Hostage Three

by Nick Lake

  In the weeks that followed, Dad started taking down some of the photos of Mom.

  And then came the day of the polo.

  They weren’t married at this point, so she wasn’t the stepmother. She was just Dad’s girlfriend, Sarah. She was, I don’t know, thirty at the most. She phoned up one Saturday, and asked Dad, did he know that there was polo on at Ham Polo Club the next day, and had he ever been?

  No, we had never been.

  So, on Sunday, she turned up, wearing a big wide-brimmed blue hat with a kind of pouffe thing on it, like she was going to Ascot or something. And we all walked down the path that led from Ham Common to the polo field. I didn’t want to go – I couldn’t think of anything worse – but Dad made me. To get him back, I was wearing a torn vintage dress and Doc Martens.

  Much as I hate to admit it, though, the start wasn’t too bad. It was a sunny day, late April, the poppies and daisies out in the verges. We sat on a rug on the grass, on the far side from the stands, because Sarah said that was more like a picnic. I had no idea what was going on in the polo, but it was exciting, watching the horses galloping up and down, the men leaning over as they rode, almost to where you thought they would fall off, to hit the ball. We had a hamper, with all sorts of incredible food that Dad had ordered from the deli, and champagne – which Sarah insisted on pouring me a glass of, even though Dad objected. It reminded me of Mom, but in a good way.

  I almost liked her in that moment.

  But then one of the horses fell. It belonged to the orange and black team, whoever they were. There was no dramatic reason – it was turning, and it went down. I could tell immediately it was bad. The horse’s head got kind of stuck under its own neck when it went down, and it took the whole weight of its body. I don’t know if I’m just imagining this afterwards, or if I actually heard it, but I think there was a crack sound. The polo player managed to jump off just in time, but he hit the ground hard, too, and rolled.

  Silence, from the crowd.

  For maybe a couple of minutes, I thought the horse might get up. I could feel Dad tensely sitting there beside me. Sarah was clutching her champagne glass so hard her knuckles were going white, and I thought she might smash it. But the horse didn’t get up.

  Why didn’t we leave? I don’t know. It was like we were hypnotised, like we had to see it through to the end. None of us said anything for quite a long time.

  Then Dad said:

  — I think its neck might be broken.

  — Why don’t they get a vet? I asked.

  No one answered.

  The horse was kind of twitching. It was awful. One of the most awful things I have ever seen. The polo player was kneeling by it, whispering to it. Then, and it seemed like a long time before this happened, some official-looking people came with a sort of tent-like barrier with hinges, which they erected around the horse. This meant the people from the stands no longer had to look at it. Only, from our angle, we could still see it.

  Yet we still didn’t leave. We didn’t drink any more champagne, and we didn’t eat anything, but we didn’t leave, either. A voice came over the tannoy, apologising for the delay, saying that the only on-call vet on a Sunday had been called.

  — They don’t have a vet here? said Dad, incredulous.

  I checked my Chanel watch. An hour went past before a Land Rover turned up, with the logo of a vet’s surgery in Reigate on its sides, and drove right up on to the polo field. A man with a leather bag got out and went over to the horse. He kneeled down beside it, palpated its neck, looked under its eyelids.

  The polo player was young, I realised suddenly. Mainly because another man, who looked like him but older, turned up in a Mercedes, and went to stand with him just outside the barrier. The man put his arms around the guy whose horse had gone down, and I thought, that’s his dad.

  The vet stood up straight and walked over to them. He talked to the player for a few minutes, and then the player’s dad gave him an even bigger hug. It was like watching a play that’s being staged far away, where you don’t hear the words, but you still know what’s going on – the big stuff, anyway.

  I looked over at Sarah and saw that she was crying. That was when – and I know this was unfair – I decided I hated her. I mean, it was a horse. My mother had died and Sarah was taking her place and she was crying over a horse.

  The vet went back to his bag, took out a big needle, almost comically big, like something from a sketch show. He injected the horse, and it died.

