by Winona Kent
“Half past eight, Jason.”
I was right.
“Jason,” Sal says. “I’ve told Kev and Jemima about Diana. About Des King’s research and his suspicions.”
“We’ve had a word with him,” Kev adds. “He’s briefed us.”
“We can’t do anything about Diana,” Jemima says. “It’s all circumstantial. And not proved. And if we were to approach her, and we were wrong, we’d never hear the end of it. She could go very public.”
“The best we can do,” Sal says, “is try and keep her under surveillance until Saturday.”
“And make sure she doesn’t get upset,” Jemima adds.
“If what Des King’s telling us is true,” Kev says, “then it seems you’re the target of her anger. We’re not interested in what went on between you two in the past…”
“Nothing went on.”
“We know that, Jase.” Sal’s voice is soft and reasonable. And gently reassuring.
“Just don’t give her any reason to act up.”
“We have the safety of the ship to consider.” It’s Sal again. “Passengers and crew.”
Kev and Jemima are going. Sal sees them out. She closes the door behind them.
“This is a god-awful cabin, isn’t it,” she says, taking it in, four blank walls and the narrow, saggy bed. “Never mind. You’ll be back in your old place after Vancouver. How are you?”
“My head hurts.”
“Poor you.” She pauses. “Come out on deck with me?”
She looks troubled. Really unhappy. It can’t be just Diana.
I don’t want to spend any more time down here than I have to. “Let’s go.”
26
Wednesday, Glacier Bay
We open up the ship’s bow to passengers when we do Glacier Bay. It’s the only time it happens. It’s where absolutely the best views are, to go along with the commentary from the Park Ranger over the PA from the Bridge. You reach the bow by walking forward, past the Purser’s Desk on Aloha. Past the mid-range cabins, right to the end of the companionway. You can tell you’re on the right track because there’s a cold blast of air where they’ve propped open the two Crew Only access doors that lead outside.
A lot of passengers are making the trek. “What’s up?” I ask, as we follow them outside.
It’s freezing out here, in spite of the fact that we’re sailing in brilliant sunshine, past lichen and moss-covered rocks. Our pilot’s picking a cautious route through floating islands of blue-tinted ice, debris from the glaciers ahead.
“When the rep from Corporate came on board in Juneau,” Sal says. “It wasn’t to talk about the overseas deal. That fell through.”
Oh no. Sal doesn’t waste words. Straight and to the point. I think I know what’s coming next. And I don’t want to hear it. I really don’t.
“They tried to find an alternate buyer, but they weren’t successful. So they’ve decided to sell her instead for scrap.”
Scrap. That hits home. Hard.
There’s a bloody cold wind coming off those icefields. The better-informed passengers brought winter coats, gloves, scarves and hats with them, in their luggage. The rest have bought jackets in the Shops, at full price. They’ll be on sale tomorrow at 20% off what the tags said today.
Sal has a three-quarter length overcoat that’s part of her uniform. It’s black and it looks smart, but like her cap, it’s more for show than real function. It’s not really all that warm.
We stand out of the wind, and back beside the doorway, where an affable waiter named Jet’s dispensing hot chocolate from a table covered in a white linen cloth. It’s a nice touch. You can have it straight up, or laced with your favourite imbibable. You can also buy the mug you’re drinking it from. Commerce. StarSea Cruises have never been ones to miss a good opportunity to make a sale.
There’s a stack of blankets by the door, lovely full size thick seafaring ones that keep out wind, wet and cold. The same blankets Katey and I were wrapped up in the other morning, out on Observation Deck. I collect two. Since I’m only wearing what I gigged in last night. Since all of my other clothes—including my winter jacket—were taken away to be cleaned.
I wrap both blankets around myself, and stand with Sally beside a rack of stacked canisters holding inflatable liferafts.
