means I like thinking of you.’ Walker smiled into the phone. They listened to each other breathing. A few seconds later they hung up.
CHAPTER SIX
The sea was rough, the boat smelled of oil and bad food. For as long as Walker could remember he had been disappointed by boats: something to do with the thickness of the
metal, the size of the bolts; the way everything was covered in a thick skin of paint, the way you had to struggle through low self-closing doors, the way the toilets were always awash with water.
He stood on deck and was surprised by how quickly he became bored watching the land receding, the frantic gulls. Even the sea was disappointing. Grey, cold.
He went below deck to get some food but everything looked too foul to eat. A smell of french fries and eggs emanated even from the bolognese sauce congealing in a brightly lit tin. He wandered
to the lounge where people were already asleep on the floor – the seats all had arm-rests to prevent people stretching out on them. No effort had been spared to make the crossing as miserable
as possible.
Soon people were vomiting all over the ship. The smell of sick was impossible to dissociate from the reek of the food cooking in the galleys. Walker thought he might throw up himself and went
back on deck. The air was full of spray. To the disappointment of those lined up at the stern, cameras at the ready, darkness fell without a sunset.
Walker remained on deck and took a sounding – as he suddenly, under the nautical influence, began to think of the recordings he made with the dictaphone. Later, listening back to the
recording, he was surprised to find how the sounds of gulls and wind, the slap of waves, evoked not the grim reality of the crossing but the romantic ideal of a sun-soaked cruise.
The boat docked at dawn the next morning. Walker joined a line of people shuffling towards immigration officials, borrowing pens to fill in disembarkation cards. ‘Purpose of visit’:
Walker hesitated, scribbled ‘Tourism’ and gave the Grand Central Hotel – glimpsed over the shoulder of another passenger – as the place he would be staying. He waited at the
yellow line until the port official waved him forward – the sullen, bored, omnipotent wave of frontier staff the world over. Walker said, ‘Hi,’ handed over his card, waited.
Without looking up the guy consulted a huge log-book, let it fall shut and said, ‘Over there.’
‘What?’
‘Wait over there.’
Over there was a bench. Walker waited ten minutes. A door opened and another guy, squinting at the papers in his hand, called out ‘Mr . . . Walker?’ as if the name were
unpronounceably, suspiciously alien. Walker followed him into a room: desk, chair, banks of files. The guy smoked, was unshaven, wore an open-necked shirt. Walker recognized the uniform instantly
– bribe – and this knowledge gave the subsequent interrogation a relaxed, veiled purpose. All questions about his circumstances and intentions were really intended to establish only one
thing: how much he was good for. Walker indicated he might be good for plenty, especially if he could be furnished with a little extra assistance. The port official hesitated. That depended . .
.
‘A friend of mine arrived here,’ said Walker, coming straight to the point. ‘A couple of days ago, I think. I’d like to look him up. I need the address he gave on his
disembarkation card.’
‘Impossible.’
‘How much?’ Walker could see greed flickering in the other man’s eyes and knew that in an hour he would be out of here with everything he needed. Only the price had to be
finalized now.
It took even less time than he expected. He checked in at the Grand Central and dialled the number Rachel had given him. No answer. He tried later, again without success, and set off for the
address given to him by his friend – as he now thought of him – at the port.
The house was in the middle of an old terrace of high town-houses in the
CHAPTER SIX
The sea was rough, the boat smelled of oil and bad food. For as long as Walker could remember he had been disappointed by boats: something to do with the thickness of the
metal, the size of the bolts; the way everything was covered in a thick skin of paint, the way you had to struggle through low self-closing doors, the way the toilets were always awash with water.
He stood on deck and was surprised by how quickly he became bored watching the land receding, the frantic gulls. Even the sea was disappointing. Grey, cold.
He went below deck to get some food but everything looked too foul to eat. A smell of french fries and eggs emanated even from the bolognese sauce congealing in a brightly lit tin. He wandered
to the lounge where people were already asleep on the floor – the seats all had arm-rests to prevent people stretching out on them. No effort had been spared to make the crossing as miserable
as possible.
Soon people were vomiting all over the ship. The smell of sick was impossible to dissociate from the reek of the food cooking in the galleys. Walker thought he might throw up himself and went
back on deck. The air was full of spray. To the disappointment of those lined up at the stern, cameras at the ready, darkness fell without a sunset.
Walker remained on deck and took a sounding – as he suddenly, under the nautical influence, began to think of the recordings he made with the dictaphone. Later, listening back to the
recording, he was surprised to find how the sounds of gulls and wind, the slap of waves, evoked not the grim reality of the crossing but the romantic ideal of a sun-soaked cruise.
The boat docked at dawn the next morning. Walker joined a line of people shuffling towards immigration officials, borrowing pens to fill in disembarkation cards. ‘Purpose of visit’:
Walker hesitated, scribbled ‘Tourism’ and gave the Grand Central Hotel – glimpsed over the shoulder of another passenger – as the place he would be staying. He waited at the
yellow line until the port official waved him forward – the sullen, bored, omnipotent wave of frontier staff the world over. Walker said, ‘Hi,’ handed over his card, waited.
Without looking up the guy consulted a huge log-book, let it fall shut and said, ‘Over there.’
‘What?’
‘Wait over there.’
Over there was a bench. Walker waited ten minutes. A door opened and another guy, squinting at the papers in his hand, called out ‘Mr . . . Walker?’ as if the name were
unpronounceably, suspiciously alien. Walker followed him into a room: desk, chair, banks of files. The guy smoked, was unshaven, wore an open-necked shirt. Walker recognized the uniform instantly
– bribe – and this knowledge gave the subsequent interrogation a relaxed, veiled purpose. All questions about his circumstances and intentions were really intended to establish only one
thing: how much he was good for. Walker indicated he might be good for plenty, especially if he could be furnished with a little extra assistance. The port official hesitated. That depended . .
.
‘A friend of mine arrived here,’ said Walker, coming straight to the point. ‘A couple of days ago, I think. I’d like to look him up. I need the address he gave on his
disembarkation card.’
‘Impossible.’
‘How much?’ Walker could see greed flickering in the other man’s eyes and knew that in an hour he would be out of here with everything he needed. Only the price had to be
finalized now.
It took even less time than he expected. He checked in at the Grand Central and dialled the number Rachel had given him. No answer. He tried later, again without success, and set off for the
address given to him by his friend – as he now thought of him – at the port.
The house was in the middle of an old terrace of high town-houses in the
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