‘Oh, yes.’ she said, craning her neck, ‘As soon as possible.’
‘And who is the lucky guy?’
Her eyes darkened and she pulled her hand from his knee; the sudden rush of cold air in the absence of her warm flesh reminding him that it had been there all this time.
‘Don’t mess me around. I thought you — of all people — would understand.’
He opened his mouth to speak. Then closed it once more.
‘It’s me.’ she said with only the slightest quiver in her voice, ‘It’s what I want and — ’
‘You?’ he whispered, leaning in.
‘Do you really find prospect so horrific?’
He shook his head slowly, though he had to admit he wouldn’t — in a million years — have placed a bet on that being the answer to his question. ‘It was just . . . unexpected.’
‘I’m dying.’ she said, the sobering words having the effect of slapping him in the face. ‘I’ve never really been in control of my own life, never taken the reins . . . and now it’s drawing to a close without me and I won’t have it. I want to be remembered. No. I want to be immortalised.’ She paused, taking in a deep breath, slowing the rise and fall of her skeletal chest, ‘I want my name tied dangerously close to yours so that when people think of you or speak your name or even hear it on the wind, they won’t be able to avoid speaking mine and thinking of me too.’
He was dumbfounded.
‘You’re sure about this?’ he asked, a strange and unexpected
emotion — something like respect and desire — swelling in his chest, stifling his own breath. In the last few minutes he had become quite fond of this odd, silver-haired siren, and now she was asking him to destroy
her. ‘You’re certain that this is what you want?’
‘Want.’ she echoed, tears filling her eyes, ‘What would you want when faced with so little time? A second chance? A miracle cure?’ she shook her head, ‘I just want to feel again.’
She reached for her wineglass, swallowing the remaining contents down in one gulp before tapping the rim forcefully against the edge of the table.
He heard it chip, though the sound seemed to be swallowed by the darkness before anyone else could notice.
Placing her arm flat on the table, the druidess began dragging the chipped glass across her skin. She pressed against it firmly drawing a steady line of red from the neat tear as she guided the glass over her thin flesh.
She did not flinch.
He stopped her hand and taking the glass returned it to the table, looking into her strong face; her determined, misty eyes.
‘Please.’ she pleaded, ‘Help me to feel something one last time.’
He nodded, touching her face with a tenderness he had forgotten he might even posses. He watched as a tear of relief broke from her ice-blue eyes, flowing over the defined contour of her cheek.
‘It would be an honour.’ he said, surprised to hear his own voice speaking the words, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Call me Nona.’
‘Nona?’ he asked.
She nodded, ‘It’s what my brother used to call me. He was young.’
Standing, he took her hand in his, ‘Well then Nona. It seems I am yours to command.’
20:50
Saturday 14th May, 2011
Christine had struggled not to gag as she had leaned against Prior on the way back to her room.
It really wasn’t his fault, but being quite a tall man the sticky, crust of alcohol-infused vomit that still clung to his ribbed jumper was just at the right height to waft directly into her nostrils with every step they had taken.
He had been busy explaining about the emergency power distribution as she had swiped her cardkey through the reader on the frame. He had already covered the logistics of the emergency lighting and air-filtration, the door-locking mechanisms, navigation and basic amenities and Christine couldn’t help but smile at his meticulous enthusiasm as they had entered the room, the door clicking softly shut behind Prior.
‘But you see with the satellite and communications relays taken out the little control we should have had on positioning and navigation has been all but lost and with the engines off and the amount of time we’ve had to drift, not mention this weather — ’
‘We really can’t be certain where we are.’ Christine had finished for him.
He had nodded at her, smiling.
Then she had proceeded to usher him into the shower, telling him to rinse his jumper in the sink before closing the bathroom door and crossing the suite to fetch her laptop.
The thin, light-weight world of technology had a soft lilac glaze and sat closed on the dresser near the balcony doors. The sky was miserably grim and dark and a small sigh had escaped Christine’s lips as she had finally sat down and powered up the computer, her thoughts returning to Kelly every so often.
She wished she could just phone her. Speak to her. Check she was ok.
She wasn’t at all happy with the way Dr Matthews had ejected her from the medical bay; the way she had simply removed her to her room. She could understand the awkward and angular woman’s reasons; all twenty-three-plus of them.
And yet, Kelly had been attacked in her room.
No. Sending her back there just wasn’t right.
Christine sighed.
She had hooked up the camera and inserted the additional SD card and was now scrolling through the litter of grotesque images that popped up before her, but all she could see was Kelly sprawled across the floor; battered and bleeding in her mind’s eye.
As she had been when she’d found her.
The room was warmer now and as Prior stepped out of the bathroom — post-shower — and he smiled to himself, thankful for the warmth. He had dried and dressed as best as possible, but was unavoidably exposed from the waist up and seemed to apologise for his nakedness as he hung his jumper and t-shirt on the small radiator. ‘It went right through.’
Christine smiled, ‘I’d like to say I might have something for you to borrow, but I just don’t think cashmere would stretch cross those shoulders.’
