Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  ‘What?’ asked Prior, smiling, ‘I’m not good on the phone . . . or even in person when it comes to my parents.’

  ‘Say no more. You’re preachin’ to the choir.’

  ‘Don’t get on with yours either?’

  Davies sighed, shaking his head. ‘Let’s just say they don’t entirely agree with some of my . . . choices.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Davies grinned, adjusting his uniform and picking up one of the Ianus security mobile phones. ‘Their loss. They’ll come ‘round one day.’

  Prior nodded as Davies pushed out of the office to begin tending to his duties. He didn’t have the heart to air the question he was certain Davies had already contemplated; And what if they don’t?

  Prior plucked the rota and itineraries from the workstation before him and began cross-checking. He liked to know which of his officers were on duty; where and when. He liked to plan ahead.

  It wasn’t that he anticipated any trouble on this leg, but it was better to be prepared.

  It seemed they had a few minor celebrities on board. None of them appeared to be divas; they hadn’t made any special requests at least.

  So far.

  Still, he liked to plan ahead.

  ‘Guv’.’

  Davies’ head appeared in the doorway once more.

  ‘I think you might want to come and take a look at this.’

  Waiting.

  She hated waiting like this. Not because she was impatient, but because she could feel the eyes of every other passenger waiting to board behind her boring a hole into the back of her skull. And it wasn’t even her fault. These were the tools of her trade. She hadn’t even entertained the thought that she might have to phone ahead and check that she would be allowed to bring them on board.

  Stupid rules!

  Stupid me!

  And this trip was supposed to be relaxing. Ha! She hadn’t believed that for a moment. No, it had been purely stressful from the first time she’d sat down to try and book the damn thing.

  To make things worse, three days before she was due to depart, the Dean of Art and Design — her immediate boss — along (she was informed) with the board of Governors, Contributors and other senior Management had seen fit to place her in the wonderful position of contributing to a published work spanning her earliest instalments, designs and other pieces through to her latest collection.

  Fucking joy!

  If she’d wanted to be a writer she would have pursued a career in journalism or fiction instead of art! But, no. She was an artist!

  But, the university had demanded that she actively take part in this publication and, as they did pay the wages that kept her afloat, there were only so many times she could turn them down politely or offer a flat-out ‘no fucking way’ in reply to the money-making schemes and publicity stunts they consistently thrust into her lap. She was, after all — as she was reminded almost daily in the stream of emails she received from the Dean — their artist in residence. A fact they constantly loved to push and to publicise.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  A tall, athletic-looking wall of a man stopped short of the mobile conveyer belt and the junior security officer that was sat behind it. Unlike the ginger mop-top that stuttered with apologies before her, it was clear that this man commanded attention and authority wherever he went. His green eyes glistened in the early morning light that stole into the crowded reception-come-security-check-in area; his close-cut dark hair (that didn’t quite mask the pencil-thin scare running lengthways over his skull) adding a boyish quality to his handsome, if not slightly weathered face.

  ‘Are you in charge here?’

  ‘I am the Head of Security on board the Ianus, yes.’ he said, his voice husky and attractive in keeping with his physical appearance.

  She smiled, despite herself.

  ‘This lady,’ the mop-top piped up, stumbling as soon as he had started, ‘she’s got a . . . erm . . . a set of . . .’

  ‘I’ve brought some of my work on holiday with me.’ she cut in, saving him further embarrassment.

  ‘Really? And what is it that you do?’ The Head of Security smiled pleasantly at her.

  ‘I’m . . . an artist and — ’

  ‘She has a set of knives.’ the junior finished.

  ‘I see.’

  He clearly didn’t.

  Annoyed, her eyes flicked up to the wall-mounted, flat-screen T.V. silently reporting the latest regional news; apparently the Chief Constable of Merseyside Police was retiring following events that had culminated in a botched partnership operation with the Cheshire Police force and the discovery of human remains in Delamere Forest.

  Delamere.

  It struck a chord and she frowned at the screen.

  ‘You know I’m going to have to confiscate these, Mrs . . .’

  ‘Miss.’ she said, snapping her attention back to ole green eyes, ‘Livingstone. Kelly Livingstone. And you can’t confiscate them. I need them.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a choice. These are classed as dangerous weapons,’ he said, unrolling the set of beautifully crafted artist knives, ‘and as such cannot be carried by any passenger onto this ship. Now, do you have anything else in your bags that you might want to declare? Work-related or not?’

  Kelly shook her head a little quicker and a little more emphatically than she’d meant to, instantly rebuking herself. But, she couldn’t help it; he’d set her on edge now.

  The Security Chief eyed here for a moment before passing her bags back through the x-ray scanner, pausing to take a good look at the contents as they appeared on the screen before him.

  ‘He’s done that once.’ Kelly objected, nodding towards the mop-top.

  The annoyingly handsome security officer simply smiled at her.

  ‘Just routine, Miss Livingstone.’

  He handed the bags to the ginger one who gleefully prised open the first and began riffling through her clothes and personal belongings.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Everything alright, Mr Prior?’ a male voice hollered suddenly from behind her.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ answered the man she now knew to be called Prior.

