Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  “Because it’s better than battling the crowds on the Northern Line in rush hour,” he told me.

  I believe him.

  “Jason,” he says, happy to see another person at this late hour. “Have you ever had pig lung?”

  Kendall’s family is from Hong Kong. Each Saturday morning, according to the teachings of Feng Shue, he moves the chairs in his cabin from port to starboard, thus ensuring favourable auspices for the upcoming week. And when we turn around, after Glacier Bay, he moves them back again.

  “Can’t say that I have, Kendall, no. Is it contagious?”

  “Actually it’s something you’d eat.”

  “Ah,” I answer, carefully.

  “Myself, I find it appalling. My mother, however, considers it a nourishing tonic for the respiratory system. She’s sent me some. Dried. No doubt in contravention of half a dozen rules and regulations concerning the import and export of processed animal parts. Would you like some?”

  “Think I’ll pass…thank you. I left my iPhone in Castaways earlier…did anybody hand it in? Black.”

  Kendall opens a drawer, and there it is. “You’re lucky.”

  Everything works. Apps pages comfortably familiar. Battery at 22%. It was 89% before.

  “Who handed it in? Leo?”

  “I have no idea. I was in the back changing the toner in the printer. When I came out, there it was, on the counter.”

  I’m not relishing the discovery that someone may have been using my phone to make calls all around the universe. Or that they’ve likely had a look at my list of contacts. Emails. Texts. Pictures.

  My fault for leaving it on the table.

  “Thanks Kendall.”

  “Change your passwords.”

  “Right. Yes. Thanks.”

  “You’re sure about the pig lung?”

  “Positive.”

  “Good night.”

  “Night, Kendall.”

  It’s late. And I really just want to go to sleep. Except there’s someone on my bed. Snoring. Oblivious. Rick Redding.

  I really ought to lock my cabin door. But nobody does down here. We obviously don’t anticipate needy passengers taking advantage of our generous natures.

  He’d better not have eaten any of my chocolate.

  “Oi,” I say, giving him a poke. “Goldilocks.”

  He’s awake, but his eyes are bloodshot and he’s not really cognizant.

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  “God knows, mate. Lost track. What time is it?”

  “Three o’clock, Rick. In the morning. So…I’m just guessing…Carly’s thrown you out?”

  “She’s a cruel woman, Jason. Needs her head examined.”

  “I won’t argue with you there. How did you find my cabin?”

  “Asked around. Flashed a bit of cash.”

  “You can’t stay. You’ll have to ask Carly to let you back in.”

  “Never. I have my principles.”

  They’ll be at it like bloody bunnies this time tomorrow. “It’s not allowed. I’ll be put on report.”

  “Who’s going to tell? Not me.”

  I’m rapidly losing this argument. “Well, you’re not having my bed.”

  “Fair enough, mate.” He’s awake enough now to sit up. “Bleedin’ hell.”

  His muzzy head can’t quite deal with the six degrees of freedom Sapphire’s currently enjoying as we race in heavy seas towards Juneau.

  He’s looking pale. His face is doubtful. I recognize the symptoms.

  “That way,” I suggest, urgently, pointing at the loo.

  He lurches up and disappears. Just in time, from the sounds of it.

  The six degrees of motion on board a ship: roll, yaw, pitch, surge, sway and heave. He’s definitely heaving. And is clever enough not to involve actual body parts when utilizing the vacuum flush.

  He comes out, wiping his mouth on one of my towels. “You got any of them magic tablets?”

  I do. Left over from Dom’s stay aboard. I hate going into a toilet after someone’s been sick in it. We get that a lot upstairs, in the public loos. Even after it’s been flushed away. Something very unpleasant lingers. There they are. In the cabinet over the sink.

  “Here,” I say, handing him the packet, and a mug of water. “Take half of one. It’ll make you drowsy.”

  “Just the thing,” he chuckles, popping out two, and downing them whole.

  “You can sleep in the chair,” I tell him. He looks at it. Less than enthusiastically.

  I hook my lifejacket off the wall, and pull an empty case out from under my bed, and arrange both on the floor, one on top of the other.

  “Feet up.”

