Ploughing Potter’s Field. Phil Lovesey

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       6

      That night I had the dream again …

      The ship was listing, spilt diesel oil vaporizing on the salted air as the huge iron hulk began its obscene journey into the foaming black sea.

      A lifeboat swung dangerously, tossed by storm-force winds, held by straining steel cables, a puppet boat, dooming its terrified occupants as it crashed into the dark swell below.

      But I was safe, a young boy swimming powerfully, away from the sinking liner, making for stiller waters, passing weaker passengers, feeling occasional connections with tired limbs as I crashed by.

      Just another thirty yards or so, twenty at the most, then I could turn, tread water, enjoy the dreadful spectacle of the fizzing, popping boat slide into the deep. Safe – beyond the fatal pull of the whirlpool which would condemn so many others to follow its huge turning propellers.

      Ten strokes, now.

      Nine.

      Eight.

      Then I heard their voices, coughing, spluttering – Mum and Dad – old, useless, tired.

      Mum, hair in thick wet black ropes, struggling to reach me, my point of oceanic calm, calls out.

      ‘Adrian!’

      Dad tries too.

      But they are too far away.

      ‘Save us!’

      How could I? They were as good as dead. To turn back and try and save them would only mean that I would perish alongside them. Lose my life. We’d all die. What point would the fatal heroics prove?

      ‘Save us, please!’

      But I wanted to live. Let them die. Not me.

      Suddenly the whirlpool catches them, and for a second their progress stops. I catch a look of complete disbelief and surprise on their faces, as the huge current begins sweeping them screaming towards the same dark sea the boat once occupied …

      After, I wandered downstairs to the silent kitchen for a coffee. Jemimah’s dream kitchen, elegantly tiled and strewn with cast-iron pots and pans hanging from stainless-steel rails. I sat at the heavy pine table wondering at the laughable irony of the ad business wherein such luxury is achieved by its employees pushing tat on the masses. The result is very often a lifestyle only dreamt of by the unknowing punters.

      A sleepy voice from somewhere behind. Jemimah, dressing gown open, yawning. ‘Can’t sleep?’

      I shrugged.

      She joined me at the table. ‘Bad dreams?’

      I nodded.

      ‘You saw Rattigan again today, didn’t you?’

      ‘Uhuh.’

      ‘Don’t want to talk about it?’

      ‘That’s part of the problem, J. I don’t know what I want.’

      Middle of the night’s a bad time to brood, I know that much.’

      ‘Maybe it’s the best time.’

      ‘What’s wrong?’ she playfully chided. ‘Has that nasty man been calling you names again?’

      ‘He’s not the problem. I think I am.’

      ‘What are you saying?’

      ‘Something someone said to me today. Saying I should take a long hard look at the reasons why I’m doing this.’

      ‘The PhD?’ she replied, then smiled. ‘Because you’re going to make the best forensic psychologist the ad business ever fired. Because you believe in yourself. Because I do.’

      ‘Thanks, J. It means a lot.’

      She reached out for my hand. ‘Let me in, Adrian. I can’t help if you bottle it all up.’

      ‘Jesus, I’d love to.’

      ‘Then do it.’

      ‘Problem is, I can’t even get there myself.’

      She half frowned. ‘I’m not sure I …’

      ‘Remember when I hit you?’

      She withdrew her hand, avoided my gaze. ‘Adrian, you don’t have to …’

      ‘But I do,’ I persisted. ‘It’s all tied in.’

      ‘And it’s history. Bad history. We’ve moved on.’

      ‘But I did it. We can’t just ignore it.’

      ‘You were pissed. Weren’t yourself.’

      ‘But what if …?’ I started.

      She СКАЧАТЬ