Blood Ties

by A. J. Quinnell

  Stevens was a bit dry at first, but also relaxed with the drink. He had a big tea plantation high up in the Mahé Mountains. He invited Kirsty to visit him and stay a weekend if she liked, adding with a twinkle that his wife would be in residence. Later he had asked Cady how it was possible for so young a man to take such a long holiday. Was he from a wealthy family? Cady shook his head and grinned and explained about his work in the oilfields and accumulating months of pay, and then losing his job.

  “How?” Stevens asked.

  Cady had smiled slightly and said “I drew my boss’s attention to the fact that he was a liar.”

  Cady had not talked much to Kirsty. He seemed a little shy of her.

  She slipped on her nightdress and peered out of the porthole. She could see the reflection of the ship’s lights on the water and the waves created by the ship’s bows. It was calm and, except for the throb of the ship’s engine and the swish of water, very quiet. She poured herself a glass of bottled water and drank deeply. Kevin always used to say that two pints of water before going to bed prevented a bad hangover. She decided that she liked travelling by sea. The small cabin was cosy and now clean. The steward had made up the lower bunk, and the sheet was neatly turned down.

  She drained the glass and was about to get into the bunk when she heard the light tap on the door. Mystified, she crossed over and opened it a crack. Desai was standing in the passageway with an ingratiating smile. He said.

  “I saw your light was still on. Would you like to see round the ship now?”

  “Now? But it’s almost midnight.”

  “Yes, it’s very quiet . . . the best time,”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Thank you, no. I’m very tired. Maybe some other time.”

  Casually he put his hand against the door and asked “Is your cabin all right? Sometimes those lazy stewards leave them very dirty . . . let me see.”

  She retreated a bit. “It’s very clean, don’t worry.”

  He was in the doorway now.

  “I like you very much, Mrs Haywood. Your name is Kirsty, isn’t it? Can I call you Kirsty?”

  “Sure . . . but I want to go to bed now.”

  He smiled widely. Teeth gleaming under his black moustache.

  “Sure . . . sure. But we don’t have much time. Only three nights. I know you like me, I can always tell.”

  He was inside the cabin now, pushing the door shut with his heel. His hands came up behind and flicked the lock. She felt her heart begin to beat faster.

  “Listen Mr Desai. You’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t want to sleep with you.”

  His smile widened to a grin and he gripped her arm as she backed into a comer. “Sure you do. I know you American women. There was one aboard two months ago to Bombay. She said ‘no no no’ for three nights then ‘yes yes yes’ for the next two weeks . . . but we don’t have that much time.”

  She could not believe it was happening. For the first night in years she had been relaxed and laughing and now in seconds it had turned into a nightmare. She looked up at his fixed grin, the sweat on his face and the lust in his eyes. In a panic she swung her free hand at his face, but he caught her wrist easily and pulled her against him and laughed.

  “Sure; fight lady. I like it. But when my cock’s inside you then go quiet.”

  She brought her knee up, but he turned his thigh and it bounced off. With rising desperation she realised that in spite of his paunch he was immensely strong and fast. He swung her round, gripped both her wrists in one hand and, with the other, ripped down her nightdress. His hand gripped her right breast and squeezed painfully. She sucked in air to scream but his hand left her breast and clamped over her mouth. She tried to bite it, but in a blur of movement he took it away and then smashed it against the side of her face. Half stunned, she felt herself lifted and tossed on to the bunk. Felt the air on her legs as he pulled up her nightdress; felt his hand ramming up between her thighs, fingers groping crudely. His weight came down on her, the stubble of his cheek scraping hers; his tongue licking her mouth. She twisted and struggled, moaning in terror; felt a finger squeezing inside her. His other hand was back mauling her breasts, nails digging deep. It was the pain that finally cleared the mists of terror. He was too strong. She had to use her brains. She turned her head and whispered:

  “Wait. Please wait. OK. Don’t hurt me. Whatever you want. Please Mr Desai. It’s OK. But let’s do it slowly. You’re so heavy.”

  He chuckled and eased his weight off her, looking down at her face in triumph, then at her heavy breasts, red from his gouging fingers. She tried to force a smile and waved a hand at her torn nightdress.

  “Let me get this off.”

  He grinned and panted and pulled away. She swung her feet to the floor, drew air in deeply, measuring the distance to the cabin wall. She reached for the hem of the nightdress, forced another smile, then launched herself forward, pounded her fists against the wall and screamed piercingly. A second later the back of Desai’s hand smashed across her mouth, sending her spinning into the corner.

  She blacked out for a few seconds and when she came round it was Cady’s voice she first heard shouting her name accompanied by the rattling of the door. She opened her eyes. She was looking up through Desai’s straddled legs. She heard a splintering and the door was open and Cady, wearing only a sort of cloth around his waist, was coming in, vivid blue eyes sweeping the scene and then suffusing with rage. She crawled under the bunk hearing Desai’s panic-stricken voice:

  “She invited me . . .”

  “Bullshit!”

  Then a thud like wood hitting wood and she twisted and saw him bouncing off the wall.

