No Name

The engine, inexplicably, splutters to life and, almost at the same second, an exotic breeze tempts the sail. Herr Hanz Oppenheim adopts a jocular manner. Evidently he’s taking credit for our change in fortune. The sailors, however, remain unconvinced. Their pessimism for the journey is as resolute as their fear for the boy who poisons the hold air.

That night I'm back in the dark. No Name sits in the corner with his bread on his knees and his knees tucked right up to his chin. No Name. That’s how I think I’ll refer to him. He’s not offered a name and nor does he appear to intend to do so. Which is fine by me.

There’s something about him I quite like, although I can’t put my finger on it. I suppose we’re similar, in that we both want to get home, but we’re not the same. I watch him tear another hunk of rhy and stuff it into a chock-a-block mouth. We’re really worlds apart.

‘Don’t they feed you anything at all?’ I rake the corners of the dark hold, searching for an empty bowl.

He shrugs and chomps and I feel the weight of the inevitable next question press on my temples. ‘What did you mean before … when you said what you did?’ He looks up and his jaw stops working. He regards me with his bright right eye.

I hesitate. ‘Uh … you know … when you said all that about … well, about Pirates.’ I wave my hand in the air to suggest some sort of casual disregard for the word, a gesture so obviously rehearsed it makes me blush.

His response, though muted and delivered through mouthfuls of food, is clear and utterly without ambiguity.

‘They are coming.’

No sooner does he speak than a loud scrape sounds across the floorboards above our heads. We both look up and freeze. As surely as night follows day, they are coming.