Betrayals (26 page)

“Not so tight,” he mumbled. “Stop being so tight.”

Janet pushed him away. “Not here,” she said, short-breathed. “It won't be comfortable here. There's nowhere for me to lie.”

Costas backed off slightly: she could see that his head was uncertainly to one side. He said: “Down below. There's down below.”

“Bunks?”

“Sort of.”

“Let's go below.”

With absurd courtesy the man offered his hand, to guide her. Repelled, Janet still took it and allowed herself to be led from the restriction of the wheelhouse, actually gulping at the air the moment she got beyond the door. She stopped. He stopped with her, his free hand groping at her breast again, trying to get his fingers into the opening of her shirt to touch her flesh. Janet let him because it was not an immediate danger: the tiny cowl to her right, leading down into God knows where, was the immediate danger.

“I like a party,” she said.

Costas sniggered, popping a button to make room for his hand, and said: “I'll give you a party: I'll give you a party you've never had before.”

“Here,” offered Janet, raising the bottle between them. “Have a drink yourself.”

Still with one hand loosely inside her shirt Costas took the brandy with the other, tilting his head in a gesture of macho bravado to take a swig. Janet was perfectly able to see. She waited until his throat visibly started to move, to take the liquor, and then drove her hand upwards with all the fear-driven force she could manage. Which was a lot. The heel of her hand precisely caught the bottle at its very bottom, ramming the neck of the bottle fully up into the man's mouth. There was a snap, of breaking teeth, and a scream of agony, and still Janet kept thrusting, holding the bottle now and screwing it further into his mouth, wanting to drive it down his throat. Costas floundered backwards, gagging, and tripped over something littering the deck, going down. The bottle was jerked out of her hands, smashing as he threw his head sideways: the man lay on his side, choking. Janet looked desperately around, for some other weapon, whimpering with fresh fear as she was grabbed from behind. Dimitri's arms wrapped around her, trapping her own. It was not a sexual attack. He was restraining her, trying to pull her away. In front she saw Costas pushing himself from the planking, struggling to get up: he was still spitting the blood from his mouth. Janet strained outwards, to break the older man's grip, but couldn't.

Dimitri spoke, directly into her ear and not to her but to Costas and in Arabic now.

“
Ya himar! Al-lak titrik-ha I'al ba-i'-een!
”

Briefly, for no more than secounds, Janet stopped struggling. Why should she have been left? What did it mean, that she was for the others? Her stopping deceived the man holding her. She was aware of his slight relaxation and she jerked suddenly, turning to bring Dimitri around between herself and the younger man. Dimitri moved with her and at once there was an angonized yell and the grip fell away, freeing her.

Janet turned, to face the man. He was hopping on one foot and in the heel of the other she could see embedded the jagged base of the broken brandy bottle, and Janet remembered their being barefoot during the voyage. Costas was almost upright now, crouched and about to run at her. Janet shoved out, driven by anger as well as fear. She caught Dimitri fully in the back and without any balance Dimitri hurtled into the other man. They both fell and there were fresh yells. She guessed they'd gone on to more broken glass and hoped they were pieces that hurt badly, like the base embedded in Dimitri's foot.

Janet gazed frantically around, not knowing what to do. There was scuffling, from behind, and she saw Costas pulling himself upright once more. She ran without thought to the stern, grunting as she hit against something. She felt out, not able to tell from the feel what it was, and then realized it was the frame holding the gutting knives she had seen when she boarded that afternoon. She grabbed at one, holding it outwards between both her hands, level with her waist, turning back towards Costas.

He was coming towards her cautiously, crab-like, bent and with his body half turned. His face appeared covered with something black and Janet guessed it was blood.

When he spoke the words were slurred by the damage she had caused to his mouth. “Hurt you,” he said. “You can't believe how I'm going to hurt you. Break you in, that's what I'm going to do. Really break you in.”