  Finally, it was like the spell was broken.

  Dad stood up and silently started packing up the picnic stuff. Sarah helped him, then we walked home.

  On the way down the footpath, as we passed Ham House, the old manor, this blonde girl came towards us. She was wearing jodhpurs and swinging a riding helmet in her hand. She asked what all the commotion was about, and we told her about the horse tripping and breaking its neck.

  — Who was it? she said, sounding concerned. I mean, the rider.

  We described him – dark curly hair, tall.

  — Oh no, poor Henry, she said, in a voice that actually didn’t sound sorry at all, more brisk and matter of fact. How ghastly. My first gee-gee went the same way.

  As we walked away, Dad and I snorted at exactly the same time.

  — Gee-gee, he said. Jesus.

  — What? said Sarah. I think it’s tragic.

  I caught Dad’s eyes as he rolled them. Because the thing was: it wasn’t tragic. I understood that, Dad understood that, and Mom, if she were still alive, would have understood that. It was unpleasant, and unsettling, and painful to watch, and I felt sorry for the horse and the rider, but it wasn’t tragic, not exactly.

  That moment right there was when I knew that Sarah, even though she might become the stepmother, would never really be part of our family.

  — My daughter’s watch, said Dad. It hasn’t been returned to her.

  This was the next day.

  We’d passed another uncomfortable night, the six of us, sleeping on the sofas and armchairs and on makeshift beds of cushions on the floor in the cinema room. Tony was looking better, though. The stepmother, who turned out to have done some kind of first-aid course – so maybe she wasn’t totally useless – had cleaned his wound with iodine, wrapped a fresh bandage around it and given him some painkillers. Codeine, Dad said they were. Powerful. In moments he had fallen asleep.

  Now we were out on the deck, and it was less hot because Damian was up on the bridge, and the engines were going again. We were on our way to Eyl, the yacht’s movement creating its own breeze. I was relieved it wasn’t so punishingly hot. Even now, as I watched, the constant sun was making blazing, dancing diamonds out of the ridges of the sea, and these were shifting so constantly that it seemed like the sea was racing past us, when really it was sluggish, just the very shallow breathing of the tide.

  Light moves so fast, it seems totally still, I thought. Water is so slow, it seems to be always moving.

  Dad was pressing Ahmed about my watch. Ahmed was spreading his hands out to say, what do you want me to do?

  — The watch, it has sentimental value, Dad said. We don’t care about the other things so much. They can keep the iPods, the laptops –

  — Hey, said the stepmother, and Dad waved at her to shut up.

  — But the watch, he went on. My . . . late wife gave it to my daughter. It means a lot.

  Ahmed looked pretty confused by all this.

  — What?

  — The watch, it’s not worth money. It’s worth . . . Dad touched his chest, over his heart. Feelings.

  Ahmed obviously didn’t understand. He shouted something to the guard by the main door to below decks – Dead Eyes, the one who had taken my watch. Dead Eyes shouted back, and a minute or so later Farouz appeared.

  His hair, which was medium-length and midnight black, kind of wavy, was sticking up at the back, like he’d been asleep. I had an urge to reach out and smooth it down, to feel the structure of the back
of his skull. It was so strong, this urge, that I tightened my fist, curling my fingernails into my palm.

  Ahmed pointed to Farouz, who was standing there looking a bit confused.

  — Tell to him, to Farouz, he said to my dad.

  Dad explained again about the sentimental value.

  Farouz nodded, his hair still somehow crying out for me to touch it. He turned to Ahmed and translated. Ahmed did, like, an ah with his mouth, only with no sound. He turned to Dad.

  — Who has?

  Dad pointed at Dead Eyes, who was slouching sullenly against the railings.

  Ahmed shouted something at him.

  Dead Eyes shouted back.

  — He says he does not have, Ahmed said with a shrug.

  It was naive of me, I know, but I was shocked by this out-and-out lie. I stared at Dead Eyes.

  — But he does, I said. Even to myself I sounded petulant, like a little girl. He took the watch. I saw him wearing it.

