Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  He watched. And seethed.

  His heart breaking and skipping all at once as he eyed the pair locked in their lascivious embrace.

  His pulse quickened as his shallow, rapid breathing thrust him into a sudden light-headedness. He found his trousers becoming all too tight and highly uncomfortable, making him wish he had brought his camera along to capture this moment and relive it at a later date.

  He watched as Shona pulled the woman towards her, whispering in her ear and smiling. The pair of them laughed, slinking off down the steps and out of sight.

  ‘I won’t miss twice, lovely.’ he whispered to no one but himself, ‘I won’t miss twice.’

  10:15

  Sunday 15th May, 2011

  Prior and Christine arrived at the Seraphim Suite in time to see Adrian Kemp stumble out of the door, fanning himself with a small stack of plastic evidence bags as he blew out a long breath; his face almost purple.

  ‘Kemp,’ Prior called, striding towards the male nurse, ‘You ok?’

  Sweating profusely, the young and wild-looking Adrian Kemp shook his head involuntarily as he struggled to catch his breath. Then, as if only just hearing Prior’s question he nodded. ‘I’m fine Jon-Boy. I’m fine.’ he panted, ‘It’s just . . . not that nice in there. You know?’

  Prior nodded, recalling from conversations with the Neolithic-looking nurse that Kemp had not long buried his father and that the suddenness of his death had hit him hard. He was still trying desperately to come to terms with the whys and the hows.

  Mostly the whys.

  Why had it happened? Why had he been taken from him? Why in such a manner?

  Prior too knew — from experience — that facing such a reckless and wanton destruction of life in the wake of losing someone close could destroy a man completely. He had known enough officers — good officers — driven from the force after losing a partner or a member of the team. He had seen many men and women torn apart by trying to rationalise the gruelling insanity of the needless loss of life that stalked their profession.

  His old profession.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Dr Matthews told me to come down and collect evidence.’ Kemp said, holding up the bags for Prior to see. ‘She had me go back over room fifteen-thirty-four too. The girl wasn’t there anymore, but it still felt . . .’ the words stopped as Kemp’s voice trembled.

  Prior placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, unable to keep the small, disapproving noise from the back of his throat as he thought of Dr Matthews ordering the nurse down to the room; sometimes she seemed to have absolutely no grasp of the meaning of the word sensitive.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine flick a subdued, but friendly smile at the male nurse and for a brief moment felt his chest expand at her natural inclination and compulsion to care; to show compassion. She was a true juxtaposition to the severity of Dr Matthews, for whom the caring profession — at times — seemed to be just that; a profession. A job.

  Sans care.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Kemp said quietly, ‘I’m just not built for this sort of stuff.’

  ‘No one is.’ said Christine, ‘But, you’re doing brilliantly.’ Kemp looked unconvinced. ‘You’re helping us to catch whoever’s responsible for these sickening crimes, helping to stop them from hurting anyone else. You.’

  He nodded slowly, sniffing.

  ‘So, what have you found?’ Prior asked.

  ‘I’ve not been here long,’ Kemp said, shaking his head, ‘but, I might have had some luck in the other room.’ He pulled yet another bag from his pocket. Black marker pen had been scrawled across the top identifying the date and location of collection.

  15.05.2011.

  Room 1534.

  ‘I still couldn’t find any prints. And I tried, I really tried. But they just weren’t there.’ he said, handing Prior the bag, ‘so I went back over the floor and the bed and found this.’

  ‘A hair.’ Prior said, passing it to Christine.

  Kemp nodded. ‘I know it’s not much and it’s a long shot at most, but the girl — Stacey Atkins — and her sister, they were both blonde weren’t they? This is dark. Short, dark, straight. So I bagged it.’

  Christine eyed the single hair through the clear plastic bag, noting an approximate length and thickness before returning it to Prior. ‘Well done.’ she said feeling — for a moment — as though she were congratulating a child. ‘Someone else might have missed it.’

