Twisted Little Things and Other Stories (23 page)

“Turn us again,” I tell him, suddenly gripped with a sense of nauseating panic, deep in my gut.

“What's wrong?” Mark asks over the phone.

“Hang on,” I tell him, squinting as I watch the dark ferry. The spotlight is moving toward the open hatch again, although it's difficult to be precise in such high winds. A moment later, the light falls through the hatch and I see to my horror that there
are
scores of people, maybe a hundred or more, huddled in the open cargo area and staring up at us. I can't make them out in detail, I can just see the dark dots of their eyes, but they're definitely there.

“We have a huge problem,” I tell Mark, trying not to panic. “There are people on-board. Not on the bridge and not on the deck, at least not as far as I can see, but there are people in the hold. Lots of people. I think the crew must have abandoned them!”

“Are you sure?” Mark asks.

“I'm sure,” I reply, raising the binoculars and trying to get a better view of the huddled masses in the hold. It takes a moment, but finally I see scores of faces staring right back from inside the hold. For a moment, I'm shocked by their calm, empty expressions, and by the way their eyes seem to have locked onto me. The spotlight is shining straight at them, casting sharp, angular shadows across their faces and making them look even more unworldly. I try to refocus the binoculars, and after a moment I see that the faces seem distorted somehow, and some of the dots-for-eyes seem more like holes in their skulls. I try to adjust the focus again, but a moment later the helicopter shudders a little and the light is lost.

“Okay,” the pilot continues, turning the control column and bringing the helicopter around, “we need to get on the ground. If we're going to be out in this kind of weather, I need to make some changes first.”

“But -” Before I can finish, I realize he's right. With the storm getting worse and worse, it's only a matter of time before we're brought crashing down into the waves. As the helicopter swings out over the dark water and heads back to shore, I look down at the dark ferry and watch as it's battered by yet another huge wave.

“Don't worry,” the pilot tells me. “I don't think we'll have too much trouble. We'll get back to base just fine.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” I reply, moving to the other window and watching as we get further and further from the stricken ferry. “How the hell are we going to get all those people out of there?”

Chapter Three

“Are you
sure
there were people on-board?” Mark shouts, as we hurry away from the helicopter and across the slippery grass, heading for the trailers nearby. “Are you sure it wasn't a trick of the light?”

“Ask the pilot!” I shout back at him. “He saw them too, they're packed into the cargo hold! I think you were right, I think it's some kind of people-smuggling operation. When they hit trouble, the crew probably abandoned ship and left the cargo to die. The helicopter's camera was running, you should have the images by now.”

“Are you sure you didn't see any sign of a crew, or someone in charge?”

“I just saw the people in the hold,” I reply. “They were just standing there, staring back at me. It's like they weren't even trying to get to safety, they weren't panicking at all, but they definitely saw us. I guess there are no lifeboats, or everyone's trapped in the hold.”

“I've got the files!” shouts one of the technicians at a computer terminal, waving at us. “Downloading from the server now.” He checks the screen. “Done!”

“Find a shot of the cargo hold,” I tell him.

“Working on it,” he mutters, turning a wheel on the keyboard and speeding through the footage before stopping it suddenly and pausing. “What the hell are those things?”

Staring at the screen, I realize that the figures in the hold look even more unreal now, packed in tightly and staring out at us through the glow of the helicopter's searchlight. The quality of the footage isn't great, but each of the figures has two dark eyes that seem to almost burn through the screen, still staring straight at me. I reach forward and hit a button on the keyboard, moving the image on a few frames, but the effect is the same. Whoever those people are, they look almost as if they're from another world, and the grainy image makes their faces look more like bare, hollow skulls.

“What do you think they are?” the technician asks. “They look... I dunno, maybe Eastern European?”

“Maybe the Middle East,” another technician suggests. “Maybe they came up from Africa.”

“Let's not worry about that right now,” Mark tells them. “Wherever they come from, they need our help.”

“They're all bald,” I point out suddenly.

He turns to me.

“Look!” I tap the screen. “I know it's hard to make out much, but from this image it looks like every single one of the people on the ferry is completely bald.”

“Great,” the first technician mutters. “Not just a boat full of asylum seekers, but a boat full of
sick
asylum seekers.” He turns and holds out a hand for me to shake. “Louis Cole. I plug things in around here and get absolutely no thanks for my efforts.” He eyes me cautiously. “So you're the one Mark's always talking about, huh?”

“Ignore Louis,” Mark says, leaning over him and flicking a switch on one of the monitors. “He's great with computers, but appallingly cack-handed with anything that involves human interaction.”

