Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  “A copper!” Lillith gasped. “Dear God, You killed a policeman? I've never killed anyone, Bartholomew Gidley, and don't You ever forget that. The only feedings I ever did were consensual or mutual, never fatal, maintaining my virus just to please His master and to survive, and nothing more. As for You, You enjoy being a monster, You revel in it, and for that I hate You.”

  “Ah yes, but maybe someday I'll get My mutual feeding from you, and it will be one you'll never forget,” he boasted, running a lascivious finger over her chin. “The debt I owe that man, Mr. Lyons, for preserving My illness and resurrecting Me when necessary is the only, only thing that has kept My paws off of you. But one day it will be inevitable, and I'll take blood from you in painful and pleasurable ways that you never imagined.” His breathing was becoming labored and menacing.

  “Never, You sodding pig!” Lillith snapped, tearing Gidley's finger away from her face with tremendous force and going so far as to let fire flicker in her eyes for an instant. “I know what the vulnerabilities are, and don't You for one moment believe that I wouldn't hesitate to use them!”

  “Come now, little one,” Gidley intoned creepily, seeming to enjoy the chase. “You haven't been so particular in all of your little divine adventures, now have you? Weren't you at least able to allow yourself sweet nothings of love to a certain someone on this ship, and not just Edward Lyons?”

  “You are arrogant, insane and disgusting,” Lillith exclaimed. “I have done no such thing.”

  “Oh, but my darling, I know for a fact that you have,” he said, smiling at her with a predatory grin. “You see, We came upon a letter, written in your own hand, in another man's pocket- a letter that practically sang of sweet love.”

  “I have done no such thing! Are You deaf, blind and stupid?” she cried, getting angrier and angrier at his accusations. “I have not been allowed out of this cabin for days, I'm not even on the ship's manifest- I am invisible, I am no one, and if You bring Mr. Lyons here, I will be more than happy to confirm that for Him. I am nobody. Nobody at all!” She began to sob.

  “You didn't seem quite so unsure of yourself in that letter, saying that you didn't need to convince the object of your affection of anything more- that Mr. Lyons treated you as nothing more than a madam.”

  Lillith convulsed from another sob, then completely froze. “What did You say?” she whispered, her stunned face streaming with tears.

  “Oh, does it seem familiar to you now, then? Quite a performance with the self-righteousness and the tears there, you pitiful tart.” Gidley's eyes glowered with hate. “Perhaps you missed your true calling, and should have sought a spot on the stage.”

  Lillith, emboldened and strengthened as never before, turned to face him completely and boldly. “Bartholomew Gidley. What did You just say that I wrote?”

  “That Mr. Lyons treated you as nothing more than a madam!” he shouted. “Along with some flowery nonsense about raw sex, and 'I love you's!'”

  “Where did You find this?” she demanded, her heart pounding.

  “I told you, in the coat of another man's pocket. But that is all immaterial now, for Mr. Lyons has some very special plans for him.”

  “Very special plans?” she gulped. “For a man... on this ship?”

  “Yes, for blind God's sake, what other ship would I mean? We let him go; I offered to kill him right on the spot, but Lyons persuaded Me not to, because He has something else in mind for him- and indeed, for this entire ship. It should be quite the exciting evening.”

  “Gidley.” She stood before him, and addressed him in a commanding voice. “You told me You killed him. You must take me to him at once.”

  He stared at her slack-jawed for a moment. “Who's the one that is bleeding insane, now? Killed him? We'd barely just met him!”

  “And I'm sure You'd only 'just met' that policeman, but that didn't stop You. And how did You just meet him, when You never went to Wandsworth...” she stopped herself from talking, and a horrible bit of deduction went through her mind. “Oh dear God. It was poor Stanley.”

  “Stanley? Who's Stanley? For God's sake, woman, just how many men have you tried to lie with?”

  “Never mind, You filthy man. Just take me to him at once. If he's not dead, I must see him.”

