The Blue, page 16
How had this happened? No one had raised the question yet—as if to do so would shift the focus away from the search towards the cause. Lana had been the last one to see Joseph, and a low heat burned at her cheeks as she recalled her reaction when he’d kissed her. Was that the last contact he’d had with anyone—the imprint of her rejection as the water surrounded him?
Lana raised the binoculars again, concentrating on the small circle of her vision in front of the yacht. Heinrich was searching on the port side, Shell on starboard—with the intention that between three people they could search the widest possible area.
Despite Lana’s desire to be methodical and thorough, with only open ocean and no landmarks it was easy to lose track of where she’d searched. The ocean looked blank and infinite. Aaron believed the sea temperature would be around 80 to 84 degrees—warm enough to stay alive for many hours, but exhaustion would be the problem. If Joseph had gone overboard sometime between 1:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m., he could have been in the water for up to fifteen hours by now. She wondered if he could hold himself up for that long, or whether hypothermia would have set in. It was possible that they were already too late.
She adjusted the focus on the binoculars. Ahead, the flat light was stealing definition from the sea, so that it felt almost impossible to see clearly. She thought of the light from another boat she’d briefly seen last night, and sent up a silent prayer that maybe someone else had found Joseph and pulled him to safety.
From the far side of the yacht, she heard Shell gasp.
Lana didn’t even turn. When the eye is fixated on the same area for a long period of time, it’s easy to become fatigued. Your mind starts playing tricks on you—simple waves transforming themselves into outstretched hands, the back of a head, the silhouette of a body drifting on the surface.
She waited for a few seconds and then heard Shell’s sigh. “Nothing.”
As Lana continued staring through the binoculars, a growing sense of hopelessness filled her: the sea had never looked so vast or so empty.
• • •
Lana jumped at the feel of a hand on her back.
“Hey, it’s just me,” Kitty said. Wisps of loose dark hair whipped around her unmade face. “Take a break. Drink something.”
Lana’s knees felt stiff from where she’d been bracing herself against the rock of the waves. “I need to keep looking.”
“I’ll take over,” Kitty said, raising her voice above the wind. She eased the binoculars from Lana’s grip, and hooked them around her neck, saying, “Shell made sandwiches. They’re in the fridge.”
Lana wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it, but she knew it was important to keep up her strength if she was to be of use.
When she looked at Kitty properly, she saw that her eyes were dulled, hooded with shadows. Without the weight of mascara and eyeliner, she looked younger, frightened. Two tiny patches of eczema had cracked the skin at the corners of her lips, and her eyelids were lightly swollen.
Suddenly Kitty closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring, and sucked in long, deep breaths. Lana watched as the blood seemed to drain from her body. She placed a hand on her arm, concerned that she was about to faint. “Kit?”
After half a minute or so, Kitty opened her eyes and fixed her vision on the line of the horizon. “Seasickness. Since we turned I haven’t felt right.”
“Really? You sure it’s not a hangover?”
Kitty’s gaze snapped to Lana. “I know what a hangover feels like. This isn’t it.”
Lana removed her hand from Kitty’s shoulder. A few moments later, Kitty said, “Sorry . . . I just . . . everything is so spun out right now. I just wish I hadn’t . . .” Kitty trailed off.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said, as if the thought had passed.
Lana asked, “Have you taken anything for the seasickness? There are pills in with the first-aid stuff. Shall I get you some?”
“Already taken them.” Kitty drew in a deep breath, then lifted her hands to her head, rubbing her scalp.
In the brief moments that her hands were free of the lifeline, the yacht suddenly lurched as a wave smacked into the side of the hull, spray shooting across the deck. They both stumbled, Lana managing to grab Kitty by the arm, pulling her close.
They stood facing each other, eyes wide.
“I didn’t see it coming,” Kitty said, her face white. “We could’ve . . .”
Lana nodded, a lump of emotion filling her throat.
Kitty’s fingers squeezed Lana’s as they stood together, feeling the water surge between them.
It was that moment when it became real. “It could happen so easily,” Lana said. All it would take was a sudden jarring of the yacht, a lapse of concentration, and any one of them could go over. Just like Joseph.
Slowly, Kitty nodded, tears bright in her eyes.
• • •
Belowdecks, Lana poured a glass of water and held on to the sink with one hand as she drank it. The water was flat and tasteless from the desalinator, but she filled herself a second glass and gulped that down, too. Remembering to drink enough on a passage was crucial, yet it was surprising how a whole day could slip by and it was only the baseline thud of a headache arriving that reminded her to drink.
She went next to the fridge, fetched one of the sandwiches Shell had made, and took it to the saloon table. It was a relief to be sitting down out of the wind.
She began to peel back the crinkling silver foil covering the sandwich and, for a moment, she sat there almost dazed by it. After watching the water for hours—the fluid, movable monotony of it—she found the foil mesmerizing in its rigid, shining contrast. Her mind tripped to walking down a supermarket aisle beneath the bright, dazzling lights and feeling the smooth edges of bottles of bleach, washing-up liquid, the cardboard corners of laundry detergent, the soft give of kitchen roll wrapped within polythene, and then coming to the long tubes of silver foil. How many times in her life had she groaned about having to dash around the supermarket? Now the solidity of those aisles, the firm normality of it, seemed like an impossible dream, as if she’d never find herself doing anything as ordinary as walking through a supermarket again.