“This ferry can't have come out of nowhere,” Louis continues. “It has to have an IMO number, and given where it's ended up, there are only a few routes it could have taken to get here. It either came down from the east, maybe from Scandinavia or the Baltic region, or it came up the English Channel from the west. I've been backtracking along those routes, using the shipping records provided by authorities down past France and Portugal, and also up toward Greenland, but so far I'm not having any luck. Even if this vessel was trying to attract as little attention as possible, it should have at least shown up on radar. This is the twenty-first century. A boat can't roam the high seas unnoticed, even if it doesn't have transponders of its own.”

“We can worry about that later,” I point out. “Right now, we have to get those people out of there.”

“The storm's going to get worse before it gets better,” Mark replies. “It might be dawn before we can safely mount a rescue mission.”

“Then we'll have to take a few risks,” I tell him.

“Not under -”

“There are hundreds of people out there,” I continue, trying not to raise my voice too much. “They're all going to drown when that ferry capsizes, or when the hull breaks. We can't let that happen!” I wait for him to reply, but he seems to be hesitating. “You didn't invite me down here to watch a bunch of people die,” I point out. “The ferry isn't just a mystery for us to solve, it's also a boat with a lot of people on-board and we have to get to them.”

“It's not that easy.”

“The pilot said he can fly again once he's made a few changes.”

“I know, but -”

“But what?” I ask, trying not to let my frustration show. “Mark, what's holding you back?”

Grabbing my arm, he pulls me across the room until we're away from Louis. “There's a man coming from up-country to take charge of this operation. His name is David Stratton and he does everything, and I mean
everything
, by the book. Once he gets here, the people on that ferry are dead, do you understand? By the time he's finished running through all the procedures we have to follow, the ferry will be at the bottom of the sea and all those people will have drowned. I've seen it happen time and again since Stratton got into position a couple of years ago.” He checks his watch. “There's nothing we can do, not unless we want to break the new rules he put in place.”

Staring at him, I finally realize what he means.

“Is that why you brought me down here?” I ask cautiously. “You want to break the rules, but you don't want to do it alone. You want someone to back you up.”

He pauses for a moment. “Are we sure the helicopter can fly again?”

I nod.

“Stratton's the worst kind of bureaucrat,” he continues. “When he arrives, he'll lock this entire operation down and there's no way we'll be able to get in the air.” He checks his watch. “We have maybe three hours before he gets here. Fortunately, the storm is slowing him down.”

“Then I guess we need to leave soon,” I reply. “Let's get as much done before this Stratton guy shows up.”

Feeling my phone buzzing again, I slip it from my pocket and see that Rob's trying to get in touch again. I pause, before rejecting the call.

“Trouble?” Mark asks.

“Nothing,” I tell him, putting the phone back in my pocket. “Come on, let's get kitted up.”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“The weather's too bad. We can't get out there.”

“But -”

“Face it,” he adds, “the days of us taking dumb risks are over.”

Chapter Four

The screen flashes as Rob tries yet again to call. I hesitate, wondering whether I should answer and tell him what's going on, but finally I start typing a message instead.

Can't speak right now
, I tell him.
I'll call soon
.

I wait.

No reply.

I'll stick around this morning
, I type.
I'll be home tonight, or maybe tomorrow.

Again I wait.

No reply.

I don't blame him. I'm being a complete bitch, but deep down I know that as soon as I hear his voice, I'll want to go home. For now, I have to stay strong.

Sitting on the steps of one of the trailers, I've got my phone in one hand and a towel in the other, and I'm using the latter to dry my hair. The storm has begun to die down a little, and the first rays of morning sun are starting to show on the horizon, picking out the cliffs and a house nestled high up on the other side of the bay. Nearby, half a dozen coastguard workers are involved in a discussion, while a little further off there are several police officers working to keep curious journalists from getting too close. When I arrived earlier, the nascent rescue operation was just getting started, but now a little more order has been brought to the scene. Rain is still falling, but with a little less intensity.

Suddenly my phone starts buzzing again, as Rob's name flashes on the screen.

“Sorry,” I mutter, rejecting the call and switching the phone off. “Later, I promise.”

Hearing raised voices nearby, I look toward one of the other trailers. Mark and David Stratton have been arguing in there ever since we got back. Stratton's in charge of things around here these days, and it's clear that he didn't take kindly to the way Mark and I set out in the helicopter. At the same time, he can't have seriously expected us to just sit around and wait. At least we tried, although I can't shake the feeling that there must have been something else we could have done. Either way, we failed. All those people are dead now.

