‘Prior? Is that you?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Yes. Are you ok?’
The radio bleeped.
‘I’m fine. You just scared me, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry.’ came the reply, ‘I didn’t know whether to contact you now or leave it ‘til morning, but . . . I thought you’d want to know. Miss Livingstone . . . she’s not in her room.’
The radio bleeped again. Then silence.
Christine shook her head, disbelieving the words she had just heard. ‘What! What do you mean she isn’t there? Where else could she be? What’s happened?’
‘I think you need to see this.’ Prior’s voice crackled through the anxious energy that had suddenly filled the air, ‘Shall I come and get you?’
‘No.’ Christine replied angrily. ‘No, I can manage.’
She should have known better than to ignore her gut. The pangs of guilt that she had felt all evening had been leading her to this, that little voice in the back of her mind that had kept on at her, whispering to her; Go and check on Kelly.
It had been the same with Janet.
Why hadn’t she listened?
23:58
Saturday 14th May, 2011
‘You’ve got some nerve.’
Kelly shook her head, steadying herself against the door frame as her vision blurred in and out of focus. Her face throbbed with the sting of swelling and bruises. Her head pounded and rattled as though an intrusion of scarab beetles were scuttling around beneath her skull.
‘Shona?’ she questioned, her eyes desperately trying to adjust to the dim and the shadows. Why was it so dark anyway? ‘What’s going on?’
‘Going on? How the hell should I know?’ Shona bit back her words, dragging her hands through the dark lustre of her hair in a gesture of clear irritation. ‘You’re the one knocking on my door at stupid o’clock!’
Shona’s frustration was nothing compared to the confusion and dull, but absolute and aching pain that Kelly was feeling at that moment. Her stomach lurched as her legs seemed to give under her.
‘I . . . knocked . . . ?’
Kelly’s head spun violently. She seemed to blink out of time and space as the darkness began closing in on her.
‘Kelly?’
She heard Shona’s voice, but it seemed so far away. She felt the warmth of the dancer’s firm body press against her, felt her long, deceivingly strong arms around her; pulling her. Supporting her. She felt the soft cotton of the quilt that covered Shona’s bed hugging her suddenly tired and depleted muscles.
A light passed before her closed eyes. She tried desperately to open them, managing eventually to peel back her lids, though she still couldn’t focus.
Any momentary anger or resentment Shona had felt towards Kelly had now fled from her voice, which rippled only with the soft sighs of concern and disbelief. ‘Kelly, what have you done? What’s happened to you?’
As she slipped from consciousness Kelly could hear the battered and tortured cries of a girl she had once known echoing inside the depths of her own mind. Her chest ricocheted with a great sob as she recoiled from the underscore of a bass and guttural laugh. A voice she had tried so hard to forget.
‘He’s here.’ she whispered as she fell further into darkness.
00:03
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Christine pushed past the guards that stood either side of the door leading to Kelly’s room. She shook her head absently and the two men stiffened as she made her way inside.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she said, addressing Prior, ‘I thought you said they’d let us know when she was awake, not allow her to go wandering round the ship!’
‘Christine. I can understand you being upset — ’
‘Oh, you haven’t seen me upset. This . . . is not upset! I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Dr Matthews moved her here in the first place.’
‘You saw the state of the medical bay. There just wasn’t enough room back there.’
‘With all due respect, Kelly was the only one brought in with a pulse. She shouldn’t have been pushed aside like that.’
Prior opened his mouth, but did not speak.
Christine watched his chest rise and fall, his fists clenching at his side as he struggled to control his breathing. She knew how her words would sting him and for the briefest of moments she didn’t care, she knew she was right.
But almost instantly she regretted her choice to share that particular opinion.
Prior pushed out a sigh, nodding. ‘You’re right.’
‘Jon . . .’
‘No, you’re right. She should’ve been in medical being observed . . . I should have checked in on her earlier. She’d been attacked after all . . . I just, I got caught up — ’
‘Jon.’ Christine said, placing her hand on his arm, ‘You did what you thought best. I’m as much to blame.’