‘That’s ok.’ he said tentatively, making them both a cup of coffee and pulling up a chair next to her. ‘At least I don’t reek of somebody else’s insides anymore.’
Although her eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, working at the laptop had had the effect of once more destroying Christine’s night vision and it wasn’t until Prior sat down next to her that she spied the claw of finger-like scars on his shoulder.
He caught her looking and shrugged; a small half-smile on his face. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to mention it.’ she said, ‘But, now you’ve made me all the more curious.’
‘Another time then.’ he returned, his green eyes still managing to sparkle even in the dim light of the room. ‘For now, we have more pressing matters.’
Christine nodded, though she couldn’t help but think that the smallest of reasons would had been enough for Prior to try and lock her out.
But that was his choice and she had to respect it.
She understood it.
‘Listen, before I tell what I think I’ve found, I need you to do something for me.’
‘You’re worried about Miss Livingstone.’ Prior said, sipping at his coffee. ‘I heard that Dr Matthews had had her taken back to her room.’
‘I don’t think she should be alone. And certainly not after being attacked.’
‘I agree with you.’ Prior said evenly, ‘It wasn’t one of Dr Matthews’ better decisions. And I can understand you wanting to go and check on her, but — ’
‘What if whoever attacked her comes back.’ Christine pressed, ‘We don’t even know why she was targeted.’
‘And we won’t have any idea until she comes around enough to answer some questions.’
‘And what if she doesn’t come back round at all?’ Christine spluttered, gnawing on her lip involuntarily, her eyes stinging suddenly at the
thought.
‘Hey,’ Prior said, taking her small hand in his, ‘that isn’t going to happen. She’ll be fine once she’s rested up a bit.’
‘And if the attacker comes back in the mean time?’
Prior smiled softly, ‘I had Stratton and Collins form a detail outside her cabin. I told them not to disturb her, but to keep their ears open and inform me as soon as she’s awake. They’re under strict instruction not to let anyone enter her room until we get there.’
Christine almost threw her arms around the handsome, green-eyed officer, holding back only at the last moment.
Instead, she squeezed his hand, thanking him as she did.
‘I need you. Here.’ he continued, raising his finger and pressing it gently to her temple, ‘I need that keen mind of yours focused on the evidence. Focused on building a profile. I can’t do this alone. Not today.’
She gave a small nod, her dark eyes meeting his in a silent understanding. Then, breaking from his gentle grip, she turned back to the computer screen and the deathly images that waited patiently as the laptop whirred in the quiet dim of the room.
‘Well,’ she began, layering several windows one on top of another, ‘I took a look at the pictures from Stratton’s camera. There’s not much more to add to what we already know about what happened down in engineering. The bodies appear to have been starved of oxygen.’ She scrolled through the pictures as she spoke, not wanting to linger on any for too long, knowing how painful it must be for Prior. Without warning he stopped her hand, preventing her from flicking to the next image.
The subject of the photograph was a woman in her thirties. Her red hair spilled over the shoulders of her dark blue uniform, a strange look of terror and acceptance in her glassy blue eyes. ‘Knowing the circumstances and the conditions they were found in makes it easier for me to identify the cause of death, though I won’t pretend to understand the hurt you’ll be feeling now, Prior. I know nothing I can say will make this any easier.’
‘I don’t want it to be easier.’ Prior growled softly, reaching out to touch the face of the woman on the screen. ‘I should have stopped it.’
‘You really couldn’t have known.’ she said, echoing the words that Davies had offered so many hours earlier.
‘People keep telling me that. But it’s my job, isn’t it.’ He was struggling to keep a semblance of control over his voice as his body trembled. He couldn’t bring himself to look Christine in the eye. ‘It was my fucking job.’
‘This isn’t about blame. It cannot be about blame if we’re going to move forward and catch whoever’s responsible before they hurt anyone else.’
Prior shook his head involuntarily, his mouth moving without sound.
‘Prior.’ Christine continued, shaking him gently, ‘Prior . . . Jon.’ His head snapped round and he stared at her for the longest time without moving or saying another word.
Eventually, he seemed to shake off the distress that cloaked him so well, a single tear shimmering over his cheek as he finally spoke with a distant voice. ‘She was the first woman I’d really fallen for in a long time. We’d been taking it slowly, but I never thought . . . you never think that . . . if I’d have known — ’
‘But, that’s just it,’ Christine said, ‘we never can know.’
‘I’d have held her all night long. Every night.’ he said, sniffing, ‘But, you think you have all the time in the world. And the first week into a voyage is always hectic, especially for engineering. Rachel stopped in her own quarters. I stopped in mine.’
‘And that was her choice. You can’t control everything. And you can’t torture yourself for not anticipating something that no one could have predicted.’
‘But, that’s . . . my job, Christine. My job. That’s what I’m supposed to do.’
‘No.’ Christine said firmly, slightly taken aback at hearing him use her forename for the first time. Though — she supposed — she had started it.
For a man like Prior who — not unlike herself — enjoyed the formal use of surnames as a mechanism for keeping people at arm’s-length, that simple change in courtesy had instantly opened up a whole new uncharted dimension of their relationship. With that small change they had grown infinitely closer.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t accept that.’