  I throw him the second pillow from my bed, and an extra blanket from the top shelf in the cupboard.

  “Bless you, Jason. You’re a lifesaver.”

  I’m certain he’ll think differently in the morning, after spending the night in that chair. I disappear back into the loo. And while I’m in there, I remember the lilac-coloured envelope in my jacket pocket. I pull it out, and open the sealed flap.

  I promised you a poem, Jason. But I don’t want to give it to you now.

  I thought you were going to save a place for me at your lunch table on Lido Deck. But then I saw that travel agent woman sitting there instead. I thought it must have been a mistake. Or you were just being polite. But no. You were laughing and joking and making plans to meet later. I watched you for quite a long time. You have no idea how much that hurt me, Jason. That was meant to be our time together. You and me.

  I was upset, but I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want to be angry with you. So I went for a long walk to calm down.

  When I came back, you had that little girl with you. I know who she is. Imogen. She belongs to the Staff Captain. His wife is very attractive.

  You still didn’t see me watching you. And when Imogen decided to go off on her own, you didn’t see that either. I followed her downstairs. I could have been someone bad. I could have taken her anywhere.

  I followed you to the Games Room. I watched you with that travel agent again. I’ve tried to understand, but I can’t. You’re so blind. You don’t see anything. She’s shallow.

  She doesn’t love you.

  Not the way I love you.

  She doesn’t know you.

  Not the way I know you.

  But I’ve decided to give you one more chance.

  I’ll be waiting for you, on Observation Deck, when you have your break at half past nine.

  Don’t hurt me again, Jason.

  No xxx’s for you this time.

  A cold, horrible shiver has just snaked down my spine. She assumed I would read her note right away. She assumed I would meet her tonight, during my gig. But I didn’t go outside on my first break. I sat at the bar, drinking a melon cooler, having a conversation about Norwegian trolls with Harald.

  Well, that’s another thing confirmed, anyway. Katey definitely isn’t SaylerGurl.

  Fuck. Just…fuck.

  13

  Monday, at Sea

  I’m drowning. Trying to keep my head above the water. Desperate.

  I’m kicking, wildly. Flailing arms. But I’m going down. Down down down…Until I’m so far beneath the surface I can never come up again.

  I’m holding my breath. If I dare breathe it’ll be over. I’ll die.

  I’m holding my breath. Struggling. I’m going to explode.

  There’s a voice. Commanding me. “Breathe! Breathe!”

  I can’t. If I breathe, I’ll drown.

  “Breathe,” says the voice. “If you don’t breathe you’ll die.”

  I open my mouth. I force myself to inhale. Feel the water rush into my lungs. Filling them. No…no no no…

  I’m awake now, gasping, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in terror.

  Safe. Shaking all over. But safe.

  When I was seven, some kids tried to drown me at a swimming pool. One of them jumped on my back. A
nother kicked my legs out from under me. We were in four feet of water. I didn’t have time to get any air before I went down. I struggled…I breathed in.

  Horrible recollection. Horrible. As the cold water flooded into my nose and mouth I stopped struggling. Stopped everything. Went limp. Scared the fuck out of the kid who was on top of me, and he let go. My foot hit the bottom of the pool and I kicked up, instinctively. Shot to the surface. Opened my mouth and dragged air into my lungs with a great wheezing death rattle of a gasp. Coughed and gagged. Swam to the side of the pool and hung on for my life, while the boys who’d nearly killed me quietly disappeared. I never even saw their faces.

  I bury my head in my arms, resting them on my updrawn knees. I know where the dream comes from. What I don’t know is why I keep having it.

  I once asked Jilly what it all meant. She told me I was overwhelmed by my emotions. Whenever that dream besets me, something’s happening which I’m not sure about. There’s confusion surrounding my feelings.

  Literally, my love, you’re struggling to keep your head above water.

  Over in the corner, Rick slumbers on, mouth open, completely oblivious.

  The wind’s picked up and the water outside’s really rough. I’m listening to the roar of the sea storming against Sapphire’s sturdy Winter North Atlantic hull. I’m listening to her creaks and groans as the waves slam her side, then crash into spray with a fading hiss. Everything in my cabin’s shuddering and rattling.

