more than an hour, and,” his voice rose in crescendo, “thirdly, two thousand passengers would have been greatly inconvenienced and upset if we had wasted any more time.”
The stringer sat back with a satisfied smirk. Now she had her story, and with it would have great delight in bringing this arrogant Englishman down a peg or two. The headline was already buzzing around in her head, the story already written, all she needed now was to top it with a few quotes from the local police, a few facts from the shipping company, and she would be ready to e-mail her editor—Priority: “Man sacrificed to please passengers.”
Roger had not been sacrificed, not yet anyway. Alive, but not well, he was still bouncing along on top of his personal watercraft, waking from time to time, but never managing to achieve full awareness. Each time his mind neared the surface his eyes would float around, checking the ropes and peering in search of a rescue vessel. One sweep was all he could manage on most occasions, but as he drifted back into a coma-like state, he would always think of Trudy and mentally cry out for her.
Trudy’s mother, Lisa McKenzie, had been crying for Trudy for seven days, four hours, and thirty minutes. She had counted every one as she sat on an old wooden chair in her apartment kitchen, surrounded by goodwill cards from relatives, friends, and people she’d never met, never even heard of. One, from a complete stranger in Scotland, had even contained a cheque for £5,000 with a wish she should spend it to find her little lassie. The signatory had added a postscript: “I lost my lassie twenty years ago and hope you don’t suffer the same way as I.” She’d cried for hours, holding it in her hands, feeling the heartache in the words. Crying for the man and his suffering; not for Trudy—Trudy would come home.
The chair had become her universe. She rarely left it, rising only to use the toilet or, occasionally, to relieve the unbearable cramp in her legs. Even then she would wait, deliberately punishing herself with excruciating pain as her limbs were starved of blood and oxygen. The chair was her whip—she a flagellant. Suffering so her Trudy would not have to. Suffering so she would not forget Trudy, even for a moment. Suffering because she loved her daughter so much she wanted to suffer for her. Suffering because she was a mother.
The chair had also become the symbol of her determination, as well as a tangible reminder of the past and of normality. The dependable little chair: a variety of small Windsor with graceful arms, and a seat hand carved to accept a pair of buttocks, had been her father’s, and possibly his father’s before him. It was a depository of unforgettable memories: Bouncing on Daddy’s knees in front of the fire; Father Christmas sitting to eat his mince-pie and drink his milk; a ladder to reach the cookie jar. Upside down, covered with a sheet, it had become a tent, a playhouse, even a rocketship. And at least two daddies, her’s and Trudy’s, had used it as a bed, falling asleep, exhausted after supper, too worn out to make it as far as the couch.
The phone rang for the thousandth time and disappointment struck for the thousandth time—Trudy’s father. Her racing heart sank.
“No news Peter. Nothing,” she replied to his query, the fifth today as far as she could remember. He sounds worried to death, she thought, strange, considering the way he abandoned her; abandoned us.
“Of course I’ll call you,” she continued, answering his plea. “I’m sure she’s alright …” she began, then wished she hadn’t as her voice cracked and the tears flowed.
Is he crying too? she wondered, hearing the hollow silence as he held his hand over the mouthpiece. “Peter, don’t worry …” she started, then paused, questioning: Why shouldn’t he? I’m scared shitless; why shouldn’t he worry?
“Peter I’ll call you—the moment I hear anything.”
He made her promise, as he had done at the end of every call.
“I promise, Love,” she said, then questioned—Why did I say that? Why did I say “Love” like that? It’s just a an old habit, she told herself, a very old habit; but something deep inside her told her to straighten it out, that it wasn’t right, that she still hated him, that he didn’t deserve niceness—certainly not from her. “I promise I’ll call you, Peter,” she added coolly then replaced the receiver without awaiting a response. It rang again before she could remove her hand.
Damn! she thought, picking it up straight away. It’s him again, wanting to know what I meant. What did I mean—why the hell did I say it?
“Yes?”
“Mrs. McKenzie?” queried a strangled far-off voice. “This is Margery, Trude’s friend. What’s happening?”
It took a second to sink in as she struggled to clear away the notion that it was Peter, then a flashbulb went off in her mind. “Margery!” A dozen questions flooded her thoughts and she started three of them all at the same time. “What …? When …? Where …?” she stammered, then started again, taking a deep breath; slowing herself down. “Where are you? The police have been trying to find you for a week.”
“Holidays with Mum and Dad—camping in France. What’s happened to Trude?”
“She gone missing. It’s in all the papers.”
“I know, I saw her picture,” she screeched, breathlessly, a well-thumbed copy of The Daily Telegraph, nearly a week old, in her hand. “I’m in a phone box and my token thingies are running out,” cried Margery, in a panic.
“Where is she?” exploded Lisa, fearing they would be cut off, or Margery would somehow be struck dead without revealing Trudy’s whereabouts.
“I don’t know, Mrs. McKenzie. I’ve no idea …” she started, then hesitated in thought for the briefest second. “What about Roger?”
“Roger who?” responded Lisa, having forgotten all about Trudy’s computer contacts.
“My money’s almo—” was all Margery could say before a metallic clunk and a continuous buzz chopped her off.
An hour later (a lifetime for Lisa, sitting motionless in agony, screaming inwardly for the phone to ring, unable to call anyone for fear of tying up the line), Margery phoned back, this time from a police station.
“Who’s Roger? Where does he live?” she screeched into the phone.
“He’s some computer guy she’s always going on about; reckons he loves her; say’s he’s got a …”
Lisa had heard enough. “Where does he live? What’s his phone number? Who is he?” Anxiety and hope intermingled as she reeled off the questions.
“I don’t really know,” replied Margery, vaguely, not sure which of the questions she was answering. “But he lives in Watford somewhere and works in London.” She paused, “I’ve got a picture of him …”
“Where?” she cut in, desperate for information.
“Probably at home. It’s only a photocopy. Trudy’s got the photo. We was just mucking around on the school photocopier …”
“How can I get it?” she shot back, uninterested in technicalities. “When are you coming back?”
“Hang on a minute, I’ll ask Dad.”
The line went quiet and she panicked fearing another disconnection, but by ramming the handset tight against her ear caught the echoes of an altercation. “Don’t argue. Please don’t argue,” she pleaded uselessly, then Margery took her hand off the mouthpiece and sobbed, “I want to come and help, but Dad say’s he can’t afford a plane ticket. It’ll take three days to drive back.”
Lisa McKenzie’s heart leapt a little. “It’s O.K. I’ll pay,” she said, remembering the