by Winona Kent
“This will only sting for a very short moment.”
I don’t think they have any idea, these doctors.
Fuck again.
“We’d like to hear your side of the story, Jason.” Jemima. Sympathetic and conciliatory. As usual.
Sally’s warning me with her eyes.
“I was with Sally. Outside. On the bow. Diana approached us and told me she wanted to speak to me in private. I suggested she talk to me out there. She objected. She said she didn’t want to make a scene. She asked me to go with her. Sal thought I should—didn’t you, Sal?”
“I did,” Sally confirms. “And it happened exactly as Jason said.”
“So we went to Diana’s cabin—”
Kevin’s quick to interrupt. “She says you lost your temper and forced your way in. You were angry and threw her against a chest of drawers. She’s in the Passenger Hospital with Dr. Denny. She’s got a large gash on her left arm, and bruising on her right side.”
I don’t fucking believe this. Stay calm.
“I never touched her. And I didn’t force my way in.”
“Nevertheless…you have those cuts on your back…”
“She threw a glass ornament at me as I was leaving.”
“What was your conversation with her about?”
“She asked me about the fire in my cabin. She told me how unhappy she was that she hadn’t had any acting work in three years. I asked her—”
I stop. Consider the consequences. If I say this, it could be construed as a prelude to an angry outburst. If I say this, it could be used against me.
They’re waiting.
“I asked her where she was the night my wife died.”
“And what was her response?”
This feels like an episode of Morse. Or Prime Suspect.
“She said she was at home.”
“And then what happened?”
“And then I told her what I thought had gone on that night. She got angry. She told me to leave. She threw the glass thing at me as I was opening the door.”
“Jason,” Sally says. “She’s claiming you and she were lovers.”
“Not true. Completely untrue.”
Kev’s turn. “And that she ended the relationship three years ago. But apparently you’ve had a difficult time coming to terms with it. You’ve been harassing her with letters and emails. You’ve been leaving voice messages on her phone.”
I’m stunned. I’m absolutely fucking floored. Can it get any worse? Jesus Christ, Jilly, you were right. How did you know? How?
“It’s Diana that’s having the difficult time, Kev. She’s the one who’s never given up on me.”
“Seems a bloody odd way to go about romance, mate. Stabbing you in the back with a sharp piece of glass.”
“I told you. She was angry with me. She didn’t like the questions I was asking.”
“Obviously not. I’m confining you to your cabin. You can come out for meals in the Mess, but that’s it. And once we’re back in Vancouver, you’ll be disembarked and sent home.”
He pauses. He wants to believe me. I can see it in his eyes.
“Fleet regulations. She’s filed an official complaint. Nothing I can do about it.”
“For fuck’s sake, Kev.”
“Jason,” Sal says. “You may be looking at criminal charges.”
“Are you going to put an armed guard on my door too?”
“If I catch you in any of the passenger areas I will lock you in.”
Kev and Jemima leave. Sal stays put. Dr. Singh is wisely silent as he finishes stitching and applying bandages.
“He’s not allowed to lock you in, Jase. Safety regulations.”
I’m putting my shirt back on. Carefully. My back feels tight and numb. It’s going to hurt like hell in a couple of hours.
“I’ll tell Katey everything that’s happened,” Sal says, quietly.
“Thanks, Sal.”
“For the record, I believe you.”
“Thank you.”
She hugs me. And is gone.
So much for attending the Captain’s private “do” tonight. With or without my socks.
So much for attending anything in the passenger areas, including my own gig. It’ll be interesting to see how they explain my absence. Struck down by a chronic illness. Wyndham’s Disease. Little known, rarely encountered, nearly always fatal.
I’m not sure I can play the guitar anyway. Stretching my left arm out to do the fingering on the fretwork might prove to be painful. If not impossible.
I’m back in my cabin. The temporary one. Desolate, miserable place. There’s no TV in here…obviously this is a spare room which has been used, up until now, for storage. Excess baggage. That’s me. Not Wanted on the Voyage.
At least I have my laptop. And I still have my clever phone. I have the ship’s WiFi. My guitars are safe. And I have my music. And that’s all I really need to subsist.