‘But — ’
‘No buts. That’s it. Do you think Rachel would want to see you this way?’
‘D’you think I wanted to see her this way?’ Prior shouted suddenly, bounding from his seat; stalking back and too across the room. ‘When I find out who’s done this . . . who’s doing this, I’ll tear his fucking head off with my bare hands.’
‘You will not.’ Christine said forcefully, ‘but, we’ll cross that line when we come to it. And in that regard we’re not going to get very far with you stomping around like a gorilla in a zoo. You said you needed me. Needed my help. Well, I can’t do this alone either, so make yourself useful and go top up my coffee while you’re on your feet. Then, come and sit down and help me. Help me solve this thing so that we can avenge Rachel and everyone else.’
Prior eyed Christine for some time and for a moment it seemed that he would continue in his rant. Then he took the mug from Christine’s hand and, downing the remainder of his own drink, made each of them a fresh cup.
He returned to his chair, feeling the psychologist’s eyes on him as he stared at the screen.
‘You can go onto the next photo now.’ he said by way of apology, his voice sounding suddenly small in the darkened room.
‘I know it’s difficult,’ Christine said, closing the windows that concentrated on the engineering lock-down victims and opening a set that revealed the injuries sustained by Gary Blakely. Prior simply nodded at her words, allowing her to continue without interruption.
‘Gary Blakely seems to have suffered a whole mass of different injuries, some only moments before death, some minutes before and others . . . perhaps an hour or so before he died.’
Christine clicked through the photo flick-book of injuries as she spoke, Prior cocking his head or nodding his agreement and understanding from time to time. ‘I think you were correct in saying that Blakely’s codes weren’t taken willingly. There was ligature mark bruising around his ankles and his wrists. Left quite a furrow too; I’d say electrical wiring or something similar. Something thin enough to leave a smooth impression, but not so thin that it would just slice through the skin.’
‘You think he was hog-tied?’
Christine nodded, ‘Looks that way.’
‘How’d he escape?’
‘Well, if it was electrical cable that was used to bind him it could have slipped enough for him to wriggle free over time. But, not before he was repeatedly beaten and branded across his shoulders and back with what looks like the ‘V’ end of a crow-bar.’
‘Shit.’ Prior gasped taking in the sight of Blakely’s battered body. The mass of blue and purple bruising spread across the deputy’s back was indeed interspersed with red, raging V-shaped blisters, ‘And he was alive when this was done?’
Christine nodded. ‘I believe so. These blisters are very different to those on his face, which I am quite sure occurred peri-mortem. These have already begun healing. Dr Matthews should be able to tell us for certain, but I’d say yes. Yes, Blakely was very much alive throughout the ordeal.’
‘It looks like he was beaten with the crow-brow too.’ Prior said, pointing to the image, ‘I’d be very much surprised to find that he didn’t crack a rib. Or two.’
Christine sipped at her coffee as she brought up the next two images. ‘So, it looks like Blakely was definitely tortured; most likely for the information his murderer needed to cripple the ship, disable the communications systems and trap those who remained in engineering.’
‘Taking the lives of those he trapped in engineering.’ Prior seethed.
Christine conceded a small nod, ‘But, I don’t think that was the whole story. I think the architect behind all this enjoys t
he torture aspect, which would indicate that whoever killed Blakely is also likely to be responsible for the murder of Stacey Atkins.’
‘You’re sure?’ Prior asked, hoping that her guess was right and that they were dealing with only one psychotic lunatic; praying that the ship hadn’t in fact descended into absolute and murderous chaos.
‘I understand your concern.’ said Christine, seeming to read his mind, ‘And again, it’s just my opinion. But I’m quite confident they’re connected; that these two murders are indeed linked by the torture inflicted upon the victims. But that’s not to say that there couldn’t be a second culprit involved in all of this.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Prior said, stretching his back. He hated to sit for too long and could feel his lateral muscles beginning to seize up.
‘This picture shows a distinctive ligature mark across the victim’s throat. It wraps around the neck completely.’ Christine said, pointing at the picture on the left before moving to the image of a feminine throat on the right. ‘That was Gary Blakely, but look here. This image shows the throat of Stacey Atkins . . . with the same mark. Exactly the same mark.’
‘A chain of some sort?’
‘Looks like.’
‘So, that’s further evidence to link the killings, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Christine said, ‘But, there are differences. Sure, both of these victims bare distinct — I’d say identical — ligature marks. But a pair of killers working together might each own one of these chains.’ She paused, gathering her thoughts and looking into Prior’s eyes, ensuring that he understood her, ‘By openly wearing the weapon used as part of the killing process — part of the fantasy — the killer, or killers, are exhibiting an incredible display of boldness. A confidence, as I said before.
‘And yet, while they appear to be displaying the weapons for all to see, taunting — I don’t know — us, authority . . . they’re also using it as a shield. Hiding behind it; actively using the chain to physically take on the identity of a killer. Do you understand?’
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