by Winona Kent
They’ve checked all of the sightseeing tours registered with StarSea. Everyone’s back. No incidents. No delays. Our missing passenger came aboard, then left again. It was a woman. I couldn’t quite catch her name.
Skagway’s a small town. There aren’t a lot of places to go if you’re thinking of losing your way. One of the crew’s gone down to check the Red Onion Saloon. Skagway’s most exclusive brothel, according to their website. Since 1898. Another’s gone over to the Skagway Brewing Company. I was once asked for ID in there. I was ordering a beer for Sally, who’d gone to the loo. I was flattered. Kind of. And a third’s sprinted down to the Bonanza Bar and Grill. Where I have to admit, I’ve never actually been.
All three have reported back. No luck. Just the locals.
OK, that’s it, we’re leaving. The search party’s on board, the longshoremen are taking down the gangways…and the ropes are off. Whoever she is, if she wants to catch up, she’ll have to get herself to Ketchikan for Thursday. Tomorrow’s Glacier Bay, all cruising, no ports.
Shame, really. She’ll have missed the best part of the trip.
I wonder if it’s SaylerGurl. Making a clean escape after her failed attempt at murder. I almost hope it is.
I can feel the distant rumble as the thrusters slip us away from the pier. We have to reverse out of Skagway, and turn around in Taiya Inlet, then backtrack all the way down the Lynn Canal again, almost to Juneau, before looping around Point Couverden and heading back up Icy Strait to Glacier Bay.
If you were in a little twin-prop sightseeing plane, you could be there and back in an hour. This will take us all night, cruising slowly, putting us into Glacier Bay at about 7am.
The ship vibrates a little as our twin screws start up, backing us out of our berth. And then, just as suddenly, they stop.
Everything’s stopped. Engines, thrusters, propellers. The ship’s gone very quiet. We’re drifting.
And someone’s just screamed. Seriously screamed.
A few passengers have rushed over to the starboard side of the ship, down on Promenade. We’ve got our spotlights on, and they’re aimed at Sapphire’s stern. Aimed down into the water, actually. And a couple of trucks on the pier are shining their headlights on bright.
I’ve got a good view from up here. The water’s very black, and fairly deep. I can see something floating. That something is a woman’s body. Part of a woman’s body. The upper part. Wearing a bright yellow t-shirt. Face down in the water, hair billowing in the water, mixing with her blood.
They don’t know the circumstances of her being in the water. They don’t know if it was foul play, or accidental. Or deliberate. They don’t know if she was dead before our starboardside propeller chopped her lower half into pieces. I hope, out of kindness, that she was.
Our missing passenger’s name is…or was…May Wylde. Sally’s handed all of her passenger info over to the Skagway Police. There was nothing left behind in her cabin.
We’ve departed. It would have cost StarSea too much to delay Sailaway any longer.
I’m back at work. I’ve still got an audience, but they’re subdued. Nobody’s really talking. I’ve almost finished another set, and I’m about to take my second break.
I’ve chosen my music carefully. I’ve kept it quiet and wistful. Easy on the vocals. Mostly instrumentals, even the ones I usually sing to. I’ve just played the melody, letting my guitar carry the mood, while the backing tracks take care of the rest.
Set finished. I head over to the bar, check Twitter on my phone.
The lock’s off Cold_Fingers. I can read her tweets.
I don’t know how I feel. Yes, I do. I feel awful. As if it’s my fault. For doing something. For not doing something. For…what? And now a life has ended…
“Your usual,” Samuel says, placing a tall Melon Fizz in front of me, with a napkin and three melon balls spiked with a bamboo lance.
And a sealed envelope. Lilac. I don’t want to open it. I’m afraid to open it. I have to. Need to.
Three pages. Neatly printed in blue ink. No poetry. No decorative framing.
Dear Jason. I’m so sorry about what happened on the train. I was so consumed with rage. You were with her again. That Katey person.
You’ll never be happy with her. She’s all wrong for you.
It all got to me, Jason, and I just wanted to show you how angry I was with you. For that moment, I just wanted you to know how much I was suffering. I really did want you to be frightened. I actually wanted you dead.
