Blood Cruise

by Mats Strandberg

  They lead her out of the bar, their grip on her firm yet gentle; it feels like she is floating. She closes her eyes.

  ‘You’re so nice to me.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be all right on her own?’ the woman says.

  Madde smiles. ‘You have to say hi to Dan from me. You have to tell him where my cabin is.’

  ‘Only if you tell us first,’ the woman says. ‘Do you remember the number?’

  ‘It’s upstairs and in the middle. We don’t have any windows.’

  It feels so good to close your eyes like this, held by strong arms. She can hear the woman tell the man to look for a key card in her purse. When Madde realises they have made sure she didn’t leave her purse, she almost starts to cry. They are looking after her so well and it is almost like being little when Mum and Dad would throw a party and she would fall asleep on the sofa and they would pick her up ever so gently and carry her all the way to her bed and she can hear screaming and laughing and music everywhere and it is a party and she is there but she doesn’t need to be there; she can just close her eyes and know that she is safe and that people are having fun and that everything is as it should be.

  Marianne

  Marianne has almost drifted off in the vibrating, thudding darkness below the waterline. Her head is resting on Göran’s shoulder. His skin is soft and warm against hers. And her own skin is trying to trick her, make her believe he is still touching her with his fingers, his lips. The body’s memories make the backs of her knees, her chest, her genitals flush.

  Göran turns his head, kisses her on the forehead.

  ‘I thought you were asleep,’ she says.

  ‘Almost.’

  Göran pushes up on one elbow so that she has to move her head. She can hear him scratching his neck, and his jaw creaks when he yawns big. He rolls on top of her. Gives her a soft kiss on the lips.

  Then she hears the click of the light switch and is blinded by the light. She puts her hand over her eyes, not just to shield them but to keep him from having to see her squinting and pruny.

  ‘My goodness, it’s late,’ he says, and yawns again. ‘We must have been at it for more than an hour.’

  He sounds so pleased she has to giggle.

  ‘Jesus, I’m bloody bursting for a piss,’ he continues.

  ‘There’s a toilet in the hallway,’ she tells him.

  He puts one foot on the floor and heaves himself out of bed. Marianne pulls the bedding up, studying his naked body for the first time. His ponytail is hanging down his pale, freckly back. He is so skinny his ribs are clearly visible, but there is still a hint of a paunch. She catches a split-second glimpse of his penis, flaccid like a deflated balloon. There is something touching about it. Marianne covers her face with her hands and stifles a laugh. It is almost exactly twenty-four hours since she decided to take this cruise.

  It was so easy. Why has she never done this before?

  But if she had, she might never have met him.

  Göran looks around, bends over with his bum towards her, snatches up his jeans from the floor and pulls his underwear out of them.

  He starts getting dressed.

  Marianne rolls onto her side, facing him, smooths the duvet into place around her body, trying to hold her head at an angle that conceals her double chin.

  ‘You’re not coming?’ he says.

  A moment of confusion.

  ‘To the bathroom?’ she says. ‘No, I don’t need to go.’

  ‘But then we’re heading back out on the boat, right?’ he says, pulling on his shirt and buttoning the top buttons.

  Marianne sits up in bed, squeezing the edge of the duvet by her collar bones.

  ‘But …’ She breaks off, not knowing what to say. ‘But why?’ she finally manages.

  Göran puts his denim waistcoat on and slumps down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘So you’re not coming?’ he says.

  Marianne shakes her head before she has time to actually consider it. ‘I’m tired. I thought the night was over.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Göran says with a smile.

  But I thought we were going to fall asleep together. Set an alarm so we don’t miss the breakfast buffet. Have a calm, lovely day tomorrow; take a walk outside, weather permitting. Get to know each other better. Why do you want to leave? What would you miss out on by staying here?

  Why don’t you want to stay here with me?

  ‘I don’t want to waste the night sleeping now that I’m finally on this trip,’ Göran says. ‘I was going to try to find the lads and have a few more pints.’