There isn’t anything I can say. My ship, my lady, demolished. Sliced to bits on a desolate beach somewhere on the other side of the Pacific. Worth nothing more than what her salvaged parts can be torn out and sold for.
“Once we finish this season,” Sally says, “we’ll all be hired on to the other ships…No one’s going to lose their job.”
Ten more cruises. And then, her long, beautiful life will come to a horrible end.
I look at the passengers, wrapped up in their winter jackets, hats and mitts. Crowding around the railings. Laughing in the sunshine. Shooting pictures and videos. Oblivious.
I’m numb.
“Good morning once again, ladies and gentlemen.” It’s the Park Ranger, up on the Bridge. “Welcome to Glacier Bay. This area became a National Monument on February 25, 1925, and was established as a national park and preserve on December 2, 1980. We’re currently cruising along shorelines that were completely covered by ice just 200 years ago.”
I’m looking for Katey, but I think she’s with the travel agents. They’ve got a corner of TopDeck roped off for their exclusive use this morning. They’ll be watching through the big picture windows.
“When Captain George Vancouver charted the waters in this area in 1794, he described what we now call Glacier Bay as nothing more than a tiny indent in a massive wall of ice. That immense wall of ice turned out to be twenty miles wide, more than 4,000 feet thick in some places, and it stretched over 100 miles, to the St. Elias mountain range. Less than a hundred years later, naturalist John Muir, the co-founder of the Sierra Club, and the person the Muir Glacier in Glacier Bay is named after, discovered that Captain Vancouver’s ice wall had retreated more than thirty miles, and now formed a water-filled bay. By 1916, the Grand Pacific Glacier, which you can see just ahead of you, stretching back into what is actually Canada—and which is largely responsible for creating this bay—had melted sixty miles inland, to the place we’re now cruising, to the head of what we now call Tarr Inlet.”
This is the part of Glacier Bay that everyone comes to see. Not the Grand Pacific Glacier, which is a dirty, muddy black by the time it reaches the water’s edge, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding rocks. Its little cousin over to the left. Margerie Glacier. A brilliant vertical wall of pristeen white, inlaid with the deepest of turquoise blues. Caverns and towers and crags and cracks, perfectly reflected in pale ice-blue, mirror-still water.
Our pilot guides Sapphire into a slow, lazy turn, and the wall of ice comes into full spectacular view.
“Directly ahead you can now see Margerie Glacier, which is 250 feet high. The glacier also extends another 100 feet below the water line. Glaciers appear blue because the ice absorbs the shorter red and green wavelengths in the light spectrum.”
Sal’s trying hard not to cry. She has her hand on the ship’s flank, as if she’s feeling Sapphire’s own pain, and is comforting her.
“For those of you keeping track, the current air temperature is about forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and the water temperature is a chilly thirty-six.”
Sal’s cold. I fold my blankets around her, so we’re wrapped up together.
“Do you know what happens?” she asks.
I shake my head. She needs to talk about this, the way you need to talk about someone who is gravely ill, or who has recently passed away.
“The breaker’s yard’s a sandbank in India. Alang. Go online and look—you’ll see pages and pages of photos. Old, rusting ships, cut apart. Others waiting their turn. They’ll sail Sapphire over with just a skeleton crew, and then they’ll drive her into the shallows, full speed, and beach her. Then they’ll abandon her. Whatever’s been sold along with the ship
is left intact—all her fittings, her furniture, her pots and pans. The crew go off in motorboats. I know captains, officers, who’ve taken other ships there. They refuse to look back as they’re leaving…”
She swallows, hard, still trying to keep back the tears. Under the blankets, I’m giving her a hug. As tightly as I can.
Ahead of us, a massive tower of ice calves away from the glacier, with a crack like a rifle, and then a thundering roar as it explodes into the water.
“And then, a swarm of people climb aboard and strip everything from her. And then they cut her apart, deck by deck, section by section, until there’s nothing left.”
She is crying now. She can’t stop. I feel the same.