‘But, you didn’t post the two idiots who were unable to follow simple orders outside her room. I did.’
‘What do you mean unable to follow orders?’
‘That pair,’ Prior said, nodding his head towards the door. ‘Stratton went to get them a sandwich and a drink about an hour ago.’
‘Right,’ Christine said evenly, sensing there was more to the story.
‘Only, while he was away Collins decided he couldn’t hold on another ten minutes for a cigarette break.’
‘He did what!’
‘Believe me, I can’t tell you how angry I am.’ he said, before lowering his voice, ‘And I’m going to make sure this is the last voyage he makes with this company. But, for now I need every man I’ve got if I’m going to keep some semblance of control on this ship.’
‘Why? What else has happened? What am I missing’
Prior shook his head, an irritated look in his eye, ‘Apparently Andrews made a general announcement earlier, updating the crew on all that’s gone on. But with the way things are with communications and what-have-you . . . well, he basically broadcast it to the whole bloody ship, didn’t he.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. It went out across the PA systems in every bar and restaurant on the ship. So there goes our chance of keeping things quiet.’
‘Oh, my God. What did he say?’ Christine said, in disbelief, ‘And how do you even make a mistake like that?’
‘It’s easy enough I suppose when you appoint a pup as the lead-dog!’
‘Okay, I noticed that you could have cut the tension between the pair of you with a knife the other night. But, that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?’
‘You tell me Christine. I mean, the kid’s broadcast everything we know about the deaths of the engineering crew. He more or less openly connected it to the loss of power and outside communication. People aren’t stupid. Come morning we’re going to have an epidemic of panic and confusion on our hands. Those who don’t already get that something’s very wrong, will know soon enough. And we can’t stop it, or reassure them in any way, because what do we have? Nothing.’
‘Did he mention the other murders?’ Christine asked, mentally assessing the damage this revelation could do. Even if the general populace of the ship didn’t know that the engineering crew had been murdered, the idea that they had died in a massive accident which had rendered the ship powerless and adrift was not something anyone was going to take lightly. But, it was certainly better than it being public knowledge that someone had murdered them specifically toward this end.
‘I don’t think he overtly spoke about the individual murders or that that was the case in engineering, but it won’t take long for people to start putting two and two together. I mean there’s the Stacey Atkins’ hen party for one thing. You see, Blakely and Cunningham were crew; practically faceless unknowns to the passengers. We can contain the details about their deaths. But, Stacey?’ Prior shook his head, sighing, ‘You saw how many people were in that corridor. How many glimpsed the inside of that room. It’ll spread like wildfire.’
‘If it hasn’t already.’ Christine pushed out a long breath, glancing around the dark room. ‘And now Kelly has disappeared too. Do you have anyone looking for her?’
Prior shifted his weight awkwardly, meeting the hard stare she had pinned him with. ‘I’m doing my best, Christine.’
‘Your best? So, I take it that’s a no then, is it? No. No one is out searching for the woman who was targeted and attacked in her own room around the same time that everything started going to shit.’
‘Christine — ’
‘Don’t.’ she said, throwing her hand up to physically stop his words. ‘Don’t try and tell me everything will be ok, or that it could all just be coincidence or that she might just be fine. Don’t. Because, do you know what? That’s exactly what they said about Janet.’
Biting back a sob at the sudden flood of raw emotion that rippled through her, Christine turned from Prior, her hand pressed firmly against her lips as she drew in breath after stifled breath trying desperately to regain control.
After a moment she felt Prior’s firm hand on her shoulder, though she could not yet bring herself to face him.
‘I will find her. I promise you.’
‘I just hope we’re not too late.’
Christine felt Prior move away from her, the absence of his strong hand leaving her cold. She composed herself, wiping at a stray tear that had managed to breach her self-imposed defences. ‘You said there was something you wanted me to see.’
