Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  Still, he was in a good mood today.

  Not in the least because the proverbial barrel had just been well-stocked with a fresh new batch of fish; keen and energetic, stunning and eager-to-please. She had noticed him eyeing the new dancers as they had warmed up together this morning.

  These girls weren’t involved in Lucrece, but no doubt they would all converge and work together at some point. The new twirlies would — in all likelihood — be performing cabaret acts in the various smaller show-rooms that punctuated most of the upper decks of the Ianus.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ he said.

  She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. But, it did nothing to appease his curiosity and he waited in silence, watching her.

  Becoming slightly uncomfortable, Shona’s dark, almond eyes moved from his face to the stage and finally back to him. He was still staring.

  ‘I think I’m just feeling it today.’ she said, eventually.

  He settled back into the chair next to her, taking the water bottle from her hand and drinking down a great gulp. ‘You seemed distracted . . .’

  ‘I could say the same of you!’ she said, laughing in spite of herself.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Don’t try and tell me you didn’t notice the hot, little blonde with smouldering eyes and the red top.’

  Mike grinned impishly. ‘Yeah, don’t try and tell me you didn’t notice her either! Man, what an arse.’

  ‘At least let her find her feet first, Mike.’

  ‘Her feet won’t touch the ground, mate!’

  Shona shook her head feeling a strange twinge of guilt in simply knowing his routine; his obvious and unapologetic, appalling sexual habits. Knowing how he’d whisk the girl away in a whirlwind romance before breaking her heart in the cruellest of ways. She’d watched him do it to so many other girls.

  Fortunately, she hadn’t had to experience it.

  As far as she knew she was the only girl — at least the only one the ship — who’d been quick enough to break up with him first.

  ‘So, how’s Jemma then?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘We broke up.’

  ‘Well, there’s a surprise.’

  Jabbing her playfully in the ribs, Mike handed the bottle back to her. ‘How’s things with you and Rachel?’

  Mike hadn’t been the one Shona wanted to first air this with, but since he had asked . . .

  ‘She decided she couldn’t handle a long-distance . . . thing.’

  ‘And by thing you mean relationship.’ He said it as though it were a foreign word and again she found herself laughing with him, even as she slapped his leg. He recoiled, feigning injury.

  ‘Yeah. One of them.’ she said, her voice filled with more sadness than she realised she bore towards the issue.

  Mike rubbed his thigh, a red mark already pulsing where she’d caught him. ‘You back on men then, now? Or you still . . . dabbling?’

  ‘You’re a twat, d’you know that?’ she said, a grin spreading across her face.

  ‘I have been told as much. Yes.’

  Unable to resist the urge to really wind him up, Shona stood, leaning seductively over Mike as she spoke. Her chest rising and falling; her lips only millimetres from his.

  ‘You’d know if I started dated men again.’ She said pausing, allowing her words to really sink in and watching his sharp intake of breath as he swallowed hard. She placed her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart begin to race. God only knows what his other organs were doing! ‘You’d know, because I’d send you a copy of the list.’

  ‘The . . . list?’ he stuttered.

  Yes, actually stuttered!

  She was enjoying herself far too much. Enjoying the power that — until that very moment — she’d had no idea she held over him.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, tracing a slender finger over his vested chest and abs. Feeling every breath he took. ‘Yeah, you know, like a wish-list. And your name would be right up there at the top . . .’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, right at the top of the ‘you wish’ list!’ she said with a giggle, ‘Come on, if your name was on any list of mine, it’d have to have a thick black line through it anyway!’

  ‘Line?’ he repeated, slowly emerging from his stupor.

  ‘Yeah. What is it you always say?’ She smiled, turning her back on him, ‘Been there . . . done that.’

  Mike shook his head, but managed to smile at her.

  ‘Come on, you walking penis,’ Shona called back as she made her way towards the doors, ‘let’s grab some lunch before the dress.’

  Yes. The dress rehearsal would start in a couple of hours.

  Food. Need food. Maybe a drink too.