“Smile!” The voice jolts me. It’s Carly. Bundled up in one of the Shops’ on-sale parkas. She’s got her camera aimed and she’s about to take our picture.
I can’t smile. And neither can Sal. We both just stare, until Carly clicks, and her shutter captures us.
Rick joins her. “This is what makes it all worthwhile, eh, girl? Marvellous, mate. Absolutely brilliant show. I’m coming back. With the lads. Shag Pile on the Rocks.”
“Not that bloody band again,” Carly says. She looks at Sal. “Don’t ever marry a fucking musician.”
“I won’t,” Sal promises.
“See you at the Captain’s private ‘do’ later, eh?” Rick says, to both of us, as Carly drags him away.
I’d forgotten about that. It’s tonight. I’ve been commanded to attend.
Rick’s making a detour to the table where the hot chocolate turns dangerous. He’s having his mug refilled.
The Captain’s private party’s an exclusive affair. He hosts one every Wednesday, in his suite behind the Bridge. The attendees are VIPs, passengers who’ve travelled a lot with StarSea, whatever celebrities we might happen to have on board. Occasional special guests. They bring out the top-of-the-line hors d’oeuvres and the best champagne, and people stand around in important little groups, admiring the collection of seafaring memorabilia on the wood-paneled walls and discussing where to spend their next holiday—in a private villa on Mauritius, or Richard Branson’s exclusive island resort in the BVIs.
I’m sure Diana will be there. And, right on cue, here she comes. Bundled up in her winter whites, the Snow Queen. Ray-Bans and hooded parka, padded boots and slinky leggings. She should be doing the apres-ski at Badrutt’s Palace in St. Moritz.
Behind her, and pretending to be watching the glacier, I can see Franco, in plain clothes, from Security.
“How cosy.” An actress’s smile. I can see our reflection in her sunglasses.
“We’ve just had some terrible news, Diana. About the ship. Sally’s upset. So am I, really.”
“She’s going to be scrapped at the end of the season,” Sally says.
“Is she really. Shame. Still. She’s well past her prime. Should have been put to the wrecker’s ball years ago. I’m not sure why I even booked this cruise.”
Not the best thing to say to Sally. Or me, for that matter.
“I once overheard a critic say much the same thing about you, Diana.”
I can’t believe I’ve just said that. Can I blame my head injury?
“That was no critic. That was Gielgud. I was flattered he remembered me. I’d nearly forgotten who he was.”
We’re turning around, so the passengers on the starboard side of the ship can have a look. We’ll be here for another hour, and then we’ll begin our long, slow journey back to the park entrance. Once there we’re officially on the return leg. Ketchikan tomorrow for last minute shopping. Then a sea day. Then Vancouver. And only nine cruises left.
“A word with you, Jason. In private.”
“No thanks, Diana. You can say whatever you want to me, here.”
“I don’t want to make a scene, my darling. Please do me the favour…”
I look at Sally.
“Go,” she says. “If only to keep the peace.”
I leave Sally reluctantly, securely wrapped up in my blankets.
As we go indoors, I can see Franco following, at a safe distance. He’s behind an elderly gent and his talkative little white-haired wife, who’s turned around to ask him if he saw the ice plunging into the water. Franco’s trying to keep his eye on us. We take the forward passenger lift up to Promenade, where Diana’s suite is, leaving Franco behind on Aloha, waylaid by glacierchat. I hope he’s good at second guessing.
There’s nobody keeping Diana’s cabin under surveillance, and Security cams haven’t been installed in the passenger corridors yet. They are—or were—going to retrofit them for the Caribbean season, this winter.
I catch myself. Won’t happen now.
Diana closes the door behind me. “I heard there was a fire in your cabin.”
“Did you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Was it very serious?”
“Serious enough to have destroyed nearly everything I own. Yes.”
“I hope it wasn’t caused by anything you were responsible for.”
Dear Diana. Sarcastic. Dry-witted.
