The Ferry

by Amy Cross

  “So you’re coming home now, right?” Rob continues. “You’re coming home because this crazy job is done and you’ve realized you don’t need to be there.”

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but I’m starting to feel far too exhausted. In my mind’s eye, I keep thinking about all those people drowning. I’ve just been replaying that image over and over again, and I can’t stop.

  “Sophie? You’re coming home, aren’t you?”

  “We have to locate the wreck,” I tell him, struggling to find the right words. “There’s still a slight chance that some of them could be alive in there, maybe trapped in an air pocket or…” My voice trails off, and I know deep down that the chance is basically zero. They’re gone, in which case Rob’s right. I should leave. Back to London, back to school, back to my ‘new’ life.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Rob continues. “You know that, right?”

  Spotting movement nearby, I look to my left and see her.

  I freeze.

  “Sophie?” Rob continues. “You have to know it’s not your fault. You did your best, but you don’t belong there now.”

  Standing a little way back, with rain falling all around her, the little Sullivan girl from five years ago is watching me. There are still worms burrowing through her skin, and parts of her chest have rotted away to reveal the ribs beneath. I’ve never told anyone that I still see her, that she comes to me sometimes. In her eyes, there’s a hint of pure, cold hatred.

  She knows I should have saved her.

  Hearing raised voices nearby, I look toward one of the other trailers. Mark and David Stratton have been arguing in there ever since we got back. Stratton’s in charge of things around here these days, and it’s clear that he didn’t take kindly to the way Mark and I set out in the helicopter. At the same time, he can’t have seriously expected us to just sit around and wait. At least we tried, although I can’t shake the feeling that there must have been something else we could have done.

  “Sophie?” Rob says after a moment. “Are you still there?”

  Looking back toward the little girl, I see to my relief that she’s gone.

  “Yeah,” I reply, “of course, I just… I need to stick around at least for the rest of the day. Mark -” I stop myself just in time. Rob probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I told him that Mark still needs me, and I certainly can’t tell him about our history with the ferry. He’d never understand.

  “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Rob mutters, clearly keen not to discuss Mark at all. “What about the school? You can’t just not show up for work this morning. People here are relying on you.”

  “I’ll call them.”

  “And say what? That you had to run off and do your old job for a night, and that you almost got killed?”

  “I didn’t almost get killed.”

  “So that wasn’t you I saw on the news, hanging from a helicopter as it headed back to shore?”

  “That’s not almost getting killed,” I reply wearily. “That’s doing my job.”

  “It’s not your job anymore!”

  I sigh.

  “And there’s no pain in your voice?” he asks. “You’re not hurt and trying to hide it?”

  “Hanging from a helicopter is perfectly safe,” I tell him, ignoring the pain in my heavily-bruised chest. “You don’t understand how things are around here or -” Hearing a door slam, I look up just in time to see Mark storming out of one of the other trailers. A moment later, another man emerges; he’s older than Mark, with closely-cropped hair and jowly features, and when he spots me it’s clear that he knows who I am, and that he doesn’t approve. After a moment, he looks down at his clipboard and makes a note.

  “I want you to come home,” Rob says after a moment. “You quit the coastguard for a reason, remember? That reason is still relevant. You’re not well enough to be out there!”

  “I’m -”

  Before I can finish, I spot movement off to the right, and when I look over I realize that a couple of the rescue-workers are frantically waving at one another. Hearing raised voices, I get to my feet and take a few steps forward, back out into the rain. Something’s wrong.

  “Sophie?” Rob says. “For God’s sake, are you even listening to me?”

  “Sure,” I reply, “just… Hold on a moment.”

  Making my way past a couple of the trailers, I head to the spot where some of the rescue workers are hurriedly hauling their equipment onto their backs.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  They’re all too busy to tell me.

  “What is it?” I continue, tapping one of them on the shoulder.

  “Possible survivor,” she replies. “We might have someone in the water, just along the coast in the next bay.”

  “Sophie, talk to me,” Rob continues over the phone. “Jesus Christ, this is important. What train are you -”

  “Later,” I tell him, cutting the call. After slipping the phone into my pocket, I start to make my way along the rough, muddy coastal path, following the workers who have already set off ahead of me. As I catch up, I realize they’re talking about a figure having been spotted drifting in Carswell Bay, which is about five hundred meters to the east of our current position. The idea sounds insane, but the whole night has been insane, so I figure it’s worth checking out.

  “Come on, let’s move!” one of the team-members shouts, waving at people back at the makeshift base. “Sighting confirmed! Everyone this way!”

  “What else do you know?” I ask, as their radios start to crackle.

  “Just that there’s been a sighting,” replies one of the women as she hurries along next to me. “Watch your step.”

  With rain still falling, the coastal path has become a muddy slog, with several deep puddles that seem to almost want to suck my boots down. The wind is strong up here, too, and whereas the rescue workers are all in their protective gear, I’m woefully under-prepared in just a t-shirt, trousers and boots. Still, I manage to keep up with them, and with the gaggle of journalists who are further up on the gravel road that runs parallel to the edge of the cliff. Their cameras are flashing already as they try to get the money shot of someone being pulled from the water.

