Sometime later there was a violent crack of lightning, then another and then the rain came pouring down. ‘Oh crap!’ she mumbled looking at the folded canopy. For a moment she thought about trying to set it up to collect water but she knew the wind would just tear it away from her grasp. She held her open mouth out towards the rain but although she seemed to be getting thoroughly soaked very little seemed to go into her mouth. Then she realised that her sweater was soaked. She tried sucking some off but it tasted of fabric and salt. Then she pulled the sweater over her head and wrung it as dry as she could and held it up to the rain. When it was thoroughly soaked she tried to suck the water off. Still salty! She wrung it out once more and then soaked it. Now the water tasted fairly fresh. She sucked at the sweater and then held it out again but abruptly the rain stopped. She could see the pattern of its fall on the sea surface moving away in the direction of the wind. She sucked as much fresh water as she could and then slumped back down into the raft and looked around just in time to see Ali’s body sliding down towards the low end of the raft. A vague memory of how shipwrecked mariners would keep a dead body for food floated through her mind but she knew that thirst would kill her long before hunger. The raft rose to another wave but his body remained stuck against the end. She remembered that according to Islam, a body should be washed, shrouded and buried as soon as possible. Maybe tipping him into the sea after a heavy rainstorm was as close as he would get under the circumstances. She crawled across the raft and pushed him over the edge into the water, then hurried back to her position. After the next heaving wave she gazed all around the raft but there was no sign of him.
‘Oh God, get me out of this mess,’ Gerry muttered, ‘and just because I’ve denied your existence for the last thirty years, don’t let that hold you back now.’ The sun suddenly broke through a gap in the clouds. She shaded her eyes and peered right around the horizon. ‘Just as I thought; not a single ship in sight. God you don’t exist or you’re just a total jerk. Or else you’re far too busy with the other eight billion people on the planet. But you know Father Christmas can make ten million house calls in one night and you’ve had three bloody days to get around to rescuing me!’
She ran over in her mind all the people who she had met since she emerged from prison. First, Richard Cornwall; she had always had a certain regard for him and she was not sure if he was involved in the operation that had dumped her in the ocean; she should probably interrogate him first. Next there was Hugh Fielding, who had been responsible for kicking her out six years ago; easy, definite kill. That bastard Don Jarvis was in poor health after a heart attack; he was suffering enough, but maybe make him suffer a little more. Who else? Vince Parker of course! She snarled.
Now the Americans. First of all Carson; she summoned up a mental image of Ryan Carson’s handsome smile disintegrating as the bullet hit his head. She remembered that big coward Stafford meekly sitting down in the aircraft seat and handing over his weapons and the pathetic pleading expression on his face a moment before she shot him. Next there was Neil Samms; he was probably ok but after questioning him she would hand him an unloaded gun and ask him to do the decent thing; it would be interesting to watch how he dealt with that. How about Felix Grainger? He had definitely seemed one of the good guys, but he should be checked out. Then there was the beautiful Annie; what the hell was her surname? A threat to carve her initials on each cheek would be enough to have her reveal everything she knew, but she was probably not a major player. Then there was Jasper White who blamed her for Dean Furness’s death and probably wanted to kill her, but he was a mystery.
And that left Dan Hall, who had promised to try and keep her safe, but failed because now she was alone in a life raft in the Atlantic Ocean, with hardly any water left and only her own developing paranoia for company. Paranoia was her chosen alternative to the sick fear that was creeping over her, and Dan had told her he loved her, which was crap because he hardly knew her, and anyway she was just a murderous bitch who killed people for a living and probably deserved to die and definitely God thought so because still she was surrounded by nothing but water; water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.
‘It is in an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three; by thy long grey beard and glistening eye, now wherefore stop’st though me and dumps me on this bloody raft in the middle of the ocean! Oh shit, I do not want to die.’
The water she had managed to suck off her sweater went some way to reviving her, but it had the unfortunate effect of rekindling her hunger. Instead of songs she thought about food and menus and memorable restaurants and although she knew little about sophisticated cooking, she could prepare a decent wholesome meal.
‘Phil was much better than me in the kitchen,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘We were both good in the bedroom, though. At least, he never made any complaints.’ She hadn’t had sex for years. At least not with a man, she corrected herself.
Angela Wallis had been transferred to Gerry’s prison following her request to be closer to her home and family. She had been handed down a sentence of four years for the grievous bodily harm of her abusive partner, who had been cunning enough not to have revealed any of the physical and mental torment he had inflicted on her.
Gerry had paid no attention to the slightly plump blonde woman until one afternoon she was sitting down reading when she saw Angela being harassed by two notorious, heavily built characters who now stood one in front and one behind her. The one in front was not letting her pass by and the one behind was grabbing her backside.
‘Would you two please leave her alone,’ said Gerry, who was trying to concentrate on her book. The women swung round with aggressive intent but then realised who had spoken to them. One of them walked off without a word, but the second one muttered ‘I expect she wants you for herself,’ in Angela’s ear before following her friend.
Angela stood and stared at Gerry, wondering if she should say thank you or make the improbable assertion that she could have taken care of herself.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Gerry giving her a quick glance and then looking back at her book. The woman stood staring at her for a moment longer and then turned away.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not gay either,’ Gerry called out. The other woman turned back and gave and a nod and a small smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘My name’s Gerry.’
‘I’m Angela,’ she replied and then she realised with some surprise that this must be the prisoner Tate whom she had been warned about. ‘Don’t cross her and you’ll be fine,’ was the advice she had been given by a fellow inmate.
Three weeks later Frances, Gerry’s current cell mate was released and Gerry had the cell to herself for a couple of days. She was in the middle of a series of press-ups when the door opened and the prison officer announced that prisoner Wallis would be her new cellmate.
‘Just keep out of the way on the bunk there would you?’ Gerry asked. ‘The top one’s yours. I’ll be finished soon.’ She completed her mini work-out and smiled at Angela. ‘Excuse me; I’ll be a bit sweaty now until my next shower.’
‘Bloody hell, you’re muscly,’ Angela burst out, and then blushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ she added meekly.
‘Not at all,’ Gerry assured her. ‘If we’re going to share a cell then we might as well be straight with each other.’