Passage by Night (1987) Page 6

  It was difficult to believe that anyone could still use the old-fashioned canvas suit with all the paraphernalia of air and lifelines in this era of the frog-man with his compressed air cylinders. The aqualung was superior in every way and with it, the diver became a completely free agent.

  He could see the girl as he drew nearer, rather small in a bright red shirt and canvas jeans, long hair twisted into a pigtail at the back. She was turning the handle of the lifeline crank, hauling her father in, and seemed completely unaware of Manning's approach.

  Quite suddenly, the crank stopped revolving. She tugged at the handle, exerting all her strength and then went to the rail and looked over. She ran back to the crank and swung all her weight against the handle with no result. The next moment, she turned and dived over the rail.

  Manning cut the engine and drifted alongside. He fastened the line quickly, ran across to the crank and threw all his strength against the handle. It refused to budge. As he moved back to the rail, the girl surfaced beside the wooden ladder gasping for breath. Somehow, her pigtail had come undone and long, blue-black hair floated around in the water. He reached down and pulled her over the rail.

  'What's wrong down there?'

  She was completely distraught. 'I couldn't reach him! I couldn't reach him!'

  'How deep is he?'

  'Ten fathoms, maybe more. I've got to try again.'

  She scrambled to her feet, turning to the rail. At that moment, a great gout of air erupted to the surface. Manning sat down and pulled off his shoes and jacket.

  'You stay with that crank. The line's probably snagged on a niggerhead. The moment I signal, start pulling him in.'

  He scrambled onto the roof of the wheelhouse, poised on the edge for several seconds, forcing as much oxygen as possible into his lungs, and dived.

  Once in the Caymans, he had free-dived just over a hundred feet, but that had been ten years before. Ten years of hard living. Of going downhill in every way.

  As a diver descends, the deepening layer of water filters the sunlight, absorbing all red and orange rays. At fifty feet, as he descended the face of the great cliff, Manning found himself swimming into a neutral zone. Visibility was still excellent, but all colours were muted and autumnal.

  At sixty feet the line had looped itself around a gnarled spike of coral, tightening into a crevasse. He freed it quickly and moved on.

  He found the old man on a wide ledge on the face of the cliff. The ancient canvas suit had been slashed open against the razor-sharp coral as he struggled to free himself. Water had forced its way into the suit and only the continuing pressure of fresh air being pumped into the great bronze helmet kept it at chest level.

  Manning, his vision completely distorted, had a brief glimpse of the face peering out at him before he pulled hard on the lifeline, his agreed signal with the girl. He started upwards, dragging the old man behind him.

  The pressure in his ears was fantastic and bells seemed to be tolling melodiously somewhere near at hand, great waves of sound beating against him.

  Far above, he could see the silhouette of the Cretan Lover's hull and he released his hold on the old man and spiralled upwards in a cloud of champagne bubbles.

  He broke surface beside the ladder and hung there for a moment, gasping for breath. When he pulled himself over the rail, the girl was turning the handle for dear life, sweat pouring down her face.

  'He's coming,' she cried. 'He's coming.'

  Manning was conscious of the pains in his limbs, of the gigantic hand that presses against his chest. He fought against the darkness that moved in on him and heaved on the line with all his strength.

  The old man broke through to the surface beside the ladder. Manning and the girl heaved together and he staggered over the rail and collapsed on deck.

  Manning watched as the girl unscrewed the bronze wingnuts and then his vision blurred and the sound of her voice seemed to come from the end of a tunnel. When he went, he seemed to dive headfirst into the dark waters.

  8

  The Cretan Lover

  As Manning emptied the cup, Anna Melos filled it again. The coffee was so hot that it scalded the back of his throat. As it burned its way into his stomach, he felt life returning.

  She went into the galley and he watched her over the rim of the cup. Her slim, almost boyish figure seemed strangely sexless and yet the lips had an extra fullness that suggested sensuality.

  Turning, she caught him watching her and smiled. 'Feeling better?'

