Indeed, it appeared as if the quantity of water falling from the top floor of the office block had increased, so much frothing out the windows that no sign of the building beneath could be ascertained through the brine. Even the top, the glassless hole through which the water fell was masked in mist. From a distance, it looked like a strange sparkling column.
Harris slept, it was early morning and McConnell had been awake through the night, manning the boat as it blindly sailed onwards. Now he shuddered with trepidation. They were here! The Mariner had nowhere else to run!
He turned to wake Harris, intending the shake the man from his slumber. But as he reached out his hand, a figure beyond caught his attention.
She stood upon the waves, a tiny figure in an infinite expanse. Her frame was delicate and small, yet seemed to radiate a strength from within, a familiar, yet tragic face.
McConnell easily recognised the child.
“Grace?” he asked, his mind in turmoil. “Am I dreaming? Grace is that you?”
He staggered away from the wheel, allowing it to turn gently with the currents. Walking to the bow of the ship, he leaned out, unable to shift his eyes.
Was she an angel? A ghost? Had the Mariner led them to the gates of heaven?
Grace smiled, though her eyes were closed. McConnell found himself smiling too, she had found peace. Whatever horrors she had lived through, in death she had peace. Perhaps there was a God after all?
But then her hand was travelling down between her legs, crumpling in the skirt she wore.
“What are you doing?” he cried, alarmed at the behaviour, but his words were ignored and the girl continued to hike up her garment. She wasn’t within reach, some twenty feet from the boat, but he could see her clearly enough as she exposed herself. Bruises and blood caked her legs. Semen stains fresh from the rape.
McConnell waved his hands in front of his eyes to ward off the vision. “Please no more! I failed, I let that monster near you, I know this! So why have you returned? Why?” He looked once more at her face and saw it now bloody and bruised, though still her arms moved in a glacial dance of seduction. Tiny fingers danced around her blouse and, as if peeling a banana, curled it open.
He looked away, not wanting to witness one he’d cared for debasing herself so. Weeping, he averted his eyes, and saw a flash of silver and brown. Some sort of eel zipped through the waters, following their boat like a dolphin.
And he remembered the Mariner’s story.
Was this horrible illusion supposed to tempt him in some way? Lure him to the seas below? How could it possibly do that? Unless the aim was to drive him to suicide with sorrow?
Grace, her body covered with cuts and bruises, revealed her chest, an area somehow remaining free from wounds. Bloody lips mouthed an invite to spoil the virgin flesh.
Bite.
He vomited, spilling thin bile down his chin. This wasn’t right. What was going on? This couldn’t be for him. It couldn’t be.
Behind him, he heard a moan.
McConnell turned his head to look.
“Harris?”
Rumbling of the 67 bus gave a pleasant tingle to Aiden Harris’ anus as the vehicle pulled away, continuing its jaunt through central London with a familiar sluggish determination. The midday warmth, pleasant whilst in the open air, transformed for those within, creating a stifling closeness, instantly turning all those present into ripe sources of stink. Fortunately for Harris there were few others on the upper deck of the 67 that afternoon; an old lady sat by the front windows, her hair thin and backlit, creating the illusion of her head being a planet with silvery aurora. A snoring drunk dozed a few rows behind, stinking of body odour. Harris wondered if the man was schizophrenic. Weren’t eighty percent of London’s homeless schizo? Where had he heard that? True or not, he suspected this man was schizoid, only a mad fucker would allow himself to fester like that.
Just the four of them: old lady interstellar, a schizo, himself, and the customer.
“How much is on this one?” his customer asked, stiff frame looking cramped despite having the whole back row to himself. Harris sat in the penultimate chair, tuned sideways with a leg stretched out into the aisle. “You said last time there would be three gigabyte, but there was only two and a half.”
“You serious?” For a moment Harris thought the man was joking, but his stern and cold demeanour but a stop to that. “Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t believe you’re kicking up a fuss over a few hundred meg!”
“I’m paying, aren’t I?”
“Yeah you are,” Harris spat, his hackles raised by his customer’s business-like manner. Just where the fuck did he think he was? Starbucks? This wasn’t a ‘customer’s always right’ situation. Shit! It wasn’t even as if Harris needed the money, he just… liked to share the videos. “Listen, if you don’t want to see what I’ve brought you…”
“I didn’t say that!” the stiff man snapped, gripping Harris’ back-rest with bony fingers. “I just don’t want to get ripped off, that’s all.”
“Listen, I’m not ripping you off, but let’s face it, where else are you gonna get this stuff other than the internet and me?”
The man nodded grudgingly, leaning back, bodily relaxing, though his eyes continued to rove nervously. Harris could understand why. Buying child-porn on a public bus was bound to loosen the bowels. The first time he’d sold the man a data DVD they’d chosen Clapham Common for the swap. In retrospect that was about as dodgy a place to meet as it was possible to find. Second time round Harris had used his smarts: public place, nonchalant.
“Why don’t you use the internet? I just pulled all this off torrents anyway.”
“Internet’s not safe. Everything is permanent. They might not find you today, but they’ll come looking.”
“And buying it in person is safe? Giving your name to a stranger? Showing him your face?”
The technophobe looked at Harris with a mixture of disdain and pity. “The focus is always on the internet, not a street meet like this. Besides, it’s not as if I gave you my real name.”
“Tetrazzini’s not your real name?”
“Of course not!” the customer laughed. “You never read William Burrough’s Naked Lunch?”
Harris shook his head, feeling dumb.
“Don’t tell me Harris is your actual name?”
Fuck! Fuck fuck double fuck! He’d told the truth and this other bastard had lied! “Of course it is. It’s my alias. Rolf Harris.”
“Oh yeah?” Tetrazzini raised a cocky eyebrow, seeing through Harris’ lie in an instant. In that moment all the pleasure of the meet drained away. “Are you trying to arouse suspicion?”
“Fuck you,” Harris grumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead with his arm. “Let’s get this done, it’s too damn hot in here.”
“Here’s the money. We agreed eight gig this time, yeah?” Tetrazzini handed a small pink envelope to Harris. To anyone who looked it might appear a birthday card. “Inside you’ll find your pay and a brief note thanking you for landscaping. If you’re caught you’ll be charged with tax dodging, nothing more.”
Harris accepted the offering and in return handed the doctor a small USB stick. “Can’t get eight gig on a DVD.” Tetrazzini nodded, and put the small device in his breast pocket.
“Listen,” Harris began, voice trembling slightly and heart rate beginning to rise. “If there’s anything else you want, I can always… you know…”
Tetrazzini looked at him blankly, impatient to leave.
“What I mean to say is, these clips are rather… vanilla? Perhaps you’d like something more… exciting?”