‘Yes’ said Prior, switching on the torch that Christine hadn’t even noticed he had been nursing in the dark. ‘You’re familiar with Miss Livingstone’s work?’
Christine nodded, but as the silence stretched out — and uncertain as to whether he had noticed the slight movement or not — she added, ‘Yes. She let me take a look at her portfolio, though I don’t how recent it all is.’
‘I can guarantee it’s not as recent as this lot.’ Prior said, his voice suddenly filled with unease.
As he shone the torch into the corner of the room Christine heard herself gasp as her eyes beheld the wonder and horror of his concern. Resting against the legs of a collapsible easel were two wild and grotesquely colourful paintings.
Christine’s stomach churned uncomfortably as she approached, the gold gild of her ornate stick reflecting the light of the torch as Prior moved in besides her.
The picture on the left was entitled Doctor Death and revealed a good — if not somewhat artistically tweaked — likeness of Dr Cunningham. His face was deathly hollow, with a bluish tinge to his cheeks and flesh; his lips an odd purple. He smiled leeringly from the canvas, his head cocked to the side as he raised a glass of what looked like red wine. But as she continued to stare at the painting, Christine realised that the liquid inside the glass had an incredibly live and vivid impression of movement. Her eyes traced up to find that the dark red of the fluid pouring into the clear goblet came, not from a painted bottle, but from the gushing wound in the centre of Cunningham’s forehead.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, looking to Prior for reassurance.
‘It gets worse.’ he said, offering none. Shifting the light to focus on the canvas to the right of Doctor Death, he waited for Christine’s eyes to adjust to both the visibility and the shock of what she would find there. ‘This one’s titled Man/Machine.’
‘That’s . . . that’s Blakely.’ she said, staring at the horrid blend of flesh and metal; of bone and blood and computer components melded together in paint as vibrantly realistic as the photographs she had been looking at not two hours earlier.
In some ways this was worse. Almost more realistic in its twisted surrealism.
‘And then there’s this.’
Moving the light once more, this time to a canvas clamped in place on the easel, Prior revealed the most graphic painting she had ever encountered. There were hand-sized images — almost snapshots — of Stacey Atkins in variously lewd positions surrounding a larger icon that occupied the centre of the canvas.
In each of the smaller portraits Stacey bore some new wound as she was assaulted by unseen hands; her battered face; the bite marks that covered her body and throat; the ligature marks; the words carved into her ribs. Each small image almost sneering Are you ready for your close up?
The look of terror on the face of the young bride-to-be gave way to defeated acceptance as Christine’s eyes moved from one image to the next.
They reminded her, in some strange and twisted way, of the ‘Stations of Cross’. But, then, perhaps that was the desired effect. For, at the centre of the painting, gleaming and glorious in its brutality, was an all-too realistic depiction of Stacey as they had found her in her room; hoisted up, head bowed and arms spread out in a crucifixion-style pose.
But unlike the pictures they had taken, this central image had an almost angelic glow about it — created in paint and wholly inappropriate, but angelic none-the-less. In accompanying the apparently religious theme there was a wooden-looking plaque worked into the painting above Stacey’s downcast, battered and bleeding head.
It was not unlike the tablet that sat above the image of Christ on the cross in so many religious tableaus, bearing the letters INRI in mockery of the ‘King of the Jews’. Only, this tablet bore the title of the painting.
Christine cleared her throat, struggling suddenly to find her voice as she spelt out the letters, ‘W.H.O.R.E. Whore.’
Prior nodded slowly, ‘So, as you can imagine, I’m just as eager to find Miss Livingstone as you are.’
Chapter Five
08:38
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Feeling herself begin to fall, Kelly jumped up with a start.
She found herself sitting in an unknown bed. Her heart was racing, her breaths rapid and shallow as she struggled to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. Trying to figure out where she was. And why.
