Malachy felt the train slow, and as the rattle of the wheels died he heard the scream of sea birds. He reached up, unhitched the window blind, let it fly clear, and rubbed condensation off the glass.
He did not know whether he had reached, almost, the end of a journey or the start of one. Could not have said if this was where, almost, an old life ended and for him a new day started. Would not have been able to tell himself if this was the place, almost, that disgrace was finished and where he would now find the searched-for quality of respect.
His face was pressed against the cleared window.
Under the platform lights passengers, dazed from the night journey, coughed, spat and hacked their throats clear, then lugged down suitcases, parcels and rucksacks. The station was Norden. He could smell, distantly, sea air, but by the time the train jolted away and picked up speed, the rain falling from the darkness obscured the glass. When he stretched up and looked down the length of the carriage he saw only emptiness. He was alone. Through the mist now settled on the window, he saw occasional front-porch lights, an illuminated forecourt to a petrol station, a car showroom. Some of the roads were lit like daylight and some were dark – and the gulls cried louder, as if greeting him.
The last stop of the train's route – from Munich, on to Cologne, then to Rotenburg, Bremen, Oldenburg and Emden – was the harbour at Norddeich. It was flat there, exposed, and the wind ripped at flags and came in battering gusts on to the side of the carriage. The isolation, he thought, was precious to him and gave him strength. He stepped down from the carriage.
Ahead of him, tied up, was a ferry. To his left a marina of yachts nestled behind a sea wall, and to his right, crowded close, a fishing fleet. He saw the wind, the rain, hit the ferry's superstructure and rock the masts of the pleasure-craft and the small trawlers.
He walked towards the ferry and the elements almost keeled him over. He braced himself to advance. He found a man in a precariously rocking hut, who smoked an old pipe and had a coffee mug cupped in his hands as if for warmth.
Was this the boat, the ferry, for the island of Baltrum?
The man, bored and cold, shook his head.
Where was the ferry that went to the island?
The man growled, indistinct, 'Nessmersiel/ then sucked at his pipe and billowed smoke.
How could he reach Nessmersiel for the ferry?
He should go by bus.
When and where did the bus go from?
First the man shrugged. Then he took his pipe from his mouth, sipped from his mug and waved back in the direction the train had come.
Malachy thanked the man for his kindness and wished him a good day. In another world, the old one, he would have felt a spurt of anger at the slowness of the extraction of answers… but the former life of Malachy Kitchen had ebbed. He smiled. He went out through the door where a length of string, holding it open, strained to breaking-point. Where he had been, what had happened to him, had slowed his anger, deadened it.
The wind scurried against his back as he walked past the deserted train, away from the tethered fishing fleet and the rattle of rigging on the yachts in the marina. Rain bit at his shoulders and hips and at the back of his legs. He walked well and the pains, aches and itches were behind him. He was alone, as he would have wanted to be, and his journey was nearly done, or was nearly started.
Chapter Sixteen
The bus parked beside the gangplank.
The dawn had come, and the rain had eased but not the gale.
The bus for which he had waited nearly two hours had brought Malachy, and three others, along a straight road behind the sea-defence dyke. Then, at the village of Nessmersiel, the bus had swung to the north, and the last stretch of the route had been on a road flanked by neat, darkened homes. The driver had broken clear of the village and brought them to the harbour where a squat ferry waited.
She stood a little step aside from the gangway, and had a packed rucksack high on her shoulders. She had two small stubs, tickets, in her hand and held them out. 'We get two for the price of one,' she said.
'I didn't ask you to come,' he said flatly.
'Our people always like it when field people go cheapskate. I didn't say you asked me. Next week, getting ready for the season, the full fare starts.'
'I don't want you with me.'
'Don't sulk – you look grim enough without that.'
'And I don't want your concern.'
Her eyes sparked. 'Well, I'm here, and you should get used to it.'
Malachy took a ticket from her and went up the gangway. He heard her heavy shoes tramp up after him. The other passengers from the bus, on boarding, bolted from the open deck and went inside a doorway that advertised a cafeteria service. Exhausted obstinacy led him to a part of the open deck where the rain slanted in hard, and the wind. He slumped down on a plastic-coated bench that puddled water. She followed him and tried to wriggle the rucksack off her back. He made no move to help her but then she gasped in frustration and he reached to take the weight of it.
'That's better. Well done. Join the human race.'
'I was fine on my own,' he said.
The rain made a film on her hair but when she twisted her head to face him and dumped the rucksack down, the wind caught and tousled it, broke the film and droplets sparkled. She sat beside him. She wore strong lace-up shoes and a long waxed coat that she hitched round her knees but, out on the deck, her ankles took the rain.
She snatched off her spectacles, blinked, then rummaged in a pocket for a handkerchief and wiped furiously at the lenses. She grinned. 'You display, Malachy, a quite staggering degree of self-importance.
I'd like to give that a kick. I'm not with you to watch your back. Get yourself thumped and see if I care.
Now, get a load of this: parallel lines run along adjacent to each other – not often, but sometimes, they move together and merge. Then, geometry or whatever pushes the lines apart again, so that they're no longer joined but are parallel. Pretty simple, eh?
Maybe everybody gets a chance to wave goodbye and maybe they don't, but for a few hours, or at most a couple of days, the lines go together, then… nothing's permanent. I brought us some kit.'
'What for?'
'Don't go sour again, Malachy. It spoils you.'
The eyes danced and the mouth quivered. He felt the ludicrousness of the sulk she'd identified. She dived her hands into the rucksack's neck.
She showed him dry socks and clean Union Jack boxer shorts, rolled up all-weather trousers and a rainproof top, a battery razor, a plastic bag with a toothbrush and paste, and a shirt crumpled by the weight on it. She laid them on his lap. As the boat's engine shuddered beneath them, a man came out, waited for them to find their ticket stubs, punched them and hurried for cover. She showed him, then put back in the rucksack, a miniature radio transmitter with earphones, a Thermos and a collapsible Primus stove, big binoculars and, last, a sleeping-bag that was rolled tightly. She dug deeper, and swore with vigour.
A pistol fell from the sleeping-bag and clattered on the deck planks.
He jerked down, fast reaction – as if the tiredness was gone – and snatched it up while it still rolled by his shoes. 'If you didn't know, they're quite dangerous things.'
'It's not my area, couldn't hit a front door at three yards.'
Astonished, confused but wary. 'Is that for me?'
'Take it. Think of it as insurance. Do you know what it is?'
He held it carefully, his finger way clear of the trigger, then sucked in a breath, looked over his shoulder and saw that the deck was clear. The boat moved away from the quay. As he had been taught, Malachy took out the magazine, cleared the breech, and depressed the safety button, then pressed on the trigger, felt its resistance and heard the click of the harmless mechanism. He gazed at it. At Brigade and Battalion, he had worn a pistol at his webbing belt. On the patrol he had carried, and had lost, an assault rifle. It came at him, the memory of running hunched with the file of soldiers, like a knife thrust.