So when we went into the tunnel I saw an opportunity. I wanted to push you all the way over. It would have been so easy for me.
And then I touched your body.
It was exhilarating, Jason. All those months on Twitter, and all we ever did was talk, and quarrel with one another. And then finally, here I am, on your ship.
I’ve had so many chances to talk to you face to face, to actually introduce myself to you. But I’ve resisted. I didn’t want to spoil anything. Perhaps I was even afraid of what you might say, or do. Perhaps I was afraid you’d turn and walk away without speaking. Or look horrified. Or say something really nasty. That would have been too much to bear, Jason. So I haven’t said hello.
I’ve been at TopDeck every night, watching you, loving watching you. You never noticed me. And I didn’t want to stand out or draw attention to myself.
But today, when I put my hands on your back, and felt your body under your shirt, all of your muscles and bones, I suddenly wanted to tell you how much I still love you. And I was so overcome…
I realized I didn’t want you to die.
I felt your heart beating. Your frightened breathing. I felt all of your desperate and frantic terror…
For a moment, just a moment, I had your very life in my hands.
And then you fought back.
And now that I realize what I’ve done, I’m consumed with self-loathing and hatred. You’ll never want to know me now. All I’ve done is prove to you that I’m as insane as you’ve always believed.
You’d probably have me arrested if you knew who I was. And that’s what’s tearing me apart inside. All I was trying to do was make it all better. And I haven’t made it all better at all. I’ve damaged our relationship irrevocably.
It can never be fixed now. Not ever.
I’m so terribly sorry, Jason. I can’t go on, knowing how much you hate me. It’s all too much to bear.
I’m giving Cold_Fingers back to you. I’ve restored your original password. The same with your email. Which I’m also returning.
I’ve blipped you one last song.
Please forgive me.
“You all right, Jason?” Samuel. I must look shaken.
“Yes. Fine. I’m OK.”
I’m not OK. I’m checking Blip.
For Jason. I’ll always love you. Goodbye from May Wylde…SaylerGurl.
“Terry Cooper.” Sal’s slipped onto the seat beside me at the bar.
“Sorry?”
“The body in the water. Terry Cooper. She’s a teacher from Seattle who spent her summers driving a tour bus in Skagway.”
It takes a moment for Sal’s words to make sense.
“Not May Wylde?”
“No, not May Wylde. May Wylde disembarked and caught an air taxi to Juneau a couple of hours ago. Confirmed by the pilot. Her lilac love lingers on.”
25
Tuesday / Wednesday, at Sea / Glacier Bay
I’m exhausted. It’s been a long, long, harrowing day. I’m too tired to spend the night with Katey. But we had the entire afternoon and part of the evening together, and that was really wonderful. Well, aside from the bit where I was nearly killed. And the bit where the ship eviscerated someone. And the bit where that someone turned out not to be SaylerGurl.
This is easily the weirdest cruise of my entire three-year career at sea.
And it’s not over yet. It’s only Tuesday—early Wednesday, now—and we’re barely at the halfway point. We’ve got Glacier Bay lat
er today, then Thursday it’s Ketchikan, Friday sailing, Saturday home.
And there’s still Jilly’s promise of conspiratorial events to test my mettle. If not my humanity.
The crew lift lets me out into the crew stair landing, where someone—again—has left the door propped open. I kick it shut and make my way across the M1 and into the little side corridor that houses my cabin. We’re underway, so the watertight doors are closed all the way down. My section is isolated, and—thankfully—quiet.
No middle of the night parties involving singers and dancers. No shoppies or spa technicians celebrating the last days of their contracts.
But something doesn’t smell right. This isn’t good. No…this really isn’t good…
I open my cabin door. A black wall of superheated smoke blasts out into the corridor, taking me with it. Slamming me straight back into the wall.
The Drill flies through my mind. As it did last week when I discovered the fire in the Showcase Lounge. Close the door. Raise the alarm. Alert everyone in nearby cabins. I do all three. In rapid succession. Although it seems like it’s all happening in slow motion.
