Ellis turned on me with such ferocity I almost didn't recognize him.
Of course there was a monster, he said. Only an idiot would think there wasn't a monster. Never mind all the sightings and photographs, including his own father's--which, by the way, were still the best of the lot--Scotland Yard itself had confirmed the beast's existence when they asked the Colonel not to harm it.
Even as he continued shouting at me, waving his arms around the tiny, luggage-filled room, even as I absorbed that he had essentially called me an idiot, what really caught my attention was that he'd done a complete about-face regarding his father's pictures.
I tried to process this as Ellis pointed at the wallpaper, which was curling at the corners, at the water stains on the ceiling, as he wiped his finger along the windowsill and then held it up so I could inspect the grime. I wondered if he'd believed his father all along and, if so, why he'd made such a terrible accusation the night before--never mind the things he'd said as we left the party.
I hadn't uttered a word since my initial plea, but he continued his tirade as though I were arguing with him.
Did I really want to live in this dump, sitting around like hostages, waiting to see if the Colonel was going to cut off his allowance completely? And what if he did? What then? Did I think it was all right to act like Scott Lyons, running tabs up to the hilt and then skipping out, moving from hotel to hotel? Because he certainly didn't.
We were going to Scotland, it was our only option, and we would not set foot on this continent again until he had found the monster the Colonel had faked.
He stopped, red and sweaty, huffing and puffing and waiting for me to challenge him, but my brain was stuck on the fact that he'd flip-flopped on the subject of his father yet again, and all in a matter of seconds.
I had witnessed firsthand how badly society treated Ellis--particularly his own father--and was well aware of the toll it was taking. For four years, I'd stood by helplessly as the happy, confident young man I'd met in Bar Harbor eroded into the bitter, suspicious man currently raging in front of me, a man who constantly believed people were giving him dirty looks and whispering behind his back, a man who was increasingly irritated by my Pollyannaish platitudes because he recognized them for what they were. But because I'd watched this devolution happen in dribbles and bits, I hadn't realized until that moment that he'd already been pushed beyond his limits. What was currently at stake was his entire self-worth.
Hank was right. Ellis needed this.
I crossed the half dozen feet that divided us and put my arms around him, pressing my face to his chest. After a moment of shocked hesitation, he put his arms around me, too, and a few seconds after that, I felt him relax.
"I'm so sorry, my darling, I don't know what came over me," he said.
"It's okay," I said.
"I should never have spoken to you like that. It's inexcusable. You did absolutely nothing wrong."
"I understand, darling. It's okay."
"Oh God, Maddie," he said, breathing into my ear. "Hank's right. They broke the mold when they made you. I can't imagine what I did to deserve you."
For a moment, as absurd as it was, I thought he might want to make love, but from his chest movements, I could tell he was starting to cry. I held him even tighter.
If finding the monster was what it was going to take to make Ellis feel whole again, then so be it. I just hoped there was a monster to be found.
And so, three days later, we sailed into the Battle of the Atlantic.
Chapter Five
I saw my first rat before we set sail.
Although our cabins were in the officers' quarters, there were only two and they were tiny, so Ellis and I had to share a very small bed--a bunk, really--which would have made sleeping impossible even if the engine that powered the rudder wasn't immediately beneath us. There was a small washbasin in the cabin, but the bath facilities were shared. I was the only woman on board, so I had to wash myself at the sink. I was also so sick I couldn't keep so much as a cracker down.
When I wasn't hanging my face over the sink trying not to throw up, I was lying on the bunk with my arms wrapped around my stomach, doing my best to stare into the distance, which in this case meant trying to focus on some point beyond the cabin wall, which was altogether too close.
