Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  We’re aboard the Amethyst now.

  The climb up the ladder wasn’t easy. My legs were unsteady. I was dizzy. Everything hurt. One of the crewmen came down to help, and followed me up, making sure I didn’t lose my footing or my grip and tumble back into the sea. Inside, the ship’s Safety Officer took one brief look at me, and had me escorted down to the ship’s hospital.

  They put me in the shower first. It seemed the most logical thing, gently washing off the soot and blood. The water going down the drain was black—tinged with red—for a considerable length of time.

  I’ve apparently got a few burns. Mostly second degree. One or two third degree. They’ve put some stuff on those.

  I was right about the stitches in my back. Those have now been replaced, along with the bandage. The freezing shot hurt as much as it did the first time.

  The knife slashes on my neck and arm were a bit of a concern. There was also the question of how they had happened. I told the doctor and the nurse I wasn’t sure. I don’t think they believed me. There was a spot of freezing that had to go in there, too, along with another round of stitches, and some more bandages. I am a bit of a mess, actually.

  And I’m sure they think I’m completely off my nut, asking for some distilled water and a bowl of uncooked rice.

  They’ve left me alone in this nice hospital bed for now, with a little oxygen hose hooked up my nose, as apparently my lungs may have taken a bit of a hit with all that smoke.

  And I’d like nothing more than to go to sleep. But sleep won’t come, as exhausted as I am.

  Someone’s brought a phone, and I’m speaking to my mum. She’s watching us on BBC.

  “But I knew you were all right, dear,” she’s telling me, “because someone rang me.”

  “Who?” I ask, confused. “When?”

  “Oh, hours ago now. Roundabout two, I should think. Yes, that’s it. I was just putting the lunch things into the dishwasher.”

  I’m doing quick mental math. Nine hours time difference. That would have made it 5am where I was.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, dear. Quite sure. I had the radio on in the kitchen. It was Jeremy Vine, and he’s finished at two.”

  At five o’clock this morning, I’m absolutely certain nobody knew where I was, never mind whether or not I was all right. At five o’clock this morning, we were drifting off Sapphire’s starboard bow. We’d only just fired off our first flare. I know. I looked at Rick’s watch.

  “Did they say who they were?”

  “Let me think. It was a nice woman. She said she was a friend of yours. It started with a J.”

  “Jilly?”

  “That’s it, yes. She said, you’d had a spot of trouble on board the ship, and that you weren’t able to get into the lifeboats with the rest of the crew, but that you were safely away in one of the inflatable rafts and I wasn’t to worry.”

  I’m not going to say anything.

  I don’t know how Jilly got my mum’s number. It’s ex-directory. I suppose there are ways on the internet. No doubt SaylerGurl has it. And the phone number of the house where I used to live. And the flat where I lived before that. And the house where I grew up. Along with my iPhone number. Which I’m going to change as soon as I’m on shore. If not before.

  And I seriously don’t know how she could even assume I’d got off the ship alive.

  But then, there are a few things now that I truly can’t explain when it comes to Jilly.

  “Is Dom there?”

  “He was, dear, but he’s rushed off to see his friends. You know how they are at that age.”

  “I’ll ring him on his mobile.”

  We exchange the usual signing offs and pleasantries, extra love and promises.

  I disconnect. I’ll try Dom in a minute.

  There’s a flat screen TV over there, on a table, which they’ve left on for me. I’m watching CNN. We’re the top repeating news story.

  I find I’m sleepy. At last. I think I’ll doze for a little bit.

  Imogen has come to see me.

  She’s brought Barnaby with her, and he’s wearing a nurse’s cap and navy blue cape. He’s got a red plastic stethoscope around his neck.

  “Barnaby’s very pleased to see you,” she says, propping him on my pillow.

  “I’m very pleased to see Barnaby,” I tell her. And Barnaby.

  “You must drink three cups of chamomile tea each day in order to get better. And no dancing.”