Coughing, eyes smarting, I drag a nearby fire extinguisher out of its bracket. One try. Pull out the pin. Open the door.
But the flames, fed by another inward rush of fresh oxygen, are now leaping up the wall. My Run Away to Sea poster’s a dancing black rag with red glowing edges. It’s too big a fire to fight by myself and the smoke’s too thick for safe entry.
I pull the door shut again and slump down to the floor, my back against the wall, while cabin doors around me swing open, and panicked people run out in their night clothes.
I’m in the Crew Hospital. Sitting in a chair. I think I may have a concussion. I hit the back of my head when I crashed into the wall.
Jemima’s putting a mug of freshly brewed tea into my hands. Waiting till she’s certain I’ve got a good grip on it, before she lets go. All entertainers report to the Cruise Director. Jemima’s my immediate supervisor.
“The Fire Party put it out quickly,” she’s telling me. “Damage to the bed, walls and ceiling. Smoke got to nearly everything else but a lot of it’s salvageable. You can go down and collect your things later. We’re finding you another cabin.”
“Thanks, Vicks.”
I’m numb. I’m shaking. The tea mug’s warm, and I’m holding it in both hands.
“I don’t understand why the smoke detector didn’t go off.”
“We don’t understand it either, Jason. Kev’s there now with the Staff Captain, having a look. It seems like the fire started near your bed.”
I know who did this. I know who’s responsible.
“Do you have any ideas about what might have happened?”
Jemima’s being tactful. I’m not saying anything. I have no proof. And she’ll deny it. I shake my head.
It’s very quiet in here, but I can hear the clatter of things in the doctor’s office through that door. Rattling and vibrating in time to the ship’s engines. It all sounds very far away.
Here comes Dr. Singh, back aboard after his emergency flight the other night in the Coast Guard helicopter. He’s younger than me. Just out of Med School. Getting some good practical experience. He pops a thermometer under my tongue and checks my pulse. Looks into my eyes. Feels the bump on the back of my head.
“I wish you’d lie down,” he says. “What day is it?”
“I don’t want to lie down. And it’s Tuesday. Probably Wednesday by now.”
“What year were you born?”
“1968.”
He prescribes a blanket. Which is duly placed around my shoulders. I feel like my grandfather. I need plaid slippers, The Archers, and a snoring Daschund.
The warmth is coming back into me. Slowly. And my hands have stopped shaking. I can smell smoke on my clothes. I swallow. Hard. I’m determined not to be sick.
Minutes pass. Hours.
Here comes Kevin. With Sally. Sally drags up a chair and sits down with her notepad and pen. Kevin stays standing, next to Jemima.
“How are you?” Sal asks, quietly, leaning over, touching my hand.
“I’m all right. I’m OK.” My voice sounds hollow and distant. Not like me at all. I’m sitting here. My voice is over there somewhere.
“The fire,” says Kev, “seems to have been caused by a lit cigarette.”
Sal’s looking at me.
“How do you reckon that might have come about, then?”
“I don’t know.”
Sally’s writing it down. She’s thinking the same as me.
“You’re quite certain you weren’t lying in bed earlier enjoying a quick ciggie?”
“I haven’t smoked in years, Kev. I gave it up after my wife died.”
“She died in a fire, didn’t she, Jason?”
Jemima’s voice is sympathetic. I know what she’s thinking.
“She did. Yes.”
My voice sounds testy. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.
“What happened after the Crew Drill? Did you go back to your cabin?”
“Only to put away my lifejacket. Then I went on a tour. White Pass. Then I came back. I showered, changed my clothes. And then…I was with a friend. And after that I went to work.”
“And you didn’t notice anything unusual when you changed your clothes? Smoke?”
I shake my head. Which makes my brain pound against the inside of my skull. Won’t be doing that again.
“And you didn’t go back after you’d finished visiting your friend?”
“No…I went straight up to TopDeck.”
Sally’s still writing everything down.
“Well,” Kev says, “we found a fag end in amongst what’s left of your mattress. And it appears your smoke detector was tampered with.”
Fuck.
“I didn’t do that.”
