by Winona Kent
I press Send. And wait.
Is it going anywhere?
I watch the little indicator while my phone thinks, searches for the signal…and finds it, very faint. But there.
Sent.
Perhaps the WiFi’s coming from somewhere else. Another ship? There must be half a dozen of them out there by now. They’ll have been alerted by emergency messages from the Bridge.
I’m so glad you’re all right, Jason. I’ve been desperately worried about you. Where are you?
Still on the ship. I don’t know where we are. I have 2 others with me.
Describe it. I can help.
Far far forward, B Deck. As far forward as you can go. We were on C. We climbed up to B. Big space, empty.
I’ll Google the ship. I’ll try and find a deck plan.
Thank you, Jilly.
We’re listing. I can feel it. Like when you’re on a plane, and even though you can’t see out of a window, your middle ear tells you you’re banking left or right into a steep turn.
My middle ear’s telling me we’re leaning to starboard.
I check Katey and Rick. Shine my phone over their faces. Smudged black. And flushed skin. I must look the same. They’re coming round. Retching. Groaning. Being sick.
I gently brush Katey’s hair back from her face. She’s still got her towel, tucked into the front of her dress. I fold it, put it under her head.
I’m waiting for Jilly to come back online. There she is.
Jason, it’s the forward hold. I’m sure of it. I found some plans. She was built to take cargo as well as passengers.
Brilliant. Thank you. How do we get out?
You must climb up. The hold rises through all of the decks and ends in two hatch covers in the bow of Deck 6.
I’m thinking. Deck B, then A. Then Caribe, Baja, Aloha.
One cover is large, over the hold. The other is small, a Crew Access hatch. That’s the one you must look for.
Deck 6. Aloha. Where Sal and I were huddled earlier, watching the blue and white ice castles of Margerie Glacier. I don’t recall seeing a hatch cover. Perhaps I just wasn’t aware of it. It must be there.
How do we climb up?
I think there must be stairs. I found pictures of one of the old Queen Mary’s forward holds. It has stairs.
I shine my phone around, looking for stairs. The hold’s square, about twenty feet on each side. I aim the light up. It doesn’t travel well, but I can see ledges. The edges of each deck. And stairs. Actually, not quite stairs and not quite ladders. Hybrids. Pitched up at an angle, no hand rails.
Found them.
Go with care, my love. DM me when you’re safe. I’m watching over you.
I don’t believe in Guardian Angels. I don’t really believe in all this psychic stuff. I’m as sceptical as Sal, when it comes right down to it. But there’s something about her. I feel warm. I feel…protected. It’s weird.
“Come on, you two. Wake up. Time to move.”
I shake Katey and Rick into full consciousness.
“Where are we?” Katey asks, hazily.
“The old forward cargo hold. Not quite as romantic as in Titanic, and no convenient cars, but it’ll do.”
“My head’s about to explode.”
“Mine too. It’s the carbon monoxide.”
“Cheers, mate.” It’s Rick. Sounding sensible and sober. How does he do it? “You’ve only gone and saved our lives, haven’t you.”
“Thank me later. I haven’t finished the job yet.”
I help them up, lead them to the rickety steps by the light of my phone.
“Up there?” Katey sounds unconvinced.
“It’s the only way.”
“I don’t think I can, Jason.”
I look at her. “Who was it who told me just the other day to face my fears?”
She’s studying the steps. “Let me go first, then.” She takes a deep breath. “Promise you’ll catch me if I fall?”
“Promise.”
It’s tricky. The ship’s rolling and pitching and swaying, and there’s nothing to hang onto except the rungs above. And the steps are only a couple of feet from the open ledges. But she’s doing it.
She’s on A Deck. She stops and waits for Rick and me.
Next set of steps.
Caribe.
Baja. Deck 5.
The cargo hatch cover on the bow of Deck 6, where we were yesterday, should be directly above us. And beside it, the smaller Crew Access hatch.