  “No dancing?” I’m horrified.

  “You may waltz,” she says, reconsidering. “But you must wear your slippers. And have hot milk at bedtime.”

  “It’s a deal,” I tell her.

  Imogen goes.

  She’s left Barnaby behind on my pillow, a temporary loan.

  He’s giving me the evil eye.

  “This,” I tell him, “coming from someone who likes to dress up like a nurse? I’ve got your number, mate.”

  Sally’s come to visit.

  She’s in her jeans and a pullover, what she escaped in, and she’s wearing her official Sapphire ID, clipped to a belt-loop.

  “Hello,” she says, giving my forehead a kiss. “Poor you. I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

  “Me too.” I pause. “Everyone accounted for?”

  “We’ve done a roll call. Yes. Everyone accounted for, all of the passengers and all of the crew. No deaths. Several injuries, one critical. A lot of hypothermia.”

  I’m looking at her. “Everyone?”

  “Everyone.”

  “What about Diana?”

  “She was picked up out of the water by Tender 1. She was airlifted to the freighter where she’s being treated for hypothermia and shock. No idea how she ended up in the sea instead of in a lifeboat.”

  “Has she said anything?”

  “No. But Des King has. The Chronicle’s leading with our ship fire tomorrow morning, and inside they’ll have Des’s story about Diana. Her unlucky—and now suspicious—connections to several fires. He’s told me to tell you to expect some phonecalls.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  On the TV, there’s video, for the sixth time today, of our ship. It’s been shot from two vantage points. One, from a Coast Guard helicopter circling overhead. The other from someone on board the Amethyst.

  The TV screen shows Sapphire, foundering on her side, water churning into her funnel.

  The footage is silent, but I know the sound a ship makes in her death throes. She groans. As the sea surges into places never meant to be flooded, as fire-heated steel meets ice-cold water, she cries. And as her misery at last comes to an end, she sighs, one last deep, weary breath…as her life is extinguished.

  We watch as she goes down. Quickly, and without fanfare. The last we see of her is her bow…her painted name slipping beneath the surface…some last plumes of spray…and then…nothing.

  The sea is littered with what was on her decks. Wooden chairs. Life preservers. Blankets. Unidentifiable debris.

  We’ve both got wet eyes. Sally hands me a Kleenex.

  “I was so worried about you,” she says. “I didn’t know how you were going to find your way out.”

  “We climbed up through old forward hold.”

  Sally’s thinking. “That hatch in the bow’s been welded shut for decades.”

  “Didn’t go that way. There’s a door on Baja in the back of Showcase.”

  “No there isn’t.”

  “Yes. There is. Backstage. There’s a Crew Access door into the hold.”

  “Jase, there isn’t. I’ve been back there dozens of times.”

  I’m too exhausted to argue. Katey and Rick will back me up.

  “If there’s no door,” I say, closing my eyes, as I’m suddenly very very tired, “then how am I here?”

  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, th
e 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.

  Her lips touch mine, the tip of her tongue. I will myself motionless, wanting her but not daring to move.

  She’s making love to me, slowly, tantalizingly. Teasing me. Her fingers tracing pathways down my chest, lingering…

  …and now, she’s taking my hand, holding it in hers. I feel her fingers, gentle, soft…as she leads me outside…to a garden.

  It’s a beautiful garden, a wondrous garden, lush and green, and overgrown with brilliantly coloured blossoms, scented flowers of every description. It’s cool, and smells of earth and life, the indescribable scent that you get only in the evening…

  There’s a path…with stone steps…and she’s taking me there. I’m following her. Along the path…through the jungle of greenery…to a place where it’s quiet, and beautiful…and filled with peace. I feel the peace. It infuses me.

  She turns…and parts the white gauze…and I see her face. At last. Her delicate skin…her beautiful blue eyes…her lips, always smiling, always on the verge of a cheeky laugh.