  — Sorry, said Ahmed. I fine him. OK?

  This was the second time they’d mentioned fining people.

  — What do you mean, fine? said Dad.

  Now Ahmed had to look patient, like it was Dad who was the idiot.

  — I take from his . . . He looked at Farouz.

  — Share, said Farouz. Ahmed will deduct the value of the watch from Mohammed’s share of the ransom.

  — But the value of the watch is sentimental, Dad said again.

  Farouz raised his hands.

  — Ahmed cannot deduct sentiments, he said.

  — Christ, said Dad. What do I care about his share? It’s not even his money! You’re stealing it from . . . from the owners of the yacht.

  There was a droning noise from above and somewhere to the north. Ahmed and Farouz looked up. The other pirates, too. As we watched, a black speck on the horizon slowly turned into a toy helicopter, which then turned into a real helicopter, black and serious-looking. It swung in low, flying over the yacht, and I saw military markings on the side, the glare of someone – maybe? – looking out with binoculars. One of the pirates fired up at it, the retort of the gun shockingly loud, but the helicopter just pulled higher, did another, quick sweep of the yacht, then started to fly away.

  — Rescue! They’re going to rescue us! said the stepmother.

  — No, said Dad. They’re just checking. Just doing a recce. They still can’t risk anything.

  The helicopter was something, though, even if the pirates seemed supremely unbothered by it. They didn’t even comment on it, just went back to whatever they were doing before.

  — So, said Ahmed. I fine him. We forget. OK?

  — No, said Dad, it’s not OK, it’s –

  — Dad, I said. Let it go, yeah?

  I started to walk back inside. But something struck me then.

  — Those numbers on the doors, I said, turning to Farouz. Are those fines, too?

  — Yes, he said, all matter of fact, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Everyone was stealing from the cabins. Your father asked Ahmed to stop it, so Ahmed decided to charge anyone who went into the rooms.

  — So if someone goes into my dad’s cabin, it costs them a thousand dollars? I asked.

  — Yes. This is normal. Also, the man who shot your friend –

  — Tony.

  — Not Tony! Farouz’s eyes blazed. It was the first time I’d seen him angry, and I took a step back instinctively. Hostage Four. The man who shot Hostage Four, he loses ten thousand dollars.

  — God, I said. And what’s the fine if you kill one of us?

  — Fifty thousand dollars, Farouz said, without skipping a beat, not seeing that I was joking, as frost crackled across my chest, not seeing it at all.

  As hostages on the Daisy May, we entered a weird kind of time warp. Really, I couldn’t tell you exactly how long we sailed for – five days? a week? – because I don’t know. I do know it took quite a few days to get to the Somali coast. But when you’re in a situation like that, it’s so easy to start losing track of what day it is, whether it’s the weekend or not. It all becomes one endless day of worry.

  We got used to the prayers, that was one thing. The first morning, when one of the guys started singing – Ahmed, I think – I woke up and saw by Tony’s digital watch that it was only 5 a.m. and I couldn’t believe it. This voice in the darkness, going, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar . . . It was like a reminder in the middle of the night, some kind of alarm you set, so you didn’t forget: you have been boarded by Somali pirates.

  The first time I saw them, one afternoon, laying out their little rugs and kneeling down, I was surprised because I thought they’d be facing east. I mentioned it to Tony later, and he looked at me like I was stupid and said that Mecca was basically north of where we were, and only a little bit east.

  One time, Damian came down to the cinema room and said that a call had just come through on the satellite phone when he was with Ahmed, who had been telling him where to sail to. Damian had answered because Ahmed didn’t seem bothered, and it was the navy on the other end! They said they were following us, that they knew where we were, that we should hang tight.

  — Ahmed heard the whole thing, said Damian, back in the cinema room. Afterwards Ahmed took the phone from me and said to the navy, don’t call again. We call. Then he hung up. The whole time he was calm. It was like he just didn’t care.

