The John Milton Series Boxset 3

by Mark Dawson

  “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 shimmered 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 passed 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 ships, but, save a tiny speck that might have been a fishing vessel, he saw nothing.

  They were all alone, miles from assistance, on a boat that was barely seaworthy and manned by a crew who looked as uncomfortable as the passengers.

  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 passengers 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 space to bypass 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.

  “What is it?” Kolo said. “What have I done wrong?”

  “You should not be on the top deck.”

  “I paid for my ticket.”

  “You are on the boat. That is what you paid for. But the darker your skin, the farther down you go.”

  The man unlatched the door to the lower deck. A wave of odour washed out of it: petrol fumes, sweat, vomit, excrement and urine. It was so strong that it overwhelmed the saltiness of the sea, and those passengers nearest the door turned away in disgust. Milton looked across and saw a square of gloomy darkness through the open doorway. The Libyan pointed into it with his left hand, his right aiming the gun with a lazy, insouciant confidence.

  Milton wanted to intervene, but he knew that there was nothing that he could do. If he spoke out, he would attract attention to himself and the fact that he was so very different from the other passengers. He knew that he was safe only for as long as he kept a low profile, out of sight, avoiding any possibility of attracting attention to himself. He doubted that these men would have any compunction in tossing him over the side.

  Kolo looked back at Milton. He held the boy’s gaze for a moment and then forced himself to look away. When Milton glanced back again, Kolo had stepped over the sill of the door and was descending the stairs to the lower deck. The Libyan closed the door with a resounding crash and fastened the latch again.

  “What about her?” called out one of the passengers.

  The smuggler swivelled and looked over at the man who had just spoken. He was Libyan or Syrian, and Milton had noticed that he had been causing trouble over on his side of the boat.

  “She is African,” the man said. “She is as black as he is.”

  The smuggler shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “Come on, man. There’s not enough space up here. Put her down with the others, too.”

  “I paid to—”

  The smuggler jabbed the gun in the man’s direction; everyone flinched. “Did you hear me? I said she stays here with us. No more talking. If you talk, I shoot you and throw you over the side.”

  The man raised his hands in surrender, his protest at an end. The smuggler shook his head in disgust, hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it over the side. He put the gun back into his trousers and turned away.

  Milton regarded the girl. She was sitting with her back against the side of the boat. She was tall, with long legs and slender arms. The man who had tried to have her moved looked over at her with a disdain he did not bother to conceal, and she turned her head and looked away. It looked as if she was alone on the boat; her dark skin certainly stood out among the lighter browns of the Libyans and Syrians who sat around her. She turned her head in Milton’s direction. She wasn’t focussing on anything or anyone, but, for a moment, it felt to him as if she was looking right at him. She was very pretty.

  Milton knew why she had been put up on the top deck. He remembered what Mustafa had told him.

  She was merchandise.

  The Albanians had contracted with Ali for girls, and she was one of them.

  He looked around the deck and saw a number of women who bore similarities to the first girl: the teenager sitting with her back to the wheelhouse, surrounded by her family; an older woman, early twenties, gazing out at the ocean; two girls, possibly sisters, talking to each other in nervous whispers. Were they all part of the same consignment? Maybe, maybe not. But Milton was willing to guess that at least some of them had been earmarked for a career that they had not anticipated as soon as they reached their destination.

  Milton might not be able to help them while they were on the boat, but things would be different when they reached land. And suspecting who they were would make it easier for him to do what he had planned to do.

  They were the bait.

  Part Four

  London

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  MILTON HAD been gone for six days.

  Hicks and Sarah had settled into a comfortable arrangement that was interspersed with moments of awkwardness. It was a small flat, and the sleeping arrangements were not perfect. Hicks stayed in the living room, and Sarah remained in the bedroom. There had been occasions where they had surprised each other early in the morning or late at night: Hicks going to the bathroom in his shorts as Sarah emerged from her own room in one of Milton’s plain white T-shirts barely large enough to reach down to her thighs. The kitchen was tiny, and it was impossible for either of them to pass without brushing up against the other. It had happened twice before Hicks resolved not to try to use the room while
Sarah was there. That she was attractive was not in question, and nor was it a problem—Hicks had no interest in her romantically—but the press of her body against his made him feel uncomfortable.