  “Where are we?”

  “Here. This is where I am.”

  “Was it horrible, Em? I’m so sorry…”

  “It wasn’t so horrible. I watched you on the stairs. Trying to reach me. But I was already gone. I wasn’t there anymore. You were so brave, JJ.”

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  She smiles.

  “If you come to the garden.”

  “How will I find it? I don’t know the way…”

  She smiles again…

  …and her fingers let go of mine…

  I’m awake.

  The TV’s still on. Still telling me about Sapphire. Repeating the same story, with the same heartbreaking footage, over and over.

  More people have come to see me.

  Des King.

  “My editor’s screaming for copy,” he tells me.

  “You’ve got Diana.”

  “Diana’s a tragedy. That’s how I plan to proceed, anyway. And she’s over on that freighter. I can’t interview her.”

  “If she’s wise she won’t talk to you at all.”

  “So I’m going to make you the Man of the Hour.”

  “I’d rather not be, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Nonsense. We’re top news all over the world. And you saved two people besides yourself. That’s worthy of front page headlines for the next week. I’ve got the exclusive story.”

  “Not without me, you don’t.”

  “I’ve been chatting with Katey and Rick. They’ve given me all the details. Katey reminded me it was a musician who saved all those passengers aboard the Oceanos when it sank off South Africa in 1991. A guitar player, just like you. A real hero. Readers like that. And when I mention Rick Redding…and your musical pedigree…”

  “Go away, Des,” I tell him. “I might change my mind by the time we dock in Vancouver. Not now.”

  “Rick’s already agreed to a Minute by Minute Diary of Terror,” Des says, getting up. “And I’m hoping to persuade his young—and very attractive—wife to talk about her desperate, agony-filled hours…”

  “Buy Carly some Tanzanite earrings,” I suggest, “and she’ll tell you anything.”

  He leaves.

  Here comes Jemima.

  “Look at this,” she says, holding up a CD. “Ten seconds to decide what I’m going to take with me, and I come away with what? Bloody Chumbawamba.”

  She’s made me laugh. Hurts like hell. Wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Quentin.

  “I’m apparently being trans-shipped back to this monstrosity for the duration of my contract,” he says. “And they need entertainers, Jason. They have fifteen bars and lounges. You could tour.”

  He’s making me laugh too.

  “My guitars went down with the ship. I’ll have to buy more.”

  I’m sad about the Strat. But Katey’s Nana will keep an eye on it, I’m certain.

  “Kev’s packing it in. He’s had enough. He’s retiring to Cornwall to write a book about his shiplife. The Whine of the Ancient Mariner.”

  “A slimy thing that crawled with legs upon the slimy sea,” I agree. “No better description.”

  Rick. With Glenfiddich.

  “I never interfere,” I tell him. “But you should see about dealing with that.”

  “I’m thinking about it, mate. I truly am. I’m not religious but it makes you think, don’t it. God granting second chances at life, and that.”

  “Have you made it up with Carly?”

  He rolls his eyes. “She’s gone shopping.”

  For once, I don’t blame her. “Take her to the Caribbean, Rick. To a nice private beach with endless white sand.”

  “You chatted with your mum yet? Told her whose life you only went and saved?”

  I give him a look.

  “You and me, we’ll stay in touch. We’ll start a band.”

  “Dire Strats,” I tell him, humorously.

  He’s searching for something to write with. He sees my phone on the bedside table.

  “Don’t—” I say, but before I can get it out, he’s switched it on.

  “Working all right,” he grins, holding it up. “None the worse for a dip in the sea.”

  He passes it over. And gives me his phone numbers and addresses. Which I enter. With no trouble at all.

  After he leaves, I check Twitter. The Amethyst has WiFi just like Sapphire did. My login and password work the same way on all StarSea ships.