The day before we were supposed to land at the naval base in Scotland, German U-boats caught up with one of the other ships in the convoy and torpedoed her. We circled back to pull men out of the water, which was so slick with fuel it was actually on fire. The Germans were still there, of course, and we could feel the depth charges, which pitched us about until I feared capsizing and splitting up in equal parts. Unsecured items flew across the room. The electricity flickered on and off, and the cabin was so full of smoke I couldn't breathe without choking. The handkerchiefs I held over my nose and mouth came away the color of lead. Ellis took pills by the handful--he'd refilled my prescription before we left, getting a great many more than usual since he didn't know how long we were going to be away, and the quantities he consumed alarmed me.
When the torpedoes came, Hank shrank into a corner with a bottle of whiskey, saying that if he was going to die, he might as well die drunk. I shrieked each time a deck gun fired. Ellis put his life belt on and wanted me to do the same, but I couldn't. Having something bulky strapped around my middle impeded my breathing and increased my panic, and besides, what possible difference could it make? If the ship went down, the Germans wouldn't pluck us from the water, and even if they did, the poor men the SS Mallory had managed to save were grievously burned and likely to die anyway.
I flew into a tear-filled rage: I threw an alarm clock at Hank, who ducked it wordlessly and lit another cigarette. I pounded Ellis's chest and told him he had tossed us into the middle of a war because his father was a stubborn, stupid, irascible old man, and now, because of him, we were going to be killed. I said I hoped the Colonel dropped dead in his House of Testoni shoes, preferably upon hearing that we had all been blown up, because he was a fraudulent, egomaniacal blowhard without so much as a drop of compassion for anyone else on this earth, including--and especially--his own son. I declared Edith Stone Hyde a self-righteous, bitter old cow, and said I hoped she survived deep into a lonely old age so she could reap the rewards of her treatment of us and its fatal consequences. I told Ellis that the second we hit solid ground, I was turning around and taking the next boat out of there, although even as I said it, I knew I would never willingly get on another ship. I told him that he was the idiot, and that his--and his father's--stupid obsession with a stupid monster was going to be the end of us all, and if he could come up with a stupider reason to die, I'd really like to know what that was.
Ellis's nonreaction was almost more frightening than the torpedoes, because I realized that he, too, thought we were going to die. And then I felt guilty and cried in his arms.
--
When we finally reached land, it was dusk. For the last couple of days, I'd been worried we might be changing ships rather than docking, because everyone kept referring to our destination as the HMS Helicon, but apparently that was a code name for the Aultbea Naval Base.
I was so desperate to get off the ship that I staggered on deck while the wounded were still being unloaded. Ellis followed me, but at the sight of the burned men, turned and went back below.
Some of the men no longer looked human--scorched and misshapen, their flesh melted like candle wax. Their agonized moans were terrible to hear, but even more horrifying were the silent ones.
One looked me in the eyes as he was carried past, his head bobbing slightly in time with the steps of the men bearing the stretcher. His face and neck were blackened, his mouth open and lipless, exposing crowded teeth that made me think of a parrot fish. I hated myself immediately for the comparison. His eyes were hazel, and his arms ended in white bandages just below the elbows. His peeling scalp was a mottled combination of purple and black, his ears so charred I knew there
was no hope of saving them.
He held my gaze until I turned in shame, leaning my forehead against the salty white paint of the exterior wall. I pressed my eyes shut. If I'd had the strength to go back down to the cabin I would have, but I didn't. Instead, I kept my eyes closed and held my hands over my ears. Although I managed to block out most sounds, I could do nothing about the vibration of footsteps on the deck. I was excruciatingly aware of each ruined life being carried past. God only knew how these men's lives would be changed, if they even survived. I tried not to think of their mothers, wives, and sweethearts.
When we were finally allowed to disembark, I stumbled down the gangplank and onto the dock. My knees gave out, and if Hank hadn't been there to catch me, I'd have gone off the edge. Everything in my vision was jerking back and forth. I couldn't even tell which way was up.
"Jesus Christ, Maddie," he said. "You almost fell in the soup. Are you all right?"
"I don't know," I said. My voice was hoarse. "I feel like I'm still on the ship."
