‘I’m not looking forward to it,’ he said.
‘The wind’s not that strong,’ the policeman said.
‘No, not the crossing.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, that. I wish it was just a normal trip.’
‘Imagine it is.’ The policeman drank his whisky, seemingly at ease.
The husband looked at the stage, where a clown had now appeared. The large room smelt of chips and deep-fried snacks. ‘I’m going to go and lie down,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ said the policeman.
*
The cabin was nothing like the cramped closet next to the engine room he remembered from more than twenty years ago. Two beds with a picture above each bed and a large window between them, a small hallway with a wardrobe and a toilet with a sink. The husband sat on one of the beds and poked a knitting needle in under his cast. The policeman got undressed, folding his clothes neatly before laying them on a small bench. He went into the toilet. In the cabin you could feel the ship hum and shudder. It was as if it wanted to leave but was being held back. The dark cold sea. Scratching with the knitting needle gave him virtually no relief. He heard the policeman clear his throat and spit, then turn on the tap. A little later he flushed the toilet. Anton was his name.
*
Hours later the husband woke up. The ship was on its way, rising and falling. Somewhere in the depths, a car alarm howled constantly. With every movement — up and down, side to side — he tensed his muscles, pushing back as if to stop the ship from capsizing. Had his school friend convinced him that you could hold back nausea by rubbing your breastbone? The ceiling light was still glowing: after being turned off, it had switched to a kind of emergency setting. The policeman was asleep, breathing evenly, one hand on his bare chest. There was a completeness about him, everything as it should be. The way he did things, the way he looked. His cropped black hair. The husband couldn’t wait to get off the ship. He hoped that it was almost morning and that they would soon be docking in Hull, but he knew they might have just left Rotterdam. He didn’t look at his mobile, which was lying on the shelf next to his bed as an alarm clock. He rubbed his breastbone and breathed deeply in and out. It was incredible how lonely it was in the cabin with that weak but inescapable light, a sleeping person next to him, coats on the coat rack swinging away from the wall and flopping back against it to a regular beat. He could get up. The bar might still be open; maybe the clown was still onstage. He imagined the journey his card had made, probably by air. ‘I’m coming.’ And then? he thought. When it started to get light, he couldn’t see anything except grey water through the window.
*
The ferry arrived in Hull four hours late. The morning had been strange, passengers weren’t meant to stay on the boat this long. Staff were few and far between, there was no entertainment, the gambling area was deserted. This boat wasn’t set up for meals: it left at 9 p.m. and docked at nine the next morning. The husband and the policeman couldn’t find any breakfast. Everywhere people were sitting or walking around with their bags or rucksacks; all they could do was wait.
After driving off the ferry without any hitches, the policeman switched to the left side of the road almost automatically and a navigation system started giving him directions in Dutch. The voice was called Bram. The policeman had the kind of car the husband found slightly annoying when he saw them in Amsterdam. Big and black. He looked around. It was a grey day and Hull was hideous: a broad stretch of water on his left and not a hill in sight. He was exhausted and his itchy leg was driving him to distraction. He hadn’t thought to get the knitting needle out of his bag; he might even have left it on the boat. ‘Thanks, Bram, we’ve got the idea,’ the policeman said after the voice gave instruction after instruction through a series of roundabouts.
‘Can we get a coffee somewhere?’ the husband said.
‘I’m dying for one too,’ the policeman said. ‘And something to eat.’
Shortly afterwards there was a sign for a Little Chef. The policeman parked the car and helped the husband out, handing him his crutches. The husband followed him in, stood behind him at the cashpoint, the self-service counter and the checkout, and paid for both of them, joining the policeman at a table by the window, where he watched him eat a chicken roll. For himself he’d taken a bacon-and-egg roll and a large coffee. They ate and drank in silence. When they’d finished, a woman in a red Santa hat cleared away their empty mugs and plates.
‘Did you enjoy your meal, guys?’ she asked. The policeman told her that it was very tasty, the husband nodded and swallowed the last mouthful. ‘Have a wonderful Christmas,’ she said and moved on to the next table to clear away their dishes, asking them the same question and wishing them a wonderful Christmas.
‘I have to go to the toilet,’ the husband said.
‘Me too,’ said the policeman.
They stood next to each other at the urinals. There was no one else there. Christmas carols were being piped in through hidden speakers.
‘Could you call me Anton sometime?’ the policeman asked.
‘Sure,’ said the husband. One of the crutches, leaning against the tiled wall next to the urinal, slid away to one side. He made a grab to catch it, letting go of his penis in the process, which immediately interrupted the flow of urine.
The policeman already had it in his left hand. He kept pissing very calmly. ‘Anton,’ he said. ‘That’s my name.’ He put the crutch back against the wall, shook his penis dry, put it back in his pants and zipped up.
When the husband washed his hands, he saw a wet spot on his trousers in the mirror.
*
Before getting back into the car, one of them standing either side, the policeman looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost three,’ he said. ‘We — No, it’s almost two. But still, it’ll be long dark by the time we get there.’ The roof of the car came up to his throat.
‘Uh-huh?’ said the husband. He wanted to get in and stretch the leg with the cast, which was possible if he slid the seat as far back as it went. He wanted to close his eyes and listen to Bram, who would accurately inform them that they needed to cross the next roundabout, second exit. He had a Lucy in his car, a voice with a Flemish accent, who regularly warned him that he needed to make a U-turn, which was, of course, down to his driving style. Bram sounded more confident.
‘Should we get a hotel?’
‘Yes,’ said the husband.
‘One day’s not going to make any difference, is it?’
‘No,’ said the husband.
‘You OK?’ asked the policeman.
‘I don’t know what to do when we get there.’
‘Do you need to know? You’ll see what happens.’
‘Yes,’ said the husband.
‘We could just head north,’ the policeman said. ‘Scotland’s closer.’