Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  “Another drink?” I inquire, of Katey.

  “After that?” she replies. “I think not.”

  Katey’s cabin is a good deal more posh than mine. Like Diana’s stateroom, the original fittings have been retained, but embellished in kind. There’s an overall ambience of nostalgia, all that milled maplewood, a matching chest of drawers and upright cupboards. Lush blue and green carpet. Blue chairs that might have come straight out of Swinging London in the 1960s. A crisp blue duvet on the bed. A full bath in the loo. And a porthole. A real, old-fashioned, circular glass window, with brass fixtures.

  If this was one of those 120,000-ton ships sharing our itinerary, there’d be a private balcony, too. But private balconies were never imagined back in the days when the Sapphire was the main way to get from here to there. Passengers met one another playing shuffleboard, or sunning themselves on the open decks. There’s not much public deck space on those newbuilds. You can spend your entire cruise locked in your cabin, sitting on your verandah, having all your meals delivered and watching the ship’s entertainment on your stateroom TV. And you wouldn’t miss a thing. Except the other 2,000 passengers.

  It’s late. Half past two. Our ship is slowly, lazily making her way to Skagway, which, in reality, is just around the corner. Forty-five minutes if you take one of those tiny prop-driven air taxis from Juneau Airport. Our route meanders along passages and around islands, and puts us at our destination at six, about four hours from now.

  “I’m a bit out of practice,” Katey says, apologetically. “I thought it would be nice to have lit candles. And lots of scented bubbles in a lovely hot bath. But by the time we got back from watching those bloody whales, there wasn’t any time to nip into town to try and find any.”

  “You’d set the smoke alarm off.”

  “Oh yes. Forgot about that. Typical. And then we’d be discovered and thrown off the ship.”

  “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Yes, please. Before I burst.”

  I do. We do. And that is as much as I’m going to tell you, for now…

  20

  Tuesday, 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. “Jason!”

  Breathe! Breathe!

  No—no—I can’t. If I breathe, I’ll drown.

  “Jason!”

  I jerk awake, gasping for air, heart pounding. The bedside lamp is on, and Katey’s holding me. “What’s the matter?”

  I’m safe. In bed. No water. Breathing. “Sorry. Sorry. Bad dream. I’ve had it before. I’m underwater. I’m drowning.”

  Katey’s stroking my back. It’s lovely. Soothing.

  I can see the water outside throwing sunrise reflections onto the ceiling of her cabin. It’s half past four. There’s an alarm clock on the table, beside the lamp.

  “I have two recurring dreams,” I tell her. “That’s one of them. The other’s about Emma. She’s there, physically, right there…”

  I stop. This is terrible etiquette. You don’t discuss your dead wife with your bed partner on your first incredible night together.

  “Go on,” she says. “I don’t mind.”

  “She won’t let me see her face. And it’s as if I’m paralyzed…I must stand still…and not move…if I move any part of myself, she’ll disappear…And she begins to make love to me…but then…she drifts away. She always drifts away…without ever showing me her face. Without ever saying a word. I hate it.”

  Over by the door, there’s a click.

  Passenger cabin doors lock automatically. They only unlock from the outside when you insert a coded plastic keycard. And there’s a secondary lock inside, for extra security. That definitely sounded like someone was trying the handle.

  I’m out of bed. It could have been someone who got lost on their way home. Who mistook Katey’s door for their own. It could just as easily have been SaylerGurl. Or Diana. A peek through the peep-hole reveals nothing. An empty hallway. I’ll risk opening the door and looking out.

  Nobody there.

  Though this ship’s cabins and corridors are laid out like a mouse maze. Anyone could be lurking just round one of those corners, and they wouldn’t be seen.

  I glance down at the Room Service Breakfast card hanging from the door handle.

  Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

  “What’s up?” Katey says, as I bring it inside, and shut and double lock the door behind me.