Just like the Sullivans.

Before I can finish, I spot movement off to the right, and when I look over I realize that a couple of the rescue-workers are frantically waving at one another. Hearing raised voices, I get to my feet and take a few steps forward, back out into the rain. Something's wrong.

Making my way past a couple of the trailers, I head to the spot where some of the rescue workers are hurriedly hauling their equipment onto their backs.

“What's going on?” I ask.

They're all too busy to tell me.

“What is it?” I continue, tapping one of them on the shoulder.

“Possible survivor,” she replies. “We might have someone in the water, just along the coast in the next bay.”

“From the ferry?”

“I don't know,” she continues. “All I heard is someone's been spotted in the water.”

I start to make my way along the rough, muddy coastal path, following the workers who have already set off ahead of me. As I catch up, I realize they're talking about a figure having been spotted drifting in Carswell Bay, which is about five hundred meters to the east of our current position. The idea sounds insane, but the whole
night
has been insane, so I figure it's worth checking out.

“Come on, let's move!” one of the team-members shouts, waving at people back at the makeshift base. “Sighting confirmed! Everyone this way!”

“What else do you know?” I ask, as their radios start to crackle.

“Just that there's been a sighting,” replies one of the women as she hurries along next to me. “Watch your step.”

Rain has turned the coastal path into a muddy slog, with several deep puddles that seem to almost want to suck my boots down. The wind is strong up here, too, and whereas the rescue workers are all in their protective gear, I'm woefully under-prepared in just a t-shirt, trousers and boots. Still, I manage to keep up with them, and with the gaggle of journalists who are further up on the gravel road that runs parallel to the edge of the cliff. Their cameras are flashing already as they try to get the money shot of someone being pulled from the water.

“It's a miracle if anyone's out there,” says another of the workers. “In these conditions, you'd be lucky to survive even in a lifeboat.”

Looking out at the sea, I have to agree with him. The waves are still high, crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff as heavy rain drives down. With the morning sun still having not quite cleared the horizon, conditions for finding and helping someone are far from ideal, but from the constant radio chatter and the snippets of conversation I'm overhearing, it's clear that someone has definitely been spotted out there. It's probably just a body, but while there's still a chance of finding survivors, we have to act. Besides, even a body might help us work out where those people came from.

“Do we know if this person's alive?” I ask, as we reach a crest on the muddy path and start making our way carefully down toward Carswell Bay.

No-one replies. They're all too focused on getting to the site as quickly as possible.

Spread out before us, Carswell Bay is a large, dulled cove with a pebbly beach that stretches a couple of hundred feet to the east, with rocks at both the near and far ends. Waves are crashing against the shore, sending water across the beach almost to the foot of the cliff, and as we make our way down the narrow path it's hard to believe that anyone could possibly be alive out there in such rough weather. Nevertheless, as we reach a turning point in the path, I stop for a moment as I spot a shape in the water, being tossed about by the waves. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out my phone and activate the camera app, before zooming in and trying to focus on the shape, which isn't easy since whatever it is, it's being buffeted by the waves. Finally, however, I see that the rescuers were right.

There's a human figure out there.

Just as I'm about to call out to the others, who are making their way down the path toward the shore, I watch in horror as the figure is dashed against the rocks at the bay's near end. I lose sight of him for a moment, before he reappears in the mix of a set of large waves that are running close to the shore. There's no sign of the figure moving, and my first instinct as I watch him being tossed about by the storm is that he must be dead. After all, the waves are strong enough to break a man's neck, and the figure is showing no signs of movement. A moment later, he disappears from view again as more waves crash into one another, but he bobs back into sight after a few seconds before being sent surging onto the rocks and then slipping down into another set of waves, which carry him a little further out.

“Down there!” I shout, waving at the rescuers as they head the wrong way. “He's on the rocks!”

They stop and turn. Finally, when they see him, they start hurrying over.

***

“We're checking him over now,” says Dan Farrah a short while later, as we head to the medical trailer. “I spoke to David Carter a few minutes ago and he said there's no sign of any serious injuries so far, but he's still conducting his exam. We're waiting for a proper medical team to get here, should be an hour or two at most.”

“He can't be completely unhurt,” I reply. “The ferry was more than four miles out when it broke apart and the waves were twenty feet high in places, they were dashing him against the rocks. There's no way this guy made it to shore in one piece.”

“I'm just telling you what I know,” Farrah says, stopping at the door to the trailer and knocking twice. “We can't treat a patient for the injuries he
should
have, only for the ones we can find. He's lost some skin, but the wound isn't open. I'm starting to think it's some kind of miracle, although...”

