had that same scar, the little mark over one eye.
He didn’t see that Kite was awake until he got up and went to the door.
‘Hold on, where are you going?’ Joe said.
‘Away from that,’ Kite said towards the cigarette.
‘It’s no better downstairs, don’t – look, gone, see? Don’t.’ Joe went after him. ‘You shouldn’t be standing up. It’s only a cigarette; why does it bother you so much?’
Kite didn’t push him very hard. It was meant to make a point, not hurt, but it did hurt; it banged him into the wall and sent a thick airless ache through his ribs.
‘No, all right,’ Joe heard himself say. He touched Kite’s knuckles. ‘Come on, it’s all right.’
Kite let him go and stepped back. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.
‘I’ve sailed for fifteen minutes and I nearly punched the bartender just now, you’re doing well to speak in sentences.’ Joe breathed slowly to make Kite do the same. He let the quiet spin, waiting for Kite’s lungs to take on the rhythm on their own, not just because he was forcing it. In his hands, Kite’s were shaking. Too much energy. It had to go somewhere. ‘Come on, we need to go out for a walk. A long walk. What’s that hill called, in town?’
‘Arthur’s Seat?’
‘Let’s climb it. See in the morning from the top.’
Kite looked out at the dark for a long time, but then nodded. The marines stared claymores at Joe, who pretended not to notice. He realised it was a stupid idea as soon as they were outside. It was foggy, and the hill was more of a mountain, with only one steep track up. Even by the time he hurt all over, the light at the top didn’t seem any closer. In the fog it was only a halo haze. The longer he looked up at it, the less it looked like something they could reach, and the more like an incurious angel.
‘In your time,’ Kite said. ‘You said it wasn’t only you, with epilepsy. The forgetting. You said it was common.’
‘Yes, it’s … well, the doctors said it was common. They said it happened in clusters. Started about two and a half years ago now, three. Why?’
‘Something happened here, three years ago. It will have affected the future a lot. You’ll be angry when you hear, but – I’ll tell you if you want to know. It’s the only thing I can give you, to …’ he lifted his hand a little ‘ … return the favour,’ he said.
‘What could have changed the whole future that much?’
‘Trafalgar.’ Kite’s hand went to the burns across his face but like always he pulled it away before he could touch them. ‘The Kingdom came from a future where the English won the Battle of Trafalgar. London didn’t fall, the French fleet never made it to Calais to ship the army across to Kent and Bristol, they didn’t invade, none of it. Your time was under English rule. But then we lost.’
Joe almost laughed, but only almost. ‘Jesus. And she was only trying to tell Herault about railway stations.’ He held up Madeline’s letter to show what he was talking about.
Kite nodded, but not like he blamed her.
34
Offshore, Cadiz, 1805
Everything had smelled of paint and turpentine that afternoon. They were repainting the hulls. The Belleisle was even having to redo the rings around her masts in yellow instead of black. Kite swapped his jacket for a brush and a can. He liked painting. It was simple, and it was obvious when it was finished.
Suspended on a rope swing below the furled sails, he could feel a tiny breeze that didn’t reach the deck, where the heat haze swam. Other people on other ships had noticed too and the masts swung with men on ropes, which gave the fleet a festive look, as if it were made of dangerously high carousels. Like he had done every five minutes, despite always promising himself he wasn’t going to look again for at least another hour, he glanced at the flagship. It was conspicuous for not flying any flags. No supply orders, no post, no invitation to cross between ships.
The golden dome of the cathedral at Cadiz showed, just. He had been trying not to stare at it as much as he’d been trying not to stare at the flagless masts of the Royal Sovereign. As of this morning, he hadn’t been ashore for twenty months and two days. He had never wanted to with any particular exigency,