The Deep

by Alma Katsu

  Les kept his composure, eyeing the small tan valise coolly. “To be honest, I didn’t think you needed to know.”

  It stung worse than a punch to the gut. He felt breathless.

  “So, what? You were going to take the money and run off on me?” And why shouldn’t he? Why keep Dai around, with his morals and complaints, his constant questions, his neediness? Because that was it, wasn’t it? It didn’t have to do with love, but need. Dai needed Les and it just wasn’t the same the other way around.

  “Don’t be an idiot. I was going to tell you that I made a killing at the tables is all. Found some rich old sod who was monumentally bad at poker.”

  Dai threw his hands up in the air to keep from strangling him. “Lies, that’s all you’re about, Leslie Williams. Have you ever told me the truth, even once?”

  Les leaned back in the tight space and awkwardly crossed his arms. “I don’t see why you prize the truth so much, Dai. The truth can kill ya. Not everyone’s strong enough for it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dai could feel the tips of his ears going hot.

  Les sighed. “I don’t see why you’re upset. It worked, didn’t it? It looks like Mark Fletcher pulled it off, and no one’s the wiser.”

  When he started to reach for the case, however, Dai pulled it back. “No, Les. You’re not keeping this money. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “No, it’s you who’s gone mad. What do you think’s going to happen when Astor discovers his money’s missing? Who else knows he had this money in his luggage?”

  Les frowned. “You’re worrying for nothing. His missus could’ve told everyone she met, for all I know. She told me readily enough.”

  “Do you really think the authorities are going to question all of her society friends? They have no reason to rob one of their own. But a penniless boxer . . .”

  Les scowled back at him, but didn’t say another word.

  “I’m going to return this—and I don’t want to hear another word of argument, do you understand? And no more wild schemes while we’re on board this ship,” Dai said. When Les tried to lunge for the valise, Dai pushed him back. “Don’t try me, Les.” The words came out of him in a low growl, and he could see the flicker of fear cross Les’s face. It gave him brief satisfaction.

  “You can’t be serious. We have the money right here. We’re free and clear—”

  “No, Les. We don’t know that. Someone could’ve seen Fletcher, could be talking to the captain about it as we speak. Once again, you’ve put us both in danger, and for what? We don’t need this”—he wasn’t going to listen to Les’s objections, not this time—“and I’m going to take it back before someone discovers it’s gone.”

  Les’s eyes bugged and his face got red, like someone was choking him. “You can’t do that, Dai. It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to me—”

  The laugh came out fast. “Listen to yourself, will you? It doesn’t belong to you, either, and you know it. You want me to say it, Leslie Williams? To put it to you plainly? Then I will: it’s this money or me. You have to choose right now. If you take this valise, this is where we part ways.”

  He was afraid that Les would choose the money because he knew how deep that ran in him. And with good measure: there had been many times in both their lives when there had been no food and no heat, and no clothes except what the church gave. They took a beating to put bread on their table, and every bit of labor they’d ever done had benefited a bloke like Astor a lot more than it had benefited them. It barely felt like stealing; it was more like finally getting a piece of what was owed them, but the law wouldn’t see it that way.

  Les huffed, his cheeks puffing in and out so hard Dai was afraid he might blow a hole right through them, but in the end, he held out the brass key to Dai.

  * * *

  —

  Dai was pretty sure he remembered where Mark had said the Astors’ luggage was located down in that cavernous hold. Even which trunk he’d found it in. Dai had a strong and detailed memory, which aided him in studying his opponents in the ring. It didn’t occur to him until this moment that he should’ve had Mark bring it back, but who knew if Mark could be trusted, in the end. He didn’t want to dangle this kind of temptation in front of him, not when the poor man had come this far.

  Finally, after making a discreet inquiry of a harried steward, he located it. At least it was still early enough in the day that there were few people milling about this end of the deck. It was the morning after the ball, and Dai worried that some of the partygoers would be dispatching stewards to take their finery back down to storage. He picked up his pace.