“Who did, then? Someone deliberately disconnected it.”
I’m looking at Sal.
“A warning light went off on the panel on the Bridge when the wires were pulled out,” Sal says, “but we were busy dealing with the woman in the water. We assumed it was a malfunction. It happens a lot. Unfortunately.”
“Get some sleep for now, Jason,” Jemima says. Her voice is still sympathetic. “We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”
Now it’s the morning. One of the nurses is waking me up with another mug of tea. It’s Fiona, from the Thursday skit. Last contract, at Halloween, she dressed up as a can-can dancer and wore a large red ostrich feather in her hair. And no knickers.
This bed is fucking hard to sleep in, I have to say. Hospital beds are, though. Generally speaking.
The last time I was in a hospital bed was three years ago. I smelled of smoke then, too. For days afterwards. Couldn’t wash it out of my hair, couldn’t scrub it off my skin, couldn’t get it out of my nose and lungs.
“How are you feeling, Jason?”
“Bloody awful. Thanks.”
“Headache?”
“You offering? Or telling?”
“I’ll get you something for the pain. Dr. Singh just wants to check you over, then you can go.”
My cabin’s a mess. The bed’s charred almost beyond recognition. The wall’s seared and blistered and black. Everything that was on that side of the room—posters, phone, alarm clock—is either burned beyond recognition or melted into a Salvador Dali rendering of what it used to be. Everything else is black from the smoke, and dripping from the water they used to fight the fire.
My laptop’s safe. The lid was closed. And it was on the floor under the chair—where I was sitting when I last used it. Superficial water damage only.
My guitars are safe. Tucked into their hard cases, stowed inside one of the cupboards. The others are upstairs, locked up behind TopDeck’s bar. That’s all I care about, really.
Standing here, in the middle of the devastation, takes me back to my front room. Three years ago. I paid to have all the damage fixed, and then I sold the h
ouse. I couldn’t live there anymore. Dom went to stay with my mum.
And I ran away to sea.
Someone’s come from the ship’s laundry to collect all my clothes, to have the soot and the smell of smoke removed. It was the same when Em died. I had all our things drycleaned. Em was buried in a beautiful blue dress I’d bought her for Christmas. One of her friends from TV did her makeup and hair. She looked like she was asleep.
I pack what I can salvage into two suitcases and a cardboard box, and drag them out into the hallway, where my guitars are already waiting, propped against the wall.
The cabin they’ve moved me to is the size of a large cupboard. It’s on C Deck, more forward than midship, wedged into a bare, narrow corridor that has a bulkhead at one end and a watertight door at the other. The bulkhead separates me from the Generator Room, the Boiler Room and the Engine Room. I’m down among the dead men.
This cabin has bare walls, and an old beige coloured carpet that had something spilled on it a long time ago, which has turned grey over the years.
It has a sink. And both taps work. Though I wouldn’t want to drink what’s coming out of them. I’m not sure I would actually want what’s coming out of them to contact any part of my body, to be honest.
The toilet and the showers are outside and down the hallway. Shared with about a hundred stewards and waiters.
I’m sitting on the bed, listening to the voices on the other side of my door. Filipino. Mexican. Quick Spanish tongues, hurrying to and from work.
In three days’ time we’ll be back in Vancouver. They’ll have decorators and fitters standing by, to erase all traces of the damage. Just like last Saturday. They’ll have it finished by Sailaway and I can move myself back to A Deck. This is only temporary.
Someone’s knocking on my door.
“It’s not locked.”
Kev, Sally and Jemima. Jemima looks uncomfortable.
“What time is it?” I ask.
I haven’t looked at my phone. I haven’t even thought about Twittering. Though I really ought to connect with Jilly again. Just to let her know, her dire sequence of events is in full progression. Perhaps I can persuade her to be more forthcoming about what else I have to look forward to. Can it get any worse? It must be about eight o’clock because I can hear chunks of ice bumping and scraping along Sapphire’s side. It’s Wednesday morning and we’re in Glacier Bay. If you look over the railings, you can see little icebergs floating past, flecked with navy blue paint from our hull.