Dr Matthews clicked the tiny digital recorder triumphantly, ending her report for the time being. She wouldn’t be able to access the data hidden within the deceased woman’s organs until she had returned to a manageable state.
‘I suppose I better see to your mate then, Mrs Jenkins.’ she said, pushing out a laboured breath as the fleeting sense of achievement left her once more.
It was going to be another long day.
The room was cold and damp.
You could feel the damp crawling over your skin, taste the dank, fetid air as it forced its way between your lips. As it clawed and tunnelled up through your nostrils.
It really is a horrid place and I wonder, suddenly, why am I here? How had I ever come to be in this depressing, rot-infested hole?
I run.
Abruptly and without warning. I’m running, running, running. Faster and faster, but I’m not getting anywhere. And the walls are tumbling now.
And the weeds are clawing at my feet, scratching my skin. Catching my ankles.
It hurts. I bleed.
I’m crying out. I’m screaming and howling as the tears carve a route through the sodden dirt that clings to my face.
And now I am the earth. I had no choice in the matter. But, I am — none-the-less — the teaming, streaming, retching, screaming Earth.
Covered and choked and torn apart. Born and reborn. And dying all the time.
I am just an eye.
An eye with a basic knowledge of this world; looking up from beneath the strangling weeds to a carrion sky and a sun that burns bright with maggots. Writhing. Writhing in the endless chasm that we are taught to believe is a grand and ever-creating universe.
But, all I see is a tomb.
And faces. So many faces.
Ravaged by the decay of time and the grotesquely gnarled claw that moves at my command.
That moves because it is mine.
11:30
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Prior had quickly figured a way of adapting his stride and the speed of his steps to accommodate Christine’s slower, but no-less determined pace. Better yet, he had seemingly managed to accomplish the alteration without offending the warm and attractive psychologist.
At least so far.
Leaving the Seraphim Suite, Prior had managed to steer them past one of the smaller lounges that were currently serving breakfast rolls and strong coffee en masse. Only upon seeing the sheer number of people waiting to be served, did he break from Christine, his stride lengthening once more.
He pardoned his way to the front of the queue and picked up two All-Day’s on white, before moving to the end of the counter to order a coffee and a tea, deciding that he would have whichever Christine didn’t want.
The sausage, bacon and eggs that seemed to be flowing in abundance — most likely due to the perishable nature of the food now that there were only two large working refrigeration units on the ship — were being cooked camper-style on portable gas stoves attached to small butane cylinders.
‘There you are.’ Christine said, a little out of breath.
‘I thought you might be hungry.’ he replied with a smile, handing his food card over to the fair-haired young lady skilfully manning the till. ‘I know I am. And talk about thirsty!’
‘Men.’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Always thinking with your stomach.’
He had to laugh. ‘An army marches on its stomach. Isn’t that what they say?’
‘I’d hardly say we constitute an army. You and I.’
Prior conceded with a grin and pulled a floury white bap out of the white paper bag in his hand. He opened the lid to reveal butter and yolk melting across the well-cooked strips of salty bacon and sliced Cumberland sausage. Grabbing the plastic bottle of brown sauce from the counter, he zigzagged it across the mega meal of a bun, a satisfied mmmm escaping his lips as his did.
Refitting the bun lid, he turned back to the fair-haired till operative to receive his food card along with two white cardboard cups; one containing hot black coffee and the other, hot black tea, the teabag floating on the murky surface of the water.
‘Which do you want?’
The look on Christine’s face was a picture. Though precisely what emotion the picture was supposed to represent, he couldn’t quite be sure.
‘What?’ he asked, ‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re ketchup girl? Is that what this is? ‘Cause, I can tell you now, it’s never going to work if you are. It’s the only kind of red I can’t stand.’
Christine was very quiet.
‘That was a footy reference, by the way. Not anything sick, like . . .’ he struggled, ‘obviously I don’t like blood and guts and gore and — ’
‘I get it.’ she said, raising her hand and halting him mid-sentence. ‘But, I think for sure that I’ll be giving the breakfast barm a miss, if you don’t mind. That cup of tea would hit the spot though.’
‘Tea it is then,’ he said, placing the drink on the counter before Christine.
