Blood Cruise

by Mats Strandberg

  Dan holds up his right hand. Only the very tips of his fingers stick out of the gauze. There is a dull throbbing inside. The muscles in his upper arm are sore where Raili gave him a tetanus shot.

  She spins around in her chair and bins the gloves. ‘Such bad luck, ending up in that lunatic’s crosshairs,’ she says as she turns back to him.

  He looks at her round unmade-up face. ‘It wasn’t bad luck,’ Dan says slowly. ‘He was coming for me; there’s a big fucking difference.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘I just hope no one tips off the tabloids. I could hear several people taking pictures with their mobiles.’ He touches his hand. That head case might have done him a service.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t have to worry,’ Raili says. ‘They probably have other things to write about.’

  As if she would know. As if she would have any idea whatsoever.

  He is going to get off the ship as soon as they dock in Stockholm; go and see a doctor. How can they get away with not having a real doctor on board? Any troglodyte can become a nurse.

  The phone on Raili’s desk rings and she answers, speaking to someone in Finnish. Her voice changes when she speaks her mother tongue. Even her facial expressions alter around those strange sing-song sounds. How can a language that looks on paper like it is all consonants sound like that? She stops speaking, nodding gravely as she listens to the person at the other end.

  ‘Well, that was Jarno calling,’ she says. ‘They’ve locked that man up.’

  She sounds immeasurably proud of her husband for doing his job.

  Dan’s head is starting to pound, a different rhythm to the throbbing in his hand. The pain intensifies a little with every heartbeat, like a volume dial being turned up, slowly but surely. ‘Do you have any painkillers?’ he says.

  ‘Of course,’ Raili says. ‘I have paracetamol here, and ibuprofen …’

  He cuts her off impatiently. ‘Nothing stronger?’ Jolts of pain are throbbing all the way down into his gums now.

  ‘These will do just fine,’ she says, and hands him a blister pack.

  Annoyed, he snatches it from her hand, punches out three pills and washes them down with water straight from the tap.

  When Dan straightens up, he feels like the water is going to come right back up again. He takes a deep breath, nods goodbye to Raili without looking at her and exits the infirmary.

  That woman is waiting for him in the hallway: Little Miss ‘Paradiso Tropical’. His biggest fan. Alexandra. She lights up when she sees him. The diamond on her front tooth twinkles. He realises he is relieved. He doesn’t want to be alone tonight, but he also doesn’t want to have to go out hunting.

  And now the prey has come to him instead.

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. It looked so scary. How’s your hand?’

  Dan holds it up and wiggles the tips of his fingers.

  ‘At least it’s still attached,’ he says with a smile.

  Her giggle is over the top, too eager. ‘Are you going back on stage?’ she says.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough audience interaction for one night.’

  More giggling. ‘So what are you doing for the rest of the night then?’ she asks.

  He looks at her. Smiles. ‘I’m going to fuck you,’ he says without much feeling. ‘And then I’m going to fuck you again. And if you’re sharing a cabin with a friend, you’re going to either kick her out or ask her to join in. Your choice.’

  Alexandra glares at him with outrage, as though it wasn’t exactly what she was after. She glances down at a ring on her left ring finger.

  He is getting hard: yet another body part throbbing, and powerfully enough to make him forget the others. His foreskin has slid back and when the head brushes against the fabric of his pants, it is so sensitive it almost burns.

  ‘She’s not there,’ Alexandra says. ‘She’s at the club.’

  ‘All right then,’ Dan says. ‘Is there anything to drink in your cabin?’

  She nods.

  ‘Lead the way,’ he says.

  Pia

  Pia studies the ginger man through the window in the door. He’s sitting on the floor with his back to them, completely motionless.

  She squeezes out another dollop of hand sanitiser, rubs it over the scratch on her wrist that she got in the altercation in the karaoke bar. She notices her hand trembling.

  Well then, babe, it’s a good thing you didn’t become a police officer if you’re going to be this shaky.

  The voice belongs to her ex-husband. Divorcing him didn’t help. He always seems to be there at the back of her mind, ready to speak up.

  ‘Dan was right. He must be high on some shit,’ Jarno says.

  ‘Or just completely bloody out of his mind,’ Pia retorts.

  According to the ID in his wallet, his name is Tomas Thunman. He is looking straight into the camera in the picture, a hint of a smile on his lips. He looks nice in a harmless sort of way.

  ‘Should we call the police?’ Jarno asks.

  She wants to say yes, get this Tomas Thunman off the Charisma, but she shakes her head. ‘He’s not worth calling the helicopter out for,’ she says. ‘Let’s just leave him here. Pär and Henke will have to help us check on him from time to time.’

  They really ought to hand him over to the Finnish police when they dock in Åbo, but instead, they will keep him until they get back to Stockholm. Tomas Thunman is a Swedish citizen. Passing him on to the Finnish authorities only makes life harder for everyone.

  Pia and Jarno step into the small security staff office and study the four screens on the wall, one for each drunk tank. The two old men who were fighting at Starlight are sound asleep on the beds in their respective cells. The third houses the woman Pär and Henke saved from being trampled on the dance floor. By way of thanks, she tried to kick them both in the nuts, and she has already vomited twice.

