The Hope (18 page)

“I wish I could do more than sit and tell you not to worry,” I replied. “My experience in psychology is limited, in psychiatry nonexistent.”

“These are bad times, are they not?”

“We have to make do.”

“But there is so much sickness here. You surely have seen that.”

“Too much. I’m close to giving up hope that anyone will survive the crossing. It is a long journey. Our stocks of food and medical supplies are dwindling…”

She reached across the table and grasped my arm with disarming intimacy.

“Do not give up, Doctor. You must not give up. You must do everything you can, save as many lives as you can. It is the only way.”

“It’s not the way of the
Hope
.”

“Maybe not, but it is the way of humanity.”

She turned to Alexei, who was sitting brooding. “Alyosha, my love, would you leave me with the Doctor? Just for a little while?”

“I must be here to look after you and protect you.”

“Oh, you big old baby! I will be fine. The Doctor will look after me. And we must talk alone.”

“Very well. I will go for a short walk, but I will not go far and I will be back soon.”

She gave him the tenderest of kisses and squeezed his hand and said something softly in Russian. I have never seen a more devoted couple. When he had gone out, she sat down opposite me again.

“No doubt Alyosha has told you everything,” she said with determined humour. “Fantastic, no?”

I used the adjective improbable, as before.

“Poor Alyosha! His family have always been emigrants and immigrants, you know. His life has never been settled. Always travelling, always having to find a new place to live. That is why we came on board the
Hope
, to find a new place. And I don’t think we will live to see that new place. It is sad. I do believe it has driven him mad.”

“You think he’s mad?”

“Quite so. Come, let me show you. I am sitting on the very chair which he insists was smashed out of shape by his … phantom. Look.”

I looked. One leg of the chair had been broken and repaired with plastic tape, and that was it.

“And the porthole?” I asked.

“Maybe a young boy broke it, threw a stick or a tin can or something at it. These things happen. It gave us such a fright that we did not think to look outside until much, much later. Besides, Alyosha was too worried fussing over my little graze here.”

“I see. What about the walkway?”

“Oh, it still scares me to think about that! If it had not been for Alyosha… But it was an accident, clearly. This is an old ship.”

“That’s exactly what I told him.”

“He loves me very much. I love him very much. I think he is feeling his age, feeling a little frightened that one of us will die soon, and he wishes it was me and not him. He would do anything to spare me the grief of his death.”

“That’s understandable.”

“What do you advise, Doctor?”

“There is nothing I can advise. Look after him. Humour him. Treat him well. I suspect you have been doing that anyway. If he is a little over-protective, well… There are worse things.”

“Yes. But I feel so sorry for him.”

At that point, Alexei returned, his short walk having been very short indeed.

“Well, friend Doctor,” he said. “What is the diagnosis?”

“Rest, good vodka and a loving wife.”

“I have all three,” he said, giving her a great hug. “Am I not mad?”

“I have seen madder,” I replied with a laugh.

“Thank you, Doctor. You have done everything you can, and I feel better for talking to you. Please come and have dinner with us some time.”

“Tomorrow evening,” said Pushka. “I will accept no excuses.”

“The cooking won’t be fancy, but it will be excellent.”

Who was I to refuse such an invitation? I took my leave and promised to be back the next evening.

Looking back over what I have just written, I find it reads like a bad novel. There are many cases equally deserving of such attention, but in my defence I would like to point you back to earlier case histories that I have dealt with in similar depth, such as that concerning Mr Quinnell in Week 1,095 and the incident in Week 945 when the inhabitants of the deck area, gripped with a sudden mass hysteria, came to believe that they were all ghosts and stopped eating since, they reasoned, ghosts don’t need to eat. I could not persuade them otherwise. All but three died of malnutrition.

Certain matters demand such attention. There is an element of the Antonovs’ situation that, to me, is endemic to life on board. I ought really to list all of Tuesday’s statistics under this new heading.

I have chosen to call it the
Hope
Syndrome.

Saturday, Week 1,783

I will be happy to live without seeing again the events which I saw this evening.

