Twenty-six
Partings are painful and this one needed to be violent. At around 5:30 a.m., Joy drove into a breaker's yard three miles out of Lymington, ripped the number plates and the tax-disc from the old Cortina and smashed the windscreen and slashed two of the tyres, before abandoning it among scores of other unwanted cars- With just the rucksack as baggage, he got on his fold-up bike, pedalled into the town and caught the first ferry crossing to the Isle of Wight.
Yarmouth, on the quiet side of the Island, will never rival Cowes as a sailing resort, but it has a good harbour once you have negotiated the treacherous waters of the Narrows. Here, Otis Joy had berthed the Revelation some weeks earlier.
He was pleased, as always, to get the first sight of his motor-cruiser, white sides dappled with reflections in rare February sunlight. The harbour authority had recently upgraded the moorings with new pontoons. Yachtsmen preferred them to the old fore-and-aft moorings because the boats stayed static.
He wheeled the bike along the pontoon and lifted everything aboard and took stock of his boat. On his instruction, the name had been painted over. It was now the Catatonia. The superstructure had been cleaned, he was pleased to find. He opened the saloon door and said, "Anyone aboard?"
A voice from the cabin called, "Otis?"
"Who else?"
Rachel came up the steps, dressed for the maritime life in a fleece windstopper and jeans. She had been living here-holed up, as she thought of it-for almost three weeks, at Joy's invitation.
She gave him a questioning look. They didn't embrace.
"You've kept her shipshape," he complimented her. "How are you taking to life on the water?"
"It's OK." Anxiously she asked, "What's going on in Foxford?"
"Too much. Time to move on."
"Do they know about me?"
"No."
"Thank God for that." She eyed the rucksack. "You look as if you've come to stay."
"There are two cabins," he said. "Of course if you don't feel comfortable with me aboard …"
"It's your boat. I'll do whatever you decide," she said stiffly, hands together, twisting her fingers.
"Let's make coffee and talk it over."
They went down to the saloon.
"We're two of a kind, aren't we?" he said when the mugs were on the table.
"Notorious?"
"You're not. No one suspects you. As a matter of fact, they tried to stitch me up for Gary's murder."
Nervous of him, she tried to make light of it. "Get away! That would have been ironic."
"Yes, I might have been starting a life sentence in Parkhurst thinking of you only ten miles up the road living in my boat."
"I would have looked after it."
"I can see."
"And instead?"
"I need a new parish."
She laughed with more confidence. That had to be one of his jokes.
But he went on solemnly, "I was thinking about New Zealand. I doubt if I'll be welcome in the Church of England any more."
"You want to remain a priest?"
"Passionately. I must."
"After all that's happened?"
"It's what I do. By now, you know what drives me."
"Won't they know about you in New Zealand? It's a small world these days."
"I'll change my name, of course. I was thinking of Wilby. How does that grab you?"
"Wilby? It's unusual."
"Wilby Good. Not bad for a reverend."
She still didn't know how much of this was meant to amuse. After a pause, she said, "That's a long voyage."
"We can do it in stages, stopping along the way."
"We?"
"I said we're two of a kind."
"It doesn't mean you're stuck with me," said Rachel.
Otis shook his head. He didn't think of it like that. He saw her in a wholly different light since she had shared her secret with him. She was interesting now. Attractive. Desirable in a way that had been impossible before. "Rachel, I'm asking you to come with me if you will. We know the worst about each other, and that can be a basis for trust. Before you took me into your confidence about what happened with Gary, I wouldn't have told a living soul the things I've done. We can be open with each other."
She said, "I want to forget the past."
"So would you consider being Mrs. Good?"
She coloured deeply. "You mean pretend?"
"No. For real."
"I don't know." She was too surprised to give an answer. "I don't have to decide today?"
"Not for months," he said. "See if I live up to my new name."
They left Yarmouth on the high tide.
Later in the day, they berthed at St. Peter Port in Guernsey and picked up some stores. They had supper ashore. When they returned to the boat, he took out a black velvet bag.
"What's that?" she asked.
He rattled the tiles inside. "You do play Scrabble?"
Towards the end of the game, he made a seven-letter word.
Getaway.