Borealis(14)

She shook her head. “No.”

“Not even to take a—not even to use the head?”

“The ‘head’?”

“The toilet.”

“No.”

He said, “Then how did you know it was dark out this morning?”

She only stared at him, as motionless as a stone figure.

“When I came in here this morning,” he went on, “you said that it was still dark outside. You said it was early and still dark. How did you know that if you hadn’t been outside?”

“I’m hungry,” she said.

“Answer my question first.”

“But I want to eat.”

“You won’t get any food until you answer my question.” Lowering his voice, he heard himself say, as if from the mouth of someone else speaking from a far distance, “What happened to Sammy?”

Almost imperceptibly, the girl’s eyes narrowed.

There’s knowledge there, Charlie realized. There’s knowledge behind those eyes.

“Don’t be angry with me,” she said, and he could not tell if she was feigning innocence or if it was genuine. “I don’t like it when people get angry with me.”

Steeling himself, he said, “I want to know what happened to Sammy. I want you to tell me.”

“Why do you think I know?”

“Because I do. And I’m not angry. I won’t be. But you have to tell me.”

“Maybe your friend Sammy couldn’t help himself.” A pause. “Sometimes people just can’t help themselves…”

“If—”

There came a sudden jarring, books and framed photographs flipping off the nightstand, a ceramic coffee mug, and the lights blinked but stayed on. Charlie, his fingers digging into the doorframe, glanced around. “Jesus, I think we hit something.”

He rushed down the corridor and out onto the foredeck. An elongated slip of ice, roughly the size of the trawler itself, had rushed up alongside them in some semblance of an attack. The hull of the boat was dented and streaming with heavy scrapes but it hadn’t been punctured. At least, as far as Charlie could tell from peering over the side…

A cigarette dangling from his chapped, bloodless lips, McEwan appeared beside him. “The f*ck’s Mike doing?” he shouted over the sudden grinding of gears sounding up from the engine room. He waved a hand in the direction of the pilothouse but the lights behind the glass had gone dim; Mike Fenty was nothing more than a ghost among shadows.

“Something’s funny,” Charlie whispered.

“Yeah,” McEwan agreed, his voice scratchy. “A regular f*cking riot.”

Bryan was cursing at the petrol stove when, five minutes later, Charlie and McEwan came down the galley steps.

“Damn thing won’t work,” Bryan growled, dropping a fist on top of the unit. “Useless.”

“Maybe needs more fuel?” Charlie suggested.

“It’s full. I just checked. And look.” He reached up and slammed one of the cupboard doors, cracking it against its frame. It rebounded, easing itself back open. “See that?” said Bryan. The early stirrings of insanity glittered behind his eyes. Laughed humorlessly. “None of them close.” He ran one finger along the inside of the door, prodding the magnetic panel screwed into the wood. “The magnets don’t work anymore. None of ’em do.”

For the first time, Charlie noticed all the cupboard doors were standing open.

Grumbling, McEwan retrieved a bottle of vodka from one of the open cupboards then dropped his considerable bulk, in tandem with a piggish grunt, into the booth. “Go complain to Fenty,” he said, unscrewing the cap off the bottle. “It’s his piece of shit rig.”

Still glaring down at the petrol stove, Bryan said, “I don’t get it. Everything worked fine until now.”

“To the kid,” McEwan toasted, bringing the bottle of vodka to his lips.

“How the hell did he get down there?” Bryan asked, sliding into the booth beside McEwan. He grabbed the bottle from McEwan’s lips and took a swing himself. “What was he thinking?”

“Mike’s right,” Charlie said, folding his arms. “Hatch is too heavy for one man to lift. And Sammy, he weren’t no Superman.”

“Sounds to me,” McEwan said, “you’re accusing one of us of bein’ there when it happened.” Without expression, he snatched the bottle back from Bryan. “Maybe even insinuatin’ we had somethin’ to do with him dying.”

“I don’t know what I’m insinuating,” said Charlie.

“Why don’t you go ahead and say what’s on your mind, then?”

“I’d just like someone to explain to me how that kid got himself killed in the holding tank, that’s all. Kid’s dead. I’d like to know how it happened.”

In the overhead, the lights blinked in their fixtures. All three of them cast wary glances. The ship was keeling to one side, items slid out of the open cupboards and onto the floor. A bag of sugar spilled like beach sand across the counter.

“We’re turning around,” Bryan observed. “Mike’s taking us back.”

“What about the pots?” McEwan said.

“Pots ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Charlie said. He turned and rolled out of the galley, both hands planted on either wall for support as he made his way down the canting corridor. The bluish light from the head shone in the darkness. Joe was staring into the commode, his legs folded up under him, a dazed expression on his face. As Charlie approached, Joe turned his head slowly to address him, a silvery tightrope of spittle bowing from his lower lip to the rim of the toilet.