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Ben, he could see, was actually picturing this: a line of six hundred naked, bleeding men, cruelly whipping themselves to assuage an angry god. The poor peasants caught between death from plague or from this fanatic ideology.
‘That’s…’
‘Grotesque?’
Ben nodded. ‘I think I’ll stick to zombies.’
The next exhibit wasn’t quite so gory but it was interesting in its own right. It was a figurehead from the wreck of an unnamed Spanish ship. According to local legend, it had been carrying a vast treasury for Queen Mary from her ever-loving husband, Philip II of Spain, to bolster her claim over Elizabeth’s. Nine late medieval Spanish coins had been found in Screda Cove, about ten miles south of Hartland, a few years previously by a local man with a metal detector. Needless to say, this brought a small flood of treasure-seekers to the area for the next few years.
‘Miles would love having a metal detector.’
‘I suspect he could probably build one.’
‘Why are ships’ figureheads always naked with big boobs?’
‘I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you use that word. It’s not something that comes up a great deal in our conversations, is it?’
‘Yes, but why always a woman?’
‘Because ships are always female?’
‘Huh.’
His leg was by now sending sharp shards of pain right up through to his eyes. He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned on the wall, hanging his head. Ben immediately announced, ‘I want to buy Molly something, come on.’
The little shop was back by the entrance, and outside in the sun on the quay were a number of benches. Aleksey sat morosely thinking about a march from that cove to the south coast bleeding, naked and being lashed with nails and concluded he might need to rethink his definitions of pain.
Ben came out with the usual kind of tat sold in such a tourist attraction—a shell necklace and a tiny ship in a bottle—and sat down alongside him, sliding on his sunglasses against the glare from the gently lapping water. He was quiet for a while, fingering the little speckled shells like rosary beads, reading the plaque on their bench. ‘Everybody’s bloody died today.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Look. “In memory of Commodore Henry Staveley-Bathurst RN, departed Hartland Quay July 5th 2000 with his faithful companion Salty Seadog.Lost on theirImpossible Voyageaboard the catamaranPetrel.From rock and tempest, fire and foe, protect them wheresoe’er they go. December 2000”.’
Aleksey swivelled around so he could read it too. ‘I recall that. It was on the news all over the world. He was lost at sea. Although his logs showed he had beaten the world record, there were some who doubted their authenticity. I think even the Russian Navy helped search for him when they found his empty boat adrift. It was an international rescue effort. I remember the dog mostly: Salty Seadog. He would have been the first canine to sail around the world.’ He toed the ground. ‘I have always liked dogs and wanted one as a boy, but…’ He shrugged. ‘I was always away at school.’
‘Whyimpossible voyageif he beat the record?’
‘It’s a navigational term for going the wrong way around the globe against the prevailing winds. Savage sailing.’
‘Huh. Sad.’ Ben rummaged in his pocket and produced a Mars Bar, which he unwrapped and had stuffed in his mouth in one go before Aleksey had time to even ask for a slither. Around this toffee and chocolate, he mumbled, ‘Pity we couldn’t get to that island today. It’s got all sorts of weird and wonderful shit like this, apparently. I wonder if anyone’s ever tried to swim it.’
Aleksey actually knew the answer to this, so was saved lying, but did so anyway, just to keep in practice and because listening to someone else enjoy chocolate when he was in pain was exceedingly aggravating. ‘It is too far for anyone, I should think. Fifteen miles? Twenty?’
‘But you could do it.’
Ben’s almost childlike belief in his swimming prowess cheered Aleksey up again. Ben Rider-Mikkelsen: take once a day for a pain-free life. He seemed to recall working that out once before. And it was ironic when he thought about it, growing up, no one had ever given him praise or encouragement for the things hecoulddo, but now Ben gave it to him for things he couldn’t. He swam a couple of miles in a heated swim lane these days. His swims on Aero were a lifetime and a broken body away.
But he wasn’t going to point this out to Ben, obviously. He shook his head slowly and sadly, picked up the discarded wrapper with mock distain and murmured, ‘If you did not eat like a hyena enjoying the intestines of a wildebeest, then you would not sink and wallow in water as you—’
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Aleksey suspected that had he not had his little blip in the museum, he’d have been punished more severely than he was. The stony silence he was subjected to for the hour it took them to get back into the National Park ended extremely quickly when he suggested they stop for a cream tea. After all, if he was to pass himself off entirely as an Englishman when the confiscators came, marmaladeandscones should seal the deal. Besides, he was still hungry, and seeing he was already, according to Ben, fat as butter, he might as well make the most of it.
There was no shortage of places to choose, and they ended up in a small community teashop being run by the Women’s Institute stalwarts out of their village hall. They were raising money for the war. Refugees. There were little hand-crafted blue and yellow flags adorning the wooden building. Aleksey grunted as Ben pulled in. Ben noticed him noticing and countered defensively, ‘We’ll get the best cakes here. They’ll all be homemade.’
Aleksey followed him across the green and they took a table outside in the sun. Aleksey put on his sunglasses and turned his face to the warm rays. He heard a click and knew Ben had taken his picture. He didn’t mind. If his camera worked, he’d have taken one back.