  ‘Someone else did miss it.’ Prior said. Kemp straightened a little at the praise, a small, but proud smile flickering across his tired face. ‘You’re better at this than you give yourself credit for.’ He paused a moment, allowing his words the time they needed to be properly digested. Allowing Adrian Kemp another moment to collect his thoughts and ready the mental tools he would need to put himself through the hell of returning to the room behind him. ‘Do you want to walk us through what you’ve found so far?’

  ‘Want to? No. But I will.’ said Kemp, his chest swelling as he took in a great lungful of air before pushing open the door.

  A strange, sickly scent cascaded from the room, engulfing the trio and beckoning them all at once. Prior gave a small cough and shook his head, ‘Lavender?’

  Christine nodded, taking in the heavy aroma as she struggled to manoeuvre about the dishevelled room.

  It was littered with more sexually explicit paraphernalia than she thought it possible for one person to own. It looked as though the trunk of a specialist travelling salesman had literally ejaculated across the otherwise immaculate — if not more than a little blood-stained — suite.

  ‘Well,’ she said, taking in the scene, ‘this is definitely not what I expected.’

  In the stifling, windowless heat of the mid-ship Security Station, Marc Davies and his new team of researchers struggled through the seemingly endless stack of crew files.

  It was slow-going; difficult to know what — if anything — they were looking for. Besides this was the fact that they were essentially investigating their friends and colleagues. Searching for the slightest clue that someone they knew — someone they worked with, drank with, played with, even slept with — might be responsible for the devastating string of murders as well as the sabotage to the ship.

  How did you even begin to separate those that you thought might be capable of such a thing from those that you decided would be totally unable to commit such horrendous crimes? What did you look for?

  Davies wiped his brow and felt the damp tingle of sweat on the back of his hand. The central air conditioning system hadn’t been working since the power cut.

  Power cut.

  Like it was simply a mechanical failure!

  He silently rebuked himself as the terrifyingly real images of the engineering crew, so still and lifeless — almost peaceful, yet, disturbing with their open, staring eyes — bombarded his mind once more.

  It had been no accident. Of that he was all too certain.

  He had managed to prop the doors to the security office open earlier on. Jammed the bastards open! But, it didn’t seem to have made much difference. There was simply no air in the tiny room.

  He struggled to follow the words as they danced about the page of the latest report. He rubbed his eyes wearily and tried to refocus. It was no good. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his arms and his spine, triggering an involuntary yawn.

  Feeling all eyes suddenly on him, Davies stood up, rubbing his face. ‘Why don’t we take a ten minute break?’ he said, ‘I know I could do with some coffee and a blast of fresh air.’

  The suggestion was welcomed by all and he watched the group languidly filter out before following them and removing the small wooden wedges he had driven in between the set of sliding doors and their housing. The tinted glass panels slipped back into place, sealing the room.

  Pushing out a long breath, Davies reached up above the door, inserted a small key and turned it a quarter to the rig
ht. He heard the lock click and looked up out of habit to check that the room was now alarmed. The green light that usually blinked above the door was not even lit.

  But then it wouldn’t be. With there being no power.

  Feeling less-than-energised, the ordinarily bubbly blonde pulled himself up the stairs that led out onto the lower open deck, gulping in the fresh sea air despite the lack of breeze.

  He looked over to his right where there was normally a steady stream of people queuing about this time to grab a drink and a hot breakfast panini from the ever-bustling cafe, Hestia’s Kitchen. But, not today.

  Hestia’s was closed.

  Typical.

  Frustrated, Davies turned on his heel, wondering where he would be able to get a drink and a quick bite to eat. There was nowhere else near-by on this level.

  Shit.

  He had planned to avoid going back inside until the last possible moment, but — he supposed — needs must.

  Making his way back across the deck, he spied a lonely figure dressed in white leaning against the railings and staring out to sea. He paused, double-checking that the image his eyes were relaying to his brain was, in fact, correct.

