Blood Cruise

by Mats Strandberg

  She is feeling so fucking sick, but she is afraid she might faint if she tries to stand up. Why did she switch to beer? Her whole mouth tastes bitter, like metal, like she has sucked on an iron pipe.

  Zandra doesn’t notice; she is too busy sucking face with Peo.

  Madde needs to throw up. She needs help. She relinquishes her white-knuckle hold on the seat cushion. Reaches out and puts a hand on Zandra’s thigh. Zandra looks up. Glistening saliva all around her mouth.

  ‘Are you all right, sweetie?’ she says.

  At least Madde thinks that is what she says. She can only see Zandra’s wet lips moving. Can’t hear anything over the caterwauling.

  Madde must have managed to grunt something, or maybe Zandra gets it anyway, because she gets off Peo’s lap and takes her hand. And Madde stands up from the armchair, quickly, before she has time to reconsider; that is the only way. Now the nausea is coming on strongly. No time. Something tickles her gag reflex, as if all the salmon and herring she ate tonight have come alive inside her, thrashing about, beating their tailfins against the inside of her throat.

  Her face is so cold, and yet sweat is streaming down it.

  Zandra leads her through the room, forging a path between all the warm bodies. Madde follows, catching a glimpse of Dan Appelgren by the stage.

  The fish thrash about more violently in her throat, swimming around her stomach so fast it churns. Madde looks down at the floor. They exit the karaoke bar and Zandra pulls her to the right; suddenly the carpet is replaced with tiles and then they are in a toilet stall and Madde bends over and flings the toilet lid open while Zandra locks the door behind them.

  Madde spots a couple of brown stains on the underside of the seat, focuses on them, and the vomit shoots out of her mouth. At first it is just a lot of beer, then bitter gin and tonic and then half-digested food, thick and mushy; it sticks on its way up, making her cough and choke. Hot tears stream down her cold cheeks.

  Zandra holds her hair, strokes her back.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Madde says. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Feel better?’

  Madde tears off toilet paper and wads it up. Wipes her mouth. Dabs at her eyes.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she says again.

  She straightens up. Braces for a second wave of nausea, but it doesn’t come. She checks to make sure nothing spattered on her clothes. Throws the ball of tissue in the toilet and flushes.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m better now.’

  But a pounding headache has replaced the nausea. It’s as if she is already hungover. When she wipes her finger under her eyes, it turns black with running mascara.

  ‘Good,’ Zandra says, and strokes her back again.

  She looks at Madde with the same mummy expression she wears when she comforts her daughter. Gentle, caring, sympathetic eyes.

  ‘Is it okay with you if I go with Peo to their cabin?’ she says.

  It takes a few seconds to really sink in.

  ‘Now?’ Madde says. ‘But we’re partying.’

  ‘He’s so fucking wasted,’ Zandra says. ‘I figure I might be dealing with a whisky dick already. If he keeps drinking, I’m going to have to poke it in.’

  ‘But … but what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Why don’t you stay with the others?’ Zandra suggests. ‘That guy, whatshisname, seems to be into you.’

  ‘You suck,’ Madde says, and staggers backwards, supporting herself against the tiled wall. ‘I thought we were going to have fun tonight. Isn’t that what we said?’

  ‘But we are having fun,’ Zandra says. She laughs, completely unperturbed.

  ‘This is so you. The minute you manage to pull someone, nothing else matters. Especially not me.’

  ‘Come off it. You’re just miffed because I found someone first. You would have done the same thing and I would have been fine with it.’ Her eyes have hardened.

  ‘Great then,’ Madde says as rage fills her with new energy. Lots of it. ‘Aren’t you the fucking generous one? But have you ever considered that I might find it really fucking sad that you dump me whenever you have a chance to bone?’

  Zandra looks at her. And before she even opens her mouth, Madde knows she is going to spout something incredibly goddamn sanctimonious.

  ‘I know you’re having a tough time right now, what with your work and everything, but don’t take it out on me because I don’t deserve it.’