  “Well, you see, therein lies an enormous problem,” Gidley replied in a sadistically confiding tone. “Mr. Lyons wanted Me to make it absolutely clear to you that you are not to set foot out of this room tonight- for any reason, regardless of anything that you might see or hear. He will send for you or I will collect you personally at the appropriate time. If you set so much as one little toe out of this room, the Master-In-Arms will be called and you will be arrested for being a stowaway. Your little friend Ismay will have his hands full tonight, so believe Me, even though there might have been some special arrangement for your being on this ship, he is going to be far too preoccupied to deal with the legal misfortunes of a promiscuous and insignificant chambermaid.” Lillith's eyes darted back and forth frantically in confusion, but she was wise enough to remain silent. “You will absolutely be arrested, you will have no identification papers and will be relinquished from any protection that you might have had with Us. Sometimes there are benefits from having a deal with the devil, Lil, whether you understand or respect that or not.”

  Lillith was now weeping painfully, but chose her words carefully. “Gidley, if the man I wrote that letter to is still alive, I must see him. I must.”

  “My dear,” Gidley replied, taking on a tone that for a moment almost seemed fatherly. “My darling. Do not allow yourself to be arrested. Mr. Lyons wants you ensconced in here until the appropriate juncture. Then you shall be rescued, in the fullness of time, and We will proceed with our plans to head out west as scheduled.” He narrowed his eyes before speaking again, any trace of kindliness evaporating. “Personally, there's a considerable part of Me that should like to have you cut into such tiny little pieces that they could be served in an egg cup, for all the trouble that you have caused,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “But mostly, dear Lillith, please learn that this is a man's world, and it will have been created and ended that way.”

  Gidley winked at her in that pernicious manner he had employed so many times before, collected his cane, turned and left- with one final caveat.

  “I warn you- you must absolutely not leave this room, no matter the commotion you might hear outside. Mr. Lyons may have a soft place in His dark heart for you, but I have absolutely no compunction with tearing your throat out irreparably if you so much as disobey His commands tonight.” He glared at her one final time, then closed the door behind him.

  Lillith's hands flew up to her face as a rush of both grateful and frightened tears came pouring forth, simultaneously overjoyed and horrified that Kerry Langston had somehow made it to the Titanic after all.

  5:30 P.M.

  The Titanic surged ahead westward, leaving a monstrous, miles-long frothy wake that would take hours to dissipate. Some of the more experienced seagoers on board had marveled at the wake's significance throughout the voyage. Indeed, on the past few nights some passengers were able to spot a large cloud of bioluminescent plankton in the water as the ship's propellers churned the Atlantic.

  Titanic was a name that delivered a big promise, and on so many levels she did not disappoint; a fast-paced tour of all of her decks would have taken at least two and a half hours. Many of the ship's officers- men with several year's worth of maritime achievement behind them- privately admitted to each other that they had managed to get themselves lost in terms of just getting around the ship. Even from a great distance, Titanic kept her reputation of enormity intact- to some passing ships, she resembled a gilded shingle drifting alone in the water.

  In reality, the Titanic and any other ship in the North Atlantic in April of 1912 was far from alone. Although the current air temperature was dropping quickly, it had been an unusually warm winter in the vicinity of the Greenland glaciers, and a glittering
carpet of ice that had broken free was drifting into the shipping lanes. In her five days at sea, the Titanic had received six advisories of ice in the region; only one of those messages had actually been posted in the chart room. Now, with her two reciprocating engines (each of them three stories tall) turning propellers on the wings of the ship, and her third engine, a steam turbine, turning the central propeller, the Titanic hurtled forward. Great amounts of smoke drifted high into the air from her funnels, which looked like solemn Roman columns in the setting sun.

  7:00 P.M.