Dimitri's voice came from behind, still in Arabic: Janet couldn't see him and guessed he was lying where he'd fallen.
“Homme bidhum yaha. Ma bit-'oud tiswa
.”

Who wanted her for themselves? How would she be no good, split apart? Janet thought she knew and felt the vomit rise, to her throat.

“
Anna biddi ya-ha abil-il kill!
” Costas shouted back.

He wasn't going to have her first, Janet determined. No one was going to have her. She stood where the boat was darkest: she'd just be a black outline. So he wouldn't have seen the knife. Could she kill him: intentionally drive the knife into his body? Hurt her, he'd said: hurt her badly. Yes, she could kill him: stab him at least, to make him stop. He was very close now, no more than a yard or two: she was aware of his tensing, to jump at her.

“
Trickni. Hill 'anni!
”

Janet spoke—told him to stay away—in Arabic and he did stop, surprised she knew the language. The halt was only brief. She saw his crushed lips pull back, in the grimace of a smile, and he answered her in Arabic, calling her a whore. And then he came at her. He just rushed, arms stretched forward to grab her, and he actually had her shoulders before he ran on to the knife.

He gave a great gasp, sucking in his breath, in pain and in shock, and staggered backwards, looking down. The knife was in very deep: Janet was only able to see the handle, protruding from the left-hand side of his body. Costas sagged, as if he were about to collapse at the knees, tried to straighten but couldn't, not completely, and finally toppled over. His legs quivered upwards, forming his body into a ball, and a long groan gurgled from him.

Janet ran.

She used one of the mooring ropes as a hand-hold, balanced herself on the rail and then jumped over the narrow ditch of sea on to the jetty. After the hours on the ship Janet felt immediately unsteady on a solid footing and had to snatch out for a bollard for support. It gave her the opportunity to orientate herself.

She was about halfway along a narrow mooring finger maybe two hundred yards long and ten yards wide. Underfoot she detected cobbles and guessed it was a very old part of the harbor construction. There were bollards like the one she was holding, roughly twenty yards apart along either side, and every so often small sheds and buildings which she supposed accommodated the fishing tackle and equipment of boats permanently using the berths. The mooring on either side of where they had tied up was empty, which would have accounted for the noise of her struggling not being overhead: she doubted if anyone would have bothered to intrude if they had been detected.

Her mind was disjointed, thoughts only half forming before others presented themselves to get in the way. Janet tried to concentrate, to assess the situation she was in and to find a way out. Confronting literally the need to find a way out, she realized, abruptly, she was still trapped: she had to clear the jetty.

Feeling steadier at last she set out towards the port, the sea to her back, heading into the shadow of the first storage hut. It was fortunate she did because she was completely hidden when she saw the movement ahead. Three men, maybe four, walking in a group with their heads close in conversation. Janet stopped, easing slightly backwards and then around the tiny building, keeping it between herself and the group. The mumble of words came to her as they got closer: she strained, not sure at first, then definitely identified Stavos's voice. The talk was in Arabic. There was something about a problem and then she heard “taught” and the slap of a fist being driven into the palm of a hand and the splatter of laughter. She missed the beginning of a sentence but caught “morale of the men” and there was more laughter. Someone said they were very pleased and Stavos replied that he would like to be able to do more business.

When they reached the hut Janet edged around it, keeping it between herself and them. She'd actually reversed their positions—so that she was on the landside and they had passed, towards the sea—when she heard a muffled shout, in Arabic, and recognized Dimitri's voice.

“She's got away,” he said.

Janet ran. She did so as quietly as possible and stayed in the shadows so that they would not see and reckoned she'd gained about thirty yards before she heard the shout behind and the slap of feet in pursuit. Uncaring about being heard or seen any more she fled headlong, legs pumping, arms jerking, leaping and dodging over ropes and boxes: there were dark movements of curiosity from some of the boats she went by, but no challenges. Behind she heard: “Stop. Stop her,” and someone started to move from a boat to her left, but she ran faster and passed it before anyone could get in the way.