She took small bites of the sandwich, working them around her mouth. The bread tasted stale and the cheese was flavorless. She felt guilty being down here, resting, when she knew Joseph was still out there. But if she were honest, the search felt hopeless: the area they had to cover was enormous and it was impossible to accurately estimate how far someone could have drifted in that time, or where the currents, wind, or swell could have taken him.
Denny climbed down into the saloon, his hair wild and windswept. He slumped down beside her at the edge of the table.
Instinctively she raised her hand to his cheek, not worried about who might see. His skin was cool against her palm, a shadow of stubble there. For a moment his eyes closed and his head tilted towards the touch of her fingers. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised, almost sunken, and his bottom lip was cracked from the sun.
It scared Lana to see him looking so shaken. His ebullience was gone, and a wretched look had settled into his features. She had an overwhelming desire for this never to have happened; for Joseph to still be on board, and for her and Denny to slip off to his cabin, slide under the cool sheets, and lie in each other’s arms.
It was tempting to imagine that in a parallel world, where there are infinite options of reliving a moment with a different set of outcomes, there was one where Lana and Joseph would have been sitting at the bow together last night—and when he leaned to kiss her, she’d have smiled, placed a hand lightly against his chest, and said, “I’m incredibly flattered—but I’m with Denny.” She could have reassured Joseph, stayed with him.
But instead, Joseph was missing, and Lana was the last person to have seen him.
“Denny, I need to tell you something,” she began suddenly. “Last night . . . Joseph and I were smoking up at the bow.”
He lifted his gaze slowly, settling it on her.
“We were just talking, you know, about anything. Everyone was drunk—Joseph, too—and as we were talking, he tried to kiss me.”
Lana didn’t know why she felt so compelled to tell Denny this right now. Perhaps it was that she wanted everything between them to be transparent. Or maybe she needed someone to say to her, This is not your fault.
Denny looked at her for a long moment. Then he glanced down at his hands, which were clasped together on the table. “Yes, I know.”
He already knew? Lana had thought Denny was in bed by then. Perhaps someone else had seen it happen and told him. She was about to ask more, when Heinrich strode into the galley, binoculars around his neck. He poured a large glass of water and gulped it back, gasping for breath at the end.
She willed him to leave, return to the deck so she and Denny could remain alone. Denny straightened, filling his lungs with air. He placed his hands on his thighs and got to his feet; crossing the saloon, he pulled a chart from the nav station.
“It’s not looking good out there,” Heinrich said to them both.
“Do you think we should put out a ‘man overboard’ alert?” Lana asked.
“I’m not sure there’s any point now,” Denny said. “We’re in the middle of the ocean. Even if we did put one out, who’s going to come? No helicopters can fly this far, and we’re at least three days from land whether we sail west or east.”
Heinrich nodded in agreement.
Lana saw the hopeless truth in what he was saying. There was nothing they could do. No help was on the way. Out here, they were on their own.
Gazing through the porthole at the empty horizon, she chewed the edge of her thumbnail, wishing they’d never left the Philippines. She’d had an uneasy feeling about it from the outset. She’d seen Aaron’s impatience building each day they’d spent in port; he’d sit alone in the evenings with a glass of rum, studying the charts and forecast, and writing long lists of what needed to be done. Thinking about his growing restlessness, she recalled the strange conversation she’d overheard when he and Denny had been leaving that Internet café together. There was an odd fervor in Aaron’s tone as he’d said, I’ve got to be on the water by the fifteenth.
She wondered what was so important to him about that date. What day was it now? She’d lost all track of time since they’d been at sea, hours and days rolling together.
Looking to Heinrich and Denny, she asked, “What’s today’s date?”
Heinrich glanced at his watch. “Thursday the sixteenth.”
A cool, ominous feeling pressed close to Lana. Joseph had gone missing last night—on the fifteenth.
• • •
Heinrich returned to the deck, and Lana and Denny were alone for a few moments. They didn’t talk, just sat together in silence, both lost to their own thoughts.
There was a bellow from above, followed by a loud, creaking noise. For a moment, Lana had almost forgotten where she was, why the ground was moving beneath her. The floor seemed to tilt, and she lurched in her seat. Her gaze swung to the porthole, where the horizon seemed to shift and re-form. Then she realized: the yacht was turning into the wind, the sail losing its power and making a loose flapping noise.
Then the wind must have filled the sail again on the other tack, heeling the yacht over.
“What the hell?” Denny yelled, getting to his feet. He thundered from the saloon up on deck, Lana following.
Shell was at the helm, Aaron beside her, and Heinrich was tying off the sheet.
“What are you doing?” Denny demanded, the beam of his vision on Aaron.
“Turning back,” Aaron said.
“We haven’t found him yet.”