  The luggage room was a mess, no longer corresponding with the description Mark had given him. There were trunks and chests everywhere, great dangerous piles blocking the aisles. Suitcases and valises thrown around like a tornado had touched down. Maybe Les was right; if luggage turned up missing at the end of the journey, there would be no way to track it down. Anyone could’ve come in there and helped themselves to another passenger’s things. For the first moment since he’d run into Mark, Dai felt a tiny bit better.

  He was just about to abandon the suitcase where he stood and hope for the best when he saw the Astors’ storage area. This was the messiest corner by far. Had Mark left it in this state, he wondered, or had the Astors’ servants been down since then, milling about? If that was the case, then someone might have noticed the missing money. . . . Sweat started to bead on his forehead. How would he find the right trunk in all this mess? One trunk looked pretty much like the next; how would he figure out which one had held the money?

  Dai climbed over the mountain of luggage to the back of the compartment, moving suitcases aside to get to a large trunk that matched the description Mark had given him: oxblood leather, straps with brass buckles. It was unlocked. He had just thrown the lid back and had started to poke through the contents when he heard the sound of low voices heading his way. He went into a panic; he knew how to think quickly in the ring—how to think with his body—but in situations like these, his mind went flat.

  He was trying to jam Mark’s suitcase into the trunk when a man popped around the corner, holding an oil lamp. He shone the light right at Dai.

  “Hey—would you look who’s here. It’s that boxer, I tell you! I can’t believe it’s that boxer.” The man—a steward, to judge by his uniform—beamed at Dai.

  Dai would’ve paid him cash money to shut up. This was the worst day of his life and the fewer people who knew, the better.

  They were quickly joined by two other men who didn’t look as pleased to see Dai. The oldest man gave Dai a sharp look up and down. “What are you doing here? This area is off-limits to passengers.”

  “You’re not even a first-class passenger, if I’m not mistaken,” the last man said. “And I’d bet anything that you’re not one of the Astors, so what are you doing in their compartment?”

  Because Dai had no answer for this, they escorted him up to the boat deck, to the bridge where, the stewards argued, they knew they would find at least one officer standing watch. Dai hadn’t liked being marched through the entire ship, the eyes of every passenger on him, knowing that he had done something bad—or so it seemed.

  “I found it, I tell you, and I was returning it. It’s not even my suitcase,” he said to the first officer, Lieutenant William McMaster Murdoch, once they’d gotten to the bridge. Murdoch seemed unimpressed by Dai’s denials. He stood with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. They’d looked the suitcase over and luckily there was nothing on it—no monograms or stray receipts—that led back to Mark Fletcher. At least that part of the whole sorry operation was safe.

  “If you don’t know anything about it, how did you know to return it to the Astors’ storage?” Murdoch asked.

  Dai had no answer for this. He could hardly argue that he’d
deduced it, that no one else on board could’ve had that kind of money except the Astors. There were so many millionaires on this ship that it seemed almost blasphemous. During the interrogation, Dai learned that Astor did have money in the safe-deposit box, so much that they’d run out of space and that was why he’d been forced to keep the rest down in storage.

  “Where did you find the suitcase? Did someone give it to you?” Murdoch asked. He was clearly running out of patience, but the more he pushed, the more jumbled Dai’s mind became. He wasn’t used to being questioned like this. His was a simple life: someone took a swing at him, he punched back.

  “I found it by the engine room. I thought I recognized the suitcase as belonging to the Astors. I was just trying to return it,” Dai said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “If you thought it was the Astors’, why didn’t you bring it to their room?” Murdoch had been joined by another officer now, the second officer, Charles Lightoller. A nervous man, clearly trying to impress his superior. Murdoch paced around them, stroking his mustache.

  “I don’t know. I—I didn’t want to disturb them.”

  There was a sudden squabble outside the door, the sound of pushing and shoving, and voices raised sharply. Dai recognized one of them by the Welsh lilt. Les must’ve seen him being paraded through the ship or heard the rumors. A second later, the door flew open and Les stumbled inside. His clothes were disheveled and his hair mussed, as though he’d had to fight his way in.