I do not need to relate anything about the actual meal at the Antonovs’ other than that the food was, as promised, excellent and the conversation intelligent and delightful. When you don’t notice three hours passing, when you don’t want those three hours to pass, that is a sign of happiness and a rarity on the
Hope
. With every minute of those hours I became more and more enraptured by Pushka’s lively character and affectionate towards Alexei’s bluff good nature. The conversation did not touch once on madness, nor did anyone mention the way of the
Hope
.

One remark of Alexei’s I will repeat, in that it has some bearing on his condition. When I asked as tactfully as I could why they had no children, he responded: “Ah, what kind of place is this to bring young ones into? What quality of life will they have? No decent food, pitiful education, breathing air you can actually see. No doubt they would end up running with some gang, sticking knives into each other for something to do. It’s not a life.”

Pushka was nodding, in a way that meant she did not agree but would go along with him if his feelings were that strong.

After the meal, over cups of coffee brewed so black it was almost solid, Pushka told me, at Alexei’s urging and presumably for his own benefit as much as mine, stories of her childhood. Hardships, small joys, deprivation, triumphs of love – I can see why these stories so enchanted Alexei.

As she was speaking I noticed Alexei growing restless and agitated. Nothing she was saying could have induced this state of mind in him. When he wasn’t drumming his fingers on his knee, he was engaging in the habit I mentioned in yesterday’s entry of running his hand through his hair repeatedly. Pushka saw this too and stopped.

“Alyosha, what is the matter?”

“Nothing. Pay no attention to me. The good Doctor wants to hear your stories.”

“Is it the fist?” I asked. “Can you see the fist again?”

“No, no.”

“Something is troubling you,” she ventured.

Without warning, Alexei pounced on her, crying, “No, leave her be!”, and his hands were about her throat. I rushed to grab his wrists, and it was like grabbing steel bars, but I pulled as hard as I could with markedly little effect.

“Let go, Doctor!” he yelled. “Can’t you see the hands? They are strangling her!”

“There are no hands,” I replied. Pushka was choking hard and clawing at her husband, at the same time trying to form words. If she had been able to say anything, I have no doubt it would not have been angry or fearful, but calm, reasonable, soothing.

Alexei’s face was a red mask of righteous fury. Reason alone would not put him off. There is a nerve just above the shoulder blade which, if pinched correctly, induces temporary paralysis in the arm. Knowing I could not use brute strength to dislodge Alexei, I chose this alternative method. With a bewildered yelp he fell back, and I interposed myself between him and his wife, who was ashen-faced and drawing quick, rasping breaths.

“There is nothing there, Alexei. Can’t you see? Nothing! No arms, no hands. The ship is not trying to kill Pushka.”

Clutching his numbed arm, he glared at me from beneath brushwood eyebrows. His voice was roughened with a growl.

“Get out of the way, friend Doctor, or to reach Pushka I will kill you.”

“Kill me, then. But look! Where are the hands? There are no hands.”

“Around her neck, idiot! Are you blind?”

He lumbered towards me and it was clear there would be no contest between us, but I was not about to let him lay a finger on Pushka. I would rather have died. I was preparing to do exactly that when Pushka pushed me gently aside and stood in front of Alexei, dwarfed by his size. On her neck purple contusions had already appeared, but despite the obvious pain she looked up at her husband with eyes clear of flecks of mistrust. He raised his good arm. It hung poised before her.

“Alyosha, I am unharmed. The hands are gone. There is no danger.” She repeated it in Russian, I gather, and Alexei made a reply in kind. For a full minute they stood there, facing one another a few inches apart, saying nothing, as if Pushka was daring him against the name of all the years of their marriage to kill her. Slowly, Alexei blinked, blinked again and gave all the signs of waking up. Then he glanced abruptly at the wall.

I followed his line of sight. I cannot be sure – I will not commit myself on paper – but for an instant I thought I saw something moving on that wall, a slight swirl in the solid steel such as that of oil on water, shapeless, spreading and losing form. It was gone so quickly that it may have been a trick of the light. But I will never be certain.

