Part 19 (1/2)
Milton turned to the young man to his left. ”Do you speak English?”
”A little,” he said.
”What happened?”
”The engine stopped.”
”For how long?”
”Ten minutes. We have just been drifting. They couldn't fix it.”
Milton looked back to the stern. The slick of oil behind them had become wider, the viscous fluid refracting rainbows in the bright sunlight.
”I was worried,” the man said. ”I have never been on a boat before.”
Milton looked at him more carefully. He was in his late teens or early twenties, with clear skin and bright eyes. ”What's your name?”
”Kolo.”
”I'm John,” he said. ”Where are you from?”
”Somalia. And you?”
”Libya.”
Milton did not want to draw attention to the differences between himself and the others. He changed the subject. ”How did you get to Sabratah?”
”They drove us through the Sahara.” The boy's English was surprisingly good. ”It took one week. They kept us in a house in Tripoli until the boat was ready. Three days. I thought we would never leave.”
”What are your plans?”
”I get to Italy; then maybe I try to get to Denmark or Sweden. I have friends there. They have jobs; they can send money home. My parents are old. They have no money. I want to help them. And you?”
Milton had considered a number of cover stories. ”I have a friend who works in France. A vineyard.” Kolo looked at him blankly. Milton added, ”Where they grow grapes for wine.”
”Ah, I understand-you help them to harvest the grapes?”
”Yes.”
”Hard work, especially if it is hot like this.” He pointed up at the clear blue sky and the sun burning down on the sea and the boat.
”Very hard,” Milton said. He tugged the brim of his cap so that a little extra shadow fell onto his face. He could feel the heat in the fabric of the cap. It was close to midday and the sun was at its most brutal. The sea s.h.i.+mmered away to infinity on either side of the boat, woozy waves radiating over the surface.
Kolo followed Milton's gaze out over the water.
”Can you swim?” Kolo asked.
”Yes,” Milton said.
”I cannot. I have never even seen the sea before.” He paused, nodding his head out to the waves. ”If we, you know-if we sink, how long do you think we would last in that water?”
”Not long,” Milton said honestly. ”And being able to swim won't make much difference. We must be a hundred miles from land. And the water is colder than it looks.”
”Then we better hope that the boat is better than it looks.”
Milton thought Kolo was being morbid, but, when he turned to look over at him, he saw his bright white grin. He was laughing at their predicament.
Milton smiled back at him. ”We'll be all right,” he said.
THE SUN pa.s.sed its peak and slowly started to descend. Milton stared out at the unchanging vista, the miles of unbroken blue that reached all the way to the horizon, the more vivid colour of the sky merging into the haze so that it became difficult to tell where one stopped and the other began. He looked for other s.h.i.+ps, but, save a tiny speck that might have been a fis.h.i.+ng vessel, he saw nothing.
They were all alone, miles from a.s.sistance, on a boat that was barely seaworthy and manned by a crew who looked as uncomfortable as the pa.s.sengers.
The sun pounded down onto the deck. Milton's cap offered him some protection, but he could still feel the heat, and it was difficult to stay awake. He put his jacket over his head again and allowed himself to drift off once more.
”EXCUSE ME.”
Milton awoke. It was Kolo's voice. Milton pulled the jacket off his head and looked over at him. Kolo wasn't talking to him, though; he was calling to one of the smugglers responsible for watching the pa.s.sengers on their deck.
”Excuse me? Sir?”
The smuggler turned to look at him. ”What?”
”I am thirsty.”
”What do you want me to do about that?”
”Do you have any water?”
”Yes,” the man said, sweeping his arm at the ocean. ”I have gallons of it.”
”Some water I can drink?”
The man reached into his mouth, took out the wad of gum that he had been chewing and flicked it over the side. He reached up, wiped the sweat away from his forehead and then nodded down at Kolo. ”You think this is a pleasure cruise?”
”I am thirsty,” Kolo said again. ”I need a drink.”
The man curled his finger. ”Come here.”
Kolo got up and, barely able to find the s.p.a.ce to bypa.s.s the outstretched legs and supine bodies of the others, he made his way across the deck to the smuggler. The man reached around and pulled a pistol out of the waistband of his trousers. He aimed it at the boy, gesturing with his hand that he should hurry over to him.
Milton sat up straight.