  The figure seemed captivated by the blank canvas of the distant horizon, unaware of Davies watching him as he brought a slim roll of white paper to his lips and lit the twisted end with the fierce blue flame of a slim, metal, stormproof lighter.

  ‘Captain?’ Davies called, noting how Andrew’s back and shoulders tensed up before he finally turned to answer. It seemed he was debating whether or not to ditch the smoke before he addressed his officer.

  He chose to hold onto it.

  ‘Marc.’ he said, a weak smile on his thin, but handsome face. He looked older today. Much older than the charismatic, thirty-four-year-old, success-story that Marc Davies knew him to be.

  The dark rings below his eyes lent a gaunt and almost spectral air to the man. It didn’t suit him at all. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, which — like Davies himself — he probably hadn’t.

  He hoped he didn’t look as bad as Andrews.

  The exhausted Captain beckoned him over, inhaling another long drag as he waited. ‘Bet you think I’m a right hypocrite, don’t you?’

  Davies shook his head slowly, breathing in the sweet scent of the curling smoke and silently confirming that it contained more than just tobacco. ‘No, sir. I think everybody’s trying to deal with this as best they can.’

  Andrews laughed, offering the joint up to Davies who, again, shook his head even as his hand twitched and he reached out, accepting the Captain’s offer. He stared at it for a moment, watching a slither of smoke drift slowly up before bringing the paper wrap to his lips and inhaling deeply; holding it in his throat a while before releasing a small cloud of his own.

  ‘You seem to be keeping it together ok.’

  Davies took another long drag, already feeling the effects of the first. He handed the joint blindly back to Andrews, looking out across the vast blue that was the North Atlantic Ocean. ‘It’s all just appearance, isn’t it?’

  Andrews nodded, letting out a great sigh as his eyes filled with tears of genuine sorrow and distress. ‘I’m fucked Marc,’ he whispered, his voice shaking, ‘Forget appearances. I can’t take this. I’m a mess. Did you hear the message I broadcast . . . to the whole, fucking ship apparently!’

  ‘I heard it, Sir.’

  ‘I had a meeting with Prior this morning. He didn’t say anything about my mistake, but I could see him seething behind that perfectly unruffled fucking facade of his. He thinks I’m completely incapable. Doesn’t he?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Davies asked, stalling for time, fighting the obligation to answer truthfully. After all, he knew he was a terrible liar.

  ‘It’s in his eyes. In the way he speaks to me. I know he has no respect for me or my position.’ he took another long pull on the joint before rubbing his eyes and his temples, ‘And maybe he was right.’ Andrews shook his head and made a small coughing noise in the back of his throat. ‘He gets people, doesn’t he? Understands them in an instant. He’s a good judge. If I’m honest — and let’s face it, I might as well be — he’s a bloody good officer. A decent fella, you know?’

  ‘I do, Sir.’

  ‘I managed to round up a small crew of junior technicians. Those lucky few who happened not to be in engineering when . . .’ Andrews’ voice tailed off to be swallowed up by the ocean and the gentle breeze once more. Davies gave a small nod and waited patiently, eyeing his Captain without judgement. ‘They’ve come up with a way to reboot the system and get us back on track. Full power to the engines; communications; satellite; geographic location tracking. The works. They said, so long as the dishes, the antennas — whatever they are — as long as they’re still physically intact and undamaged . . . we should be back in business in the next twelve hours. Roberts is overseeing it all; the man has a wonderfully technical brain. Much better than me.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Sir.’ Davies said, but Andrews didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. He continued staring out to sea, swaying with the bobbing motions of the ship, his lips parted; moving, but wordless. ‘Captain?’

  ‘There’s no way of by-passing the wall that’s been created using Blakely’s codes — ’

  ‘I thought the chiefs-of-staff each had an override for their department and that the Captain held overall countermand codes and control authority. I thought you could — ’

  ‘You thought I could just type in a code and save the day? Don’t you think if I could do that I would have done it already?’ Andrews said, a slight hint of irritation in his voice.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think it’d be like restarting a pc, Sir. But, yeah.’

