‘You know what, Mal? I’m sick to death of thinking about what’s best for Mikey and Bella. I’ve spent my adult life thinking about what’s best for you, what’s best for them, being understanding about your work, your shifts, putting everyone first. It’s my turn.’
‘You mean it’s Bob’s turn.’ Bob was his wife’s partner. They lived together in Brighton, and when the divorce came through, they planned to marry, so Karlsson supposed he was really Bella and Mikey’s step-father. He took them to school each morning on his way to work, and he read stories to them each evening. Karlsson had seen photographs of Bella beaming on his solid shoulders, and Mikey had told him how Bob had taught him to play French cricket on the beach. Apparently he might buy them a dog. Now Bob had been offered a job in Madrid, and Julie wanted to move the family out there – ‘just for a couple of years’.
‘Madrid’s not Australia,’ she was saying. ‘You can fly there in a couple of hours.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘And think what a wonderful experience it would be for them.’
‘Children need their father,’ Karlsson said, wincing at the platitude.
‘They’d still have you. That won’t change. And they could have holidays with you. It won’t be for a couple of months anyway – you can spend lots of time with them until they go.’
I’m losing them, thought Karlsson, staring at the phone he clutched in his hand. First they moved to Brighton, now they’ll go all the way to Spain. I’ll be a stranger. They’ll hang back when they see me, hide behind Julie, get homesick when they’re in my home. ‘I can refuse,’ he said. ‘I still have joint custody.’
‘You can stop us going. Or try to. Is that what you want?’
‘Of course not. But do you want me to barely see them?’
‘No.’ Julie sighed heavily. He heard her suppress a yawn. ‘But tell me what we’re going to do, Mal. We can’t really compromise on this.’
‘I don’t know.’ Karlsson, however, was already sure that he was going to agree. He felt trapped in the sort of argument they’d had when they were together. He felt defeated and lonely.
The knife had its own special drawer, where it lay wrapped in plastic, with the whetstone. Sometimes she lifted it out and laid it on the table in front of her, studying the dull gleam of its long blade, perhaps touching its edge cautiously to feel the fresh sharpness. It sent a shiver of excitement and dread through her, something almost sexual. She never used it for cooking: she had a blunt kitchen knife for that. She kept it ready. One day it would have its use.
Now she lifted the hatch cautiously; it used to creak but she had poured a few drops of cooking oil on to its hinges so it levered open quietly. The wind blew directly into her face, cold and carrying a few drops of rain. It was very dark on the river. There was no moon tonight and no stars. The lamps on the barges that lined the bank, those that were occupied, had been extinguished and only a few lights in the distance glimmered. She pulled herself out and stared around. On the marshes, a long way off, someone had lit a fire. The orange flames flickered against the sky. She squinted but could not make out any figures beside it, black cut-out shapes. She was alone. Water slapped very gently against the side of the boat. When she had first come here, she had been unsettled by the sound and the slight, occasional motion, but now she was used to it. It was like the blood inside her body. She was used to the night sounds as well – the wind in the trees and in the thick rushes that sounded sometimes like a moan, the rustle of rodents from the bank, the sudden shriek of the owls. There were foxes here, and fat rats with long, thick tails. Herons and white swans that looked at her with their wicked eyes. Mangy cats. She had had a cat once, with a white tip to its tail and silky ears; it used to wash itself so fastidiously and purr like a steady motor. But that was a long time ago, in another life, and she was another person now.
Very cautiously, she stepped into the cockpit of the boat and from there on to the path. She was wearing dark clothes – navy tracksuit trousers and a thick grey hoody – so even if someone was looking, they probably wouldn’t see her. She was always careful. The important thing was never to let your guard down or think you were safe. She walked slowly along the track, feeling her body unstiffen. She had to keep fit and strong, but it was hard when you were cooped up all day. She did press-ups inside sometimes, and two or three times a day she did twenty pull-ups, using the rim of the slightly open hatch as a bar and counting out loud so that she didn’t cheat. Her arms were strong, but she didn’t think she would be able to run far or fast. Sometimes when she woke at night, her chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. She wanted to call out for help but she knew she mustn’t.
She walked past the other boats moored to the side by thick ropes. Most of them were empty from one week to the next, and some were falling apart, their paint blistering and wood rotting. Some had people on board; they had plants on their flat roofs, and bikes that lay on their sides with the spokes whirring when the wind blew. Even in the dark, she knew which boats were inhabited. It was her job to be vigilant. When they had first come here, it had been exciting, a mixture of hiding and setting up home. It was their safe place, he had said: no one else would know they were there, and whatever happened, they could retreat here and wait until danger had passed. But then he had left, returning only for a few days every month. At first she had wondered how she would pass her days when she was alone, but it was surprising how much there was to do. The boat had to be kept clean, for a start, and that wasn’t easy because it was old and had been long abandoned before they’d found it. There were damp patches on its sides and water leaked in through the floor, round the sides of the shower and toilet, and up through the boards in the kitchen area. The windows were narrow rectangles that no one could see through from the outside. The doorway was always kept closed, and when she washed her clothes in the tiny sink with the tablets of soap he bought her, then laid them out over chairs and the table to dry, the air smelt thick and slightly festering.
Once there had been space, comfort, light flooding in through large windows, and roses on the lawn. She remembered, as in a dream, clean sheets and soft clothes. Now she lived with the dark, enclosed space; the long winter nights, when it was so cold her breath smoked and ice formed on the inside of the little windows; the candles guttering secretly when she didn’t even dare use the dynamo torch he had given her; the fear, an ache in her stomach. Yes, you could even get used to fear. You could turn fear into something that was strong and useful and dangerous.
She turned back. The drops of rain were increasing and she didn’t want to get too wet. The winter had been so cold and so long. For weeks, the paths had been hard with ice or covered with thick snow. She had felt like an animal in its burrow, watching flakes fall outside the windows. Waiting, always waiting.
Sliding back down the hatch, she pulled it shut after her and locked it. She filled the little tin kettle with just enough water for one teabag and put it on the stove, turning the knob on and lighting the ring with one match. But she could tell that they were running out of gas: the flame was weak and blue. Soon she wouldn’t be able to cook the potatoes that were in the basket under the outside seat, or fill a hot-water bottle to take the edge off the cold that seemed to enter her bones. Perhaps he would bring another canister when he came. And surely he would come soon. She had faith.
Seven
‘You’re joking.’ Reuben sat back in his chair, looking delighted.