  Zandra unlocks the door and storms out of the stall. Madde stares at the door slamming shut between them.

  ‘You should just shut the fuck up!’ she shouts, without knowing if Zandra is still outside. ‘You’re a self-centred fucking cunt!’

  How the fuck did this happen? How did it escalate so quickly?

  The headache is like iron claws slowly digging through her skull. She exits the stall. No Zandra.

  Madde drinks water from the tap by one of the sinks. She doesn’t give a shit that a girl who comes out of one of the other stalls stares at her while she washes her hands. Madde straightens up and looks in the mirror. She looks surprisingly okay. Her eyes are a bit bloodshot, that’s all.

  She tries to gather her thoughts, understand what got into her.

  You would have done the same thing.

  Zandra is right.

  Madde dashes out of the bathroom and walks back into the moist heat of the karaoke bar. Dan is on stage on his own now, singing ‘Like Fever in My Heart’, and she pushes past all the people who are on their feet, singing along at the top of their lungs.

  Zandra is not at their table. A few pink feathers are the only sign of her. Peo is gone too. But Pig Face lights up when he spots Madde and waves her over. The table is full of shot glasses.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, and she sinks down into the armchair next to his because she doesn’t know what else to do.

  He hands her a shot glass. In the dark, she can’t make out the colour of the liquid, but it is slick against the inside of the glass. She sniffs it cautiously. It smells of jelly sweets.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ one of the others says.

  Madde nods. Get back on the horse: it’s the only way to get rid of the headache. If she doesn’t start drinking now, she is never going to get back in the game.

  The shot slides easily down her throat. She barely needs to swallow. Pig Face pushes over another glass.

  ‘Your friend went back to our cabin with Peo,’ he says. ‘So you can have hers too.’

  Madde glances at Dan on stage. His shirt is tight across his chest. He probably has those thrusting muscles around his groin, the kind that disappear down men’s trousers like an arrow pointing to their cock.

  She isn’t going to bed yet.

  After she has downed the second shot, Lasse leans in closer. Starts playing with her hair.

  ‘Your cabin is free,’ he says. ‘I thought you and I might have a nightcap there.’

  She shakes her head, can’t even be bothered to reply. His fingers stop moving in her hair.

  ‘Yes. Come on.’

  ‘No,’ she says, and fixes him with a level gaze, pleased that her eyes have recovered the ability to focus.

  First Zandra and now this. She has had enough crap for one night.

  ‘What do you mean, no?’ he says.

  ‘What’s tripping you up? Don’t you speak Swedish?’

  He licks his front teeth. Piggy is angry. Furious.

  Madde bursts out laughing.

  He pulls his hand back and it feels like pin-pricks in her scalp when a handful of hairs are yanked out. She continues to laugh, but it is not funny any more.

  ‘I knew it,’ he says. ‘You just wanted to drink free booze and then bail. Are you happy now, fucking booze whore?’

  His friends watch them furtively, sensing that something is happening.

  ‘So you think I owe you a fuck now?’ she says. ‘Well, you can forget it. You’re not exactly my type.’

  His eyes grow even darker. ‘No, I get who your type is. I’ve seen how you ogle
him,’ he says, waving his hand in the direction of the stage. ‘Appelgren’s a fucking loser. Anyone who’s anyone in Stockholm knows how he treats his women. He beats them. And that’s not the worst of it. But you probably think bad boys are super-hot.’

  He hisses the last part. What the fuck is he on about? And does he think she would ever believe those kinds of things about Dan? Surely there are rumours like that about every famous guy on the planet? But she is not about to say that out loud, because that would only make him feel vindicated.

  ‘All women are the fucking same,’ he says. ‘When it gets down to it, you just want guys who treat you like shit. I’m a good guy, but what does that get me? No one wants a good guy, no matter what they claim.’

  ‘Maybe that isn’t your problem,’ Madde says. ‘Maybe the problem is that you’re incredibly fucking ugly and feel so incredibly fucking sorry for yourself. It’s not exactly sexy.’

