Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  What on earth for?

  For not believing you…

  Oh dear, Jason. If I let things like that bother me I’d have no one left to talk to! What have I missed?

  I tell her, in detail. 140 characters at a time.

  Good God, she says, at the end of it all.

  I wait. Nothing. Another power outage? No.

  Jason, you must listen carefully. I sense something horrible. Something dangerous.

  We’re about to start a Crew Drill. A simulated fire.

  That isn’t what I’m picking up. I know the difference between real and not-real.

  Now she’s making me nervous. What should I do? Lock myself in my cabin?

  Whatever happens, will happen, my love. I have no control over it. I only know what I see.

  And I can’t stop it?

  You cannot stop it from happening.

  She’s freaking me out.

  Then could you possibly be a bit more specific, Jilly? Date? Time? Location?

  I cannot be more specific.

  I’m afraid to ask. But I have to know. I need to know. Am I going to die?

  I’m here to protect you.

  Am I going to die, Jilly?

  I’m watching over you.

  And she’s gone.

  I look around helplessly. It’s one thing to be warned about an impending event, so you can take precautions and stay safe. It’s quite another to be told there’s nothing you can do to avoid whatever’s going to happen to you.

  And now the Drill’s starting and I have to give it my full attention. Four Big Ben chimes over the PA. Alarm bells.

  The reassuring voice of Captain Callico. “This is an exercise. This is an exercise.”

  It’s now ten fifteen precisely. And an Evaluation Party has just been ordered to a passenger cabin on Deck 5, starboardside, midship. We’ve got a few minutes before things heat up. Bad joke.

  I’m checking Twitter again. And now there are DMs from SaylerGurl. Many, many DMs. Where is she sending them from? I look around. I’m alone in the Atrium Room. The room has large windows that overlook the Enclosed Promenade. I check them all. There are passengers out there, and crewmembers. Some of the passengers have their mobiles out.

  Is that her? Single woman, travelling alone, intent on texting something to someone somewhere else. Her name’s Lorelei.

  How about that one over there? I don’t know her name but she reminds me of Kathy Bates in Misery. And her husband looks like James Caan. That’s just wrong.

  I wish I could let go of you, Jason. But I can’t.

  I feel so abandoned by you. So betrayed. So hurt.

  Sometimes you remind me of my step-father.

  He was rotten to me. Drunk most of the time. And never showed me any love.

  Believed I should be seen but not heard. And preferably not seen all that much, either.

  But when you’re a kid, you cling to whatever love you can find. So you get used to scrambling for tiny little signs.

  The tiniest little hint. It might only be that he smiled at me that morning, instead of frowning.

  That would make my day, Jason. It meant he loved me.

  It’s the same with you.

  You have smiled at me. You just didn’t know it was me at the time.

  And if you Blip a song I like, I know you’ve secretly done it for me.

  It means you do care, on so many levels.

  You’re playing all the songs I love up in the TopDeck Lounge.

  I watch you every night.

  And even if you don’t say so publicly, I know you’re doing it all completely for me.

  That’s why I was so upset when you went to that travel agent’s cabin last night.

  I was very very angry with you. And that bird was just there, on Lido Deck, with its head turned away, sleeping.

  So perhaps now I’ve got through to you.

  So perhaps now you understand me a little bit better.

  So perhaps now you know the things I can do when I get upset with someone.

  At some level I was feeling sorry for her. But there comes a point when you realize it doesn’t matter what you say, you’re dealing with someone who’s got lost in their own wilderness. Now she just scares me. And to kill an animal out of anger and some misguided sense of revenge…That’s hateful.

  The fact that she was standing outside Katey’s door last night, listening, has made me go totally cold. That’s not worthy of any kind of sympathy at all. That’s just fucking intrusive.

  I put my phone away.

  A Fire Party has now been dispatched to the passenger cabin on Deck 5, to meet the Evaluation Party. If this was a real fire, they’d be the ones trained to try and put it out. Up on the Bridge, I know Sally’s monitoring the fire alarm and sprinkler control panels.

