Forget it, he tried to tell himself. Everything's going fine. Everything's going to be great.
He stepped out onto the deck of the Princess, and looked over the side into the water. He checked all the way around the boat — or at least, as far as he could — but he saw no driftwood, nothing. Perhaps it was in the shadows under the overhang, propelled there by the lake swell; but as he was trying to see, the overhead lights blinked once, and then again, and then they went out completely.
The only illumination now was from the dim curtained portholes and the deck light of the boat itself. He called out, "I won't be a minute. Don't fall asleep on me!"
But there was no reply from inside.
Leaving the lit Princess was almost like leaving home, because its glow in the darkness was so warm. He climbed to the upper level, and from the top of the stairs he could see a wide slice of moonlight telling him that he'd not only forgotten to lock the door behind them, in his haste he'd neglected even to close it; he crossed the decking and closed it now, switching the key from the outside to the inside and turning it in the lock. Then he felt his way along the wall to where he knew the faulty junction box to be.
He made a fist and banged on the casing, hard.
There was a loud spat, a brilliant flash of blue that almost burned out his night vision, and a sharp smell of ozone and cinders. Wayne was so taken aback by this that it was a moment before he realised something else; the hand that had touched the box had come away wet.
He couldn't understand it… but he knew that he'd narrowly avoided a serious shock, and there was no way in which he'd be prepared to touch the box again. The Princess had spotlights, he'd turn them around this way when it was time to get Sandy to the door and then he'd go back on his own to switch them off. That wouldn't be easy; even now he was beginning to remember what it had been like when he'd been small and afraid of the dark, unable to sleep without a nightlight.
He decided that he wouldn't tell her about this. Not until afterward, anyway.
Slowly, carefully, he felt his way back towards the stairs. The boards were rough and splintery underfoot. There was a noise as he started to descend; but it was just the boat, moving slightly with the swell of the lake and rubbing against one of those padded joists that stuck out too far from the quayside.
Anticipation was building with every descending step. He was almost trembling with it. His grip on the rail was shaky. On the quay, he almost tripped himself as he went to re board.
Wayne, he heard in a whisper from behind him.
He spun around so fast that he came close to falling over, his heart leaping like a bird in a snare. They weren't alone; and then the next thought was that Sandy must have come up from below and was now standing on the quay, but then that thought died as what he'd taken for her shadow came out from under the stairway.
Relief coursed through him like a shot of heroin.
"Miss Peterson," he managed to say. "What are you doing here?"
But as she came forward he faltered, and his certainty died; it was her, but it wasn't, in a way that he couldn't even have begun to explain. What he seemed to see was something else, something that wore her like a shell, and it was walking towards him. Her skin was blue green and marbled in the reflected lake water, and her eyes were as dull and expressionless as a shark's. He wanted to move, to step back, but nothing seemed to be happening.
This wasn't the choice I wanted to make, Wayne, she said. Please try to forgive me.
And then she reached for him.
Sandy lay still for a while, hoping to feel better; but being flat on her back didn't help, and closing her eyes only made it worse. Finally, she had to give in.
"Sorry, Wayne," she said, although he wasn't around to hear. "Tonight just ain't the night."
Slowly, almost painfully, she got out of the bed and started to dress. By now she'd definitely come to pin the blame on the stuff they'd had to drink; every time she even thought of it she came close to throwing up. It wasn't drunkenness — she'd been drunk twice, and neither time had been anything like this — but something else altogether. She didn't know what her mother was going to say when Wayne finally got her home; she could only hope that things would improve along the way.
Wayne came down the stairs behind her, walking slowly. She didn't turn, not wanting to see his obvious disappointment on top of everything else.
"Another time, okay, Wayne?" she said, doing her best to sound bright and cheerful and hearing the evidence that she wasn't succeeding. "I don't think I'm such a good sailor. Will you zip me up?"
She'd definitely annoyed him. He zipped her dress in silence, and his touch was cold.
Sandy tried to think of something to say, something that would explain how she felt; but the image that formed in her mind was of a punchbowl brimming with vomit, and she knew instantly that she was about to do likewise. Without even looking at him, she dashed for the companionway and the open deck above.
Which was how she came face to face with the phenomenon of the two Waynes.
Wayne number two was sitting — or rather, slumped — in the dining alcove of the deck saloon, and he was leaking all over the expensive looking upholstery. His head was at a strange angle because of the way that he'd kind of subsided into the corner, and his eyes were slightly open. They didn't seem to be focussed on anything in particular. His hair was dark and wet, and plastered down close.
Sandy was so much taken by surprise that her sickness was forgotten. Life had suddenly taken a mis step, and she was completely thrown. She turned around, looking to Wayne number one for an explanation.
Everything caught up with her then, and everything slammed into its proper place.
Alina surged up the companionway toward her, eyes burning like new stars. Sandy drew breath to scream but she was stopped halfway by Alina's clamped-down hand, which filled her mouth and lungs with the rank taste of stagnant water. Quickly, Alina stepped around her so that she could hold Sandy's head in both of her hands; Sandy made a weak attempt to struggle, but it was like fighting a rock.
Alina gently turned her, so that she was facing Wayne again.
I'll take you to where he is, she said. He'll be waiting there for you.
Sandy fought for air. Her vision was starting to blur, with something more than just tears.
Then blackout.
Tom Amis is a carpenter. Seven days a week he works on the new ski lodge in the woodlands overlooking the valley, his private quarters little more than a sleeping bag in a back room behind the new reception area. The bricklayers were the first to leave, followed by the tarmac gang and the plasterers. Amis is a loner, which is just as well. Because Amis is alone.
The owner has been calling by every few days to check on progress, but now is in Barbados. Amis hopes that it's cloudy, but not so cloudy that the owner should come back and start breathing over his shoulder again. Amis has only three definite things in his life; his skills, his van, and his career plan, and all of them seem to have been taking a beating over the past few weeks. Two of his new windows, big ones, have warped and had to be redone. The van has broken down. And by his career plan he should have been finished and out of here by now, instead of which he's way over time on a fixed-price job and his prospects of retirement at thirty-five are receding now even faster than they were before.
It had once seemed like a reasonable strategy for a loner; live cheap, move around, invest everything and then cut loose while still young and really start to live. But it isn't working out. The money's mostly there, but the spirit in him seems to have been leaking away. He's starting to realise that by the time he's in a position to do anything that he wants, there'll be nothing that he really wants to do. He'll be returning to an empty fairground of deserted stalls, with only the faint remembered echo of the music that he's been ignoring.