  ‘You’re not so fucking good-looking yourself,’ he snaps. ‘But you’re never going to get it anyway. All girls have to do is show some tit and hike up their skirt and they can have any guy they want.’

  ‘You almost sound jealous. Maybe you’re gay?’

  ‘You’re so ugly I almost wish I were.’

  ‘Great. So why did you want to go back to my cabin then?’

  ‘Because everyone can tell from a mile away how cheap you and your friend are, and I didn’t want to have to put in any effort.’

  Her hand flies through the air in a wide arc, but she misses him by at least a foot. He smiles at her smugly. His friends stand up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Stefan whispers, straightening his veil. ‘He always gets like this when he drinks. We’ll take care of him.’

  She makes no reply. Doesn’t even watch them leave.

  Up on stage, someone has started crooning an old Swedish folk song.

  The Baltic Charisma

  Captain Berggren is back on the bridge. He has taken a long nap, then eaten leftovers from Charisma Buffet in the officers’ mess. He gazes out across Åland Harbour. The few passengers who have left the ship are walking through the illuminated glass gangways extending out from the terminal like tentacles.

  Most of the older people and families with children have gone to bed. For others, the party has only just started. The dance floors and bars are packed.

  The shop and spa staff have finished their shifts. Some of them are already asleep. Others are in the common room playing cards or watching films. A small group has crowded into a staff cabin. They have changed into civilian clothes. They gossip about passengers and colleagues. Tax-free sales were good today; Antti, the shop manager, handed out free champagne after closing. In the galley, the kitchen staff are cleaning up after the evening’s service. Thousands of dirty plates have been washed in just a few hours. Even more glasses. Tonnes of food are binned every week because the passengers take more than they can eat from the buffet.

  A woman has fallen asleep in the karaoke bar, alone at her table. There is a shot glass in her hand. A couple of pink feathers on the table swirl slowly in the draught from her deep breathing.

  On the lowest deck, an old woman is making love to a man she just met.

  Two children, cousins, are lying on a double bed, laughing at the things they are seeing on a TV screen showing the dance floor at Club Charisma.

  Lying on another double bed, one floor below them, is Elvira. Her fourth vertebra has been crushed. She is paralysed from the neck down, trapped in a body she can no longer feel. Locked in with the panic that makes the blood rush through her body, making her skin flushed, her scent stronger. The dark-haired woman sitting next to her on the edge of the bed has stuffed her mouth full of cloth. Elvira still tries to plead, form words through the pain. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want my mummy and daddy. I want to go home. I want to go home. A tear trickles down her temple into her ear. The light from the terminal falls straight in through the window. The woman’s eyes glisten darkly in the heavily made-up face. She runs a rough finger across Elvira’s cheek, wipes away the tears. Tilts her head, as though she is sorry about what she is going to do next.

  The woman has made her mind up. She can’t wait any longer. She can’t think clearly until she has fed.

  *

  The vibrations in the floor change as the Charisma slowly starts pulling out of the Åland harbour. It rouses the man called Tomas from his stupor on a bench on the tenth floor. He has no thoughts left, no self. Only a hunger that aches, makes him burn and shiver with cold. Ice and magma in every cell, every nerve ending. It is the hunger, and the panic that follows in its wake, that makes him stand up despite the pain. His legs are so heavy and numb. He tilts his head. Sniffs the air. His heart is beating again. Slow, arduous contractions distributing his dead blood. Tomas walks towards the open door into the ship. Steps into the light. The smells are warm here. So much stronger.

  People stare at him with revulsion as he staggers by. A few offer half-hearted comments. Some people really can’t take their alcohol. Someone should help the poor bastard. It’s people like him who give cruiseferries a bad name. But they have forgotten all about him as soon as they pass. He is just another passenger who has had more than he could handle. And there are so many more interesting things to talk about. So many other people to look at. So many possibilities, so many hopes and fears.