  Goddamn jackals.

  “It’s a miracle if anyone’s out there,” says another of the workers. “In these conditions, you’d be lucky to survive even in a lifeboat.”

  Looking out at the sea, I have to agree with him. The waves are still high, crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff as heavy rain drives down. With the morning sun still having not quite cleared the horizon, conditions for finding and helping someone are far from ideal, but from the constant radio chatter and the snippets of conversation I’m overhearing, it’s clear that someone has been spotted out there. It’s probably just a body, but while there’s still a chance of finding survivors, we have to act. Besides, even a body might help us work out where those people came from.

  “Do we know if this person’s alive?” I ask, as we reach a crest on the muddy path and start making our way carefully down toward Carswell Bay.

  No-one replies. They’re all too focused on getting to the site as quickly as possible.

  Spread out before us, Carswell Bay is a large, dulled cove with a pebbly beach that stretches a couple of hundred feet to the east, with rocks at both the near and far ends. Waves are crashing against the shore, sending water across the beach almost to the foot of the cliff, and as we make our way down the narrow path it’s hard to believe that anyone could possibly be alive out there in such rough weather. Nevertheless, as we reach a turning point in the path, I stop for a moment as I spot a shape in the water, being tossed about by the waves. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out my phone and activate the camera app, before zooming in and trying to focus on the shape, which isn’t easy since whatever it is, it’s being buffeted by the waves. Finally, however, I see that the rescuers were right.

  There’s a human figure out there.


  Just as I’m about to call out to the others, who are making their way down the path toward the shore, I watch in horror as the figure is dashed against the rocks at the bay’s near end. I lose sight of him for a moment, before he reappears in the mix of a set of large waves that are running close to the shore. There’s no sign of the figure moving, and my first instinct as I watch him being tossed about by the storm is that he must be dead. After all, the waves are strong enough to break a man’s neck, and the figure is showing no signs of movement. A moment later, he disappears from view again as more waves crash into one another, but he bobs back into sight after a few seconds before being sent surging onto the rocks and then slipping down into another set of waves, which carry him a little further out.

  “We need an inflatable down here!” a voice shouts from below, as one of the rescuers reaches the shore.

  At my waist, my radio crackles, and I hear one of the other rescuers asking how they’re going to get out into the water so they can grab the body.

  That’s the word they use: body. They clearly don’t think there’s much chance of this person being alive. I can’t say I disagree with them, as the figure is once again carried by a large wave and tossed against the rocks, before being carried back out again. It’s as if the sea, having plucked him from the ferry, still isn’t done.

  “Be advised,” says a voice over the radio, “we see no way to conduct a safe rescue at this point. Please stand by. Stratton says all safety procedures are to be followed. Let’s not go taking any risks.”

  “God, no,” I mutter sarcastically. “The last thing we need is to take risks.”

  All the rescuers are now down on the shore, watching helplessly as the waves toss the figure about and as water continues to crash against the beach. Still up on the path’s turning point, I have a slightly better vantage point, although the driving wind and rain doesn’t help and I feel as if the storm is trying to blow me clean away. After a moment, however, I see the figure being smashed onto the rocks a little closer, but this time the waves fail to pull him away again as they fall back, leaving him caught on one of the larger rocks.

  This is our chance.

  “Over here!” I shout, hurrying back along the path and then skidding down a muddy embankment that leads toward the shore. My heart is racing as I get to the first of the rocks and try to scramble the final thirty feet or so to the figure’s location, only for my boots to lose traction on the slippery surface. I tumble down and land hard on my shoulder, letting out a gasp of pain in the process, but I force myself back up and continue to clamber over the rocks, keeping the figure in view up ahead. I’m not far now, and there’s only -

  Suddenly another heavy wave crashes into the rocks. I see the figure being dislodged and tossed further, before the wave washes over me and I have to look away. Holding onto a nearby rock, I brace myself as the force of the storm briefly hits me; my hands slip against the wet, dirty rock, but I manage to stay upright. A moment later my radio crackles to life.

  “Get back from there!” a voice shouts. “You need a harness to be so close to the edge!”

  Great. This must be David Stratton. The worst part is, he’s right.

  “I know,” I splutter, poised to turn back before seeing that the figure is barely twenty feet away, having apparently been washed into a little pool that has collected between some of the rocks. I know I should turn back, but finally I start scrambling toward the figure, while keeping an eye on the waves so that I can brace myself better next time there’s something coming my way.

  “I’m ordering you to move back,” Stratton continues. “The individual is most likely dead, and I haven’t seen the paperwork confirming you as a consultant on this rescue mission.”

  A moment later, there’s a blindingly bright light above, and I have to shield my eyes as a helicopter swoops in low over the top of the cliff. Struggling to stay standing, I grab hold of a jagged rock and hold on for dear life, as the helicopter comes lower and approaches the prostrate figure. A moment later, I see to my shock that the figure is starting to move, and I watch as he turns slightly and reaches out a hand, as if he’s trying to find something he can hold onto.