And there should be steps going up to it. But there are no steps. I can see the outlines of both metal openings above our heads as I sweep them with my phone. Even if I stood on Rick’s shoulders I wouldn’t be able to reach them.
I walk around the ledge of Deck 5. All the way around. Looking for another way.
Jilly. We’re underneath Aloha. I can see the hatch cover. But there’s no way for us to get up there.
I wait.
Where’s she gone?
Katey’s got her mobile out. She’s trying to Google the same deck plan Jilly found. But she’s not getting anything. Not even a WiFi signal.
Rick’s checking his phone, too. Nothing.
Weird.
I’m still connected. The signal’s weak. But it’s there. It’s there.
Rick’s sitting on the floor. Cross-legged. Hanging his head.
“I sailed on the Queen Mary,” he says. “With the band.”
I’m not sure where he’s going with this. “What, Figgis Green?”
“Yeah, mate. Figgis Green. June 1967.”
I’m checking my phone again. No Jilly. Come on. Where are you?
“Jason, I can see water.” Katey’s voice sounds truly frightened.
“Where?”
“Down there.”
We shine our lights down the shaft. The light bounces back, reflecting shimmers.
The fire must have reached Caribe. And spread along the entire deck. The windows must have blown out in the Dining Room, and all of the cabins. The seawater’s flooding in that way, and running down the stairs and lift shafts to the lower decks. It’s the only thing I can think of. The watertight doors would have held the water back, otherwise. Now they’re acting like containers. Each compartment’s filling up. Where we were—C Deck—is completely under water, and it’s seeping up through that hatch, into our hold.
We’re sinking.
Jilly, Jilly. I need you.
“Your guitar,” Rick says. “That Strat.”
“Belonged to my dad.”
“Knew I’d seen it before. Belonged to me before I loaned it to him. Never got it back.”
“Please don’t tell me you slept with my mum on that crossing, Rick. I honestly don’t want to know.”
He’s silent. Wisely.
“Why not use your real last name?” he asks.
“I do use my real last name. Just not when I’m gigging. I can’t stand nepotism. I’d rather get there on my own.”
“Might open a few doors.”
“It might.”
“Is your last name not Davey?” Katey asks.
“No,” Rick says, answering for me. “It isn’t.”
“What is it, then?”
“Figgis.” There, I’ve said it.
“Could be Redding,” Rick ventures.
I swear, when we’re out of here I’m going to beat him to within an inch of his life.
“We’re all going down with the bloody ship anyway. What difference does it make now? I’m bloody glad you and I met, mate. I’m bloody glad we sat and made music together. That’s the strongest bond I know. It was bloody meant to be, that was.”
There’s Jilly. At last.
Jason—I can’t find anything online anywhere. I’ve looked and looked. I’m so sorry, love.
What do we do now? I think the ship’s sinking.
I know. There’s water. I can see it.
One of the 49.5% times you’re right. Sadly.
I can see something else, Jason. It
’s not clear. But it’s in my mind. A stage of some sort. Is there a stage on the ship?
One in the Atrium Room, one in the Showcase Lounge.
I’m looking at the original deck plans. Atrium Room?
Used to be called the Grand Ballroom.
No, Jilly says. That’s not what I’m seeing. And there’s no Showcase Lounge on this plan. Where is it?
Deck 5. Baja. Where we are.
I see a cinema.
I look at Katey. “You’d know this. Was the Showcase Lounge once the ship’s cinema?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps…I think so. Yes.”
Jilly, we think the Showcase Lounge used to be the ship’s cinema.
I keep seeing the stage, Jason. On the plans, the cinema’s back wall is also the wall of your cargo hold. Think. Concentrate.
I am thinking. Hard. I can see the stage too. I’ve stood on it. Performed on it. Many, many times. I’m seeing dancers, singers, magicians, acrobats, comedians.
She’s gone. The signal’s gone. I’ve lost her.
I close my eyes. There’s a picture in my mind. The Showcase Lounge. Lit. Deserted. I’m going backstage. I’m looking at scenery panels and props and racks of costumes. Feathers and sequins. Crinolines and boas. It’s crowded and cramped.
