The Deep

by Alma Katsu

  To fall.

  He followed the stairs down to G deck, where some of the third-class passengers were quartered. A good deal of the space on this deck was given over to gigantic boilers, with their god-awful noise, all that rumbling and groaning. It was the closest he’d gotten to the inner workings of the engines and he wondered how these people could stand it. One end of the long, long passageway housed machine rooms full of turbines, great whirling pieces of machinery that could crush a man with no difficulty whatsoever. Mark thought briefly about throwing the suitcase into one of those, letting the gears grind the money into meaningless tatters, but while it would be emotionally satisfying, it wouldn’t achieve any useful end. It wouldn’t prevent Williams from blackmailing him. So, he continued to the bow of the ship, toward the mail and parcel rooms, and second-class baggage, where he was to meet Williams.

  The third-class passengers were waking up. They eyed him curiously as he passed, women in cheap straw hats or with kerchiefs tied over their hair, men in coarse woolen trousers and work boots. They were making their way to the third-class dining room—long tables and benches, the way field hands and servants were fed—from which came the aroma of porridge and fried kippers and kidney pie. His own stomach growled; he couldn’t wait to get this damned transaction over with so he could return to the upper decks and the things he was accustomed to.

  He glanced into room after room, anywhere there was an open door. So many people crammed down here, four or more to a room. Eyes stared back at him, some frightened, some suspicious. He began to feel a little intimidated; what would he say if someone asked me why he was there? Or tried to take the case away from him? Had he gotten turned around? Finally, he decided to take the initiative and ask if anyone knew where he could find the boxers. He chose a meek-looking older gentleman wearing a cleric’s collar.

  “I think I heard they were staying by the squash court,” he said, pointing vaguely forward.

  Luckily, there were fewer rooms in that section of the ship—a seeming afterthought, rooms shoved in wherever they fit—and he found the right room before long. The door was open, but there was only Dai Bowen inside, with no signs of his extortionist.

  Bowen seemed surprised and slightly embarrassed. “Mr. Fletcher, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for your friend, Mr. Williams.”

  Bowen rubbed the back of his head. “He’s not here, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen him since last night.”

  A man like that undoubtedly found himself a woman last night willing to take him in. It was a disappointment: now he wouldn’t be able to unburden himself of this damned anchor, this chain to his old ways and his old troubles. As much as he wanted to be rid of it—and of the temptation, too.

  Mark started to turn away but Bowen reached for his arm. “What is it? Something I can help you with?”

  Mark shook his head. “No, it’s nothing.”

  But Bowen didn’t release his hand. “Any business of Les’s is my concern, too.”

  Mark was about to object a second time when he realized what the big man said was true. If anyone had told Williams that he’d stolen Caroline’s jewelry, it was Bowen. He was no innocent. He shoved the suitcase at Bowen. “All right then—here. Take it. I’m sick of the damned thing. Tell your friend that’s all the money I could find. And it’s all his. I don’t want a damned penny of it.” Mark stepped back before Bowen could say or do anything, anxious to say his piece. “You tell your friend it’s over. My debt to him is paid. I don’t want any part of this anymore—and he better remember this, if he gets caught. It’s all on his head. I wash my hands of it.”

  “What are you talking about?” He shook the suitcase at him. “What’s this?”

  All the emotions that had been whirling inside him—indignation, anger, fear—crashed, leaving Mark oddly embarrassed, even though Bowen probably knew everything Williams had on him. Even though the two men were partners, Mark felt—Was he only fooling himself?—that Bowen was different. You could tell that he was more honest, in his way. Mark shut the door to the tiny, tight space and, in low tones, barely above a mumble in case someone walked by, explained Williams’s plan to the boxer, took him through every step, down to finding the box that had held the money, and was gratified to see the look of horror spread over the man’s face.

  Bowen held the suitcase away from him like it contained something repulsive. “And this is the money, here?”

  “Every last bit. I’ve done what he asked. Now I demand he leave me and Caroline alone. I—I know I haven’t been the best of husbands, but that’s in the past. I’m going to try to patch things up with Caroline. We’re going to America to start a new life together—and I’m going to give it a proper go.” He realized, as he said it, that this was what he wanted most of all. Some demon had been exorcised.

  Bowen leaned against the bunk bed behind him, his head just shy of the ceiling. “I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to mind my own business, but if you don’t mind my saying, your wife seems like a wonderful woman and—”

  “And I shouldn’t be doing this sort of thing to her?” Mark said, his tone bitter. “You’re right: she is a singularly remarkable woman, not the least for taking on a failure like me. This isn’t the first time I’ve courted ruination.”

  “Cards?” Dai asked.

  It wasn’t only cards. He’d haunted country horse meets, dogfights and cockfights held in London back alleys, ferrets pitted against rats in the basements of corner pubs. At his worst, he’d bet on which man could down a pint of ale quickest. But he could admit only to cards; gentlemen played cards. And they were his special weakness. Mark found himself describing to the boxer the worst of the nights—the night he’d lost Lillian’s savings. He could still feel the terror of free fall, the bottomless pit open beneath him as, hand after hand, his pile of money dwindled. How he kept playing and betting, thinking his luck had to turn, but it never did. At the end of the evening, he’d had only pence to his name and the gent who had cleaned him out seemingly vanished into thin air.