“In fact, it seems to have been caused by a smouldering cigarette left on my bed.”
“Goodness. Are you in much trouble?”
“I’m not in any trouble, Diana. I had nothing to do with it.”
Smile. Be pleasant.
Clearly, she’s disappointed. Clearly, she was hoping I would be blamed. It’s how her mind works.
She’s picked up an ornament. A glass shard, something she must have bought in one of Juneau’s jewellery shops. Inside it, I can see a similar shard of glittering blue, surrounded by a spiraling red flame of liquid.
Fire and ice. Diana all over.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had work?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been at sea.”
“Three years, Jason. That television series your wife worked on was my last great foray into the limelight. And even then…a second rate show. Not even star billing. My credit was, ‘And…’ at the end of all the younger and better known actors and actresses.”
“You’re beautiful, Diana. People remember you. You’ll never be obsolete.”
She’s giving me a sceptical look. In this light, she seems old and worn out. I can see the creases around her eyes. In spite of her flawless makeup, perfectly applied.
She turns the glass ornament over in her hands. “Cameos in nostalgic remakes. Guest presenter at the BAFTAs.” Her voice is bitter. “Spokesperson for frozen peas.”
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t. “Where did you go the night Emma died?”
She’s looking at me again.
“Whatever makes you ask that?”
“I want to know.”
“I was at home. I didn’t go out.”
“What were you doing at home?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You went to see Emma. Didn’t you.”
“No, I did not.”
I can’t stop myself. Won’t.
“She must have been very surprised to see you at the front door. What did you say to her? That you happened to be passing, and you thought you’d drop in for a chat?”
It’s been bothering me ever since Des King burned the paper napkin on deck in Juneau.
“The fire started in the front room. In the cushions of a sofa. She’d have taken you in there. The sofa was an antique. That was why it burned. Modern sofas don’t burn. They’re built to a strict safety code. Fire resistant materials.”
Diana’s looking past me. Thinking. And for a moment, just a moment, it seems she’s not quite there.
“Do you remember that sofa?”
She snaps out of it. “Get out.”
I think I’d better. I turn to go. But as I reach for the door handle, the spike of fire and ice smashes into my back and shatters glass into me, cutting my left shoulder blade. Cuts so hard, it drives the breath right out of my body. Cuts so hard, it makes me cry out in pain.
/> Fuck.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The slices of glass crash to the floor, blue ice fractured, liquid fire spreading like red ink on the carpet.
I’m out the door.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Diana says, hurling it after me.
I turn to look at her. “You’re too fucking old to be quoting Juliet, Diana.”
The door slams in my face. I catch my breath. Close my eyes. Think past the pain. Better see Dr. Singh again. I think I’m bleeding. Quite badly.
27
Wednesday, Glacier Bay
This is not good. The tip of the glass shard impaled itself into the muscle underneath my left shoulder blade. Then it shattered into a hundred pieces. Dr. Singh’s swabbing the cuts. There’s a lot of glass embedded there, tiny fractured splinters. He’s hunting for them, pulling them out with tweezers. I could do with some freezing. Fuck.
“I have to write a report, Jason. How did this happen?”
Franco asked me the same thing before escorting me down to the hospital. Because he was standing at the end of the corridor, close enough to Diana’s stateroom to see her slam the door, not close enough to actually hear what had gone on behind it.
Here comes Sally. “Be careful, Jason,” she advises, quickly, formally.
Jemima’s right behind her. And Kev. With Franco. This is really not good.
“Jason,” Jemima says. “Diana Wyndham’s just made a very serious complaint against you.”
“Really. What am I supposed to have done now?”
“She claims you assaulted her,” Kev says. “In her cabin.”
I can’t help laughing. “I assaulted her?”
Dr. Singh’s finished the hunt for broken glass. Another swabdown. Now he decides he wants to put stitches in. Now he decides to freeze me up.