  “He’s alive!” I shout, scrambling over the rocks despite the turbulence caused by the helicopter’s rotors.

  There are voices shouting at me from nearby, but I ignore them as I hurry to the figure. Getting closer, I see the back of his head and realize that he has the same thin, pale features as the other people from the boat. A moment later, he turns and looks straight at me with dark, ringed eyes. Part of the skin on his face has been worn away around the cheeks and eyes, exposing patches of pale, bloodless bone, but his eyes are intact. A moment later he opens his mouth, as if he’s about to say something, and I see a row of yellowed teeth.

  “Are you okay?” I shout, barely able to hear my own voice over the sound of the helicopter hovering just a little way above us. “Are you hurt?”

  No reply. The figure simply stares at me, as if he doesn’t understand a word I said. Thin, torn scraps of clothing on his body are being rippled and whipped up by the wind, and in the morning’s cold light I can’t help but notice that his remaining skin seems decidedly off-color, with a faint, yellowish tinge. I drop to my knees next to him and look for any sign of an injury, but there’s no blood and a brief visual check shows no sign of broken bones or even any lacerations. When I try to find his pulse, he instinctively pulls back, but not before I’ve felt his ice-cold skin. If this guy has been washed away from the wrecked ferry and has made it to shore without any serious injuries, it’s the biggest miracle I’ve ever encountered in my life.

  “Do you understand me?” I ask, as he continues to stare at me. “Do you have any pain anywhere?”

  Again, no reply.

  Grabbing my radio, I hit the button on the side. “I’ve got a survivor!” I shout, as the helicopter comes lower and the sound of the rotor fills my ears. “I need help here! I need a doctor!”

  ***

  “We’re checking him over now,” says Dan Farrah a short while later, as we head to the medical trailer. “I spoke to David Carter a few minutes ago and he said there’s no sign of pressing injury so far, but he’s still conducting his exam. We’re waiting for a proper medical team to get here, should be an hour or two at most.”

  “He can’t be completely unhurt,” I reply. “The ferry was more than four miles out when it broke apart and the waves were twenty feet high in places, they were dashing him against the rocks. There’s no way this guy made it to shore in one piece.”

  “I’m just telling you what I know,” Farrah says, stopping at the door and knocking twice. “We can’t treat a patient for the injuries he should have, only for the ones we can find. He’s lost some skin, but the wound isn’t open. Somehow the skin has grown around the spaces. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, it’s almost like…”

  I wait for him to continue. “Like what?”

  “Carter nearly bit my head off for saying this,” he replies, “but… I swear the flesh seems dead in places.”

  Before I can ask what he means, the door opens and I look up to see a stern-faced, angry man glaring down at me.

  “So you’re the idiot who went scrambling over the rocks, huh?” Stratton asks. “Well done, you broke fifteen separate rules and you almost got yourself killed in the process. Do you realize how many reports I’m going to have to file when this is over, explaining how to tighten our procedures?”

  “Hi,” I reply, “my -”

  “And that’s not even counting the fact that you went out with Phillips and Sinclair in a helicopter without express permission. Were the three of you not aware that all flights were grounded at that point? Do you even have ADAC clearance?”

  “My name -”

  “I know your name,” he mutters, clearly annoyed. “You probably don’t know mine, though. David Statton, I’m in charge around here.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “Do you realize what that means? It m
eans that from now on, you don’t do, say or even think anything without my express permission. You’re lucky I haven’t already had you thrown out, but I’ve been advised that you’re actually useful in a crisis and that you might know something about this ferry. You’re getting the benefit of the doubt for now.”

  “What do you know so far?” I ask.

  “Come and see for yourself,” he replies, stepping back as I climb up into the trailer. “I don’t suppose you know anything about obscure African and Middle Eastern languages, do you?”

  Looking along the trailer’s interior, I see that the rescued survivor is sitting on a stool at the far end, while Carter shines a light into the man’s ears. As soon as I spot the figure, I realize that he’s staring straight at me with those same dark, unblinking eyes that seem to characterize all the people who were on the ferry. I’d be flattered if the sensation wasn’t a little creepy.

  “We can’t get a word out of him,” Stratton continues. “Nothing intelligible, anyway. We’ve sent some recordings and other data to specialists in London, but they still haven’t got back to us, so I guess they’re drawing a blank too. The best we’ve come up with so far is that it might be some variant of Urdu, but even that’s a long-shot.” He turns to me. “Do you speak anything that might help?”

  “A little French from school,” I reply, maintaining eye contact with the figure, who seems far more interested in me than in the man who’s trying to check him over. “Some German, Spanish… Do you not even have a name yet?”

  “We have nothing.”

  “Ethnic characteristics?” I turn to Stratton. “He looks… I mean, I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “Me neither,” he replies, keeping his voice low. “We have no idea what part of the world this man is from. Europe? Asia? Africa? The Americas? Your guess is as good as mine.”