I’m going to message Jilly in a minute. To bring her up to date. To ask what else I have to look forward to before Saturday.
But my phone’s ringing. Des King’s name jumps up on the little screen.
“Watch,” he says. Nothing else.
I watch. He’s sending live video. He’s in the Casino. I can see croupiers at their tables and I can hear bells ringing on the nearby slots. There’s Diana. She’s playing one of the machines. An old fashioned one, vintage 1960s. Her left arm is dramatically bandaged. The serious bruising to her right side doesn’t seem to have impeded her ability to give the handle a good, strong pull.
I keep watching. And listening. Des is talking to her. “I wouldn’t have put you down as a one armed bandit, Diana. Baccarat seems more your style. Have you injured yourself?”
Ha. Props to you, Mr. King.
“I’ve had an unfortunate…accident.”
Tokens in. Chink chink chink.
Des is chuckling. “Really? Do tell.”
Clatter of tokens falling out. She’s won a bit of money there. Three cherries. No bells.
“Have you written your story yet, Desmond? I may have some items of gossip for you later on.”
“Still doing my research. Gossip?”
“In time, Desmond. Patience.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about the night you won the Grand Fancy Dress Parade aboard this ship, Diana. Do you remember? Forty years ago? I’m curious about that. Was it a happy time for you?”
She’s pausing. Not putting in any more tokens. She’s imagining it. Her eyes have gone vacant.
I’m imagining it. I’ve seen Katey’s pictures, from the same era. The Grand Ballroom in Sapphire’s North Atlantic heyday. The maple, birch and mahogany dancefloor. The overhead dome, painted navy blue with a scattering of stars, and an optimistic moon.
The Grand Ballroom packed with passengers in formal clothes. The band playing a processional march. Contestants in costumes scrounged from a community trunk in the Children’s Playroom, from put-together items found in stateroom luggage, and from very creative drapery. Parading in from the Enclosed Promenade, to much enthusiastic applause.
Here comes Diana, stunning and young, in a glittering silver gown, silver sparkles in her long blonde hair, and a long white and silver gauze cape, also smattered with sparkles. Did she plan for this night, and bring the costume with her? Or did she invent it in half a day, with magic and imagination? She twirls and swirls, commanding the spotlight.
“I was ecstatically happy, Mr. King. I was in my element.”
“What did he think? Alec Heaton. Was he ecstatically happy for you too?”
Jesus, Des.
Diana’s crashed back to reality. She’s staring at him.
“You…” she says, making sense of it, slowly.
“Yes. Me. Did my father ever mention us? His kids, his wife. Not that it would have made any difference to you. Were you so insulted by his rejection of you, Diana, that you actually had to make him die?”
Diana’s not answering. She�
�s dropping another token into the machine, resolutely. She’s pulling the handle.
No winner.
“And then Emma. Poor innocent Emma, married to the fellow you’d set your sights on. Whatever did she do to earn her death?”
Jesus Christ.
I’m imagining this now, too. Our front room, a jumble of antique and modern. Plants. Ornaments and pictures. Eclectic and interesting. Emma standing. Diana sitting on the ancient sofa. Not a very comfortable thing. A prop from a TV series that was auctioned off to raise funds for charity. Emma had the winning bid. What did she and Diana say to each other that night?
“Did you make your intentions known? And did she shrug them off? Did she laugh at you? The misguided musings of a demented has-been?”
I can imagine Em turning away and walking out of the front room, leaving Diana there. Alone. I can imagine Diana seeing my ashtray on the table beside the comfy armchair that was beside the sofa. An ashtray that probably had a couple of cigarette ends in it.
“And that’s when you saw your chance.”
Diana’s plugging another token into the bandit. She’s pulling the handle.
Two bells and some cherries, and the clatter of a winning gamble. Again.
“I will write my story, Diana. And you’ll be called to account. You could, of course, deny it all. Your lawyer might tell you to sue us. But then you’d have to testify in court. And there’s no telling what we might come up with in our own defense.”
