by Winona Kent
But I have the creepiest feeling I’m being watched. I glance around. Nobody’s looking at me.
Mondays it’s the Starlight Cabaret. A glitzy variety show with dozens of costume changes, sparkles and feathers and wigs.
A stand-up comedian. It’s his third week on board and I think he’s pretty dreadful. Still, the passengers seem to like him. Perhaps it’s just the age gap. He’s easily in his seventies. Perhaps, too, it’s the fact I’ve already seen his act twice on stage—and three times in the Officers Mess, trying out his lines on unsuspecting shoppies during Breakfast. It all gets a bit stale after that.
We’ve a magician. Her stage name is La Gran Stupenda. She’s part comic, part seemingly accidental trickery, part very skilful sleight of hand. Her real name is Beryl Failsworth and she’s from Oldham, Lancashire, and her husband absconded with the woman he used to throw knives at.
La Gran Stupenda has run away to sea in order to recover from her broken heart. And she’s brilliant when she hurls her unfailing knives at a life size cardboard cutout of her husband’s mistress. And then stows her in a long flat box and hacks her in half. And unsurprisingly, isn’t able to put her back together again.
There’s a small live band behind a screen, but it’s all a bit of an illusion. They’re plugged into a click-track, and the larger part of their music’s pre-recorded and plays out over the Showcase speakers. Most of the singers are pre-recorded too, though the show’s two main male and female stars are live-miked. I doubt the audience is any the wiser. Most of them still play vinyl at home on their stereophonic hi-fi’s.
I stay for one dazzling song-and-dance number, and La Gran Stupenda’s entrance, rolled onto the stage inside a large cake.
It’s time for me to go to work.
North. To Alaska.
I play it every Monday, when we’re just about to sail out of Juneau. I did the vocal version on the first night out of Vancouver. Tonight, it’s instrumental, slowed right down, wistfully optimistic, but echoing the hardships the Gold Rush miners encountered on their trek to the Klondike. As many will see tomorrow, after we cruise into Skagway.
I’ve got a shifting audience. Poking their heads in for a tune or two, then back downstairs to change out of their sightseeing clothes. I recognize a few of the regulars. The others, I’m certain, have fallen into a deep coma in their cabins, exhausted by their day’s activities.
I can lose myself in my music. I can forget about almost anything when I’m playing.
The two ladies, with their officer escorts, are sharing after-dinner drinks at the bar. The lads look happy. Further expeditionary activities tonight then. Most likely in the officers’ cabins, as they’re rather nice and very private, aft of Sally’s office on Deck 10. And it wouldn’t do, honestly, for the ship’s First and Second Officers to be seen entering—or leaving—a passenger’s stateroom.
Also at the bar, Samuel is making Harald a perfect G&T: three cubes of Alaskan ice—harvested from icebergs in Prince William Sound. One part Bombay Sapphire, poured over the ice. Three parts tonic. A slice of lime.
In return, Harald is explaining Norse Mythology. “Yes, you see, Odin is the father of all the gods. He is associated with war and wisdom. Battle, death. And also magic, poetry, prophecy, and victory. And of course, the hunt. And in order to travel about without being recognized, he wears a big hat.”
“Just like Jason,” Samuel says, handing over Harald’s drink.
I’m laughing.
Harald tweets. He’s quite funny. Most of it’s in Norwegian, with o’s that have slashes through them and a’s with little circles on top. But some of it’s in English, and now that I know who he is, I can imagine him speaking the words, with his fabulous accent.
I’ll do Norwegian Wood for him later.
Surprisingly—or perhaps not—Diana has favoured me with her presence. She’s situated herself front and centre, so she’s directly in my line of sight. If she was on Twitter, she’d be propping all my Blips and leaving knowing little comments on all my Twitpics. Pissing on my page, as one of my followers eloquently described it, when something similar happened to her.
Sitting to Diana’s right, I can see Sally. A rare excursion into TopDeck after dinner. I wonder if she’s still drunk. She came in late with Quentin, sat down and ordered another brandy. She doesn’t look particularly happy. I wonder what Captain Callico’s told her about Sapphire’s future.