  “You’ve got to let this man go. He hasn’t done anything,” Les said, pointing at Dai. “It’s all my fault. I’m the guilty one. It’s all my doing.”

  Murdoch’s and Lightoller’s heads snapped in Les’s direction. Dai knew what they were thinking, these London boys: of course it would be the Welsh making trouble. Stealing. Fighting. What do you expect from country trash?

  “Dai didn’t take the money—he’s returning it, for Christ’s sake! Do you ever see a thief trying to return what he stole? It was me: I stole the money.” Dai could only stand dumbstruck as Les explained the whole thing, every bit of it, how he’d sneaked into first-class staterooms—leaving Violet out of it, of course—to plan his cons. Surely the officers had heard the first-class passengers talking about the man who told their fortunes—for a hefty sum? Then, he further explained, he learned of Astor’s cache in storage when he’d been prowling through their rooms. He even claimed to have stolen the suitcase from another passenger to throw authorities off the scent should the whole thing be discovered. He avoided looking at Dai the entire time, his red-rimmed eyes trained on the floor or imploringly on the officers’ faces. Anywhere but at Dai, and Dai knew why. Les would break if he looked at him.

  “You can’t pin this on Dai. He was trying to get me to do the right thing. He’s an altar boy. He’s a good man. Too good to be friends with the likes of me.”

  This whole time, Dai could say nothing. Words choked in his throat. He never thought he’d see the day when Les would do something like this. He’d seen Les do so many objectionable things. He’d taken coins out of a blind beggar’s cup, taken a simpleton’s last shilling and left him to starve in the street. And they’d been caught a couple of times before by local police. Les always got them out with some sly excuse, a quick promise or a bit of change or the knowledge of some secret about this one’s sister or that one’s cousin. Where they came from, it was different—everyone knew everyone. You had to do something really awful to get put away.

  But here they were on the great Titanic, and here was Les, willingly turning himself in to unknown enforcers. Who knew what the punishment would be? It made no sense—Dai felt the world had turned upside down. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or horrified. He couldn’t let Les take the fall. But that made no sense either—it was all Leslie’s doing. And yet—

  The boat bucked at an unexpected wave, and Dai lurched out of his thoughts.

  “This whole thing stinks,” Lightoller said to Murdoch, as the first officer rubbed his chin. “I think we should lock them both up until we can hand them over to the authorities in New York.”

  Les wailed. “It would be a great miscarriage of justice. David Bowen is innocent. You can’t lock up an innocent man. Ask anybody on this ship. He saved a kid from falling overboard the first day! He’s a hero. You can’t go locking him up.”

  The officers huddled quickly. Dai didn’t like the sound of their voices, angry and growling, like wasps in a rattled nest. In the end, Murdoch called for the men who had been waiting outside the door, and pointed to Les. “Take this man and secure him in the chain locker.” He turned to Les. “We don’t have a brig on this ship—we didn’t envision needing one,” he added with disdain. “We’ll keep you in the chain locker until we can find a more suitable place. We’ll wire the authorities in New York and let them know what’s happened. They’ll take custody once we’ve arrived.”

  “You can’t—” Dai started, but no one was paying attention to him. He lunged after one of the crew members, but the look the man gave him when he grabbed his arm was enough to make him drop it immediately. He knew what would happen if he got out of control, if he acted out. They’d take him, too. And then there’d really be no hope. Still, it took all his force of will not to take the door right off its hinges in anger as he watched the crew members drag Les by his arms—as though he might try to run away, as though he could somehow escape while he was trapped aboard this ship—and haul him away before Dai could even say goodbye.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Annie stood outside the Fletchers’ stateroom. The hall up here was hushed. But no—another steward walked by, listing slightly with the rise and fall of the ship. He gave Annie a nod as he passed.

  Annie waited until he was out of earshot before she knocked at the door.

  No answer. No sounds within, either.

  She used her passkey to let herself in. There was no murmur of voices from the other room, no high squeal of Ondine’s laughter. The suite was as still as a crypt, dust motes the only movement. Everyone was out—including Mark.

  She would wait for him. She had to speak to him.