  He tried to fight back, throwing a roundhouse right, but Cady ducked under it, moved in close and his elbows pumped as his huge fists smashed in, his breath spurting in rage and effort.

  Desai sank to his knees, trying to grip Cady’s legs, but Cady caught a handful of his greasy hair, pulled him clear and smashed his knee into his face.

  Then crew members were crowding into the cabin and pulling them apart, and the Captain arrived, buttoning his shirt and demanding to know what was going on.

  It took half an hour for the turmoil to die down. Desai was carried to his cabin, and the Captain listened sympathetically to Kirsty’s story and then sighed.

  It was very regrettable. There had been complaints in the past. Unfortunately Desai’s father was a high official in the Steamship Company of India. Nevertheless, this time the Captain would be firm. Desai would be confined to his cabin until the ship reached Bombay and a report would be made. He would take a statement from Kirsty but suggested that she did not file charges. Such things were so complicated at sea, especially when it was one word against the other. Anyway, she had not been physically harmed. Kirsty agreed and, with more apologies, the Captain departed, leaving her alone with Cady. She sat by the table and he stood near the door watching her with concern. She was looking down at the table drawing a pattern on it with a finger.

  She said, “It’s ironic. I spent a lifetime in New York and never got attacked. I have to come ten thousand miles for it to happen.” She looked up and smiled wanly.

  “Bastards like that,” he said, “you’ll find everywhere.”

  She nodded in an abstract way and said “Do you always sleep in that?”

  He looked down at his vividly coloured sarong. “Yeah. I did a year on a wild-catter in Indonesia a while back. Everyone out there sleeps in them . . . they’re comfortable . . . I got the habit . . . I should go . . . let you sleep.”

  She nodded. “What’s it like . . . Indonesia?”

  He started to tell her about that teeming archipelago, of its forests and ancient temples and diverse peoples, but he noticed that she was not really listening and he realised that she had started the conversation because she did not want to be alone. Abruptly he said, “Kirsty, an experience like that would make anyone nervous, especially at night and in a strange situation.” He gestured at the s
pare bunk. “Would you like me to stay here tonight? Be sure I won’t bother you.”

  He saw her face brighten perceptibly. “I know you won’t bother me. Would you mind? It’s silly, but . . .”

  “Sure. No problem. If you make up the bunk I’ll go get a shirt and some pants for the morning.”

  Twenty minutes later she was looking up at one of his big feet sticking out over the edge of the top bunk.

  “Are you OK Cady? These bunks were made for smaller people.”

  “Sure. I’m used to it.”

  “Isn’t Alistair a Scottish name?”

  “Sure. Lots of Nova Scotians have Scottish blood . . . but I hate the name. Just call me Cady. Everybody does.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Six four.”

  “With or without the boots?”

  She heard him chuckle. “Without. I know it’s crazy but just about all the oil guys wear them. An’ dress an’ talk like cowboys . . . even Canucks. It’s because most of the guys are Texans or pretend to be. It’s like a closed fraternity, you kind of conform.”

  “Do you like the life? Will you go back to it?”

  “Oh sure. The pay’s good and you get plenty of time off.”

  He yawned and she reached out and switched off her tight.

  “Goodnight Cady.”

  “ ‘Night Kirsty.”

  The cabin was in semi darkness. In the light filtering through the porthole she could still just make out his foot. It was a comfortable darkness.

  She turned over and snuggled down prepared for sleep; but ten minutes later she was still wide awake. The young man lying four feet above her was an enigma. She rolled on to her back and looked at the foot again. She sensed that he too was awake. Softly she called.

  “Cady?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You have any family?”

  “Only a married sister back in Nova Scotia . . . My mum died when I was a kid . . . and my Pa was killed in an auto accident . . . Oh, ‘bout eight years ago.”

  “No special girl?”

  There was a pause, then: “No. Never has been . . . not really.”

  She was puzzled. “A good looking young man like you . . .?”

  There was a long silence and for a moment she wondered if she had said something wrong. Then he started talking. Perhaps it was the intimate darkness allowing him to talk without her seeing his face. Perhaps because she was a good deal older than him – and a woman. Perhaps it was because it was just the right time. The words came out in a quiet but constant flood tinged with bitterness.

  “Sure . . . a good lookin’ guy like me. You know what happens? Every woman looks at you like you’re a stud . . . ‘Cady the stud’. I know it happens the other way. A beautiful woman is a sex object. But let me tell you it’s a different thing for a man and in a vicious kinda way. A guy like me usually attracts those women who want a sexual kick. You’re expected to perform . . . expected, dammit! And because you’re six four, blue-eyed, blond and a bit tough with it you’d better perform better than some guy half a foot shorter with brown eyes and mousy hair. If not you’re a great damned disappointment! Kirsty, a guy like me is on trial every time he looks at a woman. OK, sure . . . the same question could apply to a woman . . . would you rather be ugly? No. But for a woman it’s different. She can lie back and accept it and if it’s no good she can fake it and then the guy is satisfied. But a potential stud — he can’t fake it. He’s gotta perform and if he doesn’t he gets the questions: ‘What’s the matter honey? Too much to drink? You’re tired honey? You don’t find me attractive honey?’ . . . They make it worse with movies and books. The hero is always tall and handsome. Hell, Alan Ladd is only five foot nothin’ and they always made the heroine stand in a hole to kiss him! I never read a book where the romantic lead was short, bald and maybe even a little bitty round shouldered . . . so it’s natural: women expect guys who look like me to be super fantastic lovers . . .”

