Another silhouette moved through his peripheral vision and crouched at the bedside. Ny smiled and held out a cup of milky liquid. ‘You feel better?’
He found, with some surprise, that he did. His whole being no longer ached and, although still weak, the disabling fatigue which had held him trapped so long in his makeshift bed in the bottom of the sampan had gone. A dull ache in his belly told him he was hungry. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Much.’
Slowly he pulled himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. She handed him the cup. ‘You drink.’
‘What is it?’ He peered at the liquid.
‘Doctor prepare. He say good for you.’
Elliot looked at her in astonishment. ‘What doctor?’
‘Chinese.’ McCue’s voice came from close by. Elliot turned to see him leaning idly against the open wheelhouse door, a cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘One of the refugees. Got a whole bagful of medicine. Done a pretty good job of patching you up.’
Elliot glanced down at his shoulder and saw that fresh clean dressings had been professionally applied to his wound. He tried moving his arm and, although stiff and still sore, found mobility returning.
Ny said, ‘He give you sed... seda—’
‘Sedative,’ McCue said.
‘Make you sleep. He say you need plenty sleep, plenty food.’
McCue nodded towards the cup. ‘And plenty of that stuff.’
‘So what is it?’
McCue shrugged. ‘Some kind of saline, glucose solution. Who knows. Doc reckons you lost a lot of body fluid and salt. Got to get it back in there.’
Elliot took a sip and curled his lips in distaste.
‘Good?’ Ny smiled.
‘Shit,’ Elliot said.
McCue grinned. ‘Be a good boy, now. Take your medicine like a man.’
Elliot held his breath and drained it in a single draught. He glanced up to find the captain looking back at him with narrowed eyes, his face set in studied indifference before he turned away again. ‘What’s up with him?’ Elliot asked.
McCue’s expression glazed over and he looked away out the window. ‘Nothing much. His family missed the boat, that’s all. Wife, two daughters and a son. Army lifted them, and about forty others, on the quayside.’
Elliot looked down into the cup, and its emptiness stared back. ‘How long have we been at sea?’
‘’Bout twelve hours.’
‘We made it, then.’
‘Guess so.’
Hau appeared in the doorway, carrying a makeshift tray with steaming bowls of rice, chicken and fish. He grinned at Elliot, and trotted across the cabin to place the tray on the bed beside him. Elliot frowned. ‘Who’s this for?’
Ny said, ‘For you.’
‘Chicken? Where the hell did we get chicken?’
‘Everyone give a little food for you.’
‘Why?’ Elliot shook his head in consternation.
‘Mistah Heng say they look after you, you look after them.’
Elliot glanced at McCue. ‘Their faith is touching. I just hope it’s not misplaced.’
McCue looked back at him with steady, unblinking eyes. ‘So do I. They’re good people, these, Elliot.’
Hau held out the bowl of shredded chicken, his face shining with anticipation. Elliot took it from him and tried a piece. Hau flicked a glance at his sister, then peered into Elliot’s face. ‘Good?’ he asked uncertainly.
Elliot smiled and ruffled his hair. ‘Good,’ he said. And the boy’s face broke into a wide, disarming smile of sheer pleasure.
When he had eaten all he could, Elliot rose from the bunk and lurched unsteadily to the cabin door. The air was cooler out here in the freshening breeze, the sun tilting low in the western sky. He was astonished at the sight that unfolded here. The sixty or seventy refugees who had made it aboard had turned the deck into a floating camp. Children peeped out from a canvas awning raised over the forward hold, providing shade for most of the escapees. Above him, on the roof of the wheelhouse, several women squatted, cooking over wood and charcoal stoves. The rear quarter of the boat was festooned with sun-dried fish and clothing strung up on poles to dry. He was aware of the eyes that turned towards him, ready smiles springing to trusting faces. It made him feel uncomfortable, like a boy stepping up to receive first prize for an exam in which he had cheated.
McCue lit a cigarette and passed it to him. ‘The last one,’ he said. Elliot looked at its glowing tip for a moment then passed it back.
‘You have it. This seems like as good a time as any to give up. I always meant to, anyway. Might get cancer or something.’
‘Yeah,’ McCue drawled. ‘Pretty dangerous — smoking.’ He took a long pull at it.
Elliot watched Ny and Hau pick their way back across the deck to rejoin their mother just inside the awning, and saw Serey looking back at him from the shadows. She had remained sullen and distant since that first night in the camp near Siem Reap — it seemed so long ago now — when he had fired above the heads of her fellow prisoners. She had never trusted him. A spiritual instinct, perhaps, that recognized lost souls. He looked quickly away toward the horizon.
The two men stood for a long time, watching as the sun dipped its gold into the sea. Darkness fell quickly, and Elliot spotted a strange distant glow in the sky, far away to the south-west.
‘What the hell’s that?’
McCue followed his gaze. ‘Heng says Exxon or somebody’s got oil and gas rigs about a hundred and ninety Ks off the coast of Malaysia. They’ll be floodlit and burning off gas. He was told they could be seen on a clear night more than a hundred Ks away. A kinda signpost in the sky.’
‘Where does that put us, then?’
‘About halfway, maybe. Should hit the north-east Malaysian coast by tomorrow night.’
‘Why don’t we just head straight across for Thailand?’
McCue shrugged. ‘Turns out the Thais ain’t too keen on boat people. Safer heading for Malaysia.’
By midnight the trawler was set dead on course for the Exxon rigs, jets of waste gas burning thirty metres into the night, a distant second sun suspended in darkness. In the wheelhouse, the captain left the wheel to the ship’s mate, and curled up on the top bunk. Most of the refugees were huddled together, asleep beneath the forward awning.
Elliot sat out on the deck, leaning back against the wheelhouse. He heard the cry of a child as it awoke from a disturbing dream, then the comforting murmurs of a sleepy mother woken, too, from a fitful sleep. A group of five men sat up on the bows, smoking, and talking quietly. Their voices carried gently in the wind, just audible above the constant rhythm of the engines and the sound of churning water. The rising moon dusted the deck with silver.
McCue appeared from the rear of the vessel and sat down beside him. Elliot leaned his head back against salt-crusted boards. ‘I could do with a cigarette.’
McCue smiled at his hands. ‘Thought you’d given up.’
‘Never did have much willpower.’
McCue produced a pack from the breast pocket of his jacket and held one out. Elliot looked at it, surprised. ‘I thought you’d smoked your last one.’
‘I traded some bits and pieces for a couple of packs. Chinese love to trade.’
Elliot took the cigarette and let McCue light it for him. ‘Bad for your health,’ he said.
McCue shrugged. ‘So’s dying.’ He lit one for himself. ‘And we could die tomorrow. So who gives a shit?’
They sat smoking in easy silence for some minutes. McCue asked, ‘What’s the game plan when we get to Malaysia?’
‘I’ll call Ang at his hotel in Bangkok. If he hasn’t given up on us, he can come and get his family and we can go home.’ He glanced at the American. ‘What are you going to do when you get home, Billy?’