I can hear Jilly’s voice. In my head. There’s a door. They made a door. It’s not in the plans. They cut it into the wall of the hold. Secondary access for the crew. Go there. Now.
I open my eyes. Look at my phone. Nothing there. No message. No words. The screen’s blank.
“Follow me.”
“Where?”
“This way.”
I go back into the darkness, away from the ledge. Holding my phone up, shining what little light it has left.
And there, cut into the thick steel vertical wall of the hold, is a door. The door.
I press the back of my hand against its surface. It’s cool to the touch.
There’s no lock. Just a handle. An old fashioned push-down lever-type brass door handle, like the kind that used to be standard on all ocean liners. I push down. This door hasn’t been opened in decades. The mechanism’s stiff. But it gives, with a click. Carefully, I pull it open.
No smoke. No flames.
Showcase is sealed off from the rest of Deck 5 by heavy firescreen doors.
It’s pitch black. I can’t see anything.
I’m thinking. I’m trying to remember the layout of Showcase. All the ways out.
Again. Jilly’s voice. Reminding me. How am I hearing this?
Offstage and down to the left there’s an Emergency Exit. It opens onto the forward starboard side passenger corridor. A little way along to the left of that, in the corridor, there’s a Crew Access door. It leads to stairs. The stairs go up to Deck 6. And then on the landing there’s a door that opens inside, to the passenger areas, and another door that leads outside, onto the bow.
I know those doors. Sal and I used them yesterday, to access the Bow from the passenger corridor forward of the Purser’s Desk.
“Shall we make a run for it?”
“Got no choice, mate. Stay here, we drown.”
“Let’s go.”
30
Thursday, Gulf of Alaska
It’s suffocatingly hot in here after the fresh, cold air in the hold. Our three phones are providing enough light that we can just about see where we’re going. And we’re going quickly. Across the stage. Down the steps. To the forward exit on the starboard side.
I feel the door. There’s no firescreen here. It opens straight out onto a passenger corridor. It’s hot.
“There’s fire on the other side.”
“It’s suicide, mate.”
Showcase has four exits—two forward, on either side of the stage, and two at the back.
“Stay there.”
I leave them by the door and run across the front of the stage, to the portside exit. This door’s cool.
“Over here!” I shout.
I’ve got the door open. The companionway’s half-filled with thick, choking smoke. It’s billowing along the ceiling, chasing flames that lick at the acoustic panels and light fixtures.
If we duck low, we can stay underneath it.
We race forward, to the portside Crew Access. It’s protected by a firescreen. I unlatch it, haul it open, and get the second inside door open, just as the ceiling panels above crash to the floor in a shower of hot, dancing embers.
Some of the sparks land on my shirt. My shoulders. I can feel them burning through, burning me. And sparks in my hair.
Katey pushes me through. She’s through. Rick’s through.
She slams the door on the smoke and fire as I roll onto the floor trying to put out the burning bits on the back of my shirt. Rick’s still got his towel. He throws it over my head and shoulders, extinguishing the lot.
My hair’s singed. My shirt’s got holes. I’ve got holes. I can feel places on my skin that are still burning, though the embers are gone.
“Everyone OK?”
“We are,” Katey says. “You’re not.”
She’s right. The place on my back where Diana impaled me’s hurting like hell. My shirt feels wet. I’ve probably pulled the stitches out. I’m probably bleeding.
But it’s time we were going.
The narrow little stairwell glows green where the strips of emergency tape point the way up and out.
We stumble up the steps, which are at a weird angle because of the ship’s list.
Almost there.
There’s the door, its handle outlined with that same fabulous tape.
And suddenly…we’re outside. The cold North Pacific night air hits me in the face like a blast of winter.
It’s wet. Pouring rain. There’s a wind. I can see waves rolling with white froth. And I can see just how much of a tilt the ship has to starboard.
If they got the lifeboats away in this kind of weather, with this much of a list, our crew deserves medals.