  Wearily, I climb out of bed. I help myself to one of the G&B’s in my little fridge, and sit down in front of my laptop. It’s four in the morning Over Here. Over There, it’s the afternoon. Jilly’s bound to be around.

  Strange. Twitter’s asking me to log in…and I’ve logged in…and it’s telling me my password’s wrong. Try again.

  It isn’t wrong. That IS my password! Twitter’s being a Twat.

  All right, password reminder. Send it to me, then. Tell me where I’ve gone wrong.

  What the fuck. I can’t log into my email. And I know that info’s right.

  I know what’s happened. Whoever had my phone last night’s been busy. Email hacked and Twitter hijacked. And I have a horrible thought…SaylerGurl?

  I can’t log in to Twitter without an account. And I can’t create an account without an email address. Easily fixed. I have a Gmail account SaylerGurl doesn’t know about…And who knew @BarnzyBear would come in this handy so soon? I’m sure he won’t mind.

  I’m in, and searching for Cold_Fingers. Except Cold_Fingers has now become a Protected Account. Fuck. It had to have been her. And she’s locked it up, and the only way I can see what’s being tweeted is by sending in a request to follow.

  Done.

  I’m checking SaylerGurl’s real timeline. It’s not protected, so anyone can view it. But there’s nothing new.

  I know a few tricks. I can do a Twitter search, and even though I can’t see what Cold_Fingers has been saying to my followers, I can see what my followers have been saying to Cold_Fingers.

  Where’s Jilly? There she is, twittering away to her friends about roof thatching and coffee machines. I can’t DM her unless she’s following me. But I can join her list, and I can tweet to her. And hope she sees it. Now following Jilly_Snowdon.

  I’ll risk SaylerGurl not seeing this very public tweet. Hello Jilly. It’s Jason. Beware! Cold_Fingers has been hijacked. Don’t respond to this on Twitter. Please follow for DM.

  I wait. An eternity. Stop talking to that bloody woman about thatching crooks and water reeds. Come on, Jilly. Do you really care about Nespresso machines? Obviously they have expensive coffee habits up in heaven. Or wherever you really are. Caterham.

  Finally! My follower count’s just gone from 0 to 1, and I have a DM. And I’m deleting that tweet to Jilly so SaylerGurl will never see it.

  What’s happened, lovely?

  Lost my phone last night. Got it back, but my Twitter account and email’s been hacked.

  Do you know who it was?

  Who do you think? SaylerGurl. Has to be.

  I think you must be right, Jason. Yes. I can see it now.

  And by the way, SaylerGurl isn’t Fam_Tripper.

  I tell her about my most recent note.

  There’s a woman on board, Jilly. Her name’s Annie Baysting. A writer. I was wondering…

  It isn’t her.

  How can you say that? How do you know she isn’t SaylerGurl?

  What makes you think she is?

  A feeling. That’s all.

  You’re learning to listen to your intuition, Jason. Which is lovely. But it isn’t Annie.

  A silence.

  Is it you, Jilly? Are you Annie Baysting? I know it’s absurd, because I was chatting with Annie while I was messaging Jilly. I don’t even know why I’ve asked her that. A need to know. Something. Anything.

  You know I’m not there. You know I’m in Caterham.

  I’ve just created an alter-ego named Barnz who’s a five-year-old’s teddy bear. In a bedroom in Bournemouth.

  Another silence.

  How did you know where Imogen was, Jilly?

  Are you doubting me, my love?

  You haven’t answered my question.

  No answer. And now I’ve annoyed her. I’ve done that before. And her non-communication lasted weeks. Which, on Twitter, is like years. I missed her. She knew I would. When she came back, I was relieved. I thought I’d lost her. She knew that, too. We picked up where we’d left off, and nothing more was said about it. I fear I may now be the cause of another long silence. Just when I need her the most.

  I raise my head. There’s an announcement outside, in the corridor. I’ve heard this one before. It’s becoming a regular habit.

  “Your attention please. This is a crew announcement only. Evaluation Team to the Engine Room. Evaluation Team to the Engine Room. Thank you.”