  Kerry Langston, drained, relieved, exhausted and tired of battling his sore ankle, had decided to turn in very early and was already lying on his side in his Third Class bunk. The thought of dinner that evening had initially been appealing, but his appetite was, for the most part, dashed when he learned the main course for supper that night was going to be rabbit pie. Kerry could never bring himself to eat anything that included rabbit meat, and in fact had threatened to induce vomiting right at the dinner table if anyone had ever tricked him into doing so. He had owned rabbits as pets while growing up in Surrey, and while he did not consider himself a vegetarian by any means, the thought of devouring such gentle creatures was abhorrent to him.

  His bunkmates were absent, as he was sure they were to remain for the duration of the evening. Almost every night without exception they had stayed until late in the General Room, playing cards and listening to music. The red and white afghan that bore the White Star Logo had become a familiar friend, bundled up around his shoulders, and he was still pondering the feasibility of taking it with him when he left the ship.

  The only discomfort that he felt at the moment- and unfortunately it was not insubstantial- was the twisted ankle. By now, Langston was afraid he perhaps actually had fractured something when he'd fallen off of that railing. The throbbing of the Titanic's engines, which was felt keenly throughout Third Class, would normally have been a source of sleepy comfort for him, as he usually found himself soothed by the steady sounds of a train in the distance or the mechanics of a nearby factory. However, the vibration of the engines was such that it only seemed to aggravate the pulsating pains coursing through his foot, and as such he could not take his mind off it. It eventually was the thought of encountering Bartholomew Gidley on board earlier in the day that finally brought him to the edge of near-sleepiness, which Langston knew to be curious because normally any thought of that man or Edward Lyons would usually leave him a panicked, sweaty state. However, he'd had a bit of luck, from that chance meeting with Ismay. While he wouldn't dare to presume that it had truly given him any sort of upper hand, he found himself with at least the proverbial mustard seed of faith in his heart, and was at last able to close his eyes and rest, if not necessarily sleep.

  7:15 P.M.

  J. Bruce Ismay was not himself. One would not have caught on if they'd observed him at a reasonable distance. He would have appeared as just one of many distinguished gentlemen in the First Class Smoking Room, sipping a Martell Cordon Bleu cognac. In truth, he was hoping the brandy would soothe his nerves and settle his stomach. He had asked that the ship's surgeon, Dr. O'Loughlin, remain with him throughout the social time and dinner. He had decided to skip lunch earlier in the day after failing to locate Andrews, whom he presumed was elsewhere on a tireless inspection of the ship. As to what his own medical complaint was, Ismay could not firmly say. He was not feverish or in any pain, just an unusual fit of agitation had seemed to overcome him, and he was finding it very difficult to remain focused or articulate any of his thoughts. He had asked the doctor to accompany him with the greatest of discretion, to not let on to anyone that he was monitoring him- he was merely to be seen as socializing with him. The main reason for Ismay's desire for secrecy wasn't so much about causing unwarranted worry for- or gaining unwanted attention from- his fellow passengers. The fact was, he couldn't at all be entirely sure of just what exactly his strange malady was.

  He sipped his brandy with caution, not wanting to overindulge. He gazed for a few briefly comforting moments at the fireplace, the only genuine coal-burning fireplace aboard the ship. Any serenity that came from watching the lazy flames was quickly washed away with anxiety when he again recalled that for some reason, he could not account for the telegram Captain Smith had given him, and indeed wasn't even sure if he had eaten breakfast that very morning.

  Ismay would give Dr. O'Loughlin a silent acknowledgment every once in awhile, as he shifted in his chair with its comfy burgundy leather, alternating between a vigorous puff on his cigarette and a furtive sip or two from his crystal glass, which was etched with a little White Star burgee. The days of the voyage had suddenly begun to blur together for him, and he had asked Dr. O'Loughlin repeatedly, “Isn't today Sunday? It is, am I quite right?” Whenever the doctor answered in the affirmative, Ismay would sink back into his chair, wondering if perhaps all he needed was a bite to eat or perhaps a long nap.