  So now the lads are important again? Now that you got what you wanted? You know, it’s pretty pathetic to still be calling each other ‘lads’ when you’re almost seventy.

  ‘I see,’ she says, and lies back down.

  It feels like the walls are closing in. As though they are finally yielding to the enormous pressure from outside.

  ‘You should come with me,’ he says, stroking her arm. ‘You really want to stay here on your own?’

  No, I don’t. I want you to stay with me. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on. You only live once.’ He smiles.

  ‘Thank God.’

  He chuckles, bends down and puts his shoes on. ‘If you change your mind, swing by Starlight, where we were dancing. I’ll try and get them over there, if they’re not there already.’

  She doesn’t dare answer, because she knows the bitterness would shine through. She has never been good at pretending to be happy and unperturbed and easy-going. She’s never managed to hide her disappointment, no matter how hard she has tried. And Lord knows she has had a lot of practice over the years.

  When he gives her a peck on the cheek and stands up, she almost blurts out that she has changed her mind. But the idea of having to head back out into the tumult is inconceivable. It is too late. It is done.

  He pulls a pen from his pocket and writes something on one of the tax-free brochures on the desk.

  ‘Here’s my mobile number if you want to reach me,’ he says. ‘But I suppose the phones don’t always work out at sea.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ she says. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow then, instead?’ he says, and opens the door.

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Marianne turns the light out. Göran stays in the doorway, a black silhouette against the brightly lit hallway. He seems to hesitate for a second, and hope rears up inside her.

  But then he is gone. The door closes and darkness envelops the cabin once more.

  Albin

  ‘Abbe, wait!’ Lo calls out behind him. ‘I’m sorry I said anything!’

  She sounds out of breath. Albin makes no reply. He is trying to push through the crowd of drunk people at Charisma Starlight. They are everywhere, tall and sweaty and clumsy and loud and in the way. A woman trips over him, beer sloshing out of her glass, soaking the shoulder of his hoodie.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, brat!’ she shouts after him.

  ‘Abbe! Wait!’

  Lo sounds further away now; her voice is almost completely drowned out by the music.

  ‘Abbe, seriously!’

  He glances back, catching a revolting whiff of beer from the wet patch on his hoodie and immediately spots the uniformed man and woman. People move aside to make room for them, and now he can see Lo. She is walking between the guards, looking pissed off.

  ‘Hey there,’ the woman says when they reach him. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s bedtime for you two. We’ll take you back to your cabin now.’

  Her shiny brass name tag informs him that her name is PIA.

  ‘We’re looking for my mum,’ Albin says. ‘She’s around here somewhere.’

  ‘I already told them,’ Lo says.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you went to bed?’ the man, whose name is JARNO, says.

  ‘I’m not going back to the cabin!’

  His voice sounds shrill and desperate. The guards exchang
e a look.

  ‘How about this,’ Pia says, ‘we’ll come with you and help you look for her.’

  ‘We don’t need help,’ Lo says.

  ‘Yes,’ Pia says, ‘you do.’

  ‘Let’s crack on, then,’ Jarno says, slightly too cheerily.

  ‘Seriously,’ Lo says.

  But when Pia sets out in the lead, Albin is secretly relieved. She kindly but firmly moves people out of the way. A few of them glare at her until they notice her uniform.

  ‘There they are,’ Lo exclaims, pointing.

  When Albin looks that way, he spots his mum and Linda behind a mirrored pillar. There’s no ugly jacket guy to be seen. Linda is sitting in an armchair that is so low his mum has to lean forward in her wheelchair when they talk. Linda is glistening with sweat from dancing; the hair at her temples has grown a few shades darker. The dance floor lights are flashing different colours around their heads.

  At least his mum is not alone, like he’d imagined.

  Linda spots them first and says something to his mum, who starts fumbling with the joystick, reversing and turning her chair so she can see them too.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she says loudly to make herself heard above the music when they reach them. She glances at the security guards, smiling nervously.