  Tomas Thunman is sitting where they left him on the floor of cell number four. On the grainy black-and-white screen he is still completely motionless. Hands on his eyes, as though he wants to protect them from the bright light. Pia is standing so close to the screen she can feel the heat coming off it. Static electricity is making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

  ‘Do you think we should get Raili down here to take a look at him?’ Jarno says.

  ‘He seems calm enough now,’ Pia says. ‘I don’t want her going in there.’

  Jarno looks incredibly relieved.

  ‘I don’t know how you feel, but I wouldn’t mind a break right about now,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he says without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘I’m happy to stay here and have a cup of coffee if you want to head up and talk to Calle.’

  Pia gives him a grateful pat on the shoulder. Thinks about how happy Calle looked up on the bridge. She can’t stand thinking of him alone in Filip’s cabin now.

  ‘Radio me if anything happens,’ she says. ‘If not, I’ll see you in about half an hour.’

  She looks back at the screens: every drunk tank spoken for. If the two old men have slept off the worst of it, they can let them out soon. But if anything else happens before then, they are going to have to resort to the plan B she dislikes so heartily: handcuffing their inebriated passengers to the railings in the staff stairwell.

  She sends up a quick prayer for a calm night on board the Charisma, but she has worked here long enough to trust her gut. And her gut is telling her she might as well face it. It is going to be a long night.

  Marianne

  The mood on board has changed completely. She walks along the edge of the Club Charisma dance floor, spots an open door in the tall glass wall at the far end of the room and sets her course for it. She needs to get out of here.

  The deranged music is so loud she has to cover her ears. Drunken faces are everywhere. There is aggression in the air, like an invisible but distinctly palpable fog. She just saw two bare-chested teenage boys trying to wrestle free of thei
r friends’ grip to keep fighting. Their eyes looked like animals’. A security guard came running with his hand ready on his nightstick. Marianne moved on so she wouldn’t have to witness the mayhem. But the ones whooping and laughing manically frighten her as well. It is like they could turn at any moment. A misunderstanding, one misinterpreted look, could be the spark landing in kerosene.

  Marianne does her best to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes, but it is difficult when she is also looking around for Göran.

  She couldn’t fall asleep after he left. In the end, she got out of bed, freshened up with a handful of wet wipes and pulled on the blue-and-white striped jumper she had meant to save for the next day. She put on fresh lipstick, brushed her hair sufficiently into place, the whole time hoping for a timid knock on the cabin door: Göran, having changed his mind.

  But he hasn’t changed his mind. She has.

  Marianne throws her arms up for protection when a man trips and falls right in front of her feet. She resolutely steps over him and feels the first waft of fresh air from the open door.

  People are standing about in droves in front of it; she realises this is not the time for politeness. She pushes forward, hears someone say, ‘Take it easy, Grandma,’ forges on until she exits onto the afterdeck. It is crowded here too, but at least the air is fresh and the music less loud. She walks to the railing, watches the wide, foamy trail the Baltic Charisma leaves in its wake. As she takes a few deep breaths she spots another cruise ship on the horizon. It is unfathomable that there are as many people on board that one too. As many dreams and dramas.

  She should go to bed, instead of standing here in the freezing drizzle like an idiot.

  There is still a sliver of a chance he might come back to her.

  Marianne pushes on through the crowd to the deck running along one of the ship’s sides. Considerably fewer people here. And a roof.

  She ambles forward, running her hand along the wet metal of the railing. There are a couple of benches along the wall, but one is occupied by a man in a thin tank-top and there is a dark puddle of vomit next to the other. Something like little white pebbles glisten in the dim light. Marianne shakes her head and wraps her arms around herself in the wind. Staying where she is, she gazes out across the water.

  She is trying to recall exactly what she told Göran when he left, trying to consider the scene objectively. Was she so busy pretending she didn’t need him that she came across as cold and dismissive? Or was the reverse true: was she as easy to read as ever? Did she scare him off with her desperate loneliness? The way her son had once told her she scared him off. You need to get a life, Mum.

  But Göran had given her his number. He didn’t have to do that.

  Would he have stayed if she had just asked him?

  Marianne is so sick of herself. She is exactly the same. She hasn’t grown one bit during all her years of solitude. Nothing is ever going to get better. She is never going to get better.

  She was foolish to think she could escape herself. Stupid, cowardly Marianne. It can’t have taken Göran long to figure her out. He probably sussed it out even before they slept together, but didn’t want to sound the retreat before bedding her.

  Why is she dragging this black cloud of hopelessness around? What is the enormous void inside her that no one seems able to fill? And the worst part is that people seem to sense it from afar. No wonder they keep their distance.

  Marianne watches the water rushing along the ship’s hull far below: so cold, so deep.

  Who would miss her if she disappeared tonight? When they return to Stockholm tomorrow, the cleaning staff would probably report that there were still personal belongings in one of the cabins. But if she went down to her cabin now, packed all her things in her suitcase and then threw it overboard before she climbed over the railings herself? No one would miss her for weeks, not until Christmas was approaching. Eventually, there would be an investigation and someone would glean from her bank statements that the last thing she ever bought was two pints of lager on a booze cruise to Finland.