  A real drink.

  Mike was shaking. He could barely catch his breath. Was it excitement or embarrassment? He couldn’t tell.

  Was it anger?

  Slowly, he climbed to his feet and followed Shona out of the theatre.

  19:29

  Friday 13th May, 2011

  Kelly strolled into the Grande Central dining hall just before seven-thirty, scanning the lavishly decorated art-deco-esque room for the coveted Captain’s Table.

  She spotted the unmistakable facade of the man who had both come to her aid and also lightened her baggage load earlier.

  Andrews was not an overly tall man, but he seemed taller purely in his attitude and manner; the natural confidence he exuded. He was every inch an officer and filled the room with an energy that was more than authority, it was personality.

  He was clearly the bell of the ball!

  Clean shaven with almost baby-faced features, he stood near an imitation open-fireplace surrounded with emerald and black tiling, fully engaged in conversation with a flock of doting women and a gaggle of well-dressed men who each nodded in agreement, laughing dutifully.

  Kelly stepped forward, drawing in a deep breath as she entered the lion’s den.

  It was immediately clear that only the senior officers and the most elite of the Ianus’ passenger manifold dined in here. And she felt it.

  Every step she took drew an icy stare from one well-suited old barrister to another and tut after tut from every one of the horse-faced, fake-tan, peacock-eyelashed creatures she could only assume had once been little girls and women. Before the money had spoiled them.

  Still, it was nice to see that the judgemental bias of class discrimination was still alive and well in the twenty-first century!

  ‘Excuse me madam, can I help you?’ Kelly heard the man’s words, but his tone made it very clear that he — in fact — was keen to do anything but help.

  Kelly turned to find herself confronted by a moustachioed penguin and had to clamp her lips tight shut to keep from laughing in the man’s face.

  He was tall and skinny in an unattractive way that didn’t suit him. He wore a plastered look of disgust that could only be described in terms of him catching the scent of some foul smelling odour and believing her to be responsible for it. His mouth was twisted in a bitter-lemon pout under his thin, tight moustache.

  In short, he was every inch the stereotypical stuck-up and repugnant sort of maitre d’ she had expected to encounter in a place like this.

  She instantly disliked him. And whilst she’d previously been apprehensive about this evening, wishing — praying — for some reason to cancel, Kelly was suddenly more determined than ever to take her seat at the Captain’s Table and mingle with the toffs!

  ‘I’m expected.’ she said.

  The penguin stepped back, studying her; taking in her dark, slim-fit jeans and the chunky belt that featured a gleaming silver buckle in the shape of a skull and which hung gun-holster-low over one hip. His eyes fell down to the immaculate white trainers that covered her feet before tracing his way slowly back up and over her body; over her tight, blue Ben Sherman shirt, to her silver necklace, her azure eyes as they glistened through smoky colours and fine black lines, right up to the blue-bl
ack hair that fell in a side fringe over to the left of her face. He sneered as though the cut of it had actively offended him; clearly it was too severely short and oddly asymmetric for his liking.

  She could almost hear his thoughts; they were splashed across his arrogant face. I mean trainers for heaven’s sake! Not in the Grande Central. Not on my watch.

  A prematurely self — satisfied grin pushed his sour-lemon lips from their pout as he clearly anticipated having to have her escorted from the restaurant. ‘Expected?’ he repeated, ‘By who?’

  Kelly wanted, so much, to just punch him right in his smug and leering face as it bobbed before her. Tempting her.

  She didn’t.

  ‘I have an invitation to join Captain Andrews.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ he taunted.

  ‘No, really.’ She said, fast becoming frustrated, feeling the anger rising with every breath. ‘I do.’

  ‘Well then,’ he continued in the same self-satisfied tone, motioning to several of the waiting-on staff; calling them over, ready to have her promptly and presently ejected, ‘if I can just check your reservation, you’ll be free to join Captain Andrews and his guests.’