I wait for him to continue. “Although what?”

“He seems to have some necrosis,” he explains, “but it's not like any form of necrosis I've ever seen before. In some places, the skin seems almost to have worn away entirely.”

Before I can ask what he means, the door opens and I look up to see Mark.

“You need to see this,” he says, stepping back so I can join him in the trailer.

“Where's Stratton?” I ask.

“About eight miles away,” he continues. “Seems there have been mudslides that've cut off the only road. The guy's been on the phone to me constantly all morning. Somehow, he's even
more
of a pain in the ass than usual.”

“What do you know about the survivor so far?” I ask.

“Come and see for yourself,” he replies as I climb up into the trailer. “I don't suppose you know anything about obscure African and Middle Eastern languages, do you?”

Looking along the trailer's interior, I see that the rescued survivor is sitting on a stool at the far end, while Carter shines a light into the man's ears. As soon as I spot the figure, I realize that he's staring straight at me with those same dark, unblinking eyes that I remember from the people on the ferry. I'd be flattered, if the sensation wasn't a little creepy. At least he looks more normal than I thought at first. The people on the ferry seemed almost other-wordly, but this guy – while definitely pale and with thin, worn skin – is just about recognizable as a member of the human race, although his eyes seem slightly withered, as if they're sunk too deep in the sockets.

“We can't get a word out of him,” Mark continues. “Nothing intelligible, anyway. We've sent some recordings and other data to specialists in London, but they still haven't got back to us, so I guess they're drawing a blank too. The best we've come up with so far is that it
might
be some variant of Urdu, but even that's a long-shot.” He turns to me. “Do you speak anything that might help?”

“A little French from school,” I reply, maintaining eye contact with the figure, who seems far more interested in me than in the man who's trying to check him over. “Some German, Spanish... Do you not even have a name yet?”

“Nothing.”

“Ethnic characteristics?” I turn to him. “He looks... I mean, I don't know what he looks like.”

“Me neither,” Mark replies, keeping his voice low. “We have no idea what part of the world this man is from. Europe? Asia? Africa? The Americas? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Did you examine his clothing?”

“It's some kind of very simple fabric with a wide fiber. Basic, no label, looks like maybe it was homemade. We're trying to work out where the fabric originated, so we can start pinning the guy down.” He sighs. “We'll nail this son-of-a-bitch eventually. I've put in a request to get some people here from London as fast as possible, because right now I don't have a clue. I don't even know where to start. It's as if he just popped out of nowhere along with that ferry.”

“Can I try talking to him?”

“He's not really responding to anyone,” he explains. “So far, he just sits there. He's letting us examine him, but that's about it.”

“It's worth a shot,” I point out, still struck by the way that the rescued figure seems to be watching me intently. All I can think is that maybe he recognizes me from when I was winched down to the ferry, although it's still hard to believe that anyone could have been washed overboard and then turned up close to shore without any significant injuries.

Stepping past Mark, I make my way along to the far end of the trailer, stopping when I get closer to the figure. He's still staring at me, and I'm starting to feel a little unnerved not only by the way he seems so focused on me, but by the way all the others on the ferry were doing the same thing. There's something strangely calm about him, too, as if he's in no way troubled by the fact he just miraculously survived a shipwreck. Back on the boat, none of the passengers seemed bothered about trying to get to safety, and then again when he was in the water, I didn't see any sign that this guy was trying to save himself. And now, sitting here, he just seems content to wait.

For what?

“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile as I grab a chair and sit opposite the survivor. “My name's Sophie Carpenter. How are you doing there?”

I wait for a reply, but of course he simply stares at me.

“Sophie,” I say again, more clearly this time, before pointing at my chest. “
Sophie
.” I hold my hand out for him to shake, but he looks down at it as if he doesn't understand. “What's your name?” I ask.

No reply.

Now that I'm closer, I can see that his head is completely bald. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes seem to have been removed, and there's no stubble or regrowth that I can see anywhere. There are thick wrinkles in his skin, though, and at a rough estimate I'd say that he's in his fifties or even sixties, while his yellowish skin suggests some kind of underlying medical problem. His eyes, which share that yellowness, are also specked with blood.

“England,” I say after a moment. “Britain. You're in the United Kingdom. Do you understand?”

He stares at me.

Taking my phone out, I bring up a map app and quickly locate the UK, before turning the screen for him to see.

“England,” I say again, pointing at the image. “You're in England.”

He stares at the screen, squinting slightly, but there's no hint of recognition in his eyes.