The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham Page A

sixteen Cate found her mother lying unconscious in the kitchen. She had suffered something cal ed a hemorrhagic stroke, which Cate explained as being like a “brain explosion.”
    Ruth El iot had two subsequent strokes in hospital, which paralyzed her down her right side. Cate blamed herself. She should have been at home. Instead we’d sneaked out to watch the Beastie Boys at the Brixton Academy. Cate let a guy kiss her that night. He must have been at least twenty-five. Ancient.
    “Maybe I’m being punished for lying,” she said.
    “But your mum is the one really being punished,” I pointed out.
    Cate started going to church after that—for a while at least. I went with her one Sunday, kneeling down and closing my eyes.
    “What are you doing?” she whispered.
    “Praying for your mum.”
    “But you’re not an Anglican. Won’t your god think you’re changing teams?”
    “I don’t think it matters which god fixes her up.”
    Mrs. El iot came home in a wheelchair, unable to talk properly. In the beginning she could only say one word: “When,” uttered more as a statement than a question.
    No matter what you said to her, she answered the same way.
    “How are you today, Mrs. El iot?”
    “When, when, when.”
    “Have you had your tea?”
    “When, when, when.”
    “I’m just going to study with Cate.”
    “When, when.”
    I know it sounds horrible but we used to play tricks on her.
    “We have a biology test, Mrs. E.”
    “When, when.”
    “On Friday.”
    “When, when, when.”
    “In the morning.”
    “When, when.”
    “About half past nine.”
    “When, when.”
    “Nine thirty-four to be precise. Greenwich mean time.”
    They had a nurse to look after her. A big Jamaican cal ed Yvonne, with pil ow breasts and fleshy arms and mottled pink hands. She used to wear electric colors and men’s shoes and she blamed her bad complexion on the English weather. Yvonne was strong enough to scoop Mrs. El iot up in her arms and lift her into the shower and back into her wheelchair. And she talked to her al the time, having long conversations that sounded completely plausible unless you listened closely.
    Yvonne’s greatest gift, however, was to fil the house with laughter and songs, lifting the gloom. She had children of her own—Caspar and Bethany—who had steel-wool hair and neon smiles. I don’t know about her husband—he was never mentioned—but I know Yvonne went to church every Sunday and had Tuesdays off and baked the best lime cheesecake in creation.
    On weekends I sometimes slept over at Cate’s place. We rented a video and stayed up late. Her dad didn’t come home until after nine. Tanned and tireless, he had a deep voice and an endless supply of corny jokes. I thought him unbelievably handsome.
    The tragedy of his wife’s condition gained a lot of sympathy for Barnaby. Women, in particular, seemed to admire his devotion to his crippled wife and how he went out of his way to make her feel special.
    Ruth El iot, however, didn’t seem to share this admiration. She recovered her speech after months of therapy and attacked Barnaby at every opportunity, belittling him in front of Yvonne and his children and his children’s friends.

    “Did you hear that?” she’d say as the front door opened. “He’s home . He always comes home. Who does he smel like tonight?”
    “Now, now, Ruth, please,” Barnaby would say, but she wouldn’t stop.
    “He smel s of soap and shampoo. He always smel s of soap and shampoo. Why does a man shower before he comes home?”
    “You know the reason. I’ve been playing tennis at the club.”
    “He washes before he comes home. Washes the smel away.”
    “Ruth, darling,” Barnaby tried to say. “Let’s talk about this upstairs.”
    She would fight at his hands and then surrender as he lifted her easily from her chair and carried her up the sixteen stairs. We would hear her screaming and final y crying. He would put her to bed, settle her like a child, and then