  Marianne backs away from the railing, embarrassed by her morbid fantasies and the shameful pleasure they give her. She has indulged them far too often recently. She should take up Sudoku instead.

  There is a movement at the edge of her vision and Marianne jumps. The man on the bench has stood up and is walking towards her.

  ‘I’m sorry if I scared you,’ he says. ‘I was just wondering if you’re okay.’

  His voice is deep and melodic. He sounds young. And he is: when he steps into the light she sees that he can’t be much older than thirty. He must be even colder than her, sitting out here in just a tank-top.

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine,’ she says, and wipes her eyes hard. ‘It’s just been a weird night.’

  Is she imagining it or does he look sad?

  ‘I’ve turned down a proposal,’ he says. ‘What about you?’

  Dan

  Dan is standing next to the bed, feeding his cock to Alexandra. When it feels like he can’t get any deeper, he pauses for a few seconds, feeling her gag and then relax her throat so he can push all the way in. Stays there. He has been fucking her for a good long while now and she has taken it, virtually incapacitated by sickly-sweet pear liqueur from one of her tax-free bags and a Xanax he talked her into washing down. He didn’t take anything, but he didn’t need it. He is higher than ever. It is almost time for the finale, but he wants to make it last; he feels like he could go on for ever, until he drops dead, like his dick is a rocket about to blast him straight into eternity.

  What is going on?

  From time to time, he checks himself out in the mirror above the desk, turning to get the best possible angle.

  He playfully slaps her cheeks with his unharmed left hand. He strokes her face, pretends to hold her nose. He wants to suffocate her with his cock.

  His head hurts so bad he can hear it. Something is cracking and creaking in there, somewhere above the roof of his mouth. His heart is beating so fast it is bound to explode at any moment. The euphoria he is feeling is unlike anything he has ever experienced. This is where he is supposed to be, this is the time. Everything is right. Everything makes sense. Even the pain in his head gives him pleasure. His nerve endings no longer distinguish between different kinds of stimuli. They merge, amplifying one another. His entire fucking body is like a giant sparkler, as though every cell wants to cum.

  He slides out of her mouth; thick ropes of saliva stick to him and her panting sounds wet and laboured.

  ‘Can you taste your own pussy?’ he whispers. ‘Do you like it?’

  She mumbles something as he bends over her, pinning her arms above her head; it hurts his injured hand when he squeezes her wrists, and it feels so good. He nibbles her earlobe.

  His front teeth give way: they swing back like hatches and fall out, disappearing into her hair.

  Dan lets go of her and digs around her black curls. Alexandra looks at him in confusion. He disentangles the teeth and holds them up to the light. One of them has split from top to bottom. Pain jolts through his head again; he can taste blood. His heart pounds and pounds.

  Running to the mirror, he has to pull his trousers up not to trip. He opens his mouth, barely recognising his own face without his front teeth. And several of the other teeth are shifting in their sockets. He shuts his mouth, letting it fill with blood before swallowing, and almost orgasms as the hot blood slides down his throat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Alexandra slurs from the bed.

  The pain is almost unbearable now. Shivers break over him like waves. The line between euphoria and panic is so fine.

  Has he ever felt as much as he does in this moment?

  Alexandra has staggered out of bed behind him. He sticks his left index finger into his mouth and gingerly touches his teeth. They come loose, fall onto his tongue. He sucks them clean of blood, cups his hand around his mouth and spits them out. Alexandra says something but he can’t make out the words. The noise
s in his head are too loud.

  But something else has gone quiet. A sound he has never thought about before, because it was always there.

  His heart has stopped beating. Has given up, finally.

  Dan closes his eyes and prepares for the vast darkness that is about to devour him.

  ‘What is happening?’ Alexandra whines.

  Dan opens his eyes. She is standing next to him. Her eyes are clearer now, shifting towards his cupped hand and then back up to his face.

  And she screams.

  Who would have thought she would be the last thing I ever see?

  But no darkness seems forthcoming.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself … ? You need help—’

  She puts her panties on, pulls her hot-pink top over her head. ‘We need to go and get someone,’ she says.

  He tries to reply, It’s too late. My heart has already stopped beating. But without teeth only vowels and sh sounds come out.

  He starts laughing. His face looks bizarre in the mirror. The lower half of it has collapsed.

  There are new noises in his head. Something white flashes in the fleshy mess that is his mouth. He leans closer to the glass.

  New teeth.

  Alexandra’s confused fear has warmed up her body. It radiates heat onto his back like the sun on the first day of spring. He eyes her in the mirror.

  What he feels is no longer lust. It is something else entirely.

  Mårten

  Mårten is sitting on the bed, watching the tinny old telly, switching between the two dance floors in the hope of spotting Albin. His ears are straining. Every now and then, he thinks he can hear a woman screaming somewhere nearby.

  He drinks cognac out of one of the plastic cups from the bathroom, but the numbness won’t come. The curtains are drawn. He couldn’t stop glancing at the window, afraid of seeing her face there, pressed against the glass.

  Mummy.