Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  “Cross your arms over your front,” I tell her. “Big breath, hold your nose. When you’re in the water, grab the painter line as fast as you can. Don’t let go or you’ll be washed away. Pull yourself over to the raft. There should be a ladder but if there isn’t, bounce yourself in. Down in the water, then pop up and into the opening—use the buoyancy of your lifejacket. OK?”

  She nods. “OK.”

  It’s a long way down.

  “Big breath.”

  She inhales, hugs herself, holds her nose.

  I let go of her shoulders.

  “I love you.”

  She’s gone.

  I watch her plummet into the water, sink momentarily, then bob to the surface. She gives me a high five, then quickly grabs the line and half-swims, half-drags herself over to the raft.

  She’s found the little fabric step. Found the ropes to use as a handhold. She drags herself up and topples into the opening, headfirst. She’s safe.

  “You next.”

  “What about you, mate?”

  “I’ll be OK. I need you down there, aboard that raft.”

  He gives me a hug. A big, solid, arms tight around me, hug.

  There may have been a sob that went with it. It might have been the wind.

  He goes, quickly. Legs up and over. Gone. No points for finesse.

  But he’s in the water, and he’s grabbed the painter line, and he’s pulled himself through the opening and into the raft.

  They’re both at the open flap entranceway, waiting for me.

  This is going to be tricky.

  I can swim. I think I’m a very good swimmer. But it’s a fifty…sixty foot drop. I’m going to go under. A long way under, before I can kick back to the surface.

  From deep within Sapphire I can hear a sigh, urging me on.

  It might only have been the wind, filled with thick smoke, scattering the deck with brightly dancing embers and ashes.

  I face the bulwark, both hands gripping the edge. I’m trying to time the waves.

  “Do not, for a moment, think I will let you abandon me now.”

  Diana. It can’t be. It is.

  And now I’ve got what feels like the sharp serrated edge of a steak knife pressed into my neck while her other arm is tight around my waist, holding me against her.

  She’s wearing a red silk scarf. If I could reach that with both hands, grab it, twist it…

  And she’s wearing my lifejacket. The third one that should have been in the locker.

  “Jump with me, Diana.”

  “Not for all the tea in China, darling.”

  “Then let me go.”

  “Why should I? I love you. I want you to stay here, with me. We can go down with the ship, together.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Diana, even Kate and Leo got off the fucking Titanic!”

  “Alas, Jason, my love…I am not Kate. And you are not the King of the World. Though I did once think of you in terms very close to those.”

  I’m bigger than her. I’m stronger. I think I can wrestle myself loose. I think I might be able to get away without her severing my carotid artery. But that knife is dug very very tightly into my neck. It hurts. And if I’m wrong and her knife is that sharp and her hand that quick…

  “How did you get out here, onto the bow?”

  “I’ve been here since last night, darling. All trundled up against the cold. Came here for the solitude. To take stock of life’s pitfalls and pratfalls and the unfairness of it all. That man, that reporter. He’s going to write a story about me. And then I’ll be arrested. And I’ll have to go to prison. I couldn’t bear to be imprisoned, darling.”

  “I’ll have a word with him. Tell him not to.”

  Diana’s laughing. Her laughter’s carried away on the wind, on the swirling embers.

  “Don’t be so naive. You can’t possibly make him change his mind. And anyway, it’s the truth. It’ll make a nice change for his paper. Not mere gossip or innuendo. The absolute truth. I did start the fire that killed his father. We’d been lovers for two years. He promised me he was going to leave his wife. He’d bought me a plane ticket to New York. He’d made arrangements to meet me there. But, you see, I thought I’d surprise him…”

  She’s lost in time. She’s on some chat show, recounting an anecdotal escapade. She can hear the audience’s sympathy, hanging on her every word. She’s fawning for the host.

  “…and so I got passage on the ship instead. And there I was, in all of my glittering finery, my best frock, darling…when he told me that he’d changed his mind. He wasn’t leaving poor Pansy after all. Well. You can imagine how I felt, can’t you?”

  She’s relaxed her arm. I twist out of her grip.