  Andrews snorted a laugh. It wasn’t a harsh noise, but something else. An audible recognition of the conflicting emotions that warred on the other side of the thin glass sheet that was his self control; that threatened to shatter at any moment.

  ‘Ah, Marc . . .’ Andrews sighed, ‘If only that were true. But, no. Most of that shit is pre-programmed and executed remotely. Golden Star could sail us like a radio-controlled ship on a boating lake if they wanted. But not with the communications out. No, if we’re to stand any chance of regaining control of the system we have to shut down everything.’ he said, slowly, ‘Everything. No emergency power; no lights; no electric; no heating . . . and no cooling facilities.’

  ‘No cooling?’ Davies raised an eyebrow, concerned by his Captain’s tone.

  ‘Why do you think Hestia’s is closed?’

  Davies shook his head. ‘The power cuts, I suppose.’

  Andrews turned his whole body towards the compact blonde, his sharp, brown eyes narrowing as he spoke. ‘No. There’s enough emergency power going into the place. But, it’s not open, because it’s not serving food. And it’s not serving for a very good reason. The food has been removed.’

  ‘Removed?’ Davies said, beginning to tire of Andrews’ cryptic sentences. Only professional respect — or something like it — kept him from gripping the man by his collar and shaking him until he began to make some kind of sense.

  ‘It’s been redistributed to the other restaurants and diners throughout the ship.’

  ‘Sensible. I suppose.’ Davies said. He really didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Isn’t it though? After all, we wouldn’t want any cross-contamination, now. Would we?’ Andrews pushed out a bitter laugh that — this time — did not succeed in covering the obvious distress in his gruff voice.

  An uncomfortable wave of realisation began to creep over Davies like a cold shadow; like the bony fingertips of an unwelcome visitor tickling the hairs on the back of his neck.

  ‘What do you mean by cross-contamination, Sir?’

  Andrews shook his head, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes were suddenly full once more; the salty tears about to breach the dam even as he fought — fiercely and angrily — to keep them back. ‘You
probably don’t know this but, Hestia’s has the second largest walk-in freezer on the ship. The one in Grande Central is only a couple of foot deeper, really.’ he sniffed, ‘It was the only place big enough to hold them all. The medical bay just isn’t equipped for this kind of . . .’

  Davies felt his stomach somersault inside him as he glanced over his shoulder towards the closed-down cafe. He shook his head involuntarily, the disbelief plastered clear across his face.

  ‘The crew?’ he whispered, almost shaking. ‘They’re in there? In a walk-in fucking freezer?’

  Andrews shot him a disarming look. ‘Yes. They are in there.’ he said, ‘And if I give permission to go ahead with the total shut-down procedure we’ll lose all emergency power, including that which is currently keeping the freezers cold. You understand now?’

  For several moments Davies found himself unable to form words. Even if he could have spoken in that time, what would he have said?

  How did you go about trying to comfort a man bearing such a heavy weight alone? Where should he even try to begin?

  ‘I’ll back you, sir.’ he said eventually. ‘Whatever your decision, you have my support.’

  Andrews smiled, nodding, ‘Thank you. That really means a lot.’

  ‘Does Prior know?’

  ‘How am I supposed to tell him?’ Andrews said, looking suddenly lost. ‘He really is a good man. And despite what he may think, I admire him. But, this . . . he’s going to hate me more than he already does.’

  ‘He’s quite an understanding kind of guy when you get to know him.’

  ‘Somehow, I don’t think he’s ever going to want to get to know me after this.’

  Davies drew in a long breath, releasing it slowly as the seconds ticked by. ‘So, you’ve made your decision then.’

  ‘I never really had a choice. Did I?’

  ‘Will you do . . . anything . . .’ Davies didn’t really know how best to finish the sentence, so left it open.

  ‘A service I think.’ Andrews said, his eyes on the ocean once more, ‘Don’t you? Commit them to the sea.’