Free The Hope by James Lovegrove

cold-comforting hands.
    When she finally came to rest, exhausted, she was gasping in sweeter air and the rain was less persistent on her face. She took stock of her surroundings and was surprised to see no stoppers, no people at all. One of the funnels loomed over her, blocking out a large portion of starlit sky, and she thought the smoke pouring out of it must be the night’s breath. She was not really allowed up here. That was an unwritten rule. You should be content with your own level. That was the way of the Hope .
    And the sense of space was overwhelming, the sky vast, a monochrome dome cupped over the ocean, confining it and at the same time emphasising its unendingness, as if their edges never quite met.
    Perhaps, thought Angel, we’re sailing round and round in a circle inside the sky. Who would know, who could tell if we were?
    She was giddy beneath the stars. She wished she could be above the Hope and riding her like she’d seen horsemen riding in picture books, her legs like pylons astride the funnels and the ship’s cables grasped in her giant fists. She was quite alone.
    Music, faint and unlike any music she had heard before, broke in on her reverie. Without hesitation she headed towards it. She passed a row of potted palms looking sorry for themselves and then she came to a huge room of lights. She looked in through a porthole. She knew this place.
    She had never seen so many old people in one room, but they did not scare her or revolt her as they were supposed to. The light, scattered from a shatter of diamonds suspended from the ceiling, glowed on the men’s white hair and pink scalps and shimmered on the women’s dresses. Couples pirouetted around the room, sweeping in and out of her line of vision. Their elegance was awesome. They swept by again and again, daring her, thrilling her, all for her, even though they did not know she was there.
    The music came to an end and everyone clapped and knew, without having to be told, that it was time to go. A few yards from Angel a door opened and she ran and hid in the shadows, but kept watching. Of all the people leaving amongst the cloud of chattering voices one woman caught her attention, not just by her striking good looks but by the grace of her step, her limbs. She walked away alone, although she seemed to take a part of every dancer with her, and Angel slipped through the dispersing crowd and followed her. Angel did not understand the urgency she felt.
    The woman let herself into a cabin and Angel saw the door close and the lights come on. She padded up to the door and found she was trembling. In fear? Excitement?
    Push the door. Gently does it. A slice of light. The woman looking up (not hostile, not afraid). A flash of green cat’s-eyes.
    Things collapsed around Angel. There was darkness and she learned it was not a thing to be feared nor the oblivion she longed for. She felt herself floating up into the dome of the night, which had been waiting for so long to catch her.
     
    There were hours of waking sleep and it seemed to Angel that every time she opened her eyes the woman’s smiling face hovered over her and that her every slightest need was being attended to. A selfish part of her drew this attention into herself and suckled on it because it was a long time since she had been cared about (genuinely cared about). It was only right she should get her fair share of love. But in her more lucid moments she tried to thank the woman as humbly as possible, hoping she could pay her back in words, but the woman would hear nothing of it. She called Angel a poor child and said she would not let her move until she was much better.
    Once, when the woman had gone out to buy something to eat, Angel propped herself up in bed and took a bleary look around the cabin. All the furnishings gleamed – polished mahogany and teak – and the curtains and the bedding were a rich dark blue, thick material such as she had never seen before. There was a lamp like a woman