Distress Signals

by Catherine Ryan Howard

  Eventually, someone arrived to escort us elsewhere: a woman named Louise. No last name, no job title. She wasn’t wearing a nametag. She was pretty, with big eyes and brown hair twisted back into a tight, perfect bun, but she looked skinny in that hard, sharp angles way. A little older than us, maybe mid-to-late thirties. Her heels clacked loudly on the bare cement floor as she walked towards us.

  She greeted us both with sympathetic smiles, but they seemed to stay on her lips and keep well away from her eyes.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said, extending a hand to me. ‘We’re just—’

  ‘Rebranding,’ I finished. ‘Yeah, we know.’

  She led us deeper into the building, down a long, grey corridor. It was just as quiet down there. I couldn’t hear any noise except for our footsteps and, occasionally, some traffic from outside. We were directed into a meeting room where more coffee, sparkling water and a plate of muffins had already been laid out.

  This was like the case of the escalating snacks.

  Louise motioned to two seats on the far side of the large, polished table in the room’s centre and then slid into a chair across from us. There was a thin manila folder, closed, waiting on the tabletop in front of her.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she said.

  ‘We don’t mind,’ Rose said. ‘We just hope you can help us.’

  Louise flashed another cosmetic smile. ‘I hope so too.’

  I caught a blur of colour in my peripheral vision and realised that a fourth person had entered the room: an older man in a suit. Without a word he walked past us to the far end of the table and took a seat there, hoisting a briefcase onto his lap so he could take various things out of it: a yellow legal pad, a tablet computer, a tape recorder.

  ‘That’s just Simon,’ Louise said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘You’ll have some coffee?’ She started pouring servings of it into cups before we could respond.

  Simon wasn’t explained any further and, as far as I could tell, he wasn’t even going to acknowledge that Rose and I were there.

  It was odd, yes, but then so was this whole situation. I was getting used to odd. Odd was now normal. A silent suited man recording our conversation with Blue Wave? Not the weirdest thing that had happened to me. Not even the weirdest thing that had happened to me that week.

  ‘Now,’ Louise said when we’d all been furnished with yet more caffeine and Silent Simon had pressed a button on his little digital voice recorder. ‘Sarah. According to the Celebrate’s manifest, we had a Sarah O’Connell on our three-night/four-day “Mediterranean Dreams” cruise departing Barcelona on August eleventh last. The passport number that was scanned into our system at embarkation appears to match the passport number you’ve provided. On this itinerary the newest member of the Blue Wave fleet, the Celebrate, carries up to two thousand passengers from Barcelona, Spain, to La Spezia, Italy and then back again, stopping off for a day on the French Rivera en route. Sarah stayed in a junior suite with a balcony, close to the Celebrate’s “Boardwalk” promenade. It’s an indoor space beneath a stunning atrium ceiling that lets you bask in sunshine during the day, watch the sunset turn the sky pink in the evening and admire the glittering stars at night.’

  Rose and I exchanged a glance.

  Is she trying to sell us tickets or something?

  Louise picked up the top item sitting in her folder: an A4-sized colour photograph. When she held it up in front of us, my breath caught.

  It was Sarah.

  Posing in front of a painted mural, a cartoonish ‘under the sea’ tableau. She was smiling – laughing, actually, it looked like – and wearing a blue dress I didn’t recognise. It was the first I’d seen of her since I’d watched her walk into the terminal doors at Cork Airport ten days ago.

  The first proof, if you like, that her life had happily gone on without me, that it was going on while I checked my phone like it was a nervous tic. I didn’t know what to make of it. I was confused about why she’d gone on the ship. It hurt to think of her enjoying herself while I worried at home.

  But mostly, I was just happy to see her face.

  ‘I spoke to the Celebrate’s cruise director on your behalf,’ Louise said, ‘and he was kind enough to email me this.’ She tapped the photograph. ‘It was taken on the first evening of the cruise, Monday the eleventh, outside the Pavilion Restaurant. By one of our professional photographers. We thought you might like to have a copy.’ She slid the photograph across the tabletop to us.

  Rose reached across me to pick it up, studied it.

  ‘She’s on her own,’ she said after a beat.

  ‘Yes,’ Louise agreed. ‘Are you familiar with cruise cards?’

  Rose and I shook our heads, no.

  ‘Passengers don’t use cash or credit cards aboard Blue Wave ships,’ Louise explained. ‘Instead they pre-load cash or tie their credit card to a system we call Swipeout. It’s essentially a charge card they use on board for all purchases, and the Swipeout is also an electronic key that opens their cabin doors. They also help us maintain safety and security – passengers have their identification information stored electronically in their Swipeout, and it’s checked against our system whenever they embark or disembark. This way unauthorised persons cannot board the ship, and we have a continually updated manifest.’ There was just a single sheet of white paper in the manila folder now and Louise glanced down at it as she continued. ‘I have obtained for you a copy of Sarah’s Swipeout activity from the purser, as logged in our system beginning August eleventh last. It shows that Sarah entered her cabin for the last time at 10:42 p.m. on the Monday evening – departure day – and then disembarked at 7:36 a.m. the following morning, while the Celebrate was tendered at Villefranche-sur-Mer.’