The room was light and inviting; the air warm and filled with the smell of toast and coffee. Somewhat smaller than her own suite, it seemed far better equipped for living. There was a kitchenette opposite the bedroom-come-living area, which, though small appeared fairly spacious and open. Sliding mirrored panel-doors masked a built-in wardrobe space that ran the length of the wall facing her; from the arch of the little kitchen they disappeared down a narrow hallway that led to the front door.
To her right, Kelly noticed another door leading to what she imagined must be a bathroom; the scent of fragranced steam and a cleanly hint of bleach aiding in this determination.
Three dark-wood shelves floated on the outer wall that housed the bathroom, displaying books and magazines, ornaments and a wealth of photographs set out in a multitude of mismatched frames.
Pushing herself up, Kelly let out a stifled cry as a sudden surge of pain seemed to electrify her body. She couldn’t determine the epicentre. She just knew that everything hurt. Every limb, every muscle, every sinew and nerve seemed to complain as she continued to pull herself gingerly into some sort of a comfortable position.
Her brow wet with beads of pain and frustration, Kelly forced herself to move extra slowly, tentatively shifting her weight from one cheek to the other as she walked her buttocks up across the mattress.
After what seemed like an age she finally fell back against the wooden panel that was the headboard, panting and sweating.
‘Hello?’ she said. Her voice was quiet and hoarse; her throat dry. Aching. She shook her head, blinking as the dull thumping pain she was fast becoming accustomed to made its presence violently known once more. ‘Shit.’ she whispered, rubbing her hand over her eyes and the bridge of her nose.
She winced feeling the bruised tenderness of her face with her fingertips.
‘Good morning.’ The soft, familiar tones spilt out from the kitchen, cutting through the haze of the pain. ‘I was starting to worry.’
‘Shona?’
‘I was beginning to wonder whether I should go and fetch someone from medical, but then I didn’t really want to leave you alone either.’
The lengthy-limbed dancer eased her way across the room to take a seat on the bed next to Kelly. She eyed her for a moment before pressing her hand to Kelly’s forehead. ‘You’re still very warm. How are you feeling now?’
‘Like shit.’ Kelly managed.
Shona smiled, pouring a glass of water from a jug on the bedside table. ‘Your throat sore?’ she asked, passing Kelly the glass.
‘Like I swallowed a bee-hive. Bees included!’ she replied, before drinking down the water, ‘And thirsty. God, I’m so thirsty!’
‘I’m not surprised. You had quite a fever last night. I was really worried, Kelly. Had to put you in the shower at one point just to try and cool you down.’
‘Any excuse.’ Kelly said slowly, trying her best to smile even as her face throbbed.
Returning the smile with a beam of her own, Shona refilled the glass and handed it back to Kelly, who, taking another long drink, found herself gasping when she finally parted the cool glass from her swollen lips.
‘What happened?’ she asked, trying to focus on the big, brown eyes that seemed suddenly devastated with concern for her.
Shona shook her head. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. You turned up like this in the early hours. You were bloody and bruised . . . the stitches in your thigh were seeping — ’
‘I have stitches?’ Kelly interrupted, pulling back the quilt cover to inspect Shona’s claim and noticing, for the first time, that she was wearing only an oversized T-shirt that was clearly not her own. Her mind raced as she tried to recall the events of the previous day, though nothing seemed to jump out. Until, ‘We were supposed to meet!’ she said, as the recollection of their dinner plans abruptly perforated her swirling lack of memories. Shona nodded. ‘But, we didn’t?’ Kelly ventured.
‘No. I waited for you, but you didn’t show. I was really pissed off. And freaked out too, but then with all the power cuts — ’
‘The what?’
Shona stared at Kelly. It seemed she was trying to read her, to judge whether she was simply messing her around. ‘The ship lost power yesterday.’ she said in a questioning tone. ‘Early evening?’ Kelly shook her head, none the wiser. ‘There was a storm too, which I had thought might have had something to do with it, but . . .’ she paused, taking hold of Kelly’s hand, ‘you really don’t remember any of this, do you?’
Splintered Page 20