For as long as Walker could remember he had been disappointed by boats: something to do with the thickness of the metal, the size of the bolts; the way everything was covered in a thick skin of paint, the way you had to struggle through low self-closing doors, the way the toilets were always awash with water. He stood on deck and was surprised by how quickly he became bored watching the land receding, the frantic gulls. Even the sea was disappointing. Grey, cold. He went below deck to get some food but everything looked too foul to eat. A smell of french fries and eggs emanated even from the bolognese sauce congealing in a brightly lit tin. He wandered to the lounge where people were already asleep on the floor – the seats all had arm-rests to prevent people stretching out on them. No effort had been spared to make the crossing as miserable as possible. Soon people were vomiting all over the ship. The smell of sick was impossible to dissociate from the reek of the food cooking in the galleys.
