Cold Play

by Winona Kent

Des King’s studying the tour brochure. I’m going to end up being the subject of his newspaper’s next major exposé. Me, and Diana. That’ll be fun. I can still run away to sea and hide in relative anonymity. Diana’s career—what’s left of it—will end up in tatters.

  And if Des is right about the fire in my front room…if the police do re-open the investigation and if they are able to prove a crime took place…I don’t know how I’ll feel.

  I want to feel sorry for Diana. She was a dazzler in her day. She still is, in many ways. But somewhere along the way, she became misguided. Lost. And if she did set that fire, deliberately…

  That fire that took from me the one person I adored with everything in my body and heart and soul…the one person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with…

  If she DID set that fire…deliberately…then she deserves none of my sympathy. None.

  And as for SaylerGurl…I cast my eyes once more over the assembled passengers. I’m trying to use my intuition. It’s not working.

  “My fear of heights is not really so much being terrified of falling,” Katey’s telling me. “Though that’s part of it. It’s more the fear of not being able to stop myself if I’m suddenly seized by an uncontrollable urge to throw myself over the edge.”

  I look at her. “That’s the most irrational thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  “It is, isn’t it. But it’s still a very real fear. And it’s not any more irrational than you believing Jilly’s warning that something dire’s going to happen to you.”

  “They say the way to get over your fears is to confront them head on.”

  “I will if you will.”

  She’s daring me. She, who has already spilled a bag of chips all over me in her attempt to tear it open. And she, who will most likely end up pouring half the contents of her water bottle into my lap when she goes to take off the lid.

  I’m going to have to think about this.

  We’ve got a guide doing a historical narrative over the train’s PA system. I think she’s in the last carriage. Her name’s Lindy. The last time I did this trip we went all the way up to Fraser, then transferred onto a coach that brought us back along the Klondike Highway. We had the same guide. I was sitting in her carriage. She accidentally left her mike on while she was chatting to a colleague.

  “I could spread him on toast and eat him for breakfast,” she said. She might have been looking at me when she said that. She made me laugh, anyway. Along with the rest of the train.

  “Gold,” Lindy’s telling us, “was discovered in 1896 in Bonanza Creek by George Carmack and his two Indian companions, Dawson Charlie and Skookum Jim. Those few flakes triggered that 19th century stampede for riches: the Klondike Gold Rush.”

  We’re not going into the Yukon on this trip, though the train does go that far. We’re only going to the summit of the pass, and then the engines are disconnected and run around to the other end of the train, where they’re hooked up again, and we go back down the mountain.

  “There were two trails over the mountains. The Chilkoot—which was shorter but steeper—began in Dyea, just around the corner from Skagway. That famous photo of a line of prospectors struggling single file up the mountainside in the snow was taken on the Chilkoot Trail’s Golden Stairs.”

  We’re up in rugged grey rocks now, in the green wilderness, with craggy outcrops and persistent forest, hemlock and pine growing out of cracks and crevasses at impossible angles, daring gravity.

  “Each person,” Lindy says, “was required by Canadian authorities to bring with them a year’s worth of supplies, which added up to about a ton in weight. Because of this some prospectors chose the less steep—but longer—White Pass, as pack animals could be used, making the trek easier. But once the summit was reached, the stampeders’ journey wasn’t finished. They still had 550 miles to go, down the Yukon River, to reach Dawson City, near the goldfields.”

  The higher we go, the more my imagination’s engaged with thoughts of struggling gold-rushers and overburdened horses, an uncivilized trek into uncivilization.

  My ears are popping.

  “Construction on a narrow-gauge railroad, largely financed by British investors, began on May 28, 1898. The White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad follows the less steep of the two trails. It climbs twenty miles, from sea level in Skagway, to nearly 3,000 feet at the summit, and features steep grades of almost four percent.”

  Katey’s brought her camera. Though she’ll not get that many good shots in, sitting inside like this, on the aisle.

  “Tell you what,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go outside. Onto the platform.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Face your fears,” she says. “I’m afraid of falling off. You’re afraid of…what?”