  I show her. A dead gull, its neck broken. It’s small. Young. Easily caught. They’re everywhere ashore. Sometimes they sleep on the ship, commuting from one port to the next, itinerant travellers. The poor little thing’s still warm, and was tied onto the door handle by a cord looped round its neck.

  And across the face of the Room Service card, where the various eggs and toasts and muffins and cereals are listed, some words have been scrawled in black felt pen.

  I’m watching you. I’m listening. I know who you’re with. I know what you’re doing.

  Katey can’t look at the dead gull. I wrap it in a towel. I’ll throw it overboard.

  “Is it your stalker?” Katey asks. She’s trying not to show it, but her voice sounds frightened. “The one who took over Cold_Fingers?”

  I’ve gone numb. “I think so. Yes.”

  “We have to report this, Jason.”

  Now she’s being sensible. Not rattled. Not like me.

  “We can’t. How do we explain it? Me, in your cabin.”

  “But if she’s capable of doing that…”

  “I know. She’s not right in the head. If it is her…and not—”

  I stop. I’m going to have to tell her. Not just SaylerGurl. Diana. All of it. Everything.

  21

  Tuesday, Skagway

  I’ve been awake for hours. Up on Observation Deck, the very top of the ship. Wrapped in a blanket, on a deckchair. I feel safe up here, out in the open. I can see who’s coming. I can see who might be observing me.

  Katey’s beside me, asleep in a chair of her own, cocooned in a similar blanket. She didn’t want me to be on my own. I’ve been watching her. Listening to her quiet, gentle breathing. Mind racing. Thoughts tumbling.

  It’s been such a long time.

  Not such a long time if we’re talking about one night stands, or couplings that were mostly accidental, or a very pleasant way to pass the last night of a six-month contract. Rituals, exercises. Keeping your hand in, euphemistically speaking. Temporary sea-time shared with temporary sea-comrades, no strings attached, and none expected.

  Grief lasts for as long as it’s needed. It hinders. But it protects, too. And it isn’t flat. It has many folds, like a deep dark velvet curtain. You can hide in it. You can wrap it around yourself. You can peek out. Cautiously. You can fling it back. With exuberance. Joy. Relief.

  I think this might be something different. I think this might be something more than temporary.

  I look around, again. But the deck’s deserted. And there’s nobody on the stairs.

  It’s only just gone six. We sailed into Skagway ten minutes ago. Sapphire’s tied up at Railway Dock, tucked in behind two larger vessels. I can see tour buses starting to line up in a patient queue. I can see the coaches that make up most of our White Pass train rolling onto the pier.

  And I’ve an unobstructed view of the craggy cliff opposite, where decades of ships’ crews have painted the rocks with their flags and their captains’ names, commemorating their first visits to Skagway.

  I can smell breakfast, wafting up from the Lido Café.

  Not a cloud in the sky. The morning promises sunshine.

  Katey’s gone back to her cabin. And I’ve come downstairs
to mine. No dead seabirds tied to my door handle. No lilac envelopes in the mailbox. It might be a good day after all.

  I open the door cautiously. Everything’s as I left it. Nobody’s lurking behind the shower curtain. Nobody’s under the bed.

  I lock the door, sit down, check Twitter. I desperately want to talk to Jilly. I’ve sent her three messages, and she’s ignored all of them. I’ve obviously well and truly annoyed her. She’s not even posting or answering tweets anymore.

  Jilly, I type. Please answer. Fucking godawful things are happening here. I’m freaking out.

  I add a second DM, quickly: And I’m sorry. I do believe you. I do trust you. I’ll never not trust you again.

  I wait. But she’s not there.

  And neither is Cold_Fingers. I’m still locked out but I can see by my followers’ tweets that she hasn’t posted anything since yesterday.

  Where are you, Mr. Fingers??? Come back! We miss you!

  Have you morphed into someone else? You’ve been full of peculiarisms over the past few days. Are you ill?

