The Lost

And silence.

He lay there for a second, making sure, then started wriggling his head against the carpet to drag the bag off. He lost hair and gained friction burns, but soon his face emerged into air. Clammy with sweat and condensation from the plastic, he gulped for breath as he rolled over to look through the open doorway.

There was no sign of Gavin.

Jonah’s hands were still bound but his ankles were free. Pushing himself across the floor to the wall, he used it to lean against as he struggled to his feet. Intent on finding the twins, he almost didn’t notice the small object on the seat cushion.

His phone.

He’d seen Gavin put it in his pocket. Whoever had come on board must have left it there, but Jonah didn’t care. The torn can he’d used to cut the ties was still on the floor, shining and bloodstained. His knee throbbed unmercifully, and his head felt like it was splitting as he lurched over to retrieve it. When he picked up the can his hands were shaking so much he could barely hold it. Gripping it as firmly as he could, he hacked blindly at the nylon band.

It seemed to take longer this time, but then his hands were free. They felt dead and unresponsive, his fingers slippery with blood as he grabbed for the phone and called emergency. Switching to speaker phone, he pushed himself to his feet and was already hobbling for the door as it began to ring. Identifying himself as a Metropolitan police officer, he gave as many details as he could as he limped into the passageway. He had to lean against the wall for support, and something in his knee grated with every laborious step. He couldn’t give the boat’s exact location, only that Gavin had said they were moored about a quarter of a mile from Slaughter Quay.

But the need to find the twins crowded out every other concern. Jonah’s hands left a bloody trail on the walls as he continued down the passageway. Part way along, the wood panelling had been damaged. There was an indentation at head-height, the splintered wood glistening wetly as though something had struck it. Hard. Seeing it, Jonah remembered the scuffle he’d heard, and the dull thud that ended it.

He moved on. Jesus, it was hard to stay upright. The boat was larger than he’d thought, with a dogleg in the passageway at the far end. He opened doors as he came to them, pushing them open to reveal storage cupboards, a tiny toilet and an empty cabin. The operator was still speaking, saying something about him going up on deck to check for landmarks.

‘What...?’ he said, struggling to make sense of it.

But it was hard to concentrate on the tinny voice. Hard to focus at all. His head was hurting and the rocking motion of the boat seemed to be getting worse. Then he pushed open another door and forgot about the voice altogether.

The cabin was in darkness. There was a stale smell of unwashed sheets. The curtains were drawn, but the light from the passageway showed two still forms on a bunk inside. Jonah stopped in the doorway, afraid to go in. He realised he was holding his own breath as he listened for sounds of breathing. But the darkened cabin was silent.

The tinny voice was growing insistent, so he put the phone in his pocket to quieten it. Better. Lurching inside, he groped for a light switch. Brightness flooded the cabin, hurting his head and eyes.

Lying on the bunk were Chrissie’s young son and daughter.

They looked tiny. Both lay on their backs, unmoving. Their eyes were closed, and in the overhead light their faces were unnaturally still and pale. The empty carton of milk stood on a small cabinet next to two grubby mugs. No, Jonah thought, through the loud buzzing in his head. No, no, no...

All the pain and loss for Theo seemed to condense and crystallise. Oh, Jesus, please don’t do this, not again... Jonah stumbled over with some vague idea of checking for a pulse. But his hands were so bloodied he didn’t like to touch the still forms. He knew there was something he should be doing, something more, but he couldn’t –

The little girl grumbled and rolled over onto her side.

Jonah had to support himself on the edge of the bunk. Through blurred eyes he saw a beat in the boy’s throat as well, strong and regular. A laugh that was more like a sob escaped him as the abscess of grief was suddenly lanced. He wanted to sink down onto the floor as relief surged through him, but he couldn’t do that. Through the pain and buzzing in his head he became aware of a muted voice, small but urgent. At first he couldn’t place it, then it came to him.

Oh, yeah, that’s right... His movements were clumsy and uncoordinated as he took the phone from his pocket. The voice became louder, asking what was happening and urging him to go on deck. With a last look at the sleeping forms, unaware of either the tears running down his face or the grin on it, Jonah turned and began laboriously making his way along the passageway to the steps.

‘Give me a minute,’ he told the voice.