Ellis took my other elbow, and together they led me off the dock. I stretched out an arm and leaned against a white-painted lamppost. The curb at my feet was also white.
"Maddie? Are you okay?" said Ellis.
Before I could answer, a man in a wool greatcoat and hat approached us. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with red cheeks, black leather gloves, and an eye patch. His one eye alternated between Ellis and Hank. "Henry Boyd?"
"That's me," said Hank, lighting a cigarette.
"Well, I knew it was one of you," the man said in a melodious accent, leaving us to interpret the wherefores. "I'll be driving you, then. Where are your things?"
"Still on board. The porters are back there somewhere," said Hank, waving vaguely toward the ship.
The man laughed. "I'm your driver, not your lackey."
Hank raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the man put his hands in his pockets, spun on his heels, and began to whistle. His earlobe and part of the cartilage was missing on the same side as the eye patch. A thick scar ran up his neck and disappeared beneath his ginger hair.
Ellis whispered, "I think you're supposed to tip him."
"Freddie said it was all taken care of," Hank said.
"Apparently it's not," Ellis murmured.
"Well, somebody do something!" I cried.
Hank cleared his throat to get the man's attention. "I don't suppose I could make it worth your while..."
"Oh, aye," said the man, in a firm but cheery voice. "I wouldn't say no to a wee minding."
When our trunks and suitcases had finally been identified, collected, and loaded--a feat of engineering that resulted in an ungainly mountain of luggage strapped to the roof and trunk of the car--our driver raised his one visible eyebrow and glanced at Ellis's waist. "I don't think you'll be needing that anymore," he said.
Ellis looked down. He was still wearing his life belt. He turned away, fumbling as he unfastened it, and let it drop at the base of a lamppost. I felt his shame acutely.
The driver opened the rear door of the car and motioned for me to get in. A soiled blanket covered the seat.
"Slide on over then," he said. He winked at me. I think.
Ellis got in after me. Hank took one look at the blanket before walking to the front of the car. He stood by the passenger door, waiting for the driver to open it.
"Well, are you going to get in, or aren't you?" said the driver, jerking his chin toward the rear.
Finally, reluctantly, Hank came around back. Ellis frowned and shifted to the middle seat. Hank got in beside him.
"Right, then," said the driver. He shut our door, climbed into the driver's seat, and resumed whistling.
Chapter Six
After four hours and twenty minutes of utter, stomach-roiling misery, with the driver leaning maliciously into hairpin curves despite (or perhaps because of) having to stop no fewer than six times so I could lean out of the back of the car and be sick, he came to a stop and announced we'd reached our destination.
"Here we are then," he said cheerfully, shutting off the engine. "Home, sweet home."
I glanced outside. It wasn't clear to me we'd arrived anywhere.
My stomach began churning again, and I couldn't wait for the driver to come around and let me out, although he was obviously in no rush to do anything. I fumbled with the handle, yanking it back and forth before finally realizing it twisted. When I flung the door outward, I went with it, landing on my knees in the gravel.
"Maddie!" Ellis cried.
"I'm all right," I said, still grasping the door handle. I looked up, through the strands of hair that had fallen over my face. The clouds shifted to expose the moon, and in its light I saw our destination.
It was a squat, gray building in pebble-and-dash, with heavy black shutters on the windows of both floors. A wooden sign hung over the entrance, creaking in the wind: THE FRASER ARMS
Proprietor A. W. Ross
Licensed to Serve Beer and Spirits
Good Food, Rooms
Est. 1547
My queasiness rose in urgent waves, and while I couldn't believe there was anything left for me to expel, I hauled myself upright and staggered toward a half barrel of frostbitten pansies by the front door. I crashed into the wall instead, hitting first with my open palms and then my left cheek. I stayed there for a moment, my face flattened against the pebbled surface.
"Maddie? Are you all right?" Ellis asked from somewhere behind me.
"I'm fine," I said.
"You don't look fine."
