For Crake, there was no such contentment. Listless, he wandered the tight confines of the Ketty Jay. There was a strange void in his belly, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He drifted about, a spectre of bewildered sadness.
At first he’d confined himself to the near-vacant cargo hold, until the space began to oppress him and his mood started to make Bess uneasy. After that he went to the mess and drank a few mugs of strong coffee while sitting at the small communal table. But the mess felt bleak with no one to share it with.
So he climbed up the ladder from the mess to the passageway that linked the cockpit at the fore of the craft to engineering in the aft. In-between were several rooms that the crew used as quarters, their sliding doors stained with ancient, oily marks. Electric lights cast a dim light on the grimy metal walls.
He thought about going up to the cockpit to have a look at the sky, but he couldn’t face Frey right now. He considered going to his quarters, perhaps to read, but that was unappealing too. Finally he remembered that their new recruit had managed to get herself shot, and decided it would be the decent thing to go and enquire after her health. With that in mind, he walked down the passageway to Malvery’s infirmary.
The door was open when he got there, and Malvery had his feet up, a mug of rum in his hands. It was a tiny, squalid and unsanitary little chamber. The furniture comprised little more than a cheap dresser bolted to the wall, a washbasin, a pair of wooden chairs and a surgical table. The dresser was probably intended for plates and cutlery, but it had found new employment in the display of all manner of unpleasant-looking surgical instruments. They were all highly polished—the only clean things in the room—and they looked like they’d never been used.
Malvery hauled his feet off the chair where they were resting, and shoved it towards Crake. Then he poured a stiff measure of rum into another mug that sat on the dresser. Crake obligingly sat down and took the proffered mug.
‘Where’s the new girl?’ he asked.
‘Up in the cockpit. Navigating.’
‘Didn’t she just get shot?’
‘You wouldn’t think so, the way she’s acting,’ Malvery said. ‘Damnedest thing. When she finally let me have a look at her, the bleeding had already stopped. Bullet went right through, like she said.’ He beamed. ‘All I had to do was swab it up with some antiseptic and slap on a patch. Then she got up and told me she had a job to do.’
‘You were right, she is tough.’
‘She’s lucky, is what she is. Can’t believe it didn’t do more damage.’
Crake took a swig of rum. It was delightfully rough stuff, muscling its way to his brain where it set to work demolishing his finer mental functions.
Malvery adjusted his round, green-tinted glasses and harumphed. ‘Out with it, then.’
Crake drained his mug and held it out for a refill. He thought for a moment. There was no way to express the shock, the betrayal, the resentment he felt; not in a way that Malvery would truly understand. So he simply said: ‘He was going to let me die.’
He told Malvery what had happened after he and Frey were captured. It was an effort to keep everything factual and objective, but he did his best. Clarity was important. Emotional outbursts went against his nature.
When he’d finished, Malvery poured himself another shot and said, ‘Well.’
Crake found his comment somewhat unsatisfying. When it became clear the doctor wasn’t going to elaborate, he said, ‘He let Macarde spin the barrel, put it to my forehead and pull the trigger. Twice!’
‘You were lucky. Head wounds like that can be nasty.’
‘Oh, spit and blood!’ Crake cried. ‘Forget it.’
‘Now that’s good advice,’ Malvery said, tipping his mug at his companion. He hunkered forward in his chair. ‘I like you, Crake. You’re a good one. But this ain’t your world you’re living in any more.’
‘You don’t know a thing about my world!’ Crake protested.
‘Don’t think so?’ He swept out a hand to indicate the room. ‘Time was I wouldn’t set foot in a place like this. I used to be Guild approved. Worked in Thesk. Earned more in a month than this little operation makes in a year.’
Crake eyed him uncertainly, trying to imagine this enormous, battered old drunkard visiting the elegant dwellings of the aristocracy. He couldn’t.
‘This ain’t no family, Crake,’ Malvery went on. ‘Every man is firmly and decidedly for himself. You’re a smart feller; you knew the risks when you threw your lot in with us. What makes you think he’d give up his craft in exchange for you?’
‘Because . . .’ Crake began, and then realised he’d nothing to say. Because it would have been the right thing to do. He’d spare himself Malvery’s laughter.
‘Look,’ Malvery said, more gently. ‘Don’t let the Cap’n fool you. He’s got a way with people, when he has a mind to try. But it’s not here nor there to him if you live or die. Or me, for that matter, or anyone else on board. I wonder if he even bothers about himself. The only thing he cares about is the Ketty Jay. Now if you think that’s heartless, then you ain’t seen the half of what’s out there. The Cap’n’s a good ’un. Better than most. You just got to know how he is.’
Crake didn’t have an answer to that. He didn’t want to say something childishly bitter. Already he felt faintly embarrassed at bringing it up.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Hey now, I didn’t say that !’ Malvery grinned. ‘Just saying, you got to realise not everyone thinks like you. Hard lesson, but worth it.’
Crake said nothing and sipped his rum. His sad mood was turning black. Perhaps he should just give it up. Get off at the next port, turn his back on all this. It had been six months. Six months of moving from place to place, living under an assumed name, muddying his traces so nobody could find him. At first he’d lived like a rich hobo, haunting shabby hotels all over Vardia, his days and nights spent in terror or drunken grief. It was three months before the money began to run short and he collected himself a little. That was when he found Frey, and the Ketty Jay.
Surely the trail had gone cold by now?
‘You’re not really thinking of packing it in, are you?’ Malvery prompted, turning serious again.
Crake sighed. ‘I don’t know if I can stay. Not after that.’
‘Bit daft if you leave now. The way I understand it, you paid passage for the whole year with that cutlass.’
Crake shrugged, morose. Malvery shoved him companionably with his boot, almost making him tip off his chair.
‘Where you gonna go, eh?’ he said. ‘You belong here.’
‘I belong here?’
‘Of course you do!’ Malvery bellowed. ‘Look at us! We’re not smugglers or pirates. We’re not a crew! The Cap’n’s only the cap’n ’cause he owns the aircraft; I wouldn’t trust him to lead a bear to honey. None of us here signed on for adventure or riches, ’cause sure as spit there’s little enough of either.’ He gave Crake a conspiritorial wink. ‘But mark me, ain’t one of us that’s not running from something, you included. I’ll bet my last swig of rum on that.’ He swigged the last of his rum, just to be safe, then added, ‘That’s why you belong here. ’Cause you’re one of us.’
Crake couldn’t help a smile at the cheap feeling of camaraderie he got from that. Still, Malvery was right. Where would he go? What would he do? He was treading water because he didn’t know which direction to swim in. And until he did, the Ketty Jay was as good a place as any to hide from the sharks.
‘I just . . .’ he said. ‘It’s just . . . I thought he was my friend.’