  I also know what comes next. It’s the same each week. The fire leaps out of control, and it’s a repeat of what happened last Friday night.

  Continuous ringing of bells. Ten seconds. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach.

  “May I have your attention, please.” Captain Callico again. “What you have just heard is a Crew Alert. It concerns the crew only. Attention, ship’s crew. This is an exercise. Ship’s company are ordered to their emergency stations. All crewmembers must wear their lifejackets and report to their duties.”

  I’ve already got my lifejacket on the chair beside me. Time to put it on, cinch it tight. My muster station colleagues are beginning to arrive. If this was real, their job would be to try and keep everyone calm. To help hand out blankets, and, if necessary, to lead people out to the boats.

  There’s Caroline, who always carries Jelly Babies, and isn’t shy about sharing. Very practical in ship’s emergencies, Jelly Babies. Almost as good as chocolate.

  I take up my position by the aft entrance doors.

  Here comes Rob, on his way to guide passengers on the stairs. In another life Rob was a radio announcer in Vancouver. Now he tends the bar in Castaways and has a swizzle stick collection that deserves mention by Guinness.

  I’m soon joined at the entrance doors by Quentin, who’s come up from the Purser’s Desk. “Morning,” he says. “I’m given to understand you were sleeping out on Observation Deck earlier. With a very attractive lady at your side.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Security cams,” Quentin replies, inscrutably.

  Of course. And I have a thought. Perhaps those same cameras caught SaylerGurl and the gull on Lido last night. But if I ask Kevin, how many details will I need to part with, without giving away the fact I was where I ought not to have been?

  “Attention ship’s crew. Prepare lifeboats 2, 4, 6, 8, T2 and T4.”

  We’ve got twelve motorized lifeboats and seventy-four inflatables. Odd numbered boats are on the starboard side. Even numbers, portside. Four of the boats are covered tenders, the same ones that putter back and forth, from ship to shore, when we’re anchored in shallow harbours. The inflatables are stacked in various places on the outside decks in white fiberglass barrels.

  “Attention ship’s crew. Zone parties to Fire Zone #3, Decks 4 and 6.”

  All ships are divided into vertical fire zones, each isolated from the one beside it by fireproof bulkheads, solid steel walls, watertight and fire screen doors. The decks in between are also made of steel, so that a fire, in theory, can be contained in one area, boxed in, until it burns itself out.

  The Zone Parties’ job is to make sure the fire screen doors are closed on the decks below and above the fire, once those decks have been evacuated.

  The Bridge has just stopped the ship’s ventilation. There’s a subtle change in what I can hear. Or not hear, as the case may be. It’s one of those noises you only notice when it’s not there anymore. If this was a real fire, that step would be necessary to try and choke the flames, depriving them of oxygen.

  “Zone Commander, Zone 3—evacuate Decks 4 and 6, and close the fireproof doors after the evacuation is complete.”


  “Fire party to Deck 5, port side. Stretcher Party to Deck 5, Cabin M81, midship starboard.”

  This week the fire seems to have leaped over to the other side of the ship. And we also have injuries.

  In the Atrium Room, our Senior Officer’s unlocking one of the storage cupboards to check flashlights and spare lifejackets. There’s a gun and ammo in there too. But you didn’t hear that from me.

  “Your attention please, this is an exercise. Passenger Assistance Party immediately to the Bridge.”

  Downstairs, on Decks 4 and 6, officers are walking around with their radios, checking that the fire zones have been properly evacuated, and that the doors are shut tight.

  “Your attention please. This is an exercise. The ship’s alarm bells are about to be sounded. Crewmembers are to continue with their duties.”

  Seven long. One short. General Emergency Stations. That’s the one that gives me shivers, and makes my knees go weak.