Aaron approached Denny, addressing him in a low voice so that the others couldn’t hear. She could see the tension in Denny’s arms, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
After a minute or so, whatever Aaron was saying seemed to soothe Denny, and his hands began to unfurl. With a nod, he disappeared belowdecks.
Lana stood there, still surprised. “I don’t understand. We can’t have finished the search course yet.”
“Look ahead of you, Lana.”
She looked up to see a threatening horizon of blackened cloud.
“There’s a low-pressure system coming in. I’m hoping we’re only going to hit the shoulder of it—but if we wait any longer we could find ourselves right at its center. It’s just too dangerous. The crew are getting sick, and we provisioned for a set period. I won’t put lives at risk.”
“What about Joseph?” Lana asked.
Aaron said nothing.
She shook her head. “No. No—we can’t do this. We can’t leave him out there.” She turned on the spot, looking for an ally in Shell or Heinrich, but neither of them would meet her eye. “We can’t give up on him!”
“I’m sorry to say this, Lana,” Aaron said quietly, “but I don’t think there was ever much hope of finding him. Just look,” he said, gesturing with a hand to the endless expanse of water.
Her breath caught in her throat. “So he’s dead, then? That’s what you’re saying. Joseph is dead?”
The wind rattled against the mast, an eerie, lonely answer.
20
now
Lana stands facing Joseph’s sister, aware of a throbbing in her temples and a sheen of sweat licking her back. It was only this morning that The Blue came crashing back into her world with the news that it had sunk—and in a matter of hours, it feels as if the very seams that are holding Lana together are starting to strain, rip apart.
It is just a matter of time before Aimee Melina discovers that Joseph wasn’t on the yacht when it sailed to New Zealand—and she is going to want to know why.
The problem is, Lana’s not even certain that she knows the truth herself.
But one of the crew does.
She still sees Joseph’s face, even now. It’s carved into her thoughts: the sharp angle of his nose, the darkness of his eyes with a glimmer of light at their corners, the foppish dark hair. She wonders if she’ll ever get over what happened as the memory of it beats within her like a second pulse.
What if, she thinks darkly, the crew members don’t return? Lana will lose the people she once cared about—and she’ll be the only living person who was there the night that Joseph disappeared.
What would she tell Aimee Melina then?
• • •
“Who should I speak to? Who is leading the search?” Joseph’s sister asks Lana.
Lana swallows. “Paul Carter. The Operations Room is just up ahead on the right. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.”
“Thank you.” Aimee Melina turns, and Lana watches her glide along the corridor, her posture effortlessly graceful.
Lana already knows that once she reaches the Operations Room and inquires about Joseph—that will be it. Something will be put into motion that cannot be undone.
Lana needs to get away from Joseph’s sister—have a chance to think clearly. She hurries towards the exit of the building, shouldering through the double doors. Outside, the chill air breezes over her skin, cooling the red heat in her cheeks.
Across the flat plain of concrete, Lana sees her car. The urge to get in, to drive far away from the Rescue Centre, is almost overwhelming. When she walked away from The Blue, she thought she could let the bad memories and questions sail off with her friends. Only she was wrong. They were still here, living deep within her—just as they would be if she left now. She has no choice but to face them.
She walks towards the edge of the port, where a bench is set back from the water. She sits there, feeling the cold wood against the backs of her thighs, waiting for her breathing to settle. She can imagine the conversation Aimee Melina will be having with Paul Carter: My brother was on board The Blue. Joseph Melina.
I’m sorry, but we’ve no record of him. Sure you haven’t made a mistake?
Certain. He wrote to me from the yacht, told me he was sailing to New Zealand.
I’ll check again, Paul Carter would say, searching through the crew list—even though he’d know all their names by heart. He’d return to her, palms opening as he said, I’m really sorry, but no, he’s not on the list. He must have got off in one of the earlier ports.
It’s not going to be long before Lana has no choice but to explain what she knows about Joseph. For months she hasn’t allowed herself to think of that night—or the terrible days that followed—but now her thoughts begin to carry her back there.
An image fills her mind: a dark red bloodstain at the edge of the teak deck. She recalls the way it had seeped into the grain of the wood, the blood locked there like a memory.
21
then
A pair of binoculars dangled from Lana’s neck like a deadweight. Gradually each crew member retreated belowdecks to rest. Kitty had been the first to leave after seasickness had taken a firm hold, her shoulders hunching as she heaved over the side of the yacht, her skin turning sallow. Aaron had insisted she lie down, positioning a bucket and a large bottle of water at the head of her bunk.
Lana remained alone at the helm, knowing that once she allowed herself to sit, exhaustion would claim her. The sea state was worsening, a confused mess of waves being pushed and buffeted in different directions, so that the yacht lost rhythm.
A spasm of pain tightened across the inner arch of her foot, and she breathed out sharply as it began to cramp. She crouched, grabbing her foot and rubbing at the furiously contracting knot of muscles. She breathed deeply, trying to send oxygen around her body and, after a couple of minutes, the tension began to ease and she was able to flex and stretch her toes a little.