  He nodded. 'No time to decompress, that was the trouble. It doesn't do any harm if it's only once in a while.'

  'But not too often,' she said. 'When I was twelve, I saw my uncle Alexias die of the bends. It wasn't pretty.'

  A step sounded on the companionway and her father came in. He was about seventy with grizzled hair and a white moustache that stood out clearly against the swarthy skin.

  He sat down and started to fill an ancient briar pipe. 'How do you feel?'

  'I think I'll survive.'

  That was quite something. I must have been a good seventy feet down. Not many men can free-dive that far.'

  'Oh, I've met a few,' Manning said. 'Down in the Caymans, they go to a hundred and fifty, but they use a lead weight to get there quickly.'

  'You done much diving before? Real diving, I mean.'

  'With an aqualung. You wouldn't get me into the sort of contraption you were wearing.' Manning grinned. 'The only good thing that comes out of this is the fact that you've ruined it.'

  'The suit?' Papa Melos shrugged. 'I can patch it up easily.'

  Anna had been cutting sandwiches in the galley and now she came forward quickly. 'No, Papa. Never again.'

  'You would prefer Mikali to take the boat?' He took her hand in his. 'We must live, Anna. What else can I do?'

  She turned away quickly and he smiled at Manning, changing the subject deliberately. 'Good thing you came by when you did.'

  'It was no accident,' Manning said. 'I'm looking for someone to run me down to San Juan. Nikoli Aleko told me you might be interested.'

  'San Juan, on the Isle of Tears?' The old man frowned. 'What would you want to go there for?'

  'I'm a freelance photographer. I'm doing a Cuban feature for an American magazine. I was told boats from Harmon Springs sometimes put in at San Juan with tuna. I served in the Aegean during the war so I speak a little Greek. I thought maybe I could be passed off as a crew member.'

  'Sure, I used to make the trip. We all did. They paid top price for tuna down there, but things have changed since the crisis. You can't tell which way those people might jump; could even impound my boat.' Papa Melos shook his head. 'I'd like to help you, Mr Manning, but not this time.'

  Manning reached for his jacket and took out his wallet. He opened it and produced a wad of banknotes. 'Five hundred dollars - a thousand. Name your price.'

  The girl's breath hissed sharply between her teeth. 'Papa, with money like that you could pay Mikali what we owe him. Our worries would be over.'

  The old man stared down at the money as if hypnotized and then shook his head slowly. 'If I go to San Juan, I'd probably lose the boat anyway. At least I've got till the end of the month to pay Mikali what I owe him.'

  Manning schooled his face to a pleasant smile. 'Not to worry. There must be somebody in Harmon Springs who wants to earn that kind of money.'

  He was up on deck and stood at the rail, looking out towards the island, wondering what the hell he was going to do next. A moment later, the girl joined him.

  'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I feel that we owe you so much, but the boat is my father's whole life. He couldn't stand the thought of losing her.'

  'Do you really think he can raise the money to pay off this man Mikali?' Manning said.

  She shook her head and turned to the rail, her slim shoulders hunched in defeat. For a brief moment he was conscious of an irrational tenderness. It was as if she were a young child faced with something she couldn't handle, that he
must comfort at all costs.

  He became aware of the sound of an engine and a speedboat roared round the tip of Blair Cay and come towards them. The girl raised her head, looked at it for a moment, then hurried below.

  When she returned, her father was with her. He leaned against the rail, a frown on his face. 'Looks like Mikali's boat. I wonder what he wants?'

  The speedboat was being driven by Dimitri, the youth Manning had handled so roughly at the bar. Mikali was a large thickset individual. In his day, he must have been a powerful man, but now he was running to fat and the armpits of his linen jacket were badly stained with sweat. He clambered up the ladder and Dimitri stayed at the wheel.

  'And what the hell do you want?' Papa Melos said in Greek.

  Mikali wiped his balding head with a handkerchief. 'Don't take that tone with me, you old vulture. Three days I've been trying to catch you. Always, you stay out of my way.'