  Hope you haven’t fallen overboard and been swallowed by a whale…

  I shower. Shave. Launch another futile search for my door key. I’m going to have to tell Jemima I can’t find it. Throw myself to the mercy of The Powers That Be. Perhaps Sal can mitigate. Only two dozen lashes instead of a hundred.

  We wouldn’t have this problem if Sapphire was one of the newbuilds, with card access for passengers and crew alike. But she’s an old lady, and her crew quarters belong to the last century, when the only way to lock up was with a real brass key, not a piece of coded plastic.

  I’m comforted by the knowledge that both SaylerGurl and Diana will be gone in a few days’ time. It’s not like they can stick around indefinitely. Though I wouldn’t put it past Diana to book a second week aboard, just to make a point.

  And I’m sure the entire gull population of Southern Alaska will be happy to see the back of SaylerGurl.

  I check Twitter again for messages. Nothing.

  They’ll miss me in the Officers Mess. I’m usually there for breakfast on Tuesdays—it’s Eggs Benedict, the only day of the week it’s served.

  I’m eating in the Lido Café this morning. With Katey. We’ve got scrambled eggs with bacon. Toast. And a lot of coffee.

  “All right?” I check.

  “I’m never sleeping on one of those deckchairs again,” she says. “I’m far too old and creaky.”

  “Bed next time,” I promise. “And you’re not that old. Or creaky.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “I love it when you talk rubbish.”

  We have our choice of empty tables and chairs. Passengers are hurrying in and out, rushing to get ready for early tours. Katey nearly collides with one, and it’s only my swift intervention that prevents her breakfast tray from ending up on the floor, along with the elderly gent, his cane, and about a year’s supply of medications in a see-through plastic bag.

  “I’m going to take out extra life insurance if we’re going to keep on seeing one another,” I tell her.

  “Who says we’re going to keep on seeing one another?”

  “For the duration of the cruise,” I add, quickly.

  She nudges me with her elbow. “Table over there by the window.”

  Before we fell asleep last night—before I woke up dreaming of drowning—we were wrapped up together under a sheet. Warm, soft skin, touching. I’ve missed that. I realize, only now, just how much. It’s not something you think about consciously. It’s something that comes back to you only after you’ve experienced it for the first time in more than three years. And you don’t want to let go of it ever again.

  “What?” she says, catching my eyes as we sit down.

  “Come down to my cabin.”

  “Can’t,” she says, unhappily. “I’ve got to be a travel agent. Tour of the ship’s facilities. Inspection of selected staterooms. Coffee and croissants. Sales pitch.”

  “Don’t go.”

  She’s smiling. “And spend the entire morning in bed with you instead?”

  “Can’t,” I tell her. “Crew Drill at ten.”

  She checks her watch. “Still…it is only half past eight…”

  “And Manuel doesn’t come round till at least eleven…”

  “But,” she says, the unhappiness returning. “I’ve got to be a travel agent.”

  I can see two of Katey’s female colleagues, three tables down, getting ready to leave. Checking makeup in little mirrors. Digging notepaper and brochures out of their bags. And I can see Ted, standing by the exit door, gathering his flock. He’s got a clipboard. He’s ticking off names.

  “What would happen if you didn’t go?”

  “It’s part of my job. The whole reason I’m on this cruise. Well, aside from scattering Nana. It’s expected.”

  “Be reckless. Live dangerously.”

  She’s pushing her eggs around the plate, lining them up with her slices of bacon. Creating order out of disorder.

  “Yesterday you told me if you could find the courage to quit, you would.”

  Katey glances over at the exit door. About half of the travel agents are there. Ted’s looking impatient.

  “I did once write a resignation letter,” she confesses. “Right after Christmas. I thought it all out, formulated my argument, my reasons, my apologies. I went to bed relieved, and I had a wonderful, deep sleep for the first time in months. And then in the morning, I tore the letter up. Resignation out of the question. Stupid idea. Idiotic.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a funny thing, Jason. It wasn’t the fear of sending the letter. It was the fear of not being a travel agent anymore. Of not having an identity. Of not knowing, after all this time, who or what I actually want to be.”