I can see the bow, dark green, with its white painted winches and capstans. Chains and bollards and anchor ropes. And there’s that bloody hatch cover. Both bloody hatch covers.
The fresh cold air’s choking me as it hits my seared throat and goes down into my smoke-damaged lungs. I’m having trouble breathing.
I’m dizzy. I’m coughing. We all are. Our eyes and noses are streaming.
“Look,” Katey says. “Behind us.”
It’s frightening. Awful. Heart-wrenching. The wide front of the ship rises up, deck by staggered deck, identifiable by window shapes. A wall of cabins. Then Castaways. TopDeck. The Bridge. Observation Deck. A lot of the windows have shattered, and most of them have smoke billowing out, staining my lady’s proud white paint black. I can see flames consuming the Bridge.
I feel like crying.
I turn back to the sea. Through the rain I can see fuzzy glows. Two…three other cruise ships, some distance away still, but there, all of their lights on, blazing white. And one…two freighters. Huge things. Oil or grain transport. Standing by with their giant floodlights on.
And down in the water, pitching and bobbing…our lifeboats. Rows of reflective tape, dipping, tossing, riding the waves. Spotlights shining through the rain. Six…seven…eight. All away. And the four covered tenders. Lucky the souls in those, sheltered, though they’ll be crammed in shoulder tight and with all that knocking about, they’ll likely all be sick.
I can see inflatables, too. Bright orange with triangle tents, reflecting strips everywhere. They’ve managed to rope a few together. Brilliant. Otherwise, they’d be floating free in the water, drifting away…and it might take hours to find them. Maybe not till daylight.
iPhone on. I’m checking the time. 3:58.
It’s not even been two hours. It feels like two years. And still no signal.
It doesn’t matter. Jilly was with me before, when I needed her, and she’s with me now in spirit. In mind.
All of the inflatables are still in place up her
e on the bow, stacked in their fiberglass canisters, strapped into their frame.
I remember a wooden locker from yesterday, where there should be spare lifejackets. I haul the lid open.
Only two in there. Ancient things. I throw one at Katey, the other at Rick.
“What about you?” Katey asks.
“I know how to swim.”
Katey’s looking at me. She doesn’t need to say anything.
I disengage the straps holding the top liferaft canister in place. I make sure the painter line’s securely attached to the metal frame.
Then Rick and I grab the canister and heave it over the side. We watch it plummet into the dark waves. The line plays out, goes taut…and there’s a sudden explosion of white bubbles. Seconds later, the raft bursts to the surface, its black buoyancy tubes and orange canopy still inflating.
“You first,” I tell Rick.
“I can’t swim, mate. Never learned how. Never needed to.”
“You’ve got your lifejacket on. You won’t sink.”
I belt it up for him. Properly. Cinch it tight. He might die of hypothermia. He might be carried away on the next big swell. But he won’t sink.
“You’ve got a light there.” I show him where. “Water activated.”
Katey’s watching. She checks her light.
“Whistle.” I show them both, then tuck Rick’s back inside its little pocket. “Use it to signal. It’ll carry further than your voice. And save your energy.”
I stand Rick in front of the bulwark. The next bit’s up to him.
“Sit on the edge, legs over. Hold your nose with your right hand. Keep your feet together. Look straight ahead. Don’t look down. Push yourself off and hug yourself tight until you hit the water. OK?”
He’s paralyzed. He’s not moving.
“I’ll go first,” Katey says. “Am I all done up properly?”
I check. Tighten the belts.
“You sure?” I ask. “It’s a long way down.”
“Someone’s got to save you when you jump. Might as well be me if it’s not Mr. Rock and Roll.”
She’s made me smile. I hug her. Kiss her. I don’t want to let her go. Ever.
Unsteadily, she clambers onto the bulwark, hanging on with both hands, straddling it.
“Get your other leg over.”
“Stop being euphemistic,” she says. “Hold onto me.”
I stand behind her, steady her, both hands on both shoulders.