  I’ve just seen the news. All those poor passengers. #Sapphire

  Where’s Cold_Fingers? Wonder if he’s nearby…#Sapphire

  If you were a passenger or crewmember aboard the Sapphire share your story and photos with us. #Sapphire

  My lady’s trending. Worldwide. Top spot.

  Jilly’s left me a DM.

  I’m glad you’re safe, Jason. And Diana Wyndham will be held accountable for all of her actions.

  How does she know these things? How?

  I check to see if she’s still online. She is. I flag her attention with a tweet.

  Hello. Sorry about the prolonged absence. I’ve been a bit busy. :)

  Jilly answers immediately.

  Mr. Fingers! How lovely to hear from you again. You’ve had some adventures, haven’t you. You’re on the news.

  Well, now that you’ve informed the world what ship I was on…

  You’re our hero. You saved two lives. And your own. For which we are very grateful.

  DM!!!! I tweet.

  How do you know that, Jilly? You can’t possibly know all those things!

  Are you doubting me again…?

  And Sal’s telling me that door into Showcase doesn’t exist…

  I’m so glad you were able to hear my message about that. I was terribly worried when your phone stopped working. We all have it in us. Even you, O Sceptical One.

  Who ARE you?

  You’ll be happy to know I’ve just been awarded my halo. And my wings.

  Congratulations.

  And it’s my birthday tomorrow.

  I stop. A sudden pang. Tomorrow would have been Emma’s birthday, too. I wait until the ache diminishes a little. They say it gets better with time. It hasn’t.

  Bloody hell, Jilly. Many happy returns. I’ll bake you a special cake when I’m back in the UK.

  Thank you, Jason. I’ll look forward to that.

  I will tweet this.

  She’s an angel in disguise. And it’s her birthday tomorrow. An early #ff for Jilly Snowdon. She won’t let you down.

  And he’s not your father, by the way, Jilly DMs. So rest easy on that matter. DNA test will sort it out, if you’re worried.

  And, maddeningly, infuriatingly, absolutely impossibly insanely and unbelievably, she is gone.

  I’m
left holding my phone, staring at Twitter.

  Annie Baysting.

  I honestly wasn’t expecting a visit from Annie. But she’s brought me a printout.

  “The internet café aboard this ship is wondrous, Jason,” she says. “Flat screen computers. And colour printers!”

  She gives me the bundle of papers.

  “It’s only a first draft. But I thought you should have it. You’ve given me the idea for the most amazing story. And you’re the hero.”

  “Thank you very much,” I tell her. I’m not quite sure what else I should say. I may end up shirtless, carrying a bullwhip and fighting off zombies with axes.

  “We’ll stay in touch,” she assures me. “Let me know which ship you end up on. I’ll make certain I’m there to welcome you aboard.”

  “I will,” I promise.

  Katey. At last.

  The ship’s hospital doesn’t have a window, but the clock in my phone’s telling me it’s past ten in the evening. They’ve dimmed the lights and switched off the TV.

  I’ve been asleep.

  Barnaby’s been keeping watch over me.

  Katey’s brought dinner for both of us. Along with two bottles of expensive fizzy water.

  And a nice decorative candle. Which she places on the bedside table. Beside my little gold whale tail, my good luck charm, salvaged from the pocket of my trousers. I’m never losing sight of that. Ever.

  “Is that wise?” I ask, eyeing the candle.

  “It runs on batteries. Look.”

  She switches it on. It’s quite clever. It looks absolutely real, right down to the flicker.

  “They sell all kinds of battery operated things in the shops on this ship. Definitely a different core demographic to Sapphire’s. The average passenger’s about forty years younger, for a start.”

  She removes the knife and fork from my hands.

  “Do you want me to cut that up for you?”

  I seem to be having trouble making my fingers work. I really hope it isn’t permanent. I have a living to make. I can’t possibly end up suffering from my Twittername.

  “Oh. By the way. I have resigned from my job,” Katey says. “Effective immediately.”