  The boxer listened politely at first, then with increasing concern. “And the dealer, how was his luck?”

  “Nearly as bad as mine. He lost the house a goodly amount that night.”

  “And he did nothing to stop his losses? Didn’t call in a new dealer, send the gent to another table?”

  “It happened so fast, I suppose there wasn’t time.”

  Dai let out air through his teeth and shook his head.

  “What?”

  “It’s got the sound of a con all over it, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The gent and the dealer—my bet is they were in on it together,” he explained softly. “For the gent to have cleaned you out so quickly. He gets the dealer to lose, too, ya see, so it seems natural like. It’s called ‘dumping.’”

  “No, no, nothing like it— That’s not— It couldn’t have. I’d have known it,” Mark stammered, though even as he protested, he felt the truth of it wash over him in a wave of heat. “And how do you know of such a thing? Has that happened to you?” But Mark didn’t need the answer. He could see from the red shame on Dai’s face, in the way he chewed the inside of his cheek. Dai hadn’t been the victim of a con—he’d been in on it. Maybe plenty of times. He and Leslie, both of them con artists. And yet this one cared enough to let Mark in on the truth.

  Mark felt himself getting hot all over, as he had done that night, a tingling spreading down his arms to his fingers. His mind raced back to that night, the night that changed his life forever, that had set everything that had come after in motion like a wound clock: his and Lillian’s ragged, horrible arguments—weeks of it—and the hideous, seething resentment. Then, the forgiveness, frantic and urgent and full of hot kisses and tears, as was Lillian’s way. Begging his family for help. The rejections and denials. The humiliati
on. Finally, the boon: Lillian’s promotion. She’d advanced from the sewing floor to deliveries and tailoring. The hope that it was all going to get better now that they were on the straight and narrow.

  And that’s how she’d met Caroline.

  But there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. He’d been over that a thousand times in his head. The past was immutable. The only thing that he could change was the future. Lillian was gone. He would never get her back and wishing would only make him miserable—and steal what he did have from him, through bitterness and resentment. He had Caroline and Ondine. This was the situation he found himself in. He owed it to them to try to make it work. He might not be able to control what happened next, but he could try.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Fletcher?” It was the boxer snapping him out of his despair, his voice ripe with concern. Mark opened his eyes. “Have you come over ill?”

  “No. Quite the contrary. I feel better than I have in a long, long time.”

  * * *

  —

  He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Caroline alone at one of the small tables, a teacup at her lips. Before she noticed him, he took a moment to observe her that way. You wouldn’t suspect the terrible scene in their cabin this morning, the fire, or their row last night. Though he knew her well enough to sense there was sadness in the arch of her neck, in the slight downturn of her pretty lips. She would never show her troubles to the world.

  She was the kind of person who could survive any misery the world might throw at her. Look at how she’d bounced back after the death of her husband, crossing the ocean to find a sisterhood with Lillian. It made him want to weep, that she’d chosen him, with his weaknesses and flaws. He couldn’t fathom why.

  Lillian had always been a storm—one that stirred you, took you by the lapels and made you helpless to it. Thrilling. But Caroline: she was a lighthouse. The first sight of her after days at sea, days spent away from her side, left you with a simultaneous feeling of gratitude and the deep satisfying comfort of home.

  He pulled out the chair opposite her before he lost his nerve. “There you are. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you—”

  She sat back. “I would’ve waited for you, Mark, but when you dashed out of the stateroom, I wasn’t sure when you might be back . . .”

  He’d told her so many lies. He took her hand. Was it his hand that was trembling, or hers? “You have every right to tell me to go away, Caroline, but I hope you come with me, someplace where we can speak in private, and I’ll explain everything.”

  It nearly broke his heart to see his wife look at him that warily, as though he’d lied to her so often that she’d never trust him again. But she nodded, dabbing her lips with her napkin. She let him lead her out of the café, through the doors, and onto the promenade. It was windy, even with overhead shelter from the deck above, so he took off his coat for her to wear over her shoulders. They were still surrounded, couples and groups strolling by, mostly moving in the same direction. It reminded him of skaters taking laps on a pond in the wintertime.

  The rail at the very back of the ship was mostly deserted—too windy to linger for very long, he supposed. They stood looking at the ship’s wake, twin curls of white cutting into the gray-green water. It was mesmerizing, like watching a magician pull an unending spool of white handkerchiefs from his sleeve. The wind teased long strands of Caroline’s hair out of its upsweep and whipped them around her face, made her pale lavender dress billow around her like sheets caught drying on the line. When she looked around uneasily, as though afraid the wind would swoop down and carry her over the railing to her death, he drew her closer.

