The Mariner

“Do you know what I miss?” Harris said, leering over his whiskey. “Ozzy girls. I went travelling to Australia when I was younger and had a few. Up for anything they are! After that, I was always checking out pubs in Acton. That’s the part of London they all used to live. Off to Acton for some action. Sometimes it paid off too.” He sighed and looked back into the fire. “No Australians now. Just fucking Brits.”

“Funny that isn’t it,” Heidi said, though her tone insinuated there was nothing funny about it at all. “Ever since… I’ve only ever found Brits. And nearly all of them English.”

Almost surprised to have some evidence to the contrary, McConnell spoke up. “We had a French couple turn up in Sighisoara.”

“What happened to them?”

“Kept to themselves, no-one could speak French, not properly. Eventually they got stuck in an altercation over booze and got themselves killed. Bit difficult to resolve disputes with no common language. And this was before Tetrazzini showed up, so no-one knew any medicine—” He tensed, knowing he’d mentioned a name he shouldn’t have. Grace stiffened too, her eyes low.

“Who’s Tetrazzini?” Harris asked, curious.

An awkward silence followed, finally broken by Heidi. “So you’re from Croydon? I’m from North London, Hampstead Heath.”

He gave her a solemn smile. “Small world huh? If only our friend here could remember his origins?” He patted the Mariner on the shoulder. “Perhaps he would turn out from a similar neck of the woods? Bromley? Clapham?”

“Perhaps.” The Mariner didn’t see much point in trying to work out the insanity in which they lived. The Pope would tell them what the Oracle couldn’t. He placed his glass down with a hollow thud. “Done.”

Not long later, Harris negotiated a second round.

“I don’t miss him,” Grace whispered lightly over the crackling fire. It was towards the end of the evening, when most had crawled off to bed, leaving only those obsessed with the pursuit of oblivion chasing it like a dog after a butterfly. The Mariner had thought her asleep, her small figure, curled up in Harris’ coat, hadn’t moved for hours. McConnell, still by her side, had fallen asleep, lulled into unconsciousness by the disarming heat, and yet she’d remained awake, staring at the fire through slits so fine she’d appeared to slumber.

“Who?” he asked, more as a delaying tactic than an actual question. He knew full well whom she meant: Tetrazzini. Who else? She hadn’t said a word since McConnell had mentioned the man. And now she wanted to voice those demons. Why couldn’t she keep them locked away, like he did? Surely that was best?

“You know who,” she replied, calling him out in one swipe. “Him.”

I guess I do, but I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to think about leaving him to burn for what he did, because somewhere deep inside I think I’m the same. And if that’s true then I should burn too. I should burn as surely as he did, as surely as Absinth was ate. But I’m scared. I’m far too scared to burn.

“Christopher wants me to talk about… what he did, but I don’t want to, I don’t want to even think of him.”

“Christopher?”

“Yeah.” Her pristine forehead furrowed and realising she theatrically rolled her eyes. “The reverend.”

The Mariner was surprised, McConnell had never told him his first name. Funny. Names were strange things, meaningless and yet given so much weight.

“I understand. I don’t like to think about someone too.”

“Who?”

Everyone I’ve hurt. Everyone I’ve killed.

“My mother. I don’t remember her much, but what I do…” he stopped, the alcohol in his system loosening his tongue enough to speak, but not his brain enough to prevent protest. “She wasn’t a good person.”

“Like Dad?”

“He wasn’t your father. Don’t dignify him with the title.” He meant it as a compliment, but tears quickly gathered in the young girl’s eyes.

“He was my daddy, he was!”

“Shush! Hush now.” He took her arm and gently rubbed it. The arm was so small in his hand. So delicate.

Suddenly he recoiled. What had he just been doing? Where would his mind have gone if allowed to continue? He tried to force the confused revulsion down out of sight. Right now, Grace was upset and she needed his guidance. “Your father hurt you, and my mother hurt me, and I don’t think they get to call themselves ‘mother’ and ‘father’ if they do that. I think they lose the right. But that’s not something to be upset about, because a person doesn’t need a mother or father as long as they have someone who loves them. And we love you, Grace.”

“You do?”