I turned and slid down the wall, my coat and hair scraping against the embedded stones until I was resting on my heels.
Snow collected on my exposed knees. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleated.
"Maddie?"
"I'm fine," I said again.
I watched as Ellis and Hank climbed out of the car, regarding them with something akin to loathing.
Ellis took a few steps toward the building and read the sign. He raised his eyebrows and looked back at Hank.
"This is where we're staying?"
"So it would appear," said Hank.
"It looks like a pile of rubble," said Ellis. "Or one of those long communal mud houses. From, you know, Arizona or wherever."
"What were you expecting, the Waldorf-Astoria?" Hank asked. "You knew we were going to be roughing it. Think of it as a field camp."
Ellis harrumphed. "That would be putting it kindly."
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Somewhere in the ship's latrine, I suspect," said Ellis. "I suppose Freddie chose this dump."
"Of course."
"He might as well have sent us to a cave."
Ellis stepped forward and rapped on the door. He waited maybe half a minute, then rapped again. Almost immediately after, he began thumping it with his fist.
The door swung open, and Ellis leapt to the side as a huge man in striped blue pajama bottoms and an undershirt burst forth. He was tall, broad, and densely muscled. His black hair stuck up in tufts, his beard was wild, and he was barefoot. He came to a stop, ran his eyes over Ellis and Hank, then peered around them to get a look at the car.
"And what are you wanting, at this time of night?" he demanded.
"We need rooms," Hank said around the edges of an unlit cigarette. He flicked the top of his lighter open, but before he could get it lit, the man's hand shot forward and snapped it shut.
"You canna smoke outside!" he said incredulously.
After a shocked pause--the man had reached within inches of his face--Hank said, "Why not?"
"The Blackout. Are you daft?"
Hank slipped both the lighter and cigarette into his pocket.
"Americans, are you?" the man continued.
"That we are," said Hank.
"Where's your commanding officer?"
"We're not being billeted. We're private citizens," said Hank.
"In that case, you can take yourselves elsewhere." The man turned his hea
d to the left and spat. Had he turned to the right, he would have seen me.
"I believe it's all been arranged," Hank said. "Does the name Frederick Stillman ring a bell?"
"Not so much as a tinkle. Get on with you, then. Leave me in peace." He turned away, clearly planning to leave us on the side of the road.
I choked back a sob. If I didn't end up in a bed after everything we'd been through, I didn't think I wanted to survive at all.
"Wait," said Hank quickly. "You have no rooms?"
"I didn't say that," the man said. "Do you know what bloody time it is?"
Hank and Ellis exchanged glances.
"Of course," said Ellis. "We're sorry about that. Perhaps we could make it worth your while."
The man grunted. "Spoken like a toff. I've no truck with the likes o' you. Off you go." He shooed them away with the back of his hand.
From just past the car, the driver snorted.
"Please," Ellis said quickly. "The journey was rough, and my wife--she's unwell."
The man stopped. "Your what?" he said slowly.
Ellis inclined his head in my direction.
The man turned and saw me crouched against the wall. He studied me for a moment, then looked back at Ellis.
"You've dragged a woman across the Atlantic during a war, then? Are you completely off your head?"
Ellis's expression went dark, but he said nothing.
The man's eyes flitted briefly skyward. He shook his head. "Fine. You can stay the night, but it's only on account of your wife. And hurry up getting that kit inside or I'll have the warden around for the Blackout. Again. And if I do, I'll not be the one paying the fine, mark my words."
"Sure, sure. Of course," said Hank. "Say, can you do me a favor and send out the porter?"
The man responded with a single bark of laughter and went inside.
"Huh," said Hank. "I guess there's no porter."
"And this surprises you because...?" said Ellis.
Hank looked back at the car, whose suspension was significantly lowered by the weight of our belongings.
Ellis came to me and held out his hands. As he pulled me to my feet, he said, "Go inside, find a seat, and make that brute bring you something to drink. We'll be in as soon as we've got this mess sorted out."