Sitting to Diana’s left, there’s Annie. Living dangerously with a Grizzly Bear: milk, Amaretto, Jagermeister and Kahlua, served over ice. Not a drink to be taken lightly. There must be serious undertakings going on in the writing bag.
And there’s Des King. I won’t give his identity away to Diana. She has no idea he’s Alec Heaton’s son. Instead, I’ve sent a discreet note over, by way of Carla, asking to meet him outside during my first break.
Rick and Carly have just come in. She’s glammed up, he’s in a jacket. They’ve had dinner in the Dining Room. He’s just given me a hand signal that all’s well on the domestic front. I can look forward to him sleeping in his own cabin tonight, then.
Mind you, I may not be sleeping in mine…
Meanwhile, it’s still Monday, it’s still Juneau, and I’m going to do some classical stuff. Jazzed up. With a beat.
This is genius. My own arrangement. Marco Uccellini. 1642. Aria Sopra la Bergamesca. Intended to be played on two violins and a basso continuo. Definitely not a Gretsch solid body G5135 CVT with a harpsichord backing track.
That generally gets their attention. When I was a kid, one of my friends had a father who was a concert violinist. A fairly important guy, played with legendary symphony orchestras and appeared on landmark recordings. He was a purist. Hated any kind of meddling with the way music was originally intended to be presented. Hated anything popular, too. Banned the Beatles and all of their contemporaries from the house, calling them all an abomination.
He never knew that his mum, a lovely old thing who had her own bedroom and sitting room upstairs, bought her grandson records on the sly, and photos, and tickets to gigs that she took us to, on the pretext we were going to visit a batty old friend in a home on the other side of London—hence the late-night returns.
I’ve encountered a few like my mate’s dad on occasional cruises. I can see their frowns when I do unexpected things to Grieg. In the Hall of the Mountain King’s a particular favourite. Sounds Incorporated did a stonking version with three saxophones in 1965. One old guy walked out muttering loudly when I invoked a variation on The Who’s arrangement from 1967. Actually, I think I was spoken to after that performance, and it was strongly suggested I not do it again.
But I might be tempted tonight—especially in light of Harald’s Norse mythology.
Meanwhile, we have Aria Sopra la Bergamesca. Presented with jauntiness and a great sense of humour. Classical music should never take itself too seriously.
After that, I’ll play something for Sally. Mozart. Number 40 in G Minor. The way Waldo de los Rios did it in 1971. I bought the vinyl single at a boot sale years later and drove my mum and my dad and my sister to distraction playing it over and over in my room. My sister in particular may have got her revenge when she murdered a character in one of her novels who did exactly the same thing. I think his name was Jason, too.
19
Monday, Juneau
Break time.
I’m up on Observation Deck, waiting for Des King, watching the stragglers on the pier wander back on board. Sailaway from Juneau always makes me nervous. It’s a very late departure. We’re usually the last to go. And it’s dark. We’ve left people behind, more than once.
I’m looking around. SaylerGurl said she wouldn’t be here…but I don’t believe her. She could be hiding in the shadows. Waiting at the bottom of the steps. Sitting in a deckchair somewhere below, armed with her mobile, composing nasty DMs filled with vehemence and spite.
I walk around, check both sets of steps. Just in case.
On s
hore, the passenger gangway’s already down, and a couple of longshoremen stand by impatiently, waiting to loose the mooring ropes. Further along, a forklift driver’s lounging against his vehicle, having a ciggie. The crew ramp’s still up.
I look at the time on my phone. 10:28. And 29 seconds.
South Franklin, the road that takes you from the docks into town, is deserted. We’re the last ship here. As usual. Off in the distance I can see a Nissan pickup racing towards us, headlights flashing, horn blaring.
Forty-two seconds.
The pickup screeches into the parking lot, and half a dozen cabin stewards—including Manuel—leap out of the back. I can hear cheers from the decks below. The stewards acknowledge their comrades with broad grins, and sprint up the gangway.