  ‘Where is . . .’ I’d forgotten it already. ‘That place?’

  ‘The Cote d’Azur,’ Louise said. ‘Villefranche is just a few minutes down the road from Nice.’

  Nice.

  From where the passport had been posted.

  ‘What does tendered mean?’ Rose asked.

  ‘If there isn’t a suitable port to dock at, we drop anchor offshore and ferry passengers to and from the coast in smaller vessels – ­tenders – instead. Nice is a popular stop but its port isn’t suitable for our ships, so we stop in Villefranche, which has the space in its bay and the onshore facilities needed to receive our tenders. We bus our passengers into Nice, or they can explore the coast by train or private tour instead if they wish. Sarah, however, left the Celebrate at Villefranche and, according to this’ – she passed the printout to me – ‘she did not return to the ship.’

  I looked at Rose, then back at Louise. ‘Meaning . . . ?’

  ‘Meaning she didn’t return to the ship.’

  ‘Was she supposed to?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have that information. We’ve been unable to access Sarah’s booking detail.’

  ‘Which means what,’ Rose asked, ‘in English?’

  Louise flashed a brief, oddly pleasant smile. ‘It means that for some reason I can’t bring up Sarah’s reservation on our system. There’s no booking under her name.’ She waved a hand. ‘It’s probably just a glitch.’

  ‘But you were able to check the manifest,’ Rose said. ‘And find Sarah’s Swipeout account?’

  ‘Those,’ Louise said, ‘are stored on different systems.’

  ‘But we need the book—’

  ‘I would stress that Blue Wave is not obliged to provide any information about our passengers. We have furnished you with the data from the manifest and the Swipeout account as a gesture of goodwill. We are going above and beyond already, providing you with that.’

  ‘Why are you providing us with it?’ Rose said. ‘If passenger information is so confidential?’

  ‘What Rose means,’ I said, shooting her a look, ‘is thank you. We really
appreciate this. What, ah, what about luggage? Did Sarah leave luggage behind? She only took one of those little cabin-­approved trolley-cases with her.’

  Now Louise and Silent Simon exchanged a glance.

  ‘I have no information about that,’ Louise said. ‘But she could’ve brought that on the tender with her. It sounds small enough.’

  The questions were stacking up in my head. I regretted not bringing something to take notes with. There were so many details we needed to know.

  When was the cruise booked? How was it booked, online or with a travel agent? I suspected travel agent, because there was no payment to Blue Wave on Sarah’s debit card that I’d seen. Did she put cash on her Swipeout card? If so, how much? Was that what the six hundred and fifty euro was for? Was there any left on the card when she left the ship? Had she booked Blue Wave transport to Nice? Was there room for mistakes in the disembarkation identity checks? Was it definitely her?

  Was the reason they couldn’t find her reservation because there wasn’t one under her name, only his?

  Sarah, were you alone in that junior suite?

  ‘I have so many questions,’ I said, ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘I understand.’ Louise pressed her lips into another odd smile. ‘I do hope the information we’ve shared today has been of some assistance to you.’

  At the end of the table, Silent Simon shifted in his chair.

  ‘It was,’ I said. ‘Thanks. But we really need to know about Sarah’s reservation. Like, was she travelling with someone else or—’

  ‘As I said, I was unable to access Sarah’s booking detail.’

  ‘But could you?’ Rose asked. ‘Like, if we waited a while? We don’t mind waiting.’

  Rose looked to me.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We don’t mind. We can wait.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ Louise said. ‘I don’t see us being able to recover that data any time soon. Now, we have been very accommodating but, as I’m sure you understand, we have a commitment to our passengers and an obligation under the law to protect the data of the private individuals who choose to travel with us. Your situation is no doubt distressing and we want to help, but I’m afraid we have already helped all that we can.’

  ‘But I don’t want any private information,’ I said. ‘I just want to know when my girlfriend booked this cruise.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  Silent Simon cleared his throat.

  ‘It’s a shame then,’ Louise said to the tabletop, ‘that Sarah didn’t tell you that.’

  I felt like I’d been slapped across the face, so quick and so suddenly that I wasn’t even sure if it had happened. The only evidence anything had happened at all was the stinging pain.

  Rose, too, seemed stunned into silence.

  ‘I am truly very sorry,’ Louise said, lifting her eyes, ‘that you are unable to contact Sarah. On behalf of Blue Wave and on a personal level. But we have no obligation here. We do wish you both well and, of course, we all hope that Sarah will make contact with you sooner rather than later.’

  Louise picked up the manila folder and pushed back her chair.

  ‘But we’re talking about a missing person,’ I said. ‘Your ship is the last place we know Sarah was for sure. We need to know everything so we can find out where she went after that. It might lead us to where she is now.’

  ‘According to the Gardaí,’ Louise said, ‘there is no missing person case. They told us they are attempting to make contact with her but that the working assumption is that she left of her own accord.’

