I’m beginning to hate Dover harbour, especially at night. The constant noise of the water, boats bumping against docks, lines humming and slapping against masts in even the slightest breeze, and the constant screech of gulls, all combines into a cacophony that by day leaves my uneasy and by night leaves me sleepless and paranoid. Every creak of the dock is potentially a footstep of one of Richard’s followers, who has somehow located us and is bearing down to exact a bloody revenge. When I close my eyes to sleep I have nightmares of finding Richard aboard our boat, his head seeping blood onto the deck, hands clenched tight around Clare’s neck. I haven’t slept for more than an hour or two in over a week.
Clare, however, sleeps long and sound, her dreams untroubled by the thought of what we’ve done. For her, killing Richard was justice, an act of vengeance that was righteous and deserved. Her calm attitude towards this troubles me, and I wonder what the last year has done to her, what kind of person she really is inside. Then I catch sight of her wandering around the deck in her pale blue pyjamas, hugging and talking to her stuffed toy dog when she thinks I can’t see her, and for everything that’s happened, I can’t help but see her as a young, innocent girl who has had enough trauma in her life. I want to take her away from all of this.
Which is why we’re in Dover harbour, aboard the Legend, a seventy-five foot luxury yacht. She’s a beautiful boat, with two well-appointed double berths, separate crew quarters, and an almost completely automated navigation system. I’ve spent the last four days getting to know the boat, reading through every manual and book stored on the bridge, and familiarising myself with the computerised navigation systems. I was expecting them not to work at all, but the GPS and weather radar seem to be working just fine, which seems fairly obvious when I consider that satellites must be stable in space for years. I doubt that I’ll need it, but I even spend some time playing with the sonar system once I’ve worked out the navigation.
The radio is useless, but on a whim I try working my way through the short wave bands a few times. There’s nothing but static, which is expected, but there was just a glimmer of hope whilst playing with the dial. For one glorious moment my imagination runs through a handful of “what if…” scenarios, but not for long. Clare spends her time watching me, learning as much as she can about the systems, and making copious use of the on-board entertainment which includes everything from a DVD player, Playstation, bar, and a large jacuzzi. We spend the evenings curled up on a leather sofa, drinking gin and champagne, watching movies and playing Soul Calibur. I haven’t so much as thought about electronic entertainment in nearly a year, and the novelty is a welcome distraction from the noise of the harbour.
On the fifth day, after taking the yacht out of the harbour for the fourth time and declaring myself happy to take on the high seas, Clare and I set off for France. Once out of the harbour I left the autopilot take control for our course to Dieppe, which looks to be ninety miles, or about four hours at our cruising speed. Clare is sat playing with the frequency scanner on the radio, stopping to listen every time a hiss of static or whirr of cosmic radiation makes a sound that could in some way be another person. It takes her about twenty minutes to sweep through long wave, and the same amount of time for medium wave and then FM. I’m playing with the sonar system, and she fetches us both a beer from the newly-cleaned fridge whilst we pass the time.
The false-colour contours of a ridge in the sea floor sweep across the screen, and I’m about to give up and drag Clare to play some more Playstation, when she gives a little start, and presses her headphones tight against her ears. The radio display reads 9500KHz, which is in the short wave band used for international communications. She looks around at me, and yanks the headphone cable out as she does so, causing the sound to play out over the speaker system.
“… ork. We will continue to broadcast this in a loop as an automated beacon. Please respond on ninety six hundred kilohertz if you receive this message.”
There’s a long pause, during which Clare and I say nothing, just glance at each other and then back to the radio. The voice is not distinct, an artefact of the poor quality of short wave radio, but it’s definitely a young woman with a clear american accent. Her tone is calm and level, but has a quality of delivering an important message. Clare grips my hand as it starts again.
“This is Alice Reynolds broadcasting from the Empire State building in New York on May fifteenth two thousand eight, for any survivor who can hear me. We are establishing a community for anybody who wishes to join us. We have food, shelter, medical supplies, water, electricity, and as much conversation as you could wish for.
“If you are able to travel, please come to the Empire State building, which is the tallest building in New York city, located on Fifth Avenue; longitude forty degrees, forty five minutes north, latitude seventy three degrees, fifty nine minutes west . If you are unable to travel and need our help we have transportation available, please respond by short wave radio on ninety six hundred kilohertz.
“We have over a hundred people with us now, and the number is growing all the time. If you’re alone, you don’t have to be. We’re waiting for you in New York.
“We will continue to broadcast this in a loop as an automated beacon. Please respond on ninety six hundred kilohertz if you receive this message.”
We listen through several cycles, taking in every detail and running it over in our minds. Clare breaks the silence.
“New York, huh? Any chance this boat can get us there?”
“I’m not sure, these things aren’t made for crossing oceans like the Atlantic.” I know the maximum range of this thing fully fuelled is about three thousand miles, and the distance from here to New York is about three thousand six hundred. If we stopped in Cornwall or Ireland for fuel, it would just be in the limits of possibility, but the journey would still be over a week long and involve crossing the Atlantic in winter. I explain this to Clare, my own hope and joy at hearing the transmission falling with every word. She shrugs, plugs the headphones back in, and goes back to scanning channels. There’s nothing else transmitting, and the rest of the voyage passes in disappointed silence.
We’re not going to America, not without a much bigger boat. France will have to do.