Diana’s had enough. She’s leaving.
Des scoops her tokens out of the catch-basin. He rattles them in front of his mobile’s seeing eye. At me. Then he switches off his phone.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I’m sitting by myself in the Officers Mess. Picking at my dinner.
Next door, in the Seawind Dining Room, it’s the festive Gala Dinner. Balloons and streamers. Everyone’s happy now they’ve seen the fabled glaciers. They’re showing off their best gowns and suits for this second—and last—formal night of the cruise.
Next door they’ve got Iced Pumpkin and Ginger Soup Sprinkled with Chives. And Linguine Alle Vongole. And King Crab Legs in Butter, and Roasted Turkey with Cranberry Sauce and Glazed Sweet Potatoes. And Baked Alaska for dessert.
Life aboard our ship goes in seven-day cycles. Tonight’s festive dinner will be more or less the same as last Wednesday night’s. Hot, Hot, Hot over Seawind’s speakers…then the room plunges into darkness. Sparklers ahoy as the waiters parade around the tables with their culinary cargo. Ooohs and Aaahs. And then Jemima takes over the mike, wishing everyone a wonderful rest of the cruise, and thanking them all for sailing with StarSea.
The first days of my first contract, three years ago, I slipped into the Dining Room to watch. It was a novelty back then. I remember even feeling slightly cheated, relegated to the steam-table self-service buffet in the Mess, where King Crab and Baked Alaska are never on the menu.
Now, I’m on the last days of my last contract. I didn’t plan it this way. It’s not how I want to be remembered. Disembarked in disgrace. With not much possibility of redemption.
Tomorrow it’s Ketchikan. Last chance to buy that Tanzanite and Lladro you’ve been trying to avoid. But it’s calling to you. I know it is. Creek Street beckons, and what better way to remember the bawdy houses of Ketchikan’s past than with six baseball caps and four t-shirts proclaiming every possible variation of Alaska!…and a couple of bars of scented hand-made soap with Sarah Palin’s face on the wrapper.
Once we clear Ketchikan, the cruise is functionally over.
We’ve still got another 500 nautical miles to go, another full day and night. But it’s leisurely. Quiet. No ports. No gangways going up and coming down. No late Sailaway passengers.
Overnight Friday we slow down to a complete dawdle, meandering past forested islands and uninhabited inlets, wandering into Vancouver at dawn on Saturday.
And then, I’m gone. Papers in order, passport in hand, escorted off by Security.
I wonder how I’m going to explain it all to Dom. And my mum.
I’m forcing myself to eat. I’m not even certain what’s in the steaming aluminum trays lined up along the wall. A slice of some kind of meat. In gravy. A dollop of mashed potatoes. Something diced. Carrots or turnips. I can’t tell.
I’ll miss Sapphire. I’ll miss her final days. And I’ll miss saying goodbye to her. I’m not even allowed a last wander around. I feel cheated in so many ways.
A few of my colleagues have come by to tell me how sorry they are I’m being disembarked on Saturday. Quentin. Kendall. Pedro. I’m certain Jemima would, too, but since she’s my boss, she can’t be seen to be taking sides.
Sally. We’re not neighbours anymore.
“I miss you,” she says, with a hug. “I can’t stop. I’ve got paperwork.”
“I miss you too. It’s my paperwork, isn’t it.”
“I’m doing my best to delay it, Jase, but Crew Purser wants it now. We’ll talk again before Saturday.”
“You need to join Twitter, Sal. Then we’d never stop having conversations.”
“When hell freezes over, Poppet.”
“Is Katey still speaking to me?”
“I’ll find out,” Sal promises, and she’s gone.
I’ve tried to connect with Jilly, but I’ve come up empty. If I had a suspicious mind, I might accuse her of avoiding me. Again. Last time it was a power outage that kept her from tweeting and answering my messages. This time…? She’s not anywhere on Twitter. Not as far as I can see, anyway.
I’m bored. I’ve sent a very tentative text message to Katey. She hasn’t answered. I’m not sure what that means. Has she heard the worst, and believed it? Has Sal not been able to convince her that I’m innocent?