  “Doom.”

  “Dare you, then.”

  And she’s off, with her camera. I follow her out, through the door at the end of the carriage, onto the open platform. And it really is open, though there’s a waist-high cage running round its perimeter, preventing any unfortunate slippage or mis-steps.

  We’re one with the rocks and boulders, the deep valleys, the fir trees and waterfalls, the reminders of lives passed and lost in the Gold Rush, humans and their unfortunate pack animals. It’s noisy out here, and windy. And the wind’s bloody cold, blasting off the mountains.

  “If you’re watching out of the left side of the train,” Lindy says, “and looking ahead, you can see our engines approaching Mile 16 and Tunnel Mountain. We’ll be crossing over a high wooden trestle before disappearing into the first of two tunnels along the route. As we cross over the trestle, if you look down, you’ll be able to see the steep chasm of Glacier Gorge. The tunnel itself is 250 feet long and takes about thirty-five seconds to pass through.”

  I stand behind Katey, my arms wrapped around her, while she takes pictures. “All right?” I check.

  “All right,” she says.

  I can see the engines, going into the tunnel, with the carriages ahead of us following. I can see passengers hanging over the cage fencing on all the open platforms with their cameras aimed, and panning as our carriage approaches the trestle and the gorge.

  Katey loosens my arms from around her waist.

  “Now you’re really being brave.”

  “You’ve given me courage,” she says. She steps away from me, hands me her camera, and grips the top of the cage railing with both hands.

  I watch her as we’re drawn towards the tunnel opening, the wind in her hair, a look of solid determination on her face as she stares down at the steep rocky chasm.

  There’s something about being swallowed up by a tunnel. I’m sure it’s completely Freudian and it means I should never even consider smoking a cigar.

  The wooden facing slips past and we clatter into the dark hole. I can see the jagged rock walls just inches from the side of the train. It feels and smells dankish and diesely. I can hear the click-clack as we go over the joints in the rails, and the squeal of all of the carriage wheels and the creaking complaints of dozens of springs and fittings as we’re dragged along behind the engines. I can hear a chain clinking somewhere.

  We do have about thirty-five seconds of this, but only ten or so are in total darkness. Then we’re through to the other side, and daylight again.

  It’s totally dark now, totally black. The carriages don’t have lights in them. Behind me, the door opens. I hear it, and feel the rush of warm air.

  There are hands on my back. At first I think it’s Katey.

  But it isn’t.

  The hands are pushing me. With incredible force. Fuck.

  The hands are trying to shove me over the top of the safety railing.

  Fuck.

  Katey’s camera goes smashing into the tunnel wall as I grab the railing with both hands and hang on for my life. I’m halfway over—I can taste the rocks, feel them, catching my face—I’m struggling to hold on and to keep my legs this side and not go o
ver—and my feet aren’t touching anything solid anymore—if I go over I’ll hit those rocks and fall down under the wheels—if I go over I’ll be cut into pieces—and we’re coming into daylight—I can see daylight ahead—

  I’ve got her arm. It’s her, I know it is. I’ve got her arm and I’ve twisted myself around and taken her arm with me and I’m lunging to grab the rest of her but she’s quicker than me and she’s yanked herself free and she’s gone.

  I’m flat out on the platform, gasping. I can see the tunnel mouth ahead and daylight.

  Did the door open? Did she go back inside the carriage?

  That was the most terrifying moment I have ever experienced. Ever.

  Ever.

  We’re out of the tunnel. We’re back into brilliant sunlight. I’m on my knees…on my feet.

  Katey’s standing where she was, her hands still gripping the railing. She looks back at me, laughing. “I did it!”

  She sees the look on my face. The places where the rocks scraped my forehead and cheeks.

  “What’s happened?”

  I can’t explain. I stagger back inside the carriage. Everyone’s sitting quietly, amused by the darkness, some cracking jokes, laughing. Nobody looks out of place. Nobody looks like they just tried to kill me. I’m looking at all of them. Every single one of them. Remembering all of their faces. Which one is SaylerGurl? Which one?