  ‘Then what’s the hold up?’

  This second man, the one spitting questions at Prior did not have a naturally authoritative voice, but one that was well practiced in giving orders. Kelly turned to see the white uniform along with the stripes signifying the rank of a Captain approaching her.

  ‘This lady, Miss Livingstone, was found to be in possession of a set of knives — ’

  ‘Livingstone?’ the Captain cut in, eyeing Kelly properly for the first time, ‘Kelly Livingstone?’

  She nodded, slightly bewildered by the succession of events so far.

  ‘I’m a great admirer of your work. If I might say, I think you’re one of the greatest living artists of our time. Your reclaimed pieces are some of my favourites.’

  ‘Thank . . . you . . .’ she said slowly.

  ‘Captain Andrews. Jason Andrews.’

  Taking his extended hand, Kelly shook it, smiling; feeling a sudden heat flushing her cheeks as she did. This was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid. Still . . .

  Andrews broke off the hand shake and turned to Prior. ‘Return Miss Livingstone’s possessions to her bag. I can personally vouch for her credibility and — ’

  ‘With all-due respect, sir, these are not mere possessions. They are classed as potentially deadly weapons that — ’

  ‘Do not try and quote the rule book at me Prior.’ he said, squaring up to the Security Chief, ‘I am exercising my discretion as Captain of this vessel. If you have a problem with that you can submit a complaint — in writing — to Golden Star, but until such a time as they reply I suggest that you return Miss Livingstone’s things and continue with your duties so that we might depart without further delays relating to a slow security check-in. Else I might be forced to submit a complaint to Golden Star myself. Someth
ing along to lines of incompetence and insubordination. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal. Sir.’ Prior muttered through clenched teeth, never taking his eyes from his commander.

  Kelly could almost smell the testosterone!

  As she quickly moved to collect her bags, the mop-top junior pulled out three, well-sealed eighth-bags of green. Prior looked instantly to Andrews, who in turn looked to Kelly. Kelly dropped her gaze, cursing that she hadn’t been quick enough.

  ‘And what about that, Sir?’ Prior questioned.

  In one swift move Andrews took the bags from the mop-top and pocketed them. ‘What about what, Mr Prior?’

  Then, Andrews lifted Kelly’s bags from the conveyer belt and with a final determined look at Prior, led her through the reception/security area and into an adjoining lounge.

  Prior shook his head, his teeth still clinched. As she followed Andrews, Kelly heard him exhale an obvious — though barely audible — curse and smiled to herself.

  ‘Prick!’ he muttered.

  When they were out of Prior’s view, the young Captain stopped and addressed Kelly once more. ‘I’m sorry about that. He’s a good man — and an excellent officer — but he can be difficult to work with at times. But then that’s coppers for you.’

  Kelly nodded, smiling almost dumbly, not quite knowing what to expect next.

  ‘Well,’ she said eventually, ‘thanks for . . . coming to my rescue.’

  ‘It was my pleasure.’

  Waving his hand at one of the stewards, Andrews silently called him over and, taking a crisp twenty-pound note from his wallet, tipped the robust, yet compact-looking young man in advance. ‘Niko, will you take Miss Livingstone’s bags up to the Athena suite please?’

  The steward nodded, pocketing the twenty and picking up her bags in one, fluid motion.

  Had she just been up-graded?

  ‘Thank you, again, Captain Andrews. But, I thought I was in room . . .’ she paused, scanning the paper print-out still tucked inside her passport.

  ‘Think of it as compensation . . . for the hassle.’

  Kelly smiled, genuinely and pleasantly surprised (and even a little awed) by Andrews’ generosity. But what were the conditions of his charity?

  ‘I have only one request to make.’

  Ah, right on cue.

  Andrews extended his hand once more and as Kelly pressed her palm against his she felt something other than flesh. Something plastic.

  ‘That you will join me at the Captain’s table for dinner tonight?’

  Kelly hated social functions. Particularly when they involved eating.

  But, in all reality, how many times would such an offer materialise again? And how many Captains would have gone out of their way to intervene with security issues on behalf of someone like herself? How many would have upgraded her, tipped a bell-boy and returned her confiscated weed so freely?

  If a social dinner was all that he was interested in, she was more than happy to oblige.

  ‘How could I refuse?’ she said.

  His smile was one of unadulterated, child-on-Christmas-morning joy. ‘Good. Great. Then, I’ll see you this evening.’

  He released her hand and moved away from her, striding through the bustling lounge.

  Kelly felt the palmed bags with the tips of her fingers quizzically. Opening her hand ever so slightly, she glanced down. Two bags.

  Two. Not three.

  She looked back up at Andrews, who simply winked as he marched confidently on.

  Kelly shook her head, a soft smile spreading across her face.

  ‘Cheeky bastard.’

  10:35

  Friday 13th May, 2011

  Christine Kane sipped at the large glass of merlot, savouring the taste as the world — literally — began to drift away from her.

  As she sat out on the balcony that was part and parcel of the luxury aft-port-side suite, she felt as though she was finally beginning to leave the troubles and woes of the past year behind her. Beginning, perhaps. Though there was no guarantee that she would succeed in completing this particular course of treatment. That she ever would — or could — truly leave the past behind her.