  'I've got nothing to say to you. Not till the end of the month.'

  'Now that's where you're wrong,' Mikali said. 'The extension I gave you was purely out of the goodness of my heart.' He glanced at Anna. 'I'd hoped that we might have been able to come to a sensible arrangement about things in general, but that doesn't seem to have worked out.'

  The old man flushed angrily. 'Say what you have to say and get off my boat.'

  'My boat, you mean.' Mikali produced a document and held it out. 'This is a writ of attachment. You've got until noon on Friday to pay me my money. Twelve hundred dollars.'

  The old man gave a roar of anger. He tore the writ from Mikali's hand and swung hard with his right fist. The years were against him. Mikali blocked the punch with ease, grabbed him by the shirtfront and slapped him heavily across the face.

  The girl screamed and ran forward, tearing at him with her fingers. He pushed her away with such force that she staggered across the deck and lost her balance. As he raised his hand to strike the old man again, Manning grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round so that they faced each other.

  'How about trying me?' he said. 'I'm a bit nearer your size.'

  Mikali opened his mouth to speak and Manning smashed a fist into it. As he staggered backwards, Manning hit him again, the force of the blow lifting him over the rail. The Greek hit the water with a tremendous splash and went under. He came up a couple of feet away from the speedboat and Dimitri grabbed him by the collar and tried to haul him over the stern.

  Manning went down the ladder quickly, jumped into the speedboat and helped him. Mikali sprawled across the rear seat, his clothes clinging to his gross body, blood trickling from his smashed mouth. Manning produced his wallet and counted out twelve one hundred dollar bills. He stuffed them into the Greek's breast pocket.

  'All debts paid, Mikali. Bother the old man again and I'll break your neck.' He turned to Dimitri.

  'And you're a witness. He's had his money. Don't forget.'

  He jumped for the ladder and Dimitri started the engine and took the speedboat away in a long sweeping curve. Manning watched until it had disappeared behind the cay and then turned.

  The old man was sitting on the bench outside the wheelhouse, filling his pipe. When it was going to his satisfaction, he puffed out a cloud of smoke and shrugged. 'So we go to San Juan?'

  'You sure?' Manning said.

  Papa Melos nodded. 'What else can I do? You save my life, you save my boat. It's fate.'

  'What about you?' Manning said to the girl.

  She was standing at the other rail, her back towards him. She turned and looked at him gravely. 'I don't see that we really have any choice. We are a proud people, Mr Manning. We like to pay our debts.'

  For a moment Manning had an insane desire to tell them the truth, to warn them that they were imperiling much more than the boat if they went through with this thing. But then he remembered his reason for going.

  He shrugged. 'That's fine by me. I'm ready to start when you are.'

  9

  South from Andros

  He was not conscious of having slept, only of being awake and looking at his watch and realizing, with a sense of shock, that it was three in the morning. He pulled on his heavy reefer jacket and left the cabin.

  There was a slight sea mist lifting off the water and the Cretan Lover was kicking along at a tremendous pace. There was no moon, but the night sky was a jewel-studded delight and there was a strange luminosity to the water. He walked along the heaving deck, stepping over the three tuna they had caught on the previous afternoon, and went into the wheelhouse.

  Papa Melos was standing at the wheel. He cut a fine, weird figure, his head apparently disembodied in the light from the compass.

  'How are things going?' Manning said.

  'Couldn't be better.'

  He slipped to one side, allowing Manning to take over the wheel, and leaned against the door filling his pipe.

  'What time will we make San Juan?'

  The old man shrugged. 'If weather holds, just before noon tomorrow.'

  'Will there be any restriction on how long we can stay?'

  'There never used to be, but as I said before, things have changed.'

  'Will we have much trouble finding a buyer for the fish?'

  'I shouldn't think so, not with tuna as prime as those are.' Papa Melos applied a match to the bowl of his pipe. 'You're a handy man with a rod. As good as any I've seen. Come to think of it, photographer, you're a pretty good sailor.'