  ‘Even if she did,’ Rose said, ‘we still need to find her. You’re the only ones who can help.’

  Louise stood up.

  A moment later, Silent Simon did too.

  ‘Who is this guy?’ I said, pointing to our silent friend. ‘Is he your boss? What’s he doing here? Does he talk?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Louise said. ‘This meeting is concluded.’

  She turned to leave.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You can’t do this. Don’t you realise there is nowhere we can go from here? We have no idea where she went next. If you would just tell—’

  Louise stopped halfway to the door, turned.

  ‘Mr Dunne,’ she said. ‘We’re finished here. Katy will come in a moment to escort you out.’

  She walked out of the room, followed by her silent friend.

  I turned to Rose. ‘Did that just happen?’

  She shook her head, disbelieving. ‘What an absolute bitch.’

  ‘What about that booking thing?’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Rose said. ‘It’s bullshit. Even if someone else made the reservation, her name would still be on it, right? It’s like a flight. You can’t just have a lead passenger. You have to give all the names. They must be hiding—’

  ‘Um, excuse me,’ a new voice said.

  We turned to find Katy, the skittish receptionist, standing in the door, there to see us out.

  The walk back to the car park was a silent one. Once we were both in my car, I stuck the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it on.

  ‘Rose,’ I said, ‘I just want to say thanks for coming with me. I really appreciate . . .’ She was looking out the passenger window; I could tell she wasn’t listening to me. ‘Rose? Rose, I’m trying to say a nice thing here. Hello? Hey, what are you—’

  ‘Ssshhh,’ she said. ‘Shut up for a second.’

  ‘Rose, what the—’

  ‘Look.’

  She pointed at something and I leaned over to see what it was.

  Five or six parking spaces down and one row across sat what at first glance looked like a bus stop, but on closer inspection proved to be a smoking shelter for employees. Louise was in it, lighting up a cigarette and talking animatedly with another, older woman. There was something about her now – the way she was waving her arms about, the frequency of drags on her cigarette, the quick shake of her head every few seconds.

  She’d been so composed inside. Now, she looked upset.

  ‘Turn the key so I can roll down the window,’ Rose said. ‘Then duck down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So we can listen, obviously.’

  I did what I was told. Rose cracked the window open a few inches and then reclined the passenger seat. At this angle even if Louise turned to face us directly, she shouldn’t be able to see us.

  Her voice drifted into the car, high-pitched and anxious. She sounded like a different person.

  ‘. . . before, didn’t I? I told her I don’t know how many times. It’s not my job. I’m in PR. They called my degree studies in media relations, and this is the third one I’ve done! The third. I had to do that Fiesta boy. Yeah, that was me too. I know. Can you even . . .’ A truck rumbled past, drowning her out momentarily. ‘. . . had enough. I really have. No, I mean it this time. I can’t do it any more. Lying for a living? Like, what the fuck? Sorry, Marian. Excuse my French.’ There was a pause, presumably while the older woman spoke in a much quieter tone. ‘Yeah, I suppose . . . talk to her . . . hate this place.’

  There was a clatter of heels on tarmac as she and her friend walked away, back inside the building.

  We waited until we were sure she was gone, then sat back up.

  Rose turned to me. ‘So she did lie to us.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think a more important question is why she didn’t only lie.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If they don’t want to give us the truth, why not just say they didn’t find anything for Sarah? Why confirm she was on the ship and tell us about the times she went into and out of her room? They could’ve just said, “No, sorry. No Sarah O’Connell here.” It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘What about this does?’ I lay back agai
nst the headrest and closed my eyes. I felt exhausted.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘You know, I don’t really remember what life was like before it was just answering that same question, over and over.’

  ‘Sure you do.’ Rose pulled on her seatbelt. ‘And you didn’t.’

  I turned to look at her. ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘We go home, I suppose.’ I turned the key, started the engine. ‘We just go home.’

  I dropped Rose back at Moorsey’s. He was at work. My parents were still adhering to my Alone Time wishes, although I figured I only had an hour or two before Mum finally succumbed to her maternal instincts and arrived back on my doorstep with a stack of neatly labelled ­Tupperware and a Tesco bag straining to hold boxes of breakfast cereal and packs of toilet roll.

  I wondered if maybe I should call Maureen, but didn’t because I feared Jack would answer the phone.

  I wandered around the apartment, touching Sarah’s things, picking the odd item up to examine it, as if searching for clues.

  Where is she?

  I felt it then, buzzing faintly, starting to gather strength beneath my outward calm, seizing the opportunity it had in silent inaction: panic.

  Dinner. I would make some dinner. Yes, that’s what I would do. I wasn’t hungry but it would involve a series of steps – foraging, deciding, preparing, consuming, cleaning – that would distract me for at least a half-hour, if I did it right.

  I was staring into the fridge when I remembered something we’d overheard Louise say in the car park.

  I had to do that Fiesta boy.

  The Fiesta. Could it be another Blue Wave ship? It sounded like it could be. Who was the boy she’d been talking about? Another ­passenger? Did she mean that she’d had to talk to his family too?