Behind my right shoulder a door, now firmly shut, presumably led back to warmth, life, the galley and the saloon.
The matter of my wrists, too, became clear. They were indeed tied to my trousers, one on each side. From what I could see, someone had punched a couple of holes through the material in the region of each side pocket, threaded something which looked like bandage through the holes, and effectively tied each of my wrists to a bunch of cloth.
A good pair of trousers ruined: but then all disasters were relative.
A head appeared above me, framed by the hatch. Indistinctly, seeing him through the net and silhouetted against the grey sky, I got the impression he was fairly young and uncompromisingly tough.
‘Are you awake?’ he said, peering down.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Right.’
He went away, but presently returned, leaning head and shoulders into the hatch.
‘If you act sensible, I’ll untie you,’ he said.
His voice had the bossy strength of one accustomed to dictate, not cajole. A voice which had come up the hard way, gathering aggression on the journey.
‘Have you got any dramamine?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s a toilet in the cabin. You can throw up into that. You’re going to have to agree you’ll act quiet if I come down and untie you. Otherwise I won’t. Right?’
‘I agree,’ I said.
‘Right.’
Without more ado he lowered himself easily through the hatch and stood six feet three in his canvas shoes, practically filling all available space. His body moved in effortless balance in the boat’s tossing.
‘Here,’ he said, lifting the lid of what had looked like a built-in varnished box. ‘Here’s the head. You open the stop-cock and pump sea water through with that lever. Turn the water off when you’ve done, or you’ll have a flood.’ He shut the lid and opened a locker door on the wall above. ‘In here there’s a bottle of drinking water and some paper cups. You’ll get your meals when we get ours.’ He fished deep into one of the sail bins, which otherwise seemed empty. ‘Here’s a blanket. And a pillow.’ He lifted them out, showed them to me, both dark blue, dropped them back.
He looked upwards to the generous square of open sky above him.
‘I’ll fix you the hatch so you’ll have air and light. You won’t be able to get out. And there’s nothing to get out for. We’re out of sight of land.’
He stood for a moment, considering, then began to unfasten the net, which was held simply by chrome hooks slotted into eyelets on the bunk above.
‘You can hook the net up if it gets rough,’ he said.
Seen without intervening white meshes, he was not reassuring. A strong face with vigorous bones. Smallish eyes, narrow-lipped mouth, open air skin and straight brown floppy hair. My own sort of age: no natural kinship, though. He looked down at me without any hint of sadistic enjoyment, for which I was grateful, but also without apology or compassion.
‘Where am I?’ I said. ‘Why am I here? Where are we going? And who are you?’
He said, ‘If I untie your hands and you try anything, I’ll bash you.’
You must be joking, I thought. Six foot three of healthy muscle against a cold stiff seasick five foot ten. No thank you very much.
‘What is this all about?’ I said. Even to my ears, it sounded pretty weak. But then, pretty weak was exactly how I felt.
He didn’t answer. He merely bent down, leaned in and over me, and unknotted the bandage from my left wrist. Extracting himself from the small space between the bunks, he repeated the process on the right.
‘Stay lying down until I’m out of here,’ he said.
‘Tell me what’s going on.’
He put a foot on the edge of the sail bins, and his hands on the sides of the hatch, and pulled himself halfway up into the outside world.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said unemotionally, looking down, ‘that you’re a bloody nuisance to me. I’m having to stow all the sails on deck.’
He gave a heave, a wriggle, and a kick, and hauled himself out.
‘Tell me,’ I shouted urgently. ‘Why am I here?’
He didn’t answer. He was fiddling with the hatch. I swung my feet over the side of the bunk and rolled in an exceedingly wobbly fashion to my feet. The pitching of the boat promptly threw me off balance and I ended in a heap on the floor.
‘Tell me,’ I shouted, pulling myself up again and holding onto things. ‘Tell me, God dammit.’
The hatch cover slid over and shut out most of the sky. This time, though, it was not clamped down tight, but rested on metal stays, which left a three inch gap all round: like a lid held three inches above a box.
I put a hand up through the gap and yelled again ‘Tell me.’
The only reply I got was the sound of the hatch being made secure against any attempt of mine to dislodge it. Then even those sounds ceased, and I knew he’d gone away; and a minute or two later the engine started again.
The boat rolled and tossed wildly, and the sickness won with a rush. I knelt on the floor with my head over the lavatory bowl and heaved and retched as if trying to rid myself of my stomach itself. I hadn’t eaten for so long that all that actually came up was bright yellow bile, but that made nothing any better. The misery of seasickness was that one’s body never seemed to realise that there was nothing left to vomit.
I dragged myself onto the bunk and lay there both sweating and shivering, wanting to die.
Blanket and pillow, I thought. In the sail bin.
A terrible effort to get up and get them. I leaned down to pick them up, and my head whirled alarmingly.
Another frightful session over the bowl. Curse the blanket and pillow. But I was so cold.
I got them at the second attempt. Wrapped myself closely in the thick navy wool and put my head thankfully on the navy pillow. There was mercy somewhere, it seemed. I had a bed and a blanket and light and air and a water closet, and a lot of shipboard prisoners before me would have given their souls for all that. It seemed unreasonable to want an explanation as well.
The day passed with increasing awfulness. Anyone who has been comprehensively seasick won’t need telling. Head ached and swam, skin sweated, stomach heaved, entire system felt unbelievably ill. If I opened my eyes it was worse.
How long, I thought, will this be going on? Were we crossing the Channel? Surely this relentless churning would soon end. Wherever we were going, it couldn’t be far.
At some point he came back and undid the hatch.
‘Food,’ he said, shouting to be heard against the engine’s din.
I didn’t answer; couldn’t be bothered.
‘Food,’ he shouted again.
I flapped a weak hand in the air, making go away signals.
I could swear he laughed. Extraordinary how funny seasickness is to those who don’t have it. He pushed the hatch into place again and left me to it.
The light faded to dark. I slid in and out of dreams which were a good deal more comforting than reality; and during one of those brief sleeps someone came and fastened the hatch. I didn’t care very much. If the boat had sunk, I would have looked upon drowning as a blessed release.
The next time the engine stopped it was only a minor relief compared with the general level of misery. I had supposed it was only in my imagination that the boat was tossing in a storm, but when the engine stopped I rolled clean off the bunk.
Climbing clumsily to my feet, holding on with one hand to the upper bunk, I felt for the door and the light switch beside it. Found the switch, and pressed it. No light. No damned light. Bloody stinking sods, giving me no light.
I fumbled my way back to the lower bunk in the blackness. Tripped over the blanket. Rolled it around me and lay down, feeling most insecure. Felt around for the net: fastened a couple of the hooks, groaning and grunting; not tidily, but enough to do the job.