  Pia leans closer to her and Linda. ‘They were out looking for you,’ she says. ‘We don’t want children running around on their own at this hour.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Mum shouts up at her face. ‘My husband went back to the cabin and …’ Her voice falters. She turns to Albin. ‘Did something happen, sweetie?’

  Albin doesn’t know how to respond. He can’t stand here shouting about what they have never even talked about, especially not with the security guards leaning over them.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Linda says. ‘Lo?’

  Lo shrugs.

  ‘Thank you for escorting them,’ Mum shouts, and looks at the guards. ‘We’ll bring them back to the cabin now.’

  ‘No! I don’t want to go back there!’

  His mum looks at him strangely. Albin can feel the guards watching them.

  ‘The café is still open,’ Pia says. ‘You can talk there if you want.’

  His mum nods.

  Something crackles and Jarno pulls a radio from his belt.

  The crackling voice says something about a man outside the karaoke; Jarno’s expression is suddenly grave. ‘We have to run,’ he says, and glances at Pia.

  She bends down to Albin. ‘Are you okay if we leave you here?’

  He nods.

  ‘If you need us, just go to the information desk and they’ll call us. Or ask the guy who works in this bar. His name is Filip and he is super-cool. Okay?’

  Albin nods again, even though he knows he is not going to do that. He wishes there was someone who could help him, but this is something he has to deal with himself.

  Dan

  Dan has just snorted another four lines and instantly realises it was a mistake. His overheated brain is sizzling inside his cranium. Everything is moving too fast and yet he perceives everything with painful clarity. The heat. The flushed faces. A couple of girls in their twenties are up on stage, screaming out the lyrics to ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ with strong Finnish accents.

  At least the security guards have taken care of that fat girl who sang the Grease song. She stayed at her table when her group left, her eyes glued to him, and it made him feel increasingly uncomfortable. The table where she fell asleep has now been taken by a Russian whore sitting on some guy’s lap, occasionally putting her hand on his friend’s thigh. Dan buys his coke from her pimp sometimes. She is good-looking; if she had been ten years younger, she could have been a model. He wonders if the guys realise she expects to be paid. She is probably going to let them do whatever they want to her, both of them at the same time. His brain creates a flashing torrent of mental images, one leading to the next, and in his pants, his cock begins to stir.

  And then the song is finished. Applause. Whistling. Dan claps until his palms sting, smiles as big as he can manage at the audience. The girls step off the stage and are high-fived by their friends.

  ‘Thanks, girls, for that school dance classic,’ Dan says, and a few people in the audience laugh their agreement.

  A thin, snub-nosed woman in a sleeveless hot-pink top steps out onto the stage. Her hair is dyed so dark it is almost blueish under the spotlights.

  ‘Hi there,’ Dan says. ‘And who do we have here?’

  ‘Alexandra.’

  When she smiles nervously, a small diamond flashes on her tooth. She is decent-looking. Not too far into her thirties.

  ‘Hi, Alexandra! All right, audience, how about we give Alexandra a really warm round of applause?’

  They obey. Someone whistles and Dan puts his arm around her and squeezes her bony shoulder.

  ‘And what will you be singing for us, Alexandra?’

  She looks up at him. ‘First … first I just have to say that … that I’m your biggest fan.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m going to be a big fan of yours too.’ Dan grins at the audience. ‘What will you be singing?’

  ‘I’m doing “Paradiso Tropical”,’ she says, and Dan’s smile turns so stiff it feels like rigor mortis of the lips.

  ‘That’s great.’

  It was the same year he tried to make his Eurovision comeback with ‘Walking Against the Wind’, a ballad he’d written the lyrics for himself. It was about the death of his father. He went in front of the whole of Sweden naked and exposed, but didn’t even make it to the second round. Millan and Miranda won his semi-final with ‘Paradiso Tropical’, a brain-dead faux calypso that was a fucking joke. Exactly what Sweden wanted. The song that crushed what remained of his illusions was played everywhere that summer.