  ‘Reservation?’ She couldn’t believe it. ‘I don’t have a reservation. I met him today during check-in. He helped me out and invited me . . . like this . . .’ she opened and closed her mouth several times pointing at it before continuing, ‘he said would you join me at the Captain’s Table for dinner tonight and I — foolishly — agreed. He didn’t give me a piece of . . .’ she exhaled, biting back the expletive on the tip of her tongue, ‘I don’t have a written invitation.’

  Don’t rise to the bait, she thought. He’s just itching to throw you out. Come on Kelly, don’t let this prick get the better of you.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that with no — ’

  ‘Edmunds.’

  She knew that gruff and husky voice. Again, from this morning. She knew exactly who it belonged to. The Security Chief; Prior.

  ‘The Captain’s waiting — ’

  ‘Yes sir, Mr Prior, I was just about to have this lady — ’

  ‘Miss Livingstone.’ Prior cut in, his eyes darting assertively from the Penguin’s to hers and back again.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Edmunds said, faltering for the first time; his haughty confidence diminishing before her eyes. How could Prior possibly know this woman? ‘She . . .’

  The words failed him.

  ‘She’s expected.’ Prior continued, ‘Miss Livingstone is the final guest that Captain Andrews is waiting on. Waiting to begin the first evening meal of the voyage . . . and you are holding all of that up.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir, very sorry. I didn’t think she . . . she had no reservation.’ Edmunds stuttered as he continued to deflate.

  ‘She has a personal invite from the man himself.’

  ‘I did try and tell him.’ said Kelly.

  ‘I didn’t . . . believe her, sir.’ Edmunds bowed his head by way of apology and in acknowledgement of his error.

  Choosing to dismiss him with some of his pride still intact, Prior reassured the Maitre d’, ‘You were doing your job. There’s no harm in that.’

  Edmunds gave a small nod, his head still bowed, silently thanking Prior for the way he’d dealt with the situation. For not causing a scene.

  Kelly, however, was less satisfied. Clearly Prior was a very chivalrous sort of bloke; intervening on her behalf despite their run-in this morning, before sparing this tight-arsed penguin-suited twat the humiliation he himself would have heaped on Kelly without a second thought. A humiliation he’d been goading her towards since she’d entered the room.

  Prior stepped back extending his arm.

  As Kelly passed Edmunds she turned, unable to contain herself any longer, ‘By the way, it’s whom.’

  ‘I . . . er . . .’

  ‘You asked ‘by who’ I was expected. Your grammar is a little lacking there, little waiter.’

  Prior shook his head. Only slightly, but it was there.

  ‘My apologies. Again.’ Edmunds offered. And all three of them knew that it wasn’t for his misuse of semantics.

  Kelly Livingstone; one point. Annoying, self-appointed, pretentious bastard; nil.

  ‘Thank you.’ she said quietly, as Prior led her across the surprisingly vast dining hall. She found herself falling in step with his measured, almost regimented strides.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he returned without looking at her, ‘He was already embarrassed. You didn’t have to humiliate him like that.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. He was trying his best to do the same to me.’

  ‘So, what then? An eye for an eye, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I was always taught to treat others as I’d like to be treated myself and if that’s how he gets-off, trying to publicly belittle people then he deserves some of the same in return.’

  Prior stopped, the tiniest of half-smiles sitting on his lips. ‘I’d have to say I agree. Which, is why I was in two minds about leaving Edmunds to do his job in throwing you out,’ Kelly opened her mouth to protest. Prior continued, unhindered, ‘but, I heard Captain Andrews talking, just now, about how his favourite artist would be joining us tonight. He really seems quite taken with you. With your work.’

  Kelly was shocked. Noticeably shocked. But, not by the discovery that Andrews was a fan; she knew that much already.

  ‘So he didn’t ask you to . . .’

  ‘What? You thought Andrews had sent me over to . . . mediate.’

  Nodding slowly, Kelly felt her cheeks begin to redden at her mistake.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I just didn’t think . . . especially after this morning . . . that you would, you know . . . willingly . . .’