  He knew why. He hadn’t told Rachel the nature of his business in London. He realised, with a pang of guilt, that he had unconsciously shied away from telling her that he was looking after a young, and unquestionably attractive, woman. There was no reason for his reticence other than the fact that what he was doing made him feel nervous. It was the anticipation that he might make Rachel unhappy, even though, rationally, he knew that she would understand.

  That made him question himself more thoroughly, and he started to worry that he had kept quiet because he had a guilty conscience.

  Because he did find Sarah physically attractive. Even though he had no intention of acting on that attraction, that knowledge, and the fact that there was still no sign of Milton’s return, made him unsettled.

  #

  THEY RETURNED to Epping Forest for another walk and returned to the car at a little after six. They had walked for three hours, deeper into the forest, and Hicks had found that he had enjoyed the time they spent together. Sarah leaned forward as soon as Hicks started the engine and found Spotify on the console.

  “I had a radio in Syria,” she said as she scrolled through the curated playlists. “Well—it was my boyfriend’s. We listened to it all the time.”

  “You left it behind?”

  “Of course. I could not bring it with me.”

  “You didn’t say you had a boyfriend.”

  She swiped across the screen. “I did. Not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was killed.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  She kept swiping.

  Hicks proceeded delicately. “Was this before you left?”

  “No,” she said. “Afterwards. He stayed. The government killed him. He was a porter at the hospital in Zafarana. They dropped a barrel bomb onto the town and then, when the injured were taken to hospital, they dropped two more bombs onto it. He died in the second blast. His parents emailed to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “Why? It’s nothing to do with you, Hicks.” She found an old-school hip-hop playlist and Twista started to play. “You can’t trust men,” she said, lightening her words with a laugh that Hicks could tell was manufactured. “My father. Then Joran. They always leave me, one way or another.”

  She crossed her legs and drummed her fingers on her knee; save the music, there was silence between them. Hicks didn’t know how to respond, so he thought about what she had said as he drove them west to Bethnal Green.

  She spoke again as he pulled into a parking space next to Milton’s building.

  “You won’t leave me, will you?”

  The question caught him askance.

  “No,” he said. “I won’t.”

  “Really?”

  “I promised,” Hicks said. “I promised John and I promised you. I’ll stay here for as long as I’m needed.”

  She opened the door, he opened his, and they both stepped out.

  “Are you hungry, Hicks?”

  He had tried several times to persuade her to call him Alex, but she always reverted back to the more formal address.

  “I am,” he said. “What do you fancy? A takeout?”

  “No. I’ve had enough pizza and curry to last a lifetime. I thought I would make something. Dawood basha. Would you like some?”

  “I’ve no idea what that is.”

  “Syrian meatballs. The meat is flavoured and cooked in a tomato sauce. It is very good.”

  “Lovely.” He locked the car and walked her to the entrance of the flat. He opened the door and stood aside as she went in. “Do you need anything?”

  “I could use some ghee,” she said. “I don’t have much left.”

  “I’ll get some.”

  #

  HICKS WENT back outside and ambled to the shops on Old Street. He thought about what she had told him. There had been no mention of her boyfriend until then, and, although she had made a joke about it, even Hicks could see that her words were an indication of something that bothered her at a deep level. He was no psychologist, but the diagnosis was, surely, elementary. Her father and then her boyfriend; it wasn’t their fault that they had been killed, but their losses had imbued her with a sense of abandonment and an almost constitutional distrust of attachment. It wasn’t unreasonable.

  Hicks realised how difficult it must have been for her to trust Milton and then, as Milton left, to trust him.

  He remembered the comment she had made about the radio and remembered that there was a place that sold cheap electrical goods next to the supermarket. He walked up to it and paused, gazing in through the plate-glass window. There were vacuum cleaners, kitchen appliances, game consoles and, to one side, a digital radio. The proprietor was in the process of closing up. Hicks opened the door and went inside.