  “I have to make a confession.” She opened her mouth to cut him off—she was always making excuses for him, but no more. He overrode her objections. “This is a real confession, and it’s serious. Hear me out.”

  “Mark, you needn’t confess to me—” The look on her face was so sad, Mark was sure he knew what she was thinking: that she’d been turning it over all night and come to the conclusion that they should part. That they were wrong for each other. That there was too much distance between them.

  “I do—you don’t know how much I do.”

  Her brows pinched and her mouth started to crumple, ready to burst into tears. “Mark, you must listen to me. You’re not the only one at fault.”

  She was only saying this because it was what he wanted to hear, he was sure of it. “Don’t say that. I’d never believe it of you. The truth is you are too good for me, Caroline, and I was too proud to admit it. But I see it all now, and I need you to hear me out. Please.” He squeezed her hands in his, and didn’t stop squeezing until she bowed her head in acquiescence.

  It was the scariest thing he’d ever done. Scarier than stealing Astor’s money, scarier than telling Lillian he’d lost all her hard-earned savings. After all, he didn’t think he’d be caught breaking into the luggage room and even if he had, he knew he could explain it all away: he was a first-class passenger, after all, and they would be reluctant to accuse a first-class passenger of committing a crime. They’d be grateful for anything that would make such unpleasantness go away. As for Lillian, he’d known she’d be disappointed with him, but she wouldn’t leave him over it.

  The situation was completely different with Caroline. He had everything to lose by telling her the truth, but he knew that if he didn’t confess, it was only a matter of time before the marriage failed. The only way she could respect him—the only way he could respect himself—was if he told her what he had done. And he needed that, he saw now. Needed her respect, her forgiveness, her acceptance. Her love. Sometimes he didn’t know what it was he wanted, but what he needed was obvious. Without Caroline, he had nothing. Without Caroline, he was nothing. Maybe this was the truest definition of love he’d ever experienced. Not the kind he’d experienced with Lillian, the kind that unhinged him, made him wild. But the kind that had the power to anchor and secure him, to make him become the man he ought to have been all along.

  And so he poured out his heart to her. He told her about his gambling, about stealing her jewelry (how her face paled at that—not even in anger but something far worse: pity). About losing Lillian’s savings, too. He told her that he still thought of Lillian and that he loved her, but that he loved Caroline as much if not more. He told her how he’d doubted their marriage but realized now that was only insecurity because he couldn’t believe a woman like Caroline could love a man like him.

  She cupped his cheek. Her fingers were like ice, so he took them in his hands and blew on them. “Oh, Mark, I—I knew something was bothering you. . . . I thought you were having misgivings. I was afraid you thought you’d made a mistake marrying me.” She was really crying now.

  He dabbed at her tears. “Please, darling, don’t cry. I hope you can forgive me.”

  She pressed the back of her hand to her cheek. “We all sin and we all deserve forgiveness, isn’t that what the preachers say? If you say that from this moment forward, you are a changed man, I believe you—and I will do the same. From this moment forward.” She let out a breath, as though she’d been holding it in. She stared over the ocean, as if willing herself to calm. “It will be better once we’re in America. When you’ve had a chance to meet my family and we move into our new home, we’ll be able to put everything behind us.” And never, ever think of it again, he promised himself. Even Lillian: Mark would put away his every thought and memory of Lillian, if it would save his marriage.

  The wind suddenly swooped down and plucked the hat from Caroline’s head, flinging it into the ocean. It disappeared in the frothy wake of the ship, pulling it under the frozen water.

  Before Caroline could say another word, Mark got down on one knee, still holding her hands. From the corner of his eye, he saw passersby ducking their heads together to whisper—Oh look, he’s proposing. “Caroline, if you will do me the honor of rem
aining my wife, I promise I will always strive to be the man you deserve.”

  She pulled him to his feet and kissed him hard. Her tears fell on his cheek, as cold as tiny pellets of hail. “Oh, you silly fool, of course I will. Now, let’s go inside, before we freeze to death!”

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her close as they made their way across the promenade and into the warmth of the ship. It made no sense that he should land on his feet with Caroline. All he knew was that this marvelous woman had forgiven him. Their whole lives stretched before them now, the past swept clean, the future shiny and new.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Fury simmered like stars in the darkness of Dai’s thoughts, drove him to search the ship up and down until he finally found Les in the third-class stairway, trying to talk two men into a game of cards at ten o’clock in the morning. He extended no greeting, no If you don’t mind, I need to talk to my friend. He simply grabbed Les by the arm and dragged him away.

  They ducked into a steward’s closet, tight as a coffin. Dai found a light pull. Leslie Williams’s face was white as a ghost: he knew he was about to get his comeuppance.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Les snapped.

  “I could be asking you the same thing.” Dai held up the suitcase and shook it in Les’s face. “I ran into Mark Fletcher. This is the con you were so proud of? When were you going to tell me, Les? When?” He was angry with himself, really. How could you love someone so terribly, so mercilessly, that you let him lie to you again and again? No matter how worthless it made you feel.