  Tomas has to lean against the wall to make it down the wide stairs. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrors and it feels like a half-forgotten dream. Deep, pumping bass-lines come from the two dance floors and the karaoke bar. They thump through his flesh and bones, like a pulse from several hearts at once. The scents of the people are so tempting, and the most tempting are the ones whose feelings makes their blood run faster. He tentatively snaps his teeth.

  *

  In the cabin on deck five, the dark-haired woman has just finished feeding. She grabs the dead girl’s head and breaks her neck, conscientiously making sure the vertebrae separate completely, severing all connections between body and brain. Elvira’s blood seeps through the woman, finding its way through the fine web of vessels. Her fingers and calves tingle like pins and needles. She pinches the flesh of her hand. Firmer now. She has no time to enjoy what she’s been yearning for. She walks into the bathroom, squeezes out a big dollop of soap from the dispenser bolted to the wall and starts washing her face in the sink. The thick layers of makeup she no longer needs run down the drain along with the soap suds. She tries to tell herself things are going to work out. She has bought a return ticket. Maybe no one will miss the girl until the Baltic Charisma is back in Stockholm. When the cleaners discover the body, she and her son will have travelled deep into Finland, hidden away in their new home in the vast forests. The woman studies her reflection. Touches her cheeks. The skin is starting to smooth out. Grow warmer.

  She walks towards the door. She must find her son. This instant.

  Calle

  Calle drags himself up the narrow staircase to the Charisma’s staff quarters. Every step is like climbing a small mountain. He clings to the white steel handrail and makes it onto the penultimate landing. A square metal sign with the number nine informs him which floor he is on. He glances behind him. The stairs wind their way down in a tight rectangle.

  He swipes the pass he borrowed from Filip through the card reader. There is a beep and he pulls open the door, looking down the hallway flanked by staff cabins. There is a party going on behind one of the closed doors. Loud house music. Laughter and voices. To get to Filip’s cabin, he has to go past it. He hesitates. Starts walking. The music dies abruptly. Someone turns on Michael Jackson. Loud protests. Happy squeals. Calle speeds up. Something thuds against the door just as he walks by. More laughter.

  And suddenly the door is thrown open and Sophia steps into the hallway. His old colleague from the tax-free shop is wobbling in her high heels, reaching out for the opposite wall for support. Her hair is in the same straight bob as before, but peach-coloured now. She
giggles, pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes and glances up.

  Aside from the hair colour, Sophia is exactly the same. Her skin is shiny and almost translucent from all the scrubbing and acid treatments she puts it through in the spa. Her eyes brighten when she spots Calle.

  ‘Oh my God, hi!’ she says emphatically, and looks him up and down again. ‘Antti, look who’s here!’

  Calle squeezes out a smile when Antti peeks out of the cabin: Antti, who started working in the tax-free shop at the same time as him. Blond with almost-white eyelashes and eyebrows, definitely the number one standard-bearer in the vaguely parodic macho culture on board, with a posture that says the world is his and he is pissed off with it.

  ‘Howdy,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I did hear there were fancy guests coming.’

  Two women and a man Calle has never seen before step out into the corridor. They eye him curiously.

  Sophia totters over and gives him a hug, enveloping him in a cloud of citrusy perfume and cigarette smoke. Antti introduces him to the strangers. He calls them ‘his employees’ to let Calle know he is now the shop manager. Calle is not surprised, though it should have been Sophia.

  ‘Congratulations, sweetie! Pia told me you’re getting married!’ she says.

  Calle smiles until it feels like his face is going to crack.

  ‘Your fiancé came in the shop asking for you just before we closed up,’ Antti says. ‘He looks like a bloody movie star. How did you ever land him?’

  Sophia laughs nervously. ‘Stop it. Calle’s good-looking too, right?’ she says, turning back to Calle. ‘I’m so chuffed for you. I just love it when good things happen to good people.’

  ‘So which one of you is wearing the wedding dress then?’ Antti says with a grin.