He doesn’t bat an eyelid when I tell him to follow that car. Maybe cabdrivers hear that all the time.
The silver sedan carrying Bobby is ahead of us, sandwiched between two buses and a line of cars. My driver manages to nudge into gaps and dodge between lanes, never losing touch. At the same time I notice him sneaking glances at me in the rearview mirror. He looks away quickly when our eyes meet. He is young, perhaps in his early twenties, with rust-colored hair and freckles on the back of his neck. His hands uncurl and flutter on the steering wheel.
“You know who I am.”
He nods.
“I’m not dangerous.”
He looks into my eyes, trying to find some reassurance. My face can’t give him any. My Parkinson’s mask is like cold chiseled stone.
8
This stretch of the Grand Union Canal is graceless and untidy, with the asphalt towpath pitted and broken. A rusting iron fence leans at a precarious angle, separating the terraced back gardens from the water. A graffiti-daubed trailer, missing a door, sits on bricks instead of wheels. A child’s half-buried tricycle sprouts from a vegetable patch.
Bobby hasn’t looked over his shoulder since the car dropped him at Camley Street behind St. Pancras Station. I know the rhythm of his walk now. He passes the lockkeeper’s cottage and keeps going. The gasworks cast a shadow over the abandoned factories that lie along the south bank. A redevelopment sign announces a new industrial estate.
Four narrow boats are moored against a stone wall on the curve. Three are brightly painted in reds and greens. The fourth has a tug-style bow, with a black hull and a maroon trim to the cabin.
Bobby steps lightly on board and appears to knock on the deck. He waits for several seconds and then unlocks the sliding hatch. He pushes it forward and unlatches the door below. He steps down into the cabin, out of sight. I wait on the edge of the towpath, hidden by a bramble that is trying to swallow a fence. A woman in a gray overcoat pulls at a dog lead, dragging the animal quickly past me.
Five minutes pass. Bobby emerges and glances in my direction. He slides the hatch closed and steps ashore. Reaching into his pocket, he counts loose change in his hand. Then he sets off along the path. I follow at a distance until he climbs a set of steps onto a bridge. He turns south toward a garage.
I return to the boat. I need to see inside. The lacquered door is closed but not locked. The cabin is dark. Curtains are drawn across the window slits and portholes. Two steps lead me down into the galley. The stainless steel sink is clean. A lone cup sits draining on a tea towel.
Six steps farther is the saloon. It looks more like a workshop than a living area, with a bench down one side. My eyes adjust to the light and I see a pegboard dotted with tools— chisels, wrenches, spanners, screwdrivers, metal cutters, planes and files. There are boxes of pipes, washers, drill bits and waterproof tape on shelves. The floor is partly covered with drums of paint, rust preventives, epoxy, wax, grease and machine oil. A portable generator squats under the bench. An old radio hangs on a cord from the ceiling. Everything has its proper place.
On the opposite wall there is another pegboard, but this one is clear. The only attachments are four leather cuffs— two near the floor and a matching set near the roof. My eyes are drawn to the floor. I don’t want to look. The bare wood and baseboards are stained by something deeper than the darkness.
Reeling backward, I strike the bulkhead and emerge into a cabin. Everything seems slightly askew. The mattress is too large for the bed. The lamp is too large for the table. The walls are covered in scraps of paper but it’s too dark for me to see them properly. I turn on a lamp and my eyes take a moment to adjust.
Suddenly I’m sitting down. Newspaper cuttings, photographs, maps, diagrams and drawings cover the walls. I see images of Charlie on her way to school, playing soccer, singing in the school choir, shopping with her grandmother, on a merry-go-round, feeding the ducks. Others show Julianne at her yoga class, at the supermarket, painting the garden furniture, answering the door… Looking closer, I recognize receipts, ticket stubs, soccer newsletters, business cards, photocopies of bank statements and telephone bills, a street map, a library card, a reminder for school fees, a parking notice, registration papers for the car…
The small bedside table is stacked high with ring-bound notebooks. I take the top one and open it. Neat, concise handwriting fills each page. The left-hand margin logs the time and date. Alongside are details of my movements, including places, meetings, duration, modes of transport, relevance… It is a how-to manual of my life. How to be me!
There is a sound on the deck above my head. Something is being dragged and poured. I switch off the light and sit in darkness, trying to breathe quietly. Someone swings through the hatch into the saloon. He moves through to the galley and opens cupboards. I lie on the floor, squeezed between the bulkhead and the end of the bed, feeling my pulse throbbing at the base of my jaw.
The engine starts up. The pistons rise and fall, then settle into a steady rhythm. I see Bobby’s legs through the portholes and feel the boat pitch as he steps along the sides, casting off the lines.
I glance toward the galley and saloon. If I move quickly I might be able to get ashore before he comes back to the wheelhouse. I try to stand and knock over a rectangular frame leaning against the wall. As it topples, I manage to catch it with one hand. The painting is frozen momentarily in the light leaking through the curtains: a beach scene, bathing sheds, ice-cream stalls and a Ferris wheel. On the horizon, Charlie’s stout, gray whale.
I fall backward with a groan, unable to make my legs obey me. They belong to someone else.
The narrow boat rocks again as the footsteps return. He has cast off the bowline. The engine is put into gear and we swing away from the mooring. Water slides along the hull. Pulling myself upward, I ease the curtain open a few inches and lift my face to the porthole. I can only see the treetops.
There is a new sound— a whooshing noise, like a strong wind. All the oxygen seems to disappear from the air. Fuel runs along the floor and soaks into my trousers. Varnished wood crackles as it burns. Fumes sting my eyes and the back of my throat. On my knees, I crawl down the boat into the gathering smoke.
Pulling myself through the u-shaped galley, I reach the saloon. The engine is close by. I can hear it thudding on the far side of the bulkhead. My head hits the stairs and I climb upward. The hatchway is locked from the outside. I slam my shoulder against it. Nothing moves. My hand feels heat through the door. I need another way out.
The air feels like molten glass in my lungs. I can’t see a thing, but I can feel my way. On the benches in the workroom my fingers close around a hammer and a sharp, flat chisel. I retreat along the boat, away from the seat of the blaze, ricocheting off walls and hammering on the portholes with the hammer. The glass is reinforced.
Against the bulkhead in the cabin there is a small storage door. I squeeze through, flopping like a stranded fish until my legs follow me. Oily tarpaulins and ropes snake beneath me. I must be in the bow. I reach above my head and feel the indentation of a hatch. Running my fingers around the edge, I search for a latch, then try wedging the chisel into a corner and swinging the hammer, but the angle is all wrong.
The boat has started to list. Water has invaded the stern. I lie on my back and brace both my feet against the underside of the hatch. Then I kick upward… once, twice, three times. I’m screaming and cursing. The wood splinters and gives way. A square of blinding light fills the hold. I glance back as the petrol in the cabin ignites and a ball of orange flame erupts toward me. At the same moment, I drag myself upward into daylight, rolling over and over. Fresh air embraces me for a split second and then water wraps itself around me. I sink slowly, inexorably, screaming inside my head, until I settle in the silt. I don’t think about drowning. I’ll just stay down here for a while where it’s cool and dark and green.