  Something turned inside me, like an eel, in the dark crannies of my mind.

  — Why wouldn’t – I started to say.

  — Think about it, said Tony. What are the navy going to do? The pirates have hostages. That automatically makes all the navy’s guns useless.

  It was a sobering thought.

  Finally, we saw land. It was a little like Egypt, but also more wild, more . . . ancient-seeming.

  — Ku soo dhawaada Somaliland, Ahmed said, as the beach grew towards us. Welcome to Somalia.

  There was an arc of sand, with many small wooden boats lying on it, toppled over, looking strange and wrong out of water, like toys discarded by a giant. Behind the shore were dunes, and then rocks rising to mountains, a thousand shades of red that, as the sun moved behind clouds, shifted colours, became shimmering rainbows.

  And between the sand and the mountains . . .

  — Eyl, Ahmed said, with a grin.

  I wasn’t sure why he was so proud. All I could see, apart from sand, were some shacks, a single pickup truck, a wizened tree, a few goats tethered here and there. Some of the town was hidden by the dunes or the rocks, but it still wasn’t an impressive sight.

  — For fishing? I said, pointing to the dozens of beached little boats.

  Ahmed laughed and pointed behind me.

  I turned. We were on the front deck, so I had an uninterrupted view down the coast, and that meant I could see the tanker at anchor a mile or so away and the container ship even further along.

  — For supplies, he said. From town.

  I stared. The little boats were for shuttling supplies to the yacht. And there were other ships here, being held hostage. We weren’t alone. Somehow that made it even more scary. It was like piracy was the industry of this town.

  We realised how true that was in the following days. It became impossible to keep track of the guards because the motor boats were coming and going all the time, relieving shifts, bringing more food.

  At this point, we were still eating the yacht’s food and Felipe was making it. The pirates ate pasta, only pasta, for every meal. One of them would fire up the gas stove and they would boil it for hours, with stuff from the tins they had brought aboard. It looked gross.

  Oh – and the coffee! I have to tell you about the coffee.

  I think it was, like, the third day before we reached Eyl that we saw them do it. I was taking Tony for a walk outside, along the walkway that led between the two decks. He was moving more freely all the time. We happened to go past the galley porthole, and some movement caught our eyes. Inside, a pirate was squatting by a big wash
ing-up bowl. He unscrewed the lid from a tin of coffee – the writing on it was Arabic, which made me think it wasn’t ours. He tipped the whole tin into the washing-up bowl, then straightened up and went to the store cupboard. He came back with a packet of sugar – a fricking kilo of sugar – and poured that in, too. Then he carried the bowl over to the tap and poured cold water into it.

  — What the – said Tony.

  The pirate took a metal cup that was tied to his waistband and dipped it into the hideous concoction, then sipped. He seemed pleased because he left the galley with the bowl.

  — Jesus, I said.

  — Yeah, said Tony. We must make sure Felipe never sees this.

  I laughed. Felipe treated the galley like it was his castle. He hated the pirates going in there, though he knew he had no choice. And he hated that they had taken away his knives and would only give them back if there was a guard to watch over him.

  — Well, said Tony. At least we can hope that they’ll give themselves heart attacks from a caffeine overdose.

  They didn’t, of course. But they did drink a massive bowlful of that stuff every day. You never saw a pirate who wasn’t smoking or chewing khat or drinking their so-called coffee. The corridors and decks became spotted with splats of black hawked up by the chewers, as if some birds that shat blackness instead of white guano had infested the place.

  The smell of smoke was everywhere, too. Even Farouz was very rarely without a fag in his lips, smoke drifting from his nostrils. Which, in fact, is perhaps how I remember him the most vividly.

  I didn’t mean to see the stars.

  I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. It’s not like we were totally under lock and key, even now that we were moored by Eyl. We were free to come and go as we pleased, though not to leave the boat, of course. If we did, what were we going to do? Swim to the Somali coast? The idea was absurd.

  So they didn’t watch us every moment of every day, is what I’m saying.