  Katey’s followed me back inside. I’m sitting by the window, listening to my heartbeat pounding in my ears, trying to breathe.

  “What happened?” she asks, again.

  How can I tell her without it sounding like a very bad line from a very bad movie? Someone’s just tried to push me over the side. I was nearly beheaded by some passing rocks. I nearly ended up under the wheels of the train.

  Now I’m starting to shake. Now it’s sinking in. It’s everything Jilly warned me about. And if I don’t take a couple of deep breaths, and calm myself, I think I might scream.

  24

  Tuesday, Skagway

  We’re sitting together in silence. I’ve stopped the bleeding from the cuts on my face with Kleenex and some water from Katey’s sports bottle.

  Our train pulls into the siding at the summit of the ride, 2,865 feet up, marked by five flags—Canada, the United States, the United Nations, Alaska, and British Columbia—and a cold, howling wind. We’re on the border between Alaska and B.C. Traversing two countries.

  The scenery matches my mood: bleak, uncivilized, wilderness. Real wilderness. Dwarfed trees, sub-arctic pine, buffeted into black twisted shapes. Jagged stumps. Ground-huggers, cowering from the elements, squeezed between shambles of rocks.

  The three engines disconnect and rumble past us on a parallel track, shunting from front to back.

  All of the passengers in the carriages are preoccupied. Watching the engines. Taking pictures of the desolate scenery.

  It all leaves me feeling empty and desperate to get back to the warmth and comfortable familiarity of my ship. I’d forgotten about this part.

  I’m going to tell Katey what happened now. Now that nobody’s likely to eavesdrop. And when we get back to Skagway, I’m going to report it. Though I’m not sure anyone can do anything. Short of locking the doors and arranging an Agatha Christie-type interrogation, pointing the finger at everyone. And at no one.

  “Where’s my camera?” Katey asks. And so. The opportunity. “What happened out there?” she says, looking at me, baffled.

  We’re back in Skagway. I’m first off the train. Down the steps and onto solid concrete.

  I want to look at everyone as they disembark. Jilly would tell me to use my intuition. I’m going to see if I have any latent sixth sense that’ll tell me which one’s SaylerGurl. It was her. It had to be. Who else would try to push me off the train, short of a psychopath with an eye for a random opportunity? Which might not be far off the mark when it comes to SaylerGurl.

  Katey’s gone to find someone at the station office I can give a report to.

  I’m watching the faces of all of the women. Most know who I am—they’ve seen me up in TopDeck, or they’ve seen my picture in the display, or they’ve bumped into me wandering around the ship and they’ve made note of my nametag. They’ll forgive me for staring.

  Judy. Can’t remember her last name but Sergio, who teaches Latin Dancing in the Disco, fancies her. She wants to do news on television. She’s got an application in at the BBC.

  “It was fabulous, Jason, wasn’t it?” She leans over, conspiratorially. “Guess what I found out. Sergio’s not really from Seville. He’s from Potter’s Bar.”

  “They’d be fools not to hire you at Newsnight,” I tell her.

  Judy laughs. Touches my arm.

  Celeste. Divorced—twice. And widowed. Her first husband was a policeman. Her second, a pilot. Her third was a firefighter named Reggie who wasn’t killed by his job at all. He fell out of a tree on his day off, trying to rescue next door’s cat.

  Celeste is hoping to find love on the high seas. She’s set her sights high. Captain Callico. This is the fifth time she’s been aboard. Sally’s delivered handwritten messages in scented envelopes. What’s surprising is that she’s also delivered handwritten messages back, in envelopes bearing the Captain’s seal. Sal won’t tell me more.

  It’s not Celeste. I get absolutely no evil hits from my study of her eyes. Just a brief nonverbal hello, a friendly acknowledgement. Nothing bad.

  A passenger named Rohini Mitra. With her digicam. Met her on one of my walks. With her friend Shaleeta. Munching on a chocolate chip cookie.