  'I've been around small craft all my life and the Special Boat Service was a first-rate grounding.'

  'But that was a long time ago,' Papa Melos said. 'Before the flood.'

  There was a question in his voice, unspoken but still there. Manning ignored it and said easily, 'Some things a man never forgets how to do.'

  'I suppose not.' The old man yawned. 'Think I'll get some sleep. I'll take over at seven.'

  He moved away along the deck, humming to himself, and Manning lit a cigarette, pulled a hinged seat down from the wall and settled back comfortably, the wheel steady in his hands.

  There was little point in worrying what might happen when they reached San Juan. He would have to play the cards as they fell. A slight, ironic quirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. Come to think of it, he seemed to have been doing just that for the greater part of his life.

  Gradually his mind wandered back along forgotten paths and he thought of people and incidents long gone. This was a period he looked forward to at sea. To be alone with the night and the boat. It was as if the world had ceased to exist.

  The door opened softly, coinciding with a spatter of rain against the windows. He smelt the aroma of coffee heavy on the morning air and there was another, more subtle fragrance.

  'What's wrong with bed at this time in the morning?' he said.

  'The best part of the day,' she told him and pulled down the other seat.

  She handed him a mug of coffee and a sandwich and they ate in companionable silence, their knees touching. Afterwards, he gave her a cigarette and they sat there smoking as rain hammered forcefully against the window.

  'You love the sea, don't you?' she said suddenly.

  'I suppose I do,' he said, momentarily off guard. 'It's rather like a woman - capricious and not very reliable, but that doesn't mean you love her the less.'

  She smiled. 'You're the strangest photographer I've ever met.'

  As with the father, there was an unspoken question in her voice and he suddenly knew he was on dangerous ground.

  'I had a salvage business in Havana with a sideline in underwater photography. When the revolution came, I hung on till the last minute like a hell of a lot of other people who didn't see which way the wind was blowing. Only got out by the skin of my teeth. Lost everything.'

  He was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice and she leaned across impulsively and put a hand on his arm. When she spoke, her voice was warm and full of sympathy. 'I'm sorry.'

  'No need to be. I was luckier than most of the poor devils who
hang around Miami waiting for something unpleasant to happen to Castro. I knew the right people and that always helps. I've managed to make a steady living at this freelance game.'

  'This trip to San Juan? It means a lot to you?'

  'More than anything else in the world right now,' he said flatly.

  'Then I'm glad we agreed to go.'

  Suddenly, he was ashamed of the lies and the deceit, of the fact that he was running this girl and her father headlong into danger, mixing them up in a situation that had nothing to do with them. For a moment, he was filled with an overwhelming desire to tell her everything, but she forestalled him.

  'There's nothing quite like it, is there? A small boat and the sea on a night like this. All one's real troubles suddenly seem unimportant.'

  Her face was faintly illuminated by the compass light, the eyes dark shadows that somehow gave her a strange, mysterious quality that was quite unique.

  'You're a funny girl,' he said. 'Nikoli Aleko told me you were at Vassar?'

  She nodded. 'Until a few months ago. It was my father's idea. He'd been left a legacy. Like most Greeks, he believes there's nothing like an education so he decided to send me to the States. Only the best was good enough.'

  'What did you intend to do?'

  'I was supposed to go to Oxford this year. I was hoping to read law.'

  'And now this.'

  'My brother Yanni was drowned last year. When papa wrote to tell me, he said there was no point in my coming home. That it was all over and done with.'

  'So you stayed?'

  'There didn't seem any reason not to. In his letters, he said everything was fine.'

  'And you finally came home and found out different?'

  'Something like that.' She leaned forward, pressing her head against the window and stared out into the night. 'You wouldn't understand this, but I didn't find my father. I found an old, beaten man travelling fast downhill, and he's never seemed old to me before.' She sighed. 'He'd even had to borrow money on the boat to keep me at college. Apparently the legacy had run out even before Yanni died.'