  She paced between the rooms, all the while listening for the sound of Mark’s footsteps outside the door. Time had crept all day. Every chore seemed to be over within minutes, and then she had to think of something else to do to keep her busy. All she could think about was the scene this morning. Caroline lunging at her out of the gloom like a ghost. Caroline accusing her of theft, trying to make Mark think Annie was the villain, that the bad things happening on the ship were her fault.

  She needed to make him understand that it wasn’t her fault. Caroline had a vendetta against her. Anyone could tell by looking at Caroline that she had a problem. Mark needed to face the truth, needed to see it. Needed to see that he could trust Annie. That Ondine’s safety could be at risk.

  She’d been in these rooms a dozen times bringing Ondine’s milk but never had the chance to really look around, she realized. She took a slow turn, her gazing settling like a chill over all the Fletchers’ possessions. Hats. Shawls. Books. A parasol. Ondine’s baby things, the crib and stacks of baby clothes, glass bottles and rubber nipples. This could be mine: The thought popped into her head as natural as could be. If I were married to Mark, this would be my room. My things. My baby.

  My life.

  It was a silly, impossible fantasy, and yet in just this moment, alone with his things, it didn’t feel so far away.

  There was Caroline’s jewelry scattered across her dressing table. Having just been accused of stealing, Annie’s instinct was to give it wide berth—but then her eye fell on a locket, a plain, simple silver locket. Her hand went to it as naturally as if it were her own. She opened it to find pictures of two women: Caroline, and one she didn’t recognize. So beautiful that it could’ve been from an advertisement for soap or perfume, but Caroline Fletcher was not the type to save pretty pictur
es from magazines. Carefully, Annie slipped the photo from its frame, flipped it over. Nothing, no inscription.

  She opened the clothes trunk and skimmed through the jackets and trousers on their hangers. She didn’t recognize the labels—London tailors, no doubt—but could tell that the clothes weren’t of the best quality, and much of it showed signs of strain and wear. Darning, patching, loose buttons. Same with his shoes. Several pairs had been resoled. There was only one suit of new clothes, the things Mark had worn the day he boarded. On the other hand, Caroline’s clothes looked to be mostly new, far more abundant than her husband’s, and of very good quality. She recalled what Mark had said to her on the promenade that first time they’d really spoken. How he didn’t feel he belonged, that these weren’t “his people.” That had been the first sign, the first clue that he wasn’t happy. That he longed for something else.

  She stood over the dressing table, her fingers itching to pick through the jewelry and cosmetics and toiletries, brushes and combs. Caroline’s things took up almost every inch, while Mark’s fit into a square leather tray: collar stays; two pairs of studs for his cuffs; a signet ring; and a fob for his watch, a tab of worn leather with an insignia she couldn’t make out.

  On the tiny stand by his bed, a book, a collection of stories. It fell open at the bookmark: “The Man Who Would Be King,” by Rudyard Kipling. Annie had heard of the author but not the story. She picked up the tome for no other reason than Mark had held it in his hands. She flipped through the pages, their words flowing over her. She’d been taught, growing up, that reading novels was a sin. The Lord favors good girls, Annie. A flash of darkness at the corners of her vision. No, it was too late for those thoughts.

  She put the book down. Beside it lay a few pieces of paper, folded—receipts for their luggage in storage, a note scribbled in an unfamiliar hand.

  The bed was made up, the sheets drawn tightly over the mattress, but she couldn’t resist lying down on it. Something more than curiosity had taken hold of her. Something like need. She had the sensation that she’d experienced every morning on this ship—like she hadn’t existed before that moment. She snuggled her head on his pillow, fragrant with his hair oil. She burrowed her nose in deeper. She folded back the blanket. This is where he sleeps. She pictured his body in this very bed, drank in the lingering scent of his powder and soap. The smell of it made her want to weep. It wasn’t enough. Unable to resist any longer, she lay down in the place where his body would be, in the exact spot, so she could feel the indentation in the mattress. Pressed her head back into his pillow, reached beneath it to draw it around and envelop her fully.