There were a few lights on the harbor wall, and she saw it was too high to clear in a single jump. She managed to get over by leaping onto its top and then dropping down. She still seemed to be in the port area. There were cranes and trucks with lifting gear, and offices, to her right. The clear area was to her left. She went in that direction, aware too late of an enclosing wire mesh fence. She changed direction, running parallel and looking for a break. There wasn't one. The men were over the wall now. She jerked to a halt, gazing around, seeing as she did so that they were fanning out from where they'd landed to entrap her from either side. They weren't even bothering to run any more, strolling quite confidently, enjoying an unexpected game.

Janet started off again, towards the offices which made up a continuation of the fence. They were lighted and she saw figures in two of them but knew from the assurance with which the men were closing in upon her that whoever the officials or clerks were they would not protect her. She snatched at the first door. It was locked and from the men close behind she heard a snigger and one shouted something to another. The second was locked too: she thought she could hear their footsteps now, so near were they. Then the third door gave.

She thrust through, hearing the outraged shout very close, but had the sense to turn as she slammed it, to seek the key. She twisted it in the lock as a body hit on the other side: the door lever flapped furiously but uselessly up and down.

Janet threw herself along the corridor, ready to thrust anyone aside, but no one emerged from any of the offices. Behind there was hammering and yelling and she heard thumps and grunts as someone tried to break the door in. The street exit was secured, but the key was in its hole. Janet opened it, began to go through and then halted as the idea came. She ducked back, extracted the key, and stopped outside long enough to lock it behind her. As she panted across the harbor road she heard the sound of someone rattling the metal of the fence in frustration. There was a shout but she didn't hear the words.

It was a long time before Janet stopped hurrying. She twisted and turned along the cratered and rubble-strewn streets, pulling into the shadows when she became aware of any movement around her, always trying to go eastwards to what she imagined would be safety.

Janet was shocked by the devastation. Whole streets were lined with humps of brickwork and concrete, no glass or windows remaining anywhere, although from the sounds—scratching and slithering and the occasional moving shadow—she recognized that people lived in the warrens formed by the debris. There were movements and shadows from the burned-out and sometimes overturned shells of vehicles, too, and she realized they made homes for more people. Several times there were calls of challenge: always Janet pulled deeper into whatever darkness she could find, never replying. Dogs barked and yapped, frequently. None came near.

The immediate danger receding, Janet felt increasingly weak—her knees actually threatening to give out more than once—from the delayed terror of what might have happened and the exhaustion of getting away. She had to stop several times just to lean against a rubble pile or sagging wall, pulling the breath into herself in the effort to stay calm. That's what she had to do: stay calm, not panic. Stay calm and cross whatever the dividing line was and go somewhere—a hotel or an embassy or a Western airline office—where she could explain what she'd been through and get help. Get away. Christ, she'd been lucky: luckier probably than she'd ever know.

The shadows gradually stopped seeming so dark and during one of her stops—to rest again her quivering legs—Janet stared upwards and saw that the sky was lightening. Dawn, early dawn at last, could not be far off. Would it be more difficult to cross in daylight rather than darkness? Cross what? Was there an actual border, between the east and the rest of the city, like there was in Berlin? Or was it just an understood demarcation, one street devastation, the next street sophistication? She pushed herself up from a concrete mound and groped on, finding it difficult to properly walk, managing little more than to get one foot in front of the other, trying not to scuff too loudly as she did so. The light increased, and the movement all around grew: a few people actually passed on an early errand or on the way to work. No one gave her more than the briefest passing attention.

The hotel appeared suddenly in front of her, like an oasis, and for the initial seconds Janet could not believe that it was there, staring at it as if it really were a mirage that would disappear. But it didn't. It was shell-pocked and there were some sandbags and a few of their windows were taped against bomb blast but it was definitely a hotel. There were people moving about inside and there were lights on, more lights than there had been in any other building she passed.