  The temperature seems to have been dialled up another notch. He is suddenly aware of how low the ceiling is. And of how loudly his brain is sizzling. His heart is racing.

  Is this some bloody test? Are they filming him for some new fucking TV show whose only purpose is to humiliate people? How many views would he get on YouTube if he bashed Alexandra’s face in with the mic, hitting her again and again?

  Dan licks his lips. His top lip tastes salty; he quickly wipes it and checks his fingers, anxious he might see a revealing nosebleed, but it is just sweat.

  Is the audience dead silent? How much time has passed?

  ‘Let’s get this party started!’ he says, and hands Alexandra the microphone. ‘Break a leg!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies.

  Johan turns on the hateful steel pan intro and Alexandra closes her eyes, starts singing with feeling and vibrato. She makes the song sound evangelical, as though it is about a Christian paradise and not some gay disco at whatever charter resort. Dan smiles broadly while his heart thumps and thumps and thumps and hatred flows through his veins, hissing like carbonation, roaring in his skull.

  Someone shrieks in the dark room. A glass breaks. Alexandra falters, trips over her words and carries on, her voice trembling for a different reason now.

  The energy of the entire room changes. People turn their heads. A couple of muscle guys in tight tank-tops laugh loudly. The bartender has picked up the wall-mounted phone behind the bar.

  Dan follows his gaze and spots the man moving through the room, making people back away. The muscle guys laugh even harder.

  The man is in his forties. His eyes are flat; he is talking to himself. His jacket is covered in vomit. His strawberry-blond hair is standing on end. There is something that could be dried blood inside his shirt collar. Alexandra falls silent, but the music continues.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Dan blurts out, and it is picked up by the microphone.

  The man sniffs the air.

  His mind must have gone, drowned in booze. Nothing but reptile brain left.

  But he turns his head toward Dan and something in those empty eyes seems into spark to life. Focus. He is not talking
to himself, Dan realises. His jaw is working, as if he is chewing something.

  What a fucking nut job. It’s fucked up that they don’t keep people like him locked up.

  An older lady unwittingly blocks the man’s path. He shoves her aside so hard her glasses go flying. People get up out of their armchairs, start making their way towards the exit. The nut job reaches the edge of the stage; his eyes are bottomless pits of madness.

  Come on then, Dan thinks to himself, the coke surging through him. Just try me.

  He raises his guard when the man climbs onto the stage. Alexandra screams and drops the mic. It sounds like a cannon firing when it hits the floor, and then feedback screeches out through the speakers.

  The man hurls himself at Dan without warning and the air is knocked out of Dan when he hits the floor. The nut job snaps his teeth shut, again and again, like a rabid dog. Trying to bite him.

  The speakers are finally turned off. A few audience members scream. Others hold up their mobile phones. Shutters click in the dark.

  Dan is barely able to keep the man’s teeth away from him. His mouth reeks and there is something about the stench that finally makes Dan scared. He tries to push the man off him, but the bastard holds on.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, help me!’ Dan shouts.

  But no one comes. He can feel the fear and hesitation in the darkness beyond the illuminated stage. Everyone is waiting for someone else to go first.

  ‘You fucking bastards!’ he shouts, drawing new strength from his rage.

  Dan drives a fist into the man’s face. Pain radiates through his arm and blood spatters from his knuckles. He has cut them on the man’s teeth, as though he’d shoved his hand into a pile of razor blades. The man smacks his lips; his eyes are firmly focused on Dan and yet they seem not to see him. Dan aims another blow, but the man quickly catches the balled fist in his hand, clamps his lips onto it, tensing them around the wound as if he is trying to suction onto it, and Dan feels a slippery tongue dance across his knuckles.

  The revulsion that explodes inside Dan is so strong he roars out loud. He tears and yanks at his hand. The contact with that suckling mouth is the centre of his universe, so sickening everything else pales in comparison.