  ‘Come to your rescue?’

  ‘Intervene.’ she said resolutely.

  He smiled at her fully for the first time since they had met. It wasn’t a joyous smile, or even an overly friendly one. It didn’t cause his green eyes to sparkle as she imagined a truly contented smile would, but it was honest.

  ‘Why don’t we start again?’ he said, extending his hand to her, ‘Jonathan Prior.’

  Perplexed by this intriguing officer, she accepted his hand.

  ‘Kelly Livingstone. But then, you already knew that.’

  As they continued towards the table, she noticed Prior nod to a beautifully uniformed woman of rank. She had large aqua eyes and long red hair that bounced when she walked. She smiled at him, a secret sort of smile and then she was gone.

  Prior pulled out Kelly’s seat before making his way around to the other side of the table and taking his place in between Andrews — who had also only just sat down — and an attractive lady, who Kelly judged to be a little older than herself. The intriguing woman was currently focused on the task of inspecting the silverware before her.

  She wore an expensive classic-cut black trouser suit with a white blouse. Her hair was pulled back and pinned in some sort of a pleat which kept a mass of shining, chocolate curls at a safe and orderly distance from her face. They spilled from her crown like the spiralled paper-strips from a weddings-worth of party poppers and Kelly could only imagine the amount of time and patience it must have taken to harness them.

  Suddenly — almost childishly — she felt the overwhelming desire to pluck out the pins. One by one. And let her hair fall free.

  Kelly continued to watch as the woman meticulously — yet as discreetly as possible — gave each of the pieces of cutlery that were laid before her a visual once over, adjusting them and aligning them to her personal specifications as she went.

  As though feeling her stare, the woman paused in her labour and looked up. Their eyes met and they held one another’s gaze for a moment; each feeling they had been caught out by the other.

  Obsessing about hair-pins.

  Obsessing about cutlery.

  They exchanged a brief smile before Kelly found hers
elf being introduced to all those around her.

  To her left sat the ship’s physician and Chief Medical Officer; Dr Karen Matthews.

  Matthews was a stern-looking, blonde-haired woman of about thirty. Her pale blue eyes seemed already tired, though they had not yet been a day at sea and, while she was not unattractive, she had a severity about her that put Kelly in mind of some sort of Swedish dominatrix. She dared not air this view of course; for fear of the punishments she might receive!

  Kelly stifled a laugh behind her white linen napkin.

  Next to Matthews was the second physician, Dr Stuart Cunningham. Put simply, Cunningham looked like Death. He was grey in every imaginable sense that a person could be grey!

  A little older, perhaps, than Dr Matthews, Cunningham looked like he had been destined to become an undertaker; but — Kelly supposed — a doctor was often close enough. His slothly, ashen face nodded in acknowledgment of his name as Captain Andrews quickly did the rounds, introducing everyone.

  To Kelly’s right was the head nurse, Adrian Kemp.

  Kemp was small and broad with wild, brown hair and eyes to match. He was like an electrically-charged ball of barely-harnessed energy just waiting to break free from the protons and neutrons that chained him.

  Andrews was sat opposite the Swedish Dominatrix; his second-in-command, Craig Roberts, on his right. Prior sat to his left, opposite Kelly . . . and next to him was the somewhat obsessional and intriguing, chocolate-haired woman.

  ‘Christine Kane.’ she interjected with a soft Scottish accent as Andrews reached her.

  Kelly smiled.

  ‘Dr Christine Kane.’ Andrews repeated, stressing her professional title.

  Something Christine had clearly neglected for a reason.

  ‘Table of doctors,’ Kelly said, ‘feel like I’m here for an assessment or something.’

  There was a teeter of laughter as their first course arrived at the table.

  ‘You have a doctorate don’t you, Miss Livingstone?’ It was Prior. And it was the second time this evening that the man had managed to surprise her completely.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, sipping tomato and basil soup from a silver spoon, ‘but, I’m by no means a medical doctor. Never had the brains . . . or the stomach for anything like that!’