Home

The temperature in the forward hold is cold as ice and I regret leaving my camel hair coat in the cabin. The light is as cool as the temperature, almost blue. Perhaps the room knows it’s underwater.

There’s something quite unsettling about being in a hold suspended in the drink. Doubly so, now it’s the middle of the night and there’s no one about, except me … and, of course, the figure before me.

He blinks twice in the blue dream light and it occurs to me I’ve not yet made his acquaintance. Not formally.

‘I don’t mean to alarm you … please don’t be afraid … I … my name is Harry St John.’ I extend a hand, only to withdraw it after a few painful moments on account of it going unanswered. Not that I blame him. Our paths have crossed twice and both times I did very little to help his cause.

'Do you have a name?'

His eyes stare right back at me. Well, his right eye does. His left eye roams independently.

I slow the pace of my speech and treat each word with a loud and careful enunciation. 'WHERE ... ARE ... YOU ... FROM?'

He answers in such a small voice it's barely audible, but I'm ecstatic when he does.

'Africa.'

I rock forward on my haunches and exclaim with, I'll admit, a certain edge of self-congratulatory satisfaction in my voice. 'Yes, yes Africa! You're from Africa!'

He nods and I nod, more emphatically, and together we nod for what seems like a good minute of mutual nodding.

'You're trying to get home, aren't you? I knew we had something in common.'

'Ja. Home. Africa.'

His heavy clipped accent reminds me of Herr Oppenheim, but he's not German. Dutch perhaps?

'How did you come aboard the Frontier ... this ship? Was it in Portsmouth? What were you doing in England? Where do you live in Africa?' I realise he's incapable of answering this barrage of questioning, but I can't stop asking. His next answer shores me up soon enough. It takes the proverbial wind right out of my sails.

'We are in big danger. Those pirates ... they are coming. We must not dock in the Canaries.'