  After a few moments, Ismay heard a bit of a stir take place behind him, and he turned slightly to see that it was Captain Smith who had happened to come in the room, his hat tucked under his arm. The captain was approaching him, and apparently with purpose.

  “Sir,” the Captain said, smiling as usual but with just the slightest twinge of anxiety in his voice, “have you got that telegram which I gave you this afternoon? I want it to put up in the officers' chart room.”

  Ismay blinked for a moment, processing the request. “Ah, quite right, yes.” He placed his brandy glass on the small oak table before him and set aside his cigarette. The captain seemed to be peering at him expectantly, and Ismay took a breath. “Yes, well, that's just it, I...” He began to go through his jacket's pockets, trying to delay his admission that for some odd reason he no longer had it on his person. “I... I seem to have misplaced it, E.J.”

  The captain stood before him, his smile unchanged, but his feet fidgeting ever-so-slightly. “We should have to alter our course to the north, but it would be helpful if we have that telegram to post.”

  Ismay, embarrassed more than he would normally be because it had been a bit of a rough afternoon, began almost frantically pawing through his coat, unable to produce the telegram- until he finally detected something in one of his coat's numerous pockets. It was a piece of paper, that had been folded over and over repeatedly into a very small square. Ismay practically panted with relief. “Yes, here it is,” he sighed.

  The captain made no reference to the head of the White Star Line's apparent nervousness. “Very good, sir,” Smith replied, taking the message away from him, allowing Ismay to have a much-needed free hand for his brandy. “We should be able to see water breaking at the base of any icebergs, but if not, I'd rather we face them head on than be surprised by any small ice or growlers.”

  Ismay blanched as he downed his brandy. “Head on? That's a very brave bit of maneuvering, don't you think? Taking the greatest steamer in the world right into an ice field?”

  Captain Smith seemed at a loss for words. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Ismay uncharacteristically blushed, then corrected himself. “Sorry, my good man. I am not a navigator.”

  “Quite all right, Mr. Ismay,” the Captain replied, no animosity whatsoever in his voice. “Those of us in the business of navigation would rather know of any potential hazards, than guess. It is merely a precaution to post this.”

  “Quite so,” Ismay agreed, rubbing his forehead, still feeling foolish. At that precise moment, from far away the ship's bugler could be heard- in a burst of British patriotism- sounding the traditional meal call aboard all White Star liners, “The Roast Beef of Old England.”

  “I must leave,” he half-whispered, setting down his brandy glass and swiftly taking his leave, with Dr. O'Loughlin and several other First Class gentlemen in tow. Captain Smith remained for a bit, stating a few niceties as the men sauntered off to dinner. Once everyone had departed, only he remained, the telegram still in hand. He gave it another look.

  'Vari
able winds and clear,' it read. 'Fine weather since leaving...'

  Without giving the matter any further thought, Captain Smith crumpled the telegram and tossed it into the large Italian marble coal-burning fireplace. He turned and joined the other men who had left the Smoking Room as the telegram blackened, folded over itself, and soon all that remained were the orange glowing remains of the edge of the paper.

  7:30 P.M.

  The RMS Titanic was now headed for an enormous field of ice that was approximately fifteen miles away, and she was running at nearly full speed. The ship, huge in its bearing but unknowingly vulnerable, had by now received its seventh warning regarding ice, this time from the Leyland liner Californian; that steamship was headed to Boston and was not carrying any passengers on her voyage. Her warning to the Titanic, like so many others, never made it to the chart room, and Captain Smith- who had, of course, just discarded the earlier message -never received word of it since he was now at dinner.

  8:00 P.M.

  Kerry Langston tossed and turned, unable to sleep, the Titanic's engines offering no comfort on this particular night. He gazed up at the exposed ceiling pipes overhead, wondering what their true function was, hoping that it would be a dull enough enterprise to lull himself into a bored sleep. It was not.