“It is gone,” breathed Alexei. “It is gone.” He clasped Pushka to him with one arm and buried his weeping face in her hair. I took my leave as hastily and politely as I could, but Alexei caught my elbow and said quietly: “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I’m sorry about your arm, Alexei, but it will be back to normal soon. One of the few occasions I have been glad of my medical training.”

“No matter.”

He laughed and patted me on the back. Pushka braved a smile, and I left them clutching each other.

To see so noble a man driven to such insanity…

I thought I saw something move in the corner of this office. It is late and I am tired. It was probably a rat.

But there are no rats on the
Hope
.

Sunday, Week 1,784

No appointments today.

I have not been feeling particularly well since I got up this morning. The events of last night haunted my dreams, made them ghastly and feverish.

I went for a walk along the outer rim to clear my head but could not find the broken section where the Antonovs had their narrow escape. Naturally it was too far to walk all the way round the rim. Perhaps I was nowhere near the scene of the accident. Perhaps, that most unlikely of occurrences, it had been repaired.

I wish I could know for sure.

Monday, Week 1,784

You must have discovered by now, Marcus, that there are no drugs left except a few harmless sedatives and tranquillisers. In a few minutes, when I have finished writing this entry, I intend to take a whole bottle of sedatives. I have it on the desk in front of me. Little white pills.

I have disposed of all the major drugs, the vaccines, the inoculations, the antibiotics. It took me all day to pour them down the sink. They will have drained into the ocean by now. I emptied pills into boxes and took them to the side and threw them overboard. It is one advantage of being situated so near the outer rim which I have never appreciated before. In the same manner I have thrown away all the syringes and surgical implements.

I have left you with the aspirin and some sedatives and the disease, the
Hope
Syndrome. I am truly sorry for my cowardice. We should not foist our own failures on the successive generation, as if they have a duty to clean up after us or try to live with our mistakes. The sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the sons. I am sorry. That is all I can say.

A neighbour of the Antonovs came up at midday today and told me something terrible had happened in their cabin. He would not specify, but a thought sounded deep and clear in my mind: Pushka is dead.

Dogged by the neighbour, who clearly thought there was some kind of reward to be earned, I rushed downstairs. A crowd had gathered outside the Antonovs’ cabin trying not to look as if they were attempting to see through the open door. I pushed my way through.

Alexei was sitting on a chair in the centre of the cabin, staring at his hands. Pushka lay on the floor, her body a twisted knot of limbs and torso. Her legs were pulpy, stretched nearly half their length again. One foot was inverted beside the other, like fish chasing each others’ tails in the astrological symbol. Her arms were bent behind her back, every thumb and finger broken. I could not see her head because it was wedged between the floor and her collarbone. There was no blood. I took Alexei’s pulse, as there was no point in taking Pushka’s. It was frantic and irregular. He lifted his face.

“Doctor, we could not save her. The hands. They crushed her to death. I tried and tried to beat them off but I failed.

“And Doctor… I was wrong. We are not fleas. We are worse than fleas. We are rats, trapped.”

I could say nothing. I left.

I have not reported this to the Captain. I don’t expect you will either, Marcus. Nor will any of the Antonovs’ neighbours, I think. The lower decks like to have as little to do with the upper as they can.

It is obvious that, to all intents and purposes, Alexei killed his wife. He is a big man and, enraged by madness, would be capable of such physical violence, and worse. One might be able to argue a case for him on the grounds of diminished responsibility, if the matter reached the Captain and a trial was called for. I doubt it would get Alexei off. I think he would prefer execution.

They have already given Pushka a burial at sea. I hear that Alexei did not attend the funeral, but many did. She was a well-loved woman.

I believe, like Alexei, that the
Hope
killed her and it was not murder. When you catch a rat in a trap, when you slap at a fly or a mosquito, when you scratch your skin and eliminate thousands of mites, do you call it murder? Alexei’s last remark reminds me of a case I had barely a year after we embarked. You will find it under Week 47, if memory serves. There is a connection but I only know it in my instincts. I feel as if I am groping around in the dark. The earlier case concerned Stanley Harris, an engineer. His co-workers brought him to me late at night with a wound torn into the back of his left leg.