On board and downstairs I know there’s a highly unamused sailor untying the ropes holding the crew ramp fast to the ship. Shoreside, the forklift driver positions his machine to the side of the ramp and levers it away and down, onto the dock. The crew door slams shut.
Ahead, on the bow, I can see more crewmen winching slack into the forward mooring ropes, so that the longshoremen on the pier can loop them off the bollards. The same thing’s happening at our stern.
Splash! Down into the water…and the thick ropes are hauled aboard.
Half past ten precisely. That familiar rumble under my feet. And we’re away.
The driver parks his forklift as we slip sideways from the pier. He and the longshoremen climb into the Nissan pickup that just delivered the stewards. The truck turns around and speeds back towards town.
We join the end of the procession of brilliantly lit ships gliding south down Gastineau Channel. Goodbye Juneau. See you next Monday.
And here comes Des King, beer in hand, climbing up the steep steps from Sun Deck.
“I’ve got ten minutes,” I tell him. “I’ve had a word with Diana. I told her I’d been speaking to you—Alec Heaton’s son. Not Des King.”
“And what did the charming Diana have to say for herself?”
“She said she was the one who wanted to end the affair. And it was your dad who was following her to New York.”
Des shakes his head. “That’s not the way it happened.”
“How do you know? You weren’t there.”
“Neither were you, mate. I’ve got my dad’s papers. My mum saved them all. Correspondence from the New York office of the record company he was going to see. Dates. Times. Appointments. If he was chasing after Diana he must have been a bloody mind-reader, because she didn’t book a ticket for herself until a week before they sailed. My dad made his reservations a month earlier.”
“How do you know about Diana’s reservation dates?”
“We’ve got someone working at StarSea’s Southampton office.”
I’m looking at him.
“We. The Chronicle. Told you we were serious.”
I check the time on my phone. Eight minutes.
“A file clerk. One of our junior reporters, just out of college. Very keen. She’s got access to the archives in the cellar. The police won’t proceed with your case, Jason, unless we come up with something more substantial than circumstance. So we’re digging. And I will write my Royal Sapphire story. Diana can sue us—if she dares.”
“You’ll destroy her.”
“Doubt it,” Des says. “Unless she’s guilty. In which case, I see it as helping to bring a killer to justice.”
“Or an excuse to sell papers.”
Des shrugs. “Two birds. One stone.”
Seven minutes.
“There’s not much for the coppers to go on from forty years ago, Jason. They’re much more likely to be interested in the details surrounding your wife’s death.”
“I can’t help you with that. Sorry.”
“Were you sleeping with Diana?”
“No, I was not.”
“But she definitely had her sights set on you. Were you attracted to her?”
“No.”
“Dangerous territory, eh? Frightened of joining her collection of garden gnomes? Or becoming one of her famous stuffed monkeys?”
“She’s only got one. The rest are products of newspaper reporters’ overactive imaginations.”
“I’ll tell you what I think, Jason. Diana’s got a history. She’s over the top when it comes to her lovers. She’s all consuming. Obsessive. Vindictive. And she leaves a trail of carnage in her wake. All the more challenge if you’re already spoken for. I think you did sleep with her. And I think she got upset when you got cold feet. Because it was going to threaten your marriage. I think Diana decided to fix it so Emma wasn’t in the way anymore. Shall I show you how?”
Five minutes.
There’s no point arguing with a reporter. It only makes them dig deeper. I follow Des into the sheltered area behind the tall glass panels overlooking the bow. He pulls the remains of a squashed, half-smoked cigarette out of his jacket pocket, wrapped in a paper napkin from Robbie’s.
“Picked this up off the pier earlier,” he says.
He’s got another paper napkin, from Castaways, in his other pocket, and a disposable lighter. He lights the cigarette, then holds the glowing end to the Castaways napkin.
“Pretend it’s your sofa,” he suggests, as the Castaways napkin flares up, shooting sparks into the night.