  #

  SARAH TOLD HIM TO WAIT IN THE SITTING ROOM.

  He did as he was told, inhaling the delicious aromas that were spilling out of the open kitchen door. He smelled cooked beef, sautéed onions, tomato and a confection of spices that he couldn’t identify but which, nevertheless, smelled appetising.

  Hicks left the digital radio on the table.

  Sarah came through after ten minutes. She was carrying two bowls, one in her right hand and the other braced between her elbow and wrist, and, in the other hand, she clutched the necks of two bottles of beer. Hicks sat up straight and took the balanced bowl and one of the beers. The meal was appetising: browned meatballs in a thick tomato sauce, served with rice.

  “This looks good,” he said, slicing through one of the meatballs with his fork.

  “What’s that?” she said, nodding at the box on the table.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  She rested her plate of food on the table and took the box out of the plastic bag.

  “A radio?”

  “You said you missed yours. I thought it might make things a little easier. And, you know, driving with you in the car—I’ve had enough R&B to last me a lifetime.”

  She slid her finger inside the box, pulled back the flap and took out the radio. It was a cheap model, a little flimsy, but she made no comment. Instead, she put it back on the table and turned to him. Her face, usually so severe, became bright and open, and a broad smile revealed her white teeth and the sparkle in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that. You’ve already done a lot for me.”

  “Forget it. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  “I do,” she said. “It’s very kind of you.”

  She held his eye for a moment, long enough for him to feel a twist of awkwardness in his gut. Hicks looked into her dark hazel eyes, noticed that he was holding his breath and, perturbed, looked down at the bowl and started to eat. After another moment, Sarah did the same.

  #

  THE REST of the evening was very pleasant. Hicks helped Sarah to set up the radio and, after five minutes of frustration trying to interpret a manual that had been put together by someone with only a passing familiarity with the English language, they succeeded. Hicks sat down with a second bottle of beer as Sarah scanned through the channels and, with a grin that underlined that she was choosing for his benefit, settled on Absolute 80s.

  “I’m not that old,” he complained.

  She ignored his protest, waited until the end of the ads and the start of ‘Living on the Ceiling’ by Blancmange and then went to sit down in the armchair. She reached out for the packet of cigarettes she had left on the table, took one out and reached back down for her lighter.

  “John said—”

  “He won’t mind,” she interrupted, lighting up.

  The mood between them was as amiable as it had ever been, and Hicks had no interest in s
poiling it over a cigarette or two. He leaned back against the cheap sofa’s marked upholstery, took a swig of his beer, and allowed himself to relax.

  #

  HICKS OPENED HIS EYES. He didn’t know what time it was, nor how long he had been asleep, but he realised, quickly, what had awoken him.

  Someone was in the room with him. His view was obscured by the armrest of the sofa, but he could see a shadow in the doorway.

  He lay still, but slowly reached his hand beneath the cushion that he had been resting his head upon. His fingers touched the stippled grip of his Sig. He closed his hand around it and threaded his finger through the trigger guard.

  The shadow stepped toward the sofa. There was a shaft of sodium-yellow street light that cut through a gap in the curtain, and Hicks could see that it was a woman. It was Sarah. She was wrapped in a sheet. She sat on the edge of the sofa, reached down for the edge of his blanket, pulled it aside, and slithered across the cushions and leaned down so that she was pressed up against him. He could feel the softness of her breasts against his chest and the hard angle of her hip as she ground it against his.

  Hicks let go of the pistol and sat up.

  “Alex?”

  It was the first time that she had called him by his first name. He shuffled away from her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  The sheet fell away and Hicks could see the fullness of her body in the silvery light.

  “No, Sarah. That’s a really bad idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t like me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

  “You’re very pretty.”

  “What, then?”

  “My wife. I told you—I’m married.”

  “Why would she need to know?”

  Hicks slid farther away and then stood. “You’re very beautiful,” he said, “and you’re very sweet. But I love my wife. I’m faithful to her. I’m not interested in anyone else.”