  Ow. Shit. Fuck. Jesus. The knife’s slashed my neck. I’m bleeding. A lot.

  Hand over the gash. Press down hard. Please stop bleeding. Please.

  “Did you set the fire in my house?”

  I have to know.

  “Of course I did, darling. You would never leave Emma. Not for me. I’m old. But it wasn’t her I wanted to die, my love. She was collateral damage. It was you.”

  She reaches out for me. I grab her scarf with both hands, try to twist it. She ducks away. Scarf slips, covered in my blood.

  “My only mistake was miscalculating when you would be home. I blame Emma for that. She was expecting you much earlier.”

  Her hand grasps my shirt collar. I pull back and hit the side of the bulwark. But I’ve knocked the knife out of her hand. Overboard. Gone.

  I scramble up and sideways, my fingers slippery with blood. I’m on the edge, I’m over—

  I’m over the side, sideways, falling.

  I smash my head into the hard water, hard, like concrete…And everything’s going black…

  I’m drowning. Trying to keep my head above the water. Desperate.

  I’m kicking, wildly. Flailing arms. But I’m going down. Down down down…until I’m so far beneath the surface I can never come up again.

  I’m holding my breath. If I dare breathe it’ll be over. I’ll die.

  I’m holding my breath. Struggling. I’m going to explode.

  There’s a voice. Commanding me. “Breathe! Breathe!”

  I can’t. If I breathe, I’ll drown.

  “Breathe,” says the voice. “If you don’t breathe you’ll die.”

  I open my mouth. I force myself to inhale. Feel the water rush into my lungs. Filling them. No…no no no…

  31

  Thursday, Gulf of Alaska

  “Breathe! Breathe!”

  I can’t.

  If I breathe, I’ll drown.

  “Breathe,” says the voice. “If you don’t breathe you’ll die.”

  I open my mouth.

  I force myself to inhale.

  Feel the water rush into my lungs. Filling them.

  I’m drowning. This is what it’s like.

  Don’t struggle…

  Soon be over…

  Coughing.

  Air.

  “Breathe. Come on, mate. Breathe.”

  I’m breathing. I’m not in the water. I’m lying on my side on a heaving rubber floor. I’m soaking wet. I’m cold. Very cold. I’m shaking. My head’s aching. There’s a horrible taste in my mouth. My neck hurts. My back hurts. Everything hurts.

  I’m awake. I’m awake, gasping, choking and drenched. My heart’s banging, the sound of it pounding in my ears. But I’m safe.

  I’m shaking all over. But I’m safe.

  I’m remembering it all in a haze. I went over the side head first. I smashed into the water, face down, just as a swell rolled past. It caught me on its crest. And that’s what must have kept me on the surface for the few desperate extra moments Katey and Rick needed to save me. I remember going down…down…struggling to keep my arms up over my head. And someone grabbing my wrist. Yanking me up to the surface.

  I remember two pairs of hands trying to drag me aboard the raft. One hand grabbing my belt. Another hand pullin
g on my arm. And I remember landing on the rubber floor. And nothing more.

  I’m lying on my side, coughing up seawater.

  I’m dimly aware that Katey’s sitting beside me, and has been for long minutes, making sure I’m still alive and still breathing and not dying.

  And that Rick’s over by the doorflap, looking out into the night.

  “Cut the line.”

  “Sorry, mate?”

  “Cut the line,” I say again. “From the ship. Or we’ll go down with her.”

  “We haven’t got a knife,” Katey says.

  I can see it. “In that pocket. Over there.”

  Rick crawls across the rubber floor to retrieve it. I’m trying to sit up. But everything’s spinning. I fall back. I think I’m going to be sick again.

  Rick sprawls in the door opening with the knife, trying to find the cord. He’s got it. But as he reaches out to cut the line, his front half suddenly disappears.

  “Jesus Christ, fuckin’ bollocks!”

  Only his legs are visible. He’s kicking wildly.

  Katey lunges over, grabs his ankle. I’ve got his other foot. I’ve got the bottom of his jacket. He’s struggling with something outside.