He quickly drops it to the deck and grinds out the fire with his shoe. He pours some beer over the ashes for good measure.
“Who burned your sofa?” Des says.
“You did.”
“Whose cigarette was it? Not mine. I only found it after someone else had discarded it.”
Three minutes. I’ve got to go.
“You really ought to ask her if she was ever in your house, Jason. You really ought to ask her about your discarded cigarette end, and how it might have found its way into that sofa cushion.”
Second set’s gone by quickly. And I’m on my second break. Quick trip to the loo, then back to the bar, and my usual: a fizzy Melon Cooler, garnished with melon balls impaled on a bamboo lance.
iPhone out. And true to form, I have a series of messages from SaylerGurl. What a surprise.
We used to be friends, didn’t we, Jason. I know you loved me.
But I’m used to rejection.
I wish you didn’t hate me so much. I’m not a bad person.
I hate being hated. I was hated in school. I was the one standing by the wall, wishing the other children would invite me into their games.
But they never did. And then they’d make fun of me. They’d always find something about me to mock.
My mum always told me to ignore them. Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me. That’s not true though, is it?
It hurts when children call you names, and ignore you, and talk about you behind your back.
Loudly, so you know you’re being talked about. Children can be so hateful. So can adults. I thought you were different, Jason.
I thought you were my friend. I thought you were special. But you can be just as cruel as those children.
I know what you’ve been saying about me to others.
That’s why I blocked them off your Twitterlist.
But I’m giving you another chance, Jason. I know deep down you do really love me. You just can’t admit it to yourself. Or me.
I’m watching you now. You’re sitting at the bar, drinking something green.
Alarmed, I look around. Which one is she? That mid-forties lady who yesterday told me her name was Marjorie Sharpe? She’s attractive and her clothes tell me she has money. And she’s got a thing for Dwayne, the Assistant Cruise Director. Not weird enough.
That one there? One of the morning joggers. I’ve seen her twice now. Sarah. Last name’s…Dunnett. Not interested in me. More interested in talking to the guy at the next table. Annoying Nick. Who tells loud off-colour jokes while I’m trying to sing.
It’s time to go back to work. Think I’ll start with that Sting standa
rd. Every Breath You Take. Don’t ever let it be said I don’t have a sense of humour.
It’s late. I’m done for the night. Switches are all Off. Guitars locked away in the cupboard behind the bar.
The only people left in TopDeck are Samuel and Carla, Julie and Bill, an annoying man who knows everything and wants to prove it to anyone who’ll listen, and a couple of guys discussing their favourite gay clubs in San Francisco.
For a moment— just a moment—I wonder if SaylerGurl might actually be a SaylerGuy. It’s not that far-fetched an idea.
But if SaylerGurl was here, she’s gone now. Which doesn’t leave me with any great sense of comfort. I’ve checked my phone, but there have been no further missives.
“Night,” I say, to Samuel and Carla.
“Night, lovey,” Carla replies. “Going to the Disco?”
She knows me too well.
“For a little while. See you there?”
“Wish I could. I’m getting old, Jason. Bedtime for me.”
I head down to my cabin. Shower and change of clothes. No lilac letters.
Back on Prom, and DJ Pedro’s domain. Katey’s saved me a seat at her table.
And Pedro’s showing off his gun belt. I know the routine. Music’s cued—Donna Summer, I Feel Love. Which usually stokes the ladies’ interest…but just in case it doesn’t, Pedro selects one lucky lady candidate from the dancefloor and invites her to share his spotlight. More often than not it’s the passenger he checked out on Saturday night.
And there she is. Red hair and sparkly spangly top.
Prelude to seduction. Donna’s singing…and Pedro’s dancing…And out come the contents of his holster, wrapped in pink satin ribbons with flamboyant bows…a very large vibrator from one side…and a shocking dildo from the other.
Well it shocked me, anyway, the first time I saw it. But I’ve led a sheltered life.
Katey’s laughing. The Australians are cheering. And Pedro’s redhaired dance partner’s appropriated both and is well on her way to displaying what’s on her mind for later.