He watched her add a dribble of milk and one sugar to the throwaway cup, before stirring the teabag around and squeezing it out, then discarding it into the plastic bowl set aside for the specific purpose of teabag disposal.
Similarly, he attended to his coffee and grabbed two lids, handing one to Christine. Then, breakfast barms in one hand and his coffee in the other, Prior led the way through the bustling lounge and they continued on their way towards the security office.
He struggled to resist the call of the deliciously hot and tasty baps that he now laboured to carry without squashing.
Stacked with care in their separate paper bags, the salted and savoury scents taunted him like Sirens as he cautiously navigated his way through a small sea of people.
Finally, seeing the doors to the office wedged open, Prior called out to Davies and took a seat in the reception area just beyond.
Christine followed Prior and seated herself opposite just as Marc Davies’ cheerful face appeared between the glass doors. He grinned from ear to ear as he watched Prior set the bags down on the small glass-top table, already guessing their contents.
The Security Chief shook out his arm, wincing as a dribble of hot grease and brown sauce seeped through the paper, burning him. He caught the oozing bubble, mopping it with the tip of his finger and popping into his mouth.
‘Awh, Guv’,’ Davies said, approaching them, ‘Is that for me?’
Prior’s eyes flicked to Christine, checking that she had not changed her mind and was still dead-set on not consuming the mouth-watering bag-full of grease and carbs. She gave a small, almost indiscernible nod, which Davies didn’t notice, being too mesmerised by the lure of the breakfast bin-lids.
Prior nodded and indicated for Davies to sit down and join them.
‘Cheers, sir.’ he said, his hand diving into the bag as he sat. A stream of yolk began to leak from the bap and Davies twisted his arm around, his tongue striking out; preventing the escape. ‘You’re a star. I haven’t eaten yet. I’m starving!’
The young officer tucked into the breaded feast hungrily as Prior watched him, smiling. He followed suit with a slightly less-ravenous air than his colleague, speaking in between mouthfuls.
Christine sipped at her tea.
‘So, what’ve you found then?’ Prior asked. ‘Anything useful?’
Davies motioned with his head; his mouth still full. It was neither a confirming nod indicating that he had found something, nor an out-and-out dismissing, negative shake suggesting that he had not.
‘I found some stuff on Blakely,’ he said swallowing the mouthful, ‘Stuff that had been hidden away. Archived.’
‘What kind of stuff?’ Prior asked.
‘Well, there were records of incidents. Violence. And threatening behaviour. I think the fella must have had issues, you know? Anger management and things like that. There’s a psych report in the folder, it’s a few years old now, but it might go some way to explaining why the file had been archived in the first pl
ace.’ Davies paused and took another bite, chewing the mouthfuls of food and savouring the tastes, ‘I mean the guy was clearly bright as a button and meticulous too. But, from what I’ve read, he had real trouble trusting people. Didn’t like to get too close to anyone, didn’t like talking about how he felt or why according to the report. And when he was pushed, he’d just react violently.’
‘Hmm,’ Prior said, digesting the information along with his late breakfast, ‘He didn’t seem . . . But then, I suppose he did keep himself to himself. Though I never noticed a violent streak in him.’
‘Then again, I don’t suppose you ever provoked him. Did you?’ Christine asked.
Prior shook his head.
‘Interestingly though,’ Davies said, ‘There is mention of some sort of incident involving Blakely and another man several years ago. It was before he came to work on this ship and whatever it was, he’s somehow managed to have it all but expunged from the record. Most of the document’s just black marker now.’
‘What?’
Davies nodded. And tore off another mouthful.
‘So who else was involved? And what did they do?’
‘Well, that’s just it, Guv’. We don’t know. He’s not named.’
Prior deflated in a huff of frustration.
‘But,’ Davies continued, chomping on another medley of sausage, egg, bacon and soft floury bread ‘I took a look at the date on the report, which was 18th November 2006 — the date of the incident itself had been removed. I went back a couple of months and . . .’ he paused, leaning in, drawing Prior and Christine in as he did so, ‘I don’t know if you know or not, or whether you’ll remember, but, the end of August beginning of September 2006 a girl went missing off the Stratum, one of Golden Star’s Med-bound Ocean-liners. I remember ‘cause a mate of mine was the Chief LX. The ship was held up at Livorno for days — there was an inquiry and everything that continued well after — but, there was no sign of the girl. And no sign of her body. And by the end of the week the passengers were starting to become a bit . . . restless. Hard to control.’