I have an awful thought. A really awful thought. Has Diana taken her aside, told her a story straight from the depths of her overactive imagination? Strongly advised against continuing contact?
I don’t know what to think. I’m seeking solace in Twitter. At least I have my identity back. Cold_Fingers is alive and well.
It’s four in the morning Over There. The insomniacs are out in full force. And the North Americans.
I used to love Wired For Sound until some evil fool made me sing it in the karaoke at our hotel in Tenerife when I was 26.
You need to do it on roller skates, I tweet. You’ll love it again. Guaranteed.
You’re hilarious, Mr. Cold_Fingers! Have you been ill? You certainly haven’t been yourself lately!
It was my evil twin, Hot_Fingers. He works on a ship in the Caribbean. I’ve sent him packing in disgrace.
I’ve just eaten 3 tablespoons of Marmite. I’m not sure I can make my mouth work anymore.
The only cure for that is chocolate.
Fingers! What have you got? I’ll trade you one jar of Marmite for anything that isn’t a Mars Bar.
I have Maya Gold, Ginger and Butterscotch.
It’s true. I rescued them from my little fridge. They’re all stacked on the bedside table. Asking to be eaten.
Send Marmite immediately, I add. There’s none on board this vessel. #DeprivedinAlaska
Dear Twitter: Having trouble with plumber. Am looking up Satanic spells.
Earworm. Julie Andrews…The Lonely Goatherd. Please please help. Desperate in Duluth.
Dear D in D: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. *evil chuckle* Kind regards, #DeprivedinAlaska…
Fingers, you are EVIL. What plans for today?
May watch a DVD. Something cheerful. The Seventh Seal.
Someone’s knocking on my cabin door.
“It’s not locked,” I call out.
“Thank goodness for that.” It’s Katey. My wonderful Katey. With two champagne glasses, a bottle of expensive fizzy water, a bag of gold coin chocolates, and two fresh towels.
I disconnect from Twitter.
“Look what your steward taught me,” she says, demonstrating some flash folding. “He’s nice, your Manuel. He sends gree
tings.”
“Rude animal towel origami. I’m impressed.”
“You should see what I can do with these chocolate coins and the fizzy water.”
“Go on, then,” I tell her. “I’ll put on goggles and protective rubber gloves. Just in case…”
28
Thursday, Gulf of Alaska
I’m dreaming.
She’s disguised, masked head to foot in layers of transparent white gauze, gliding towards me, silent.
I’m expecting emptiness when her arms embrace me, the weightlessness of eternity. But there’s warmth. And gentleness. And an unexpected sense of touch. And her scent.
She draws me into the folds of gauze. I part the layers, searching for her face. But I never see it…she never lets me.
Her lips touch mine, the tip of her tongue. I will myself motionless, wanting her but not daring to move. If I do, I will find only emptiness. She’ll disappear.
She’s making love to me, slowly, tantalizingly. Teasing me. Her fingers tracing pathways down my chest, lingering…
Smoke.
I smell smoke. I’m awake. Wide awake.
There are noises outside the cabin. People are shouting in foreign languages. People are running.
“Katey!”
I’m shaking her. Gently. Urgently.
“What…?”
“Get up. Quickly.”
There’s a light on the bedside table. I’ve switched it on. Katey’s rubbing her eyes, looking confused.
“There’s a fire somewhere. Get dressed.”
I’m out of bed. I can see wisps of smoke coming through the vent in the ceiling over the sink. This is serious. Fucking serious.
I’ve got my trousers on. Shirt. Socks. Shoes. Got my phone, calling Sal. She’s already on the Bridge.
“It’s the Engine Room, Jase. Didn’t you hear the announcements?”
“I didn’t hear anything. I’m in the Twilight Zone down here.”
Katey’s found her clothes.
“A fuel line’s ruptured. Diesel for one of the generators sprayed over a hot pipe. It’s caused a flash fire.”
I’m looking for lifejackets. I’ve put the phone on speaker.
“They tried fighting it but it spread too quickly. They’ve abandoned the Engine Room.”