  Another fire. Small. Happens all the time. It’ll be out in minutes. But since Showcase…I’m on edge. I can’t forget that.

  It’s a good thing most of the passengers don’t know what an Evaluation Team announcement means. There’s no need for alarm. There’s no need for anxiety. Calm will shortly be restored.

  14

  Monday, at Sea

  It’s quarter to five. I’ve shaken Rick awake, and primed him with the best mug of English Breakfast I’m capable of brewing at this early hour. He doesn’t suffer from hangovers. The most dangerous kind of drinker. There’s no stop button, no jeopardy, no incentive to ease up in light of dire morning consequences.

  “God love you, Jason. You’re the best mate a fella could ask for.”

  I’ve relieved him of $100 cash, which I intend to slip into an envelope for Manuel. Since Manuel sees and hears everything. And I’m certain he was watching when I kicked Rick out, bearing chocolate for Carly and a well-rehearsed apology.

  I’ve spent half an hour picking random people to follow on Twitter, lending authenticity to my new identity. Sending out inane tweets about the weather as viewed from my fictitious windowsill and what BarnzyBear’s been watching on TV. Films he’s seen. Films he wants to see. Toy Story. The Little Mermaid. Pulp Fiction. Tunes he’s listening to. What he’s had for breakfast. And lunch. Why he hates Glee.

  If you watch that program I will unfollow you. End of.

  What he’s thinking of having for dinner. Fava beans and a nice Chianti…?

  I’ve investigated what it’s going to take to retrieve my identity. I can’t get Cold_Fingers back without access to my old email address. And I can’t get access to my old email without going through a complicated notification procedure. Which may take days. But at least I’ve begun the process.

  In real life, I’ve contacted my mum and Dom, other family, my friends, to warn them about what’s happened. I can’t do anything else. Except wait for Cold_Fingers to approve my follower request.

  I’ve showered and shaved and dressed, and made my way on deck to say hello, again, to Alaska. The sun’s up early, this f
ar north. Or it would be, if it weren’t for the ragged, low-hanging clouds. It’s a grey dawn, and raining. I don’t think our passengers will be seeing much as we navigate Frederick Sound and Stephen’s Passage, though What’s On… invites them to be on the lookout for whales. They’ll be lucky.

  I’m standing on Promenade aft, under the overhang of Lido, watching the water in the pool slip and dip with Sapphire’s long, slow, side-to-side rolls. When I first came aboard, three years ago, Sal pointed the pool out to me as a little-known cure for seasickness. It’s quite scientific, really. If you’re bobbing about in the middle of the pool while the ship’s rocking and pitching around you, you’re actually quite stable. Hardly moving at all.

  We tested the theory one night about a month ago…Sal, me, Vicks, Quentin, two shoppies and one of the male dancers from the stage show. It was three in the morning and we were underway from Glacier Bay to Ketchikan in a Force 8 gale. Open water, foaming seas, salt spray blowing over the railings. We jumped in wearing what we slept in—an assortment of colourful PJs, t-shirts, tops and bottoms—and floated and giggled in the warm tipping water until one of Kev’s pals came along and told us we’d all be on report unless we disappeared promptly. Which we did, a bit less than promptly, helping ourselves to towels and blankets from deck storage, leaving a trail of wet footprints all the way back to the nearest indoor Crew Access.

  I love Sapphire on early mornings like this. She’s deserted. Most of our passengers are still asleep, and anyway, they don’t like the rain. It’s an indoors kind of day. The decks are dripping, but it brings out the best in my lady. She smells of salt water and history. The night crew and staff are still up and around, but they’ve made themselves scarce. Sapphire doesn’t wake up properly for another hour or so. They won’t start serving breakfast in the Lido Café until six. Until then, I’m alone. Wherever—and whoever—SaylerGurl is…she’s not here now.

  I’m listening to a song on my iPod. It’s a favourite, called There’s a Storm A Comin’ and it’s by Richard Hawley. There’s a fabulous moodiness to it, a lonely waltz with a haunting lead guitar that completely fits this morning’s downpour.