  “You could become an illusionist, and run away to sea and throw knives at cardboard cutouts of your ex. We could do a show together. I’ll be your Magic Fingers.”

  Now I’ve made her laugh.

  “I’m so tired, Jason. Really, really weary. And the weariness won’t go away. It’s always there, touching everything I touch, hovering over me when I go to sleep, still there, grey and horrible, when I wake up in the morning. It’s with me now. Though I’m trying my best to ignore it.”

  Ted’s looking over at us. His flock’s almost complete. Only one missing. I’m sure he thinks I’m a wolf. He may be right.

  “For twenty years,” Katey says, “I’ve been dealing with last minute schedule changes and waitlists that won’t clear. Fuel surcharges. Missed connections. Bankrupt tour companies. Beaches swept away by hurricanes. Ski resorts with no snow.”

  She’s avoiding Ted’s gaze.

  “Three day fams. Breakfast with sales reps. A quick tour of the city on a chartered bus. In and out of a dozen hotels.”

  She’s created an entire fam trip on her plate. A little cluster of sales rep grapes and melon slices. A scrambled eggs chartered bus. A dozen hotels made of cut up buttered toast and bits of bacon.

  “They only ever show you the best mid-range and top-range accommodations,” she says.

  Ted’s waiting. Staring at us.

  Katey’s looking at me. Her hands reach for mine.

  “Once,” she says, “when I was on a fam to Jamaica, I had a free morning. So I booked a sightseeing tour on my own. Paid for out of my own pocket. An ordinary tour—Ocho Rios and Dunn’s River Falls. Something my clients would have gone on. The driver detoured at Montego Bay and drove into the hills to show us where he lived. It was a shanty town. The real Jamaica. But it wasn’t what the tourists wanted to see and they all said they were going to complain to the tour company. I thought it was very brave of him. I gave him a huge tip.”

  Ted’s leaving. He’s ushering his flock out. One last look behind him. A very hard look at me.

  Katey’s holding on tight. So am I.

  “Travel used to be a luxury. A leisurely tour. Weeks. Months. Nowadays everything’s packaged. Nothing’s new. Or undis
covered. Everything you see or hear or stop to take a picture of, is exactly what’s been seen and heard and photographed by the last lot that came through. Every shop sells the same souvenirs. Every opening and closing time coincides with the arrival and departure of ships and tour buses. Travel’s not an adventure. It’s a ride at Disneyland. It runs on rails.”

  They’re gone. She’s not letting go. Neither am I.

  “The frightening thing,” she says, staring at the exit doors, “is not this very blatant act of defiance.”

  She looks at me.

  “The frightening thing is how easy you made it for me to decide.”

  22

  Tuesday, Skagway

  Our Crew Drills usually involve a simulated fire somewhere on the ship. You’d think we’d be bloody experts at it by now.

  I’ve left Katey up on Sun Deck, where she’ll have a good view of the lifeboats. I’m in the Atrium Room—now deserted, as most of the passengers have gone ashore. With the possible exception of Ted and his Travel Agents, who’ve just done a quick reconnaissance, complete with commentary and maps.

  “’Morning,” I say, since I must still abide by the rules of passenger pleasantry when occupying public areas.

  Ted looks as though he wants to ask me something. Probably along the lines of, “What have you done with Katey Shawcross, you foul creature?”

  “’Morning,” he says, instead.

  “’Morning,” the travel agents acknowledge, almost unanimously, as they follow Ted out.

  I keep expecting them to bleat. That’s cruel. But I think it would make Katey laugh.

  In preparation for the Drill, we’re meant to be going about our normal business, which would be the case if something unexpected were to occur. I’m pretending to be tweeting. Actually, I am tweeting.

  Jilly has returned to the Twitterverse. Hello, my love. I’m so sorry. There was a power outage and I’ve had no internet access.

  I thought you were angry with me, Jilly.