  Hence the large glass of merlot for breakfast.

  She scribbled notes, as ever, in the brown faux-suede journal that was never out of arm’s reach for the now-retired criminal psychologist. Profiler. Whatever.

  She was done with all of that.

  Absently, she stretched out her right leg. A twinge of pain bolted up and down the limb, beginning and ending like arthritic lighting at the knee. Her new prosthetic knee.

  Rubbing the joint as if it were still her own, Christine traced the course of the pins and hinges through her loose black trousers. Tentatively, she thumbed the precise rods of metal that held the new mechanism in place; that enabled her to walk again. Even if it was with the aid of a stick.

  The doctors had made a good job of rebuilding her leg and she’d made a sizable donation to the hospital upon receiving a generous amount of compensation on top of her early retirement payout. She felt it was the least she could do after they’d managed to save not only her leg, but also her life.

  And after they’d tried so hard, also, to save the life of Janet.

  But, let’s not think about that now. I’m on holiday for a reason.

  And, oh how she wished that reason didn’t feel so much like running away. How she wished she didn’t feel guilty every single, waking moment. Guilty for living; guilty for feeling; for remembering; for forgetting; for drinking to forget.

  But she never truly forgot any of it. Who could dare to suggest that she ever would, or should . . . or wanted to?

  Her latest academic work Personality and Profiling had soared to the top of various book charts following the recent events and unwanted media attention. Media interference. And Christine’s publicist (along with her own G.P.) had eventually insisted that she take a break; recuperate and escape it all.

  Like it was that easy.

  Still, it had sounded like a good idea at the time and Christine reluctantly complied. Not something she was particularly renowned for, or in the habit of doing very often at all.

  Turning the page of her journal to continue with her train of thought she was halted by a small square of luminous pink paper. She hated being disturbed mid-flow at the best of times . . .

  She picked up the note in her beautifully soft and slender hand, silently mouthing the words as she read them:

  You’re at the Captain’s Table tonight (13th). Hope you find this in plenty of time. Helena.

  Helena Wainholme. Christine’s publicist.

  Great.

  Christine sighed. Clearly Helena wasn’t going to allow her to simply disappear into the recesses of her suite and her mini-bar and not emerge until the end of the trip after all.

  Damn.

  She wasn’t great in the face of social gatherings, especially since . . . all of that.

  Yes, merlot for breakfast had been a very good choice. And apparently a pre-emptively deserved and necessary one!

  She sighed and took another sip.

  13:20

  Friday 13th May, 2011

  The raked floor of the proscenium-arched stage had been transformed into an other-worldly forest; dank and ominous as the hazer spilled a light, creeping fog across the scene.

  The technical crew had built out from the proscenium creating a sloping thrust stage so that the audience sat on three of the four sides of the action; immersing them in the very physical and technically spectacular adaptation of Shakespeare’s lengthy poetic work; The Rape of Lucrece.

  After months of hard work, everything was finally coming together. The Dionysus Theatre had never looked so . . . accessible. So realistic. So intrinsically believable.

  Shona Jacobs sat in the cushioned stall seats taking it all in, feeling the cool water spill over her warm throat and thirsting tongue as she drank from the plastic bottle in her hand.

  The com
pany had started working on this performance — this modern operetta — nearly six months earlier. They had studied the poem together; broken it down, restructured and reinvented it, looking also to Benjamin Britten’s chamber opera — The Rape of Lucretia — for some inspiration before throwing it out completely and bringing their own composer on board.

  And, bam!

  Within a week he’d written an entirely new score. A score that included all the usual suspects in terms of orchestral instruments as well as a virtuoso for the electric guitar, a keys and rhythm section and some of the most beautiful and surprising arias Shona had ever heard or had the privilege of performing.

  But, after two hours of physical and vocal warm-ups followed by the final rehearsal before the dress, she was feeling more than a little wiped out.

  ‘What’s up Lucrece?’

  Shona sat up, suddenly aware that she’d relaxed right down into the stall seat, leaning her head against its soft, cushioned side. ‘Mike.’

  She forced a smile as he sat down next to her.

  Mike had landed the male lead of Sextus Tarquinius playing opposite her Lucrece. The villain of the story who’s dishonourable deeds leant its name to the performance.

  And in some ways it suited him.

  Mike was an amazing performer; a great dancer; fantastic voice; he had good, strong features and was compact without being overly muscular. He was even a decent actor.

  It was just such a shame that he knew it.

  He was a nice enough guy . . . when he wanted to be. Easy enough to get along with. A good laugh, generous with his money and not too bad in the sack. But, Mike had the unfortunate habit of transforming — at the drop of a hat — into the nastiest and most demanding of divas. Not to mention an out and out bully.

  Shona didn’t know which was worse. Which one of those two horrid colours she hated most on him.

  The two of them had been together for about four weeks just over a year ago. Like everyone before her she’d been lured in by his charm and his confidence. It all seemed like ancient history now, but it was their history. And, try as she might to put it aside — to just be fucking professional about it all — it still made Shona very uncomfortable.