  Once I’ve finished guiding people into this muster station, my job would be to follow instructions from the Officer in Charge. Hand out blankets. Make sure all the passengers have their lifejackets on and done up properly. They usually allow fifteen minutes for this part of the exercise.

  I’ve seen YouTube videos from passengers on ships that are in distress. I’ve seen recreations of well-known disasters on television. Last week’s fire was serious, but it was put out quickly and we were never in any grave danger.

  It’s too easy to imagine something far more serious. A fire in the Engine Room, knocking out power, propulsion, steering, everything. The Atrium Room filled with panicking elderly passengers, roused from their beds in the middle of the night, confused and without their medications and proper clothes.

  Myself and Quentin, armed with torches in the darkness, trying gently to assist the slowest, the weakest, those unaccustomed to climbing stairs, frightened and frail. Ashen faces, questions about abandoning ship, an inevitable lack of details and rampant persistence of rumours, most of them false.

  The fire working its way out of control, sidestepping all of the devices and safety equipment designed to keep it in check.

  If there was a fire in the Engine Room, and the flames were able to escape, they would travel upward through the two air shafts that bisect the middle of the ship and converge, finally, in the funnel. Those two shafts pass through the Dining Room, which is only a couple of decks above the Engine Room. And if the air surrounding them got hot enough—hot to the point of ignition—everything down there would begin to smoulder.

  If that fire burned out of control, the glass in the windows in the Dining Room would inevitably explode, leaving a row of gaping holes along Sapphire’s middle, only one deck above the waterline. Exposed like that, with any kind of list, and wind, and small waves, she’d soon begin to take on water.

  A second certainty. The fire, having passed up through the Dining Room, would soon reach us, in the Atrium Room. That mirrored shelving behind the bar, where all the drink bottles are displayed, is not merely for decoration. Those mirrors are hiding the air shafts. And as the temperature inside them rises, Muster Station 2 would become uninhabitable. We’d be moved outside before that happened. We’ve practiced it.

  We’re practicing it now.

  We’re allowed ten minutes to evacuate. Quentin and I are escorting our imaginary passengers, quickly and quietly, through the forward doors, up the midship steps, and outside to the Promenade Deck.

  The midship portside boats, closest to the smoke and the intense heat, would be the first to be lowered, moving everyone away from the danger. And that’s exactly what they’re doing.

  Boat 6 is being prepared. Four crewmen in lifevests and hardhats scramble aboard and rig the bowsing tackle at each end to make it fast to the ship’s side. The tackle’s tightened. The ropes at each end are knocked out. The boat’s hanging from its davit lines, steadied by the bowsing tackle. Grappling hooks, oars and tools are made ready. One of the crewmen locates the boat’s axe, and places it at hand. Another’s found the boat’s document pouch, and unsealed it. All aboard.

  Boat 6 is on its way down to the water. Winches are whining, whirring, groaning.

  I glance up. From where I’m standing, with the boat cradle empty, I have an unimpeded view of the side of Sun Deck. There’s Katey. Taking my picture. She waves. I give her a smile.

  There’s always a bit of sideways sway when a boat swings down. The ship’s equilibrium changes. She needs to adjust. I steady myself, hand on railing.

  If the fire was in the Engine Room, there’d be no power to lower the boats. The crew would have to winch them down by hand to the Promenade Deck, relying on gravity and manual braking. And after the boats were loaded with passengers, the crew would have to continue inching them down to the water the same way. It would be a slow and treacherous process.

  But that’s it. Eleven o’clock. Drill over.

  Boat 6 putters around in the water. Someone lobs a stuffed dummy overboard, and the crew practice retrieving it with a long pole that has a hook on one end.

  Quentin’s taking off his lifejacket.

  “You signed on for swimming lessons yet?” I ask, just out of curiosity.

  23

  Tuesday, Skagway

  Some lunch on Lido Deck, and then we’re away to the summit of the White Pass on the train.

  True to forecast, it’s a sunny afternoon. Which is a bonus, as going up the mountainside on an overcast, rainy day completely defeats the purpose.

