Chapter II

That morning the sun flooded the rain-soaked deck and marvelled all assembled with its promise of another bright day. The lack of recent papers agitated his weary nerves into a state of exhaustion, although he happily let himself be distracted by the whims of the young child he had seen yesterday on deck. Her father, the dapper gentleman who had been there as well, stroked a light and lit his cigar while seated on the divan on Richard's left. Then he placed an elbow on the armrest and leaned with content manner back in his chair. As his daughter, with all the wilfulness of a child never berated on her vagary, ran about the lounge. The father regarded Richard and said:

"Do forgive her, at that age, they are still full of vigour."

Richard turned his head abruptly: "I see, Mr..."

"Dufour. Pierre Dufour"

"Mr Dufour," and he stuck out his hand in greeting, which Mr Dufour took with keen enthusiasm, "Richard Crawford."

"You have kids yourself?"

"No. No, I don't."

"I figured. You're too young." Dufour regarded the girl for a moment before he decided the child was out of harm's way and turned his attention back to Richard, "a sweat-heart then?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Ah, — don't be modest, young man! A dapper young lad such as yourself must have a girl back home."

"I'm afraid it's due to my own mistake, you see, I left her behind."

A considerate expression reigning his features, Dufour placed a steadying hand on his arm. Caring, — compassionate. It made Richard have the inclination to scream.

"Not your fault, my boy," the man continued. "Not your fault at all. But is it really as hopeless as you think it is?"

Richard nodded, looking pale. "Yes. Yes, it is, I'm afraid."

"You're certain?"

Richard Crawford winced and fisted the leather of his chair as he was bombarded with flashbacks of crawling around on the floor, soaking wet and panicking, calling out pathetically and cursing himself and anyone who came into his mind as he tried, in vain, to suppress the oncoming nausea.

"Yes. I'm certain."

"Oh, well then. Nothing to do about it, I guess. Nothing indeed."

The conversation flagged after that, even though Pierre Dufour made several attempts at another topic, even going as far as to invite him for dinner in his residence in Naples during the upcoming week. Richard politely accepted, without the intention of ever showing up, even if he had been in the capacity to do so.

After an hour or so, the man rose, took the wilful girl by the hand and with a farewell worthy of bidding a lifelong friend goodbye, father and daughter Dufour walked off. Richard waited until they were out of sight before visibly relaxing.

He did not have the stomach for a late lunch, so he went outside for a brief reprieve in the open air. Refraining from regarding his watch, he looked about the azure water and the birds overhead. The light reappeared on the summit of every calm wave that went onwards beside the ship and he imagined the life it harboured hundreds of meters below them. Richard took a deep breath. How utterly astounding. The afternoon lay, together with the heavy midsummer air, languishing in the draught. White clouds adorned the bright blue heavens above and the silhouette of a flight of birds could be made out. Screaming and hawking. The sound of wildlife.

"Magnificent," Richard whispered, and his voice hitched.

It was ridiculous, really, after the week he'd had, that this, this pleasing yet mundane scenery was the thing that came so close to felling him.

Utterly ridiculous.

This was nothing compared to everything he could have seen had he travelled the world. And there was, for a moment, the sense that he had the possibility to do so; that he wasn't Richard Crawford; that this was not possibly his last afternoon of freedom; that this was merely the beginning of his life. This fantasy became so real to him, so extraordinary, so capable and awful and brave, that he was dragged along the slipstream of it, making the sheer insanity of reality somehow easier to deal with. Easier to handle.

And before him? The world: out of reach and free, opening up before him while he himself felt so tired and helpless. And so far from feeling brave.

Half a day from Naples, Richard reminded himself. Just half a day.

The cold draught that haunted the otherwise damp deck reminded him of the cold winter temperatures when he had resided in that splendid hotel room on Avenue George V in Paris before he got himself a residence on Rue de Richelieu. The Louis XVI room, so cheerful that he could never feel really lonely, even on his first night in it: that room where the slender columns which lightly supported its ceiling were adorned ever so gracefully. Where he and Mathi would smoke by the window in the company of her friends and feel delighted to deem themselves at the top of the world. Where the moonlight striking upon the half-opened shutters would paint over the floor its bizarre shadows; where all of them would fall asleep, draped over the divans pulled before the casement, as if they were in the open air.

An old standing clock had stood in one corner of the hotel room and had pleased him so much that he had bought one himself once he purchased the apartment on Rue de Richelieu. The unfamiliar scent of the flowering bouquets Mathi brought over when she visited; the green curtains bound back by thick aureate robes; the strange and kitsch mirror with lion feet that one friend had gifted him, which stood across one corner of the room and in which one couldn't make out their own reflection due to the abundance of embellishments.

Richard's breath had become haggard once again.

The insolent indifference of that standing clock that chattered on at the top of its voice as though nothing had happened when he had been lying and panting on the ground, blood under his nails and spattered across his shirt. The call of a bird outside his window when he had laboriously hauled himself upon an ottoman. Panicking. Heaving, with tears rolling down his cheeks.

Mainland Italy became distinguishable on the horizon.

Richard did not attempt to divert the memories anymore but spend the greater part of the afternoon attempting to recall happier moments in his life. The old days at East Anglia with his family, their London townhouse, winters in Cambridgeshire with his aunt, Paris; remembering anew all the places and people that he had known, what he had seen of them, and what others had told him.

"Um, — excuse me, Mr Crawford. I am to inform you that we have docked."

"What? What do you — Ah."

Richard was not usually so slow on the uptake, but it had been a long few days. As such, his realisation that the ship had, in fact, fully berthed while he was immersed in his thoughts, was a few moments late in its arrival. When this realisation did, however, arrive, it came with sudden abandon and such actuality that he nigh toppled over. Richard pressed the back of his damp hand to his forehead as he went pale and his heart seemed keen on escaping the prison that was his ribcage. He stumbled breathlessly and panic-stricken over his words:

"Why— thank you... for letting me know."

He managed to hound a thin, wan smile onto his lips.

The police had assembled by the docks. Between the gangway of the ship and the warehouses they stood; by the four, three groups, their arms folded or behind their back; some looking at the ship, some regarding the docks surrounding them.

He would not resist. His pride would not allow him to resist.

He made an attempt to amble towards the gangway, grateful that his knees had not yet given in. His baggage, Richard knew, was most likely waiting for him ashore, in the hands of an eager ship-boy intent on his tip. Descending took him a few minutes. They could not have lasted any longer in Richard's mind. The closer he got, the more rapid his heartbeat; the more his eyes sought out an alternative route; the more his misplaced pride faltered.

The sun shone bright and blinding upon his face as the wind blew the hair from behind him into his face. The air smelled salted, heavy, and dirty. The officer addressing him was clearly Italian in his physique, but it wasn't recognisable in his speech.

"I trust you had a nice trip, Mr Crawford?"

"Quite so."

"Weather?"

"Splendid," Richard sucked in a hoarse breath.

"Well then, Mr Crawford, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Mathilda Catherine Aldouin. You'll be shipped right back to France," he turned his head towards the officers behind him, "prendilo, gentiluomini."

I will not make a fuss, Richard reminded himself as one man came up from behind and seized his arms to cuff him. Keep my head high. Show them some class; show them some backbone.

He became assured of this to such an extent, came to believe in his own misguided self-worth with such conviction, that he blurted out:

"I would rather be a killer than a coward."

The officer ahead studied him with visible derision. Looking Richard straight in the eyes, he said: "it's quite possible to be both, Mr Crawford. Quite possible to be both."