  Her voice came quietly. “And you’re not?”

  “Hell no . . . I don’t know what kind of lover I am. Maybe lousy. I’m sure as hell not what a lot of them expect.”

  “You’re not impotent?”

  He laughed bitterly. “Sometimes sure. When I see the expectation in a woman’s eyes . . . when it’s obvious . . . when she looks at you like a fresh baked doughnut . . . sure, can’t even get an erection! Guys I work with, they’ll spend a month or two in the desert without a woman in sight. Spend ninety per cent of the time just talkin’ ‘bout women. Then when they flit town a-rarin’ to go they find they can’t even get it up . . Sorry to be crude.”

  “It’s OK. I never realised. You talk about it with each other?”

  “Almost never. Only with real close friends. But it’s why you often find young oil guys with older women. They understand better.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey wait a minute . . . I didn’t mean . . . you know.”

  She saw the shape of his head appear over the edge of the bunk.

  “No Cady, I understand. I guess I’m surprised. It’s not the image I had, that’s all.”

  The head disappeared. She heard him say bitterly, “Exactly. Not the image. Listen, I was on leave one time in Cyprus with a couple of friends. We were in a nightclub in Limassol. It was three in the morning and we had to get up to Platres in the mountains. ‘Bout twenty miles and our car was busted. Know what those guys did?” “What?”

  “While I was in the can they auctioned me off! There were plenty of tourist girls there, some with rented cars. Those guys went round and told those girls that whoever drove us up to Platres could sleep with me. Several offered. Those bastards chose the one with the biggest car . . . it was a Ford Cortina . . . blue.” He could hear her trying to stifle her laughter. “Dammit Kirsty, they didn’t even tell me till we were up there and she was climbing out of the car lickin’ her lips.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I told her no way . . . she got real mad. Big German girl . . . called me a cheat an’ a faggot . . . had to give her five pounds for the goddam petrol!”

  She could not stifle her laugh and she heard an answering one from above and he muttered.

  “Sons of bitches auctioned me off for a ride home . . . anyway that’s enough about me. Any more and I’ll think I need a goddam shrink!”

  The bunk squeaked as he turned over and pounded the pillow.

  Another ten minutes passed. The ship was rolling slightly and that, together with the sound of the sea swishing alongside, should have lulled her to sleep. But she was wide awake. She decided that Cady was one complicated character and guessed that the early death of his mother may have been a contributing factor. Just as the death of Kevin had affected Garret.

  The bunk above squeaked again and then she heard his low voice.

  “Kirsty. You awake?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What about you? You’re married?”

  “I was. Ten years ago my husband fell off a mountain.”

  “A mountain?”

  “Yes. It was his hobby . . . rock-climbing. Always alone. He was good at it but one day I guess he made a mistake and fell two thousand feet.”

  “Jeez! Any children?”

  “One, a son . . . Garret.”

  “Where’s he? Back in New York?”

  She did not answer. She was trying to decide whether to tell him. Lately she had developed an aversion to talking about it.

  “Kirsty, you OK?”

  She decided. She would talk about it and more.

  “Cady, I’m not on holiday. I’m looking for my son. They say he’s dead but I don’t believe it.”

  Again maybe it was the semi darkness and the lack of eye contact which started her off. First she told him about the visit by Captain Buckley and all that had followed. Then she went further back to the time after Kevin’s death. His estate had totalled only $15,000. Half of it to Kirsty and half to Garret when he reached his eighteenth birthday. Her half had go
ne as a deposit for the apartment. His was invested.

  At this point Cady had clicked on the light and clambered down and sat on the chair with his long legs propped on her bunk. He poured her a glass of water and one for himself and watched her intently as she continued.

  She told him about Garret. He was a difficult child, even before Kevin’s death, but afterwards doubly so. He worshipped his father and took after him. He had a fiercely independent streak and resisted authority of any kind. There was another problem. He had an extremely rare blood group. It was calculated that less than one in a million people had it. So it had made her more than ever protective of him. If he was badly injured and needed a transfusion he could be in great danger. At all times he had to wear a brass disc round his neck stamped with his blood group.

  Looking back she knew she had been over protective and cloying but he was all she had, and she loved him to the exclusion of everything else. As he grew up so his resentment grew. She forbade him to play contact sports like football or basketball. She would not let him go to summer camp in case of an accident. If he was even a few minutes late coming home from school she flew into a panic. In short she smothered him, as she had later realised with stunning clarity, and he had reacted accordingly. They had terrible rows as he grew into and then past puberty. He started to threaten that as soon as he reached eighteen and received his inheritance he would leave home – and never come back.