  Jesus Christ. It’s Diana. In the water. Her hand’s clamped onto Rick’s collar, pulling his head, pulling him down into the sea. And she’s got his knife.

  She’s slashing at the buoyancy tube, trying to puncture it.

  I lean out. I push down on her head. Hard.

  She won’t go down. Her lifejacket’s keeping her afloat. She stabs at me, cutting my arm.

  Katey falls out of the door and grabs Diana’s lifejacket. I’ve got her head again and we both throw our weight onto her body, forcing her under the water.

  Rick snatches the knife from her flailing hand.

  He slices the line, and we’re suddenly free, swept away on a surging wave, far from the side of the ship, far from Diana.

  I can see her long blonde hair, a tangle on the surface of the water. I can see her red silk scarf, floating, marking the spot. She isn’t moving.

  I turn away.

  We’ve found the raft’s Emergency Pack. Rations and flares. Torch. Hand pump. Bailer and sponge. First Aid kit. Survival manual. Insulating blankets. Seasick tablets.

  Katey’s dealt with the gash on my neck and the slash on my arm. She’s cleaned them, and stopped the bleeding. Applied bandages. I’m propped against the buoyancy tube, shivering under one of the silver blankets.

  I think I’ve lost a lot of blood.

  Rick’s mopped the floor. Sponged and bailed the water. He’s read the Immediate Action instructions stowed in a plastic pocket beside the door flap. He’s streamed the drogue anchor. And for good measure, he’s unpacked one of the emergency flares from the kit and fired it off. I can see it soaring, then hanging like a brilliant magenta star in the dawning sky.

  “Come look,” he says, gesturing to Katey and me.

  We crawl to the door opening. Our lady, our Sapphire, is still visible in the distance. She’s leaning all the way to starboard, in a list she can’t possibly recover from. All of her lifeboats are gone. Long ropes dangle from empty davits.

  The navy blue paint on her funnel’s blistered and burned, its external plating showing the first signs of buckling. From deep inside her body, we can hear pipes and vents groaning as they expand with the searing heat. And as more and more sheet metal bends and writhes, thunder booms out across her decks.

  Her interior’s ablaze. Thick smoke rolls in black and grey plumes from all of her windows and portholes. Her proud white superstructure’s stained black, her paint stripped altogether in the places where it’s been seared off by the flames.

  As we watch, there’s a flash, and then an enormous flare as the row of tall windows along the Enclosed Promenade explodes, and the deck erupts end to end in fire.

  Silently, Rick and Katey and I huddle together, witnessing her death throes, while we wait for daylight, and rescue.

  32

  Thursday, Gulf of Alaska

  Dawn comes, grey and cloudy. And pouring with rain. I can hear it plopping onto our canopy, see it splattering across the clear plastic window in our doorflap.

  We’re tethered to one of the motorized tenders. We were spotted adrift half an hour ago after Rick fired off another flare. A rope was thrown to us. We’re safe.

  I have a sense of lethargic disbelief. It’s as if I’m watching a film about myself, with everything one step removed from the present. I don’t quite believe this is happening—has happened—to me. Everything that was my life—my sea life—is gone. My entire world. It must be how people feel in war zones, when bombs have dropped and razed their streets. It must be how people feel when tornadoes have torn through their towns and destroyed their homes, their gardens, their supermarkets, their landscapes.

  I didn’t feel like this three years ago. My world was turned upside down, my wife killed. But my house was still standing. It was, except for the smoke, mostly undamaged. Viewed from a distance, you might never have known anything bad had happened. My driveway was the same, my grass and trees and shrubs and flowers. My neighbourhood was unchanged.

  I’m drifting. Literally drifting in an open ocean, in a tiny little inflatable raft, with two people who may turn out to be incredibly important in my future.

  There’s a third person. Jilly. I desperately want to talk to her, but I don’t dare turn my phone on. It’s been submerged in seawater. Which is worse than dropping it in the toilet.

  I’ll rinse it in fresh water later. Dry it out in a bowl of rice. I remember someone telling me about that on Twitter. It’s supposed to work quite well.