  I remember a trip to Switzerland, many years in the past. And a cable car ride to the top of one of their famous peaks. Undertaken entirely in dense cloud, since the sightseeing package had been booked weeks in advance, and there were no refunds due to weather.

  All we could see were the cablecar lines, stretching down behind us, and if we craned our necks, the cables rising ahead of us, both ends disappearing into white fog. Which was somewhat disappointing, as we’d decided to take the tour partially on the basis of the fabulous views experienced on the way to the summit.

  Halfway up, a perplexed fellow tourist turned to me and said, in English heavily influenced by German, “What we come here for?”

  We posed for pictures to record the event for posterity.

  At the top, we trooped into an eating place, and watched a video on TV screens about how stunning the view would have been if it hadn’t been cloudy. Points for mitigation, decent sandwiches and an excellent cup of coffee.

  Today’s train ride to the top of the White Pass will be fog-free. Not, however, care free. I’ve been telling Katey about Jilly’s dire prediction.

  “It’s probably me,” she says, tucking into her fish and chips. “Since I am a walking disaster. I may yet cause you grief. If not the loss of one or more important limbs.”

  She pauses.

  “Are you seriously worried?”

  “I’m halfway seriously worried. She’s been wrong before. A lot. But she’s also been scarily right. And she sounded very sure of herself this time.”

  “Here’s what I think, then. For what it’s worth. You can’t stop living your life just because some well-meaning Twitterfriend, who may or may not actually be your Guardian Angel—has warned you about a vague impending disaster. And she did say she would be watching out for you.”

  “Yes, but she might have been referring to the afterlife.”

  “Or Caterham,” Katey says, humorously.

  “Anyway. I don’t particularly want to die.”

  “I don’t particularly want you to die either. Tell you what.” She stirs her tea. “Stick with me. I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart and—”

  She stops. The next line could be unfortunate.

  “Does the train go up very high?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “Exceptionally high. Why? You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “I am, actually.”

  “Let’s
do a deal then. You make sure no twenty-ton weights drop on me from the sky, and I’ll make sure you don’t topple out of the railcar and tumble straight down into the canyon.”

  “Deal,” she says, shaking my hand.

  It’s three and a half hours from the Railway Dock to the summit of White Pass and back again, about forty miles round trip. It seems longer, but that’s only because the train travels slowly, its vintage rail cars squeaking and creaking and clanking along narrow-gauge tracks.

  The days of steam are long behind us, and we’re being hauled by three green and yellow diesel electric locomotives. Fourteen carriages, with bench seats and picture windows, and open platforms at either end for those who really want to experience the rugged rocks and waterfalls and trestles and tunnels close up and personal.

  We’re fifteen minutes behind the other train that left this afternoon. I can see them climbing ahead of us, chugging up to Rocky Point, as the track bends into a horseshoe crossing the Skagway River.

  We’re in the carriage not filled with travel agents. They’re in the next one along. Ted, standing on the pier with his ever-present clipboard, gave Katey and me the evil eye as we walked past him earlier.

  “There will be questions asked after this,” Katey said. “I’m meant to be sitting with them.”

  “Let them ask. It’ll make it easier for you to write that resignation letter.”

  So we’re in the carriage that contains Annie and about forty others from the ship, including Bill and Julie and their continuing conversation about Patterdale Terriers. Des King. One of the guys who last night was discussing gay clubs in San Francisco, now sitting on his own. Rick and Carly—a last minute surprise.

  But not Diana. After all her posturing and insisting and making herself important, she’s a No Show. I am rather glad though. And relieved.

  Katey and I are sitting right at the front, so I’ve got a particularly good view of the entire carriage if I turn around. As I’m doing now.

  Annie’s taking my picture. I’m sure she’s doing a character study of me. And I’m going to end up being the Baddie in her next thriller. No one will suspect the Suave Musician in the Scarlet Silk Shirt.