  Some retired couples. Don’t know their names but they’ve been in my audience. And they know who I am. Yes, hello. Hi. See you tonight? Lovely.

  I don’t believe SaylerGurl would be one half of a couple. I think she’s singular. Lonely. Not good at making connections. Hopeless at keeping them. And bloody fucking strong when it comes to trying to push a person to certain death.

  The last passenger’s off the train, and I’ve not picked up anything. I’m going to ask Jilly how this intuition thing’s supposed to work. Should I get shivers? Itchy toes? Lights flashing and bells going off?

  Here comes Katey. “They’d like you to go and speak to the Station Manager, and then make a report to the local police, who are all the way up there.” She’s nodding in the direction of the north end of town. Out of town, really. “Or you can ring them. I’ve got the number.”

  “I’m not sure there’s any point now. What can they do?”

  “You should. Jason, really.”

  I watch the last of the forty passengers walk back along the pier, towards the ships. I can think of other things I’d rather be doing in a few spare hours before Sailaway.

  I’ve made my visit, given my statement, been told they’re taking it very seriously. The nice policeman’s suggested I contact my ship’s Security, since the carriage was populated only by passengers from Sapphire.

  We’re back on board. A bit too late for Afternoon Tea, but up in TopDeck they’re doing the Team Trivia Challenge. And the lovely Alana’s hosting a Create Your Own Paper and Greeting Cards workshop in the Disco. And they’re doing a Ring Toss up by the funnel on Sun Deck. A throwback to the old days…literally.

  It’s about an hour till Dinner, and three hours till I’m due upstairs with my guitars.

  “Come back to my cabin?” Katey asks.

  “Let me change my clothes. Put on a disguise.”

  She’s studying me. “You sure you’re all right, Jason?”

  “Just a bit shaky. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll order some room service. And I bought some lovely scented oil on my way back from the train station. Sandalwood and something. I’ll give you a massage.”

  “You’re going to send me off to work smelling like a euphemism.”

  “I do hope so,” she says, with a kiss.

  We part. She upstairs, me down.

  I’ve connected with Jilly. I’m chatting with her as I dry my hair, and unw
rap my Tuesday night gigging clothes from the paper drycleaning cover that Manuel’s hung in my cupboard.

  I had a feeling, my love. I still have a feeling.

  You STILL have a feeling?

  I’m aghast.

  It’s not enough that I was nearly beheaded this afternoon? Something ELSE is going to happen?

  Yes. Something else. I can get a sense of it, but I can’t pick up the details. A sequence of events has begun.

  What sequence of events? When did it start? Who does it involve? Me and who else?

  A journey. It began three years ago, when you weren’t able to save Emma from the fire. It will finish this week.

  How?

  Remember your dreams, my love. The two that haunt you.

  One of them’s Emma…

  Reminding you of the guilt you feel, your need for forgiveness. She’ll show you the way.

  You’re not making sense.

  Don’t try so hard to understand. She WILL show you the way.

  In the other dream, I’m drowning. Am I going to die?

  I’ll be watching over you, my love. I’ll be looking after you.

  You said that before.

  And did you die?

  I wasn’t even in touch with you. I didn’t have my phone on at all.

  You didn’t die.

  You weren’t there. You couldn’t have been. Unless you were on the train. Were you on the train?

  I’m in Caterham. In my lovely thatched cottage. And as it’s past two in the morning, I must sleep.

  You’re one of the most infuriating people I’ve ever met!

  I love you too, Jason. Good night. xx

  We’re delayed leaving Skagway. I’m standing on Observation Deck, unwrapping a fresh bar of Maya Gold, looking down at Railway Pier, floodlit in the twilight. I can see officers and crew, checking their watches, talking on their radios. I can hear what they’re saying. We’re short one passenger.

  Everyone was supposed to be on board at 8.30. Sailaway was supposed to be at 9, towards the end of my first set. It’s now nearly 9.30, I’m at the start of my first break, and we’re still here.