  Rick’s watch is expensive and impervious to trauma. I can see the face. It’s a little after seven in the morning.

  We’ve got Coast Guard helicopters overhead. They’re hovering, dropping baskets on ropes, winching passengers up from the open boats. The very elderly and the very ill. Those suffering from hypothermia. They’re being ferried over to one of the oil tankers standing by about half a mile away. It’s got a landing pad. It’s far more efficient and uses less fuel than flying them all the way back to Sitka.

  Our sister ship, the Amethyst, is taking care of the rest of us.

  I feel sorry for the people huddling in the wind and the rain and the high seas, waiting for their turn to board. It’s painstakingly slow.

  At least we’re dry. Almost dry.

  The Amethyst carries a floating tender dock, but it can only be used in calm waters. The Gulf of Alaska isn’t being kind to us. The swells are too strong. The wind’s blowing, and we’re out in the open, no shelter or shallows. The dock would be swamped, survivors and rescuers washed away.

  So, one by one, the little lifeboats are drawing up to the Amethyst’s massive side. And one by one, each passenger and member of the crew has to scale a rope ladder let out through the gunport door on Deck 4, well above the waterline.

  It’s a long and laborious process. And probably even more terrifying for most than getting into the lifeboats was, and being lowered down to the sea.

  I’m watching the people getting off. And I’m filled with a vast sense of relief and joy each time I see someone I’ve come to know on this voyage.

  I don’t know if there have been casualties. I don’t know if anyone was hurt…or died. Other than Diana.

  There’s little Imogen, with her pink knapsack, and Barnaby. She’s with her mum. Her dad’s not there—he’s with Sally and the Captain. And most likely Jemima. They all would have been on the Bridge during the evacuation. I haven’t seen their boat yet.

  They’d have been the last to leave.

  I’ve seen Manuel. He was in an inflatable like ours, with about a dozen other cabin stewards.

  I’ve seen Harald and Julie and Bill.

  And Annie. With her writing bag. She would never abandon that. She’ll have something really exciting to write about now.

  Des King. In his pyjamas. He wears blue
plaid lounge pants to bed, imprinted all over with a red and yellow Superman logo. I’ll save that tidbit for a comment on the internet edition of his paper. Next time he writes something nasty about some poor footballer’s sex life.

  Quentin…and La Gran Stupenda…and Fiona…

  There’s a passenger I remember whose name is Kit, all in black, a dominatrix when she’s ashore. We had an interesting conversation the other night during one of my breaks. She has a sweet, devilish soul. The more devilish side of me had momentarily considered that she might be Jilly. I have—had—her business card.

  Everyone’s turned out in whatever they managed to put on before going topside to their muster stations. I’m ridiculously pleased to see every one of them.

  It’s Tender 2’s turn next. The one we’re tied to. And then it’ll be us. I’m not looking forward to that climb.

  I’ve unfastened the door flap, and I’m kneeling in the entranceway, breathing in the brisk sea air.

  It’s clearing my head, my brain.

  It’s peculiar, being this close to the surface of the ocean, this far from land. It’s deep here. Dark green. Endlessly dark.

  I look out, and up. All of Amethyst’s passengers have come to watch. They’re lining the railings on the open decks. They’re out on their private verandahs with their morning mugs of coffee. They’re taking pictures. Videos. I’ll be on YouTube by noon.

  Almost famous.

  I can hear music. Someone’s stateroom TV, turned up loud, a sixties mix. Kiss Me, Sailor. Bizarre.

  This will be on the news at home. I wonder what my poor mum must be thinking. And Dom.

  I look up at Amethyst’s passengers again, and realize that we’re not the only focus of their attention.

  To my right, just out of view—but visible if I lean forward, and peer around the edge of the raft’s canopy—is my lady. My Star Sapphire.

  We’re all the way around on her port side, the high side. She’s slipped even more into the sea. Her back is turned to us, her smart navy blue hull rising out of the dark water. I can see her huge portside propeller, four petals, like a beautiful metallic flower, slowly turning, her heart still faintly beating. It’s as if she wants her last moments, as she slowly tips over and dies, to be dignified and private.