‘That’s nice and understanding of them.’ Christine said.
Davies nodded.
‘That’s human nature.’ Prior said, swallowing the last of his breakfast and taking a long drink of his coffee, ‘Everyone’s understanding and helpful until events begin impeding on their time. Then everything suddenly becomes a hassle. And nothing you do is good enough.’
Silently they all agreed.
‘She did eventually turn up though, this girl. A month and a half or so later. She’d been stuffed in a metal barrel at the back of a little tavern near the port.’
‘Oh my god.’ Christine whispered. ‘And you think Blakely had something to do with the murder?’
Davies shrugged. ‘I can’t point a finger at him for sure with the central online system being down, but I might have found something that connects him to it.’
‘Go on.’ Prior said, patiently.
‘While I was working my way alphabetically through that mess in there, I came across something in Mike Jones’ file. It’s some sort of corroboratory report concerning a statement he gave back in September 2006. Now, I know for a fact the Mike Jones was working on the Stratum at that time, and this report — though it doesn’t mention his full name — says that Mike backed up and confirmed ‘GB’s’ version of events. ‘GB’.’
‘Gary Blakely.’ Prior said, nodding.
‘Who is this Mike Jones?’ asked Christine, ‘And, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know he was working onboard the Stratum at that time?’
Marc Davies blushed.
Instantly and completely; from below his collarbone — visible above the low, v-cut neckline of his figure-hugging, black t-shirt — it crept over his muscular neck and right the way up to the rows of bleached follicles that guarded his high forehead.
He looked away and laughed. Though, it was brief snort of laughter, devoid of any humour.
‘Marc?’
Prior continued to wait patiently, his eyes flicking to Christine for a moment. She had finished her tea and was watching Davies keenly.
‘Because, I’d had some holidays owed in the July and my friend — ’
‘The LX?’ Prior asked.
Davies nodded, ‘Yeah, Abbey. She convinced me to go on the med cruise.’
‘Bit of a busman’s holiday, isn’t it?’
‘Well, to be honest, I would have just been sat at home, anyway. I didn’t really have the money to do much else, but, with working for Golden Star for a while, I’d built up my discount so it only cost me about two-hundred quid in the end.’
To the right of Prior, Christine made a small, surprised noise. It wasn’t quite a choked cough, but an expulsion of air that conveyed her honest astonishment, revealing that she had forked out a hell of a lot more than two-hundred pounds for this trip.
‘I, er . . . I saw Mike rehearsing for one of the shows and I . . . well, I thought he was quite hot. So I left Abbey in the lighting box and I went down to speak to him. There was no one else around at first and he seemed quite pleased with the attention. He was giving me all the right signs and everything . . . so I asked him if wanted to go for a drink.’ Davies paused, his eyes clouding over for a moment as though he were so lost in the memory that he might never find his way back. Eventually, he pushed out a great, long sigh, seeming to shake himself back to the here and now. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘He turned out to be a bit of a dick after that.’
Davies looked at Christine and apologised before continuing. She smiled at him and for a moment Prior felt that same, odd sense of paternal pride for the young security officer.
It almost made him laugh out loud. But, he controlled himself.
And continued to listen.
‘Yep, I’m afraid Mike Jones is one of those most fabled and mythical creatures that you hear tell about, but rarely ever see.’
‘Oh. And what’s that?’ Christine asked.
This time when Davies laughed a bright smile broke across his face as he raised an eyebrow and said in his best David Attenborough, ‘The little-known and Lesser-Spotted Straight Male Dancer.’
Prior’s gruff laugh came in sweet counterpoint to Christine’s surprised chuckle. He watched her relax for a moment; dropping her guard and even revealing the chip in her tooth as she grinned. He was pleased to see her making no attempt to hide the beautiful imperfection.
In the time he had spent alone with Christine there had been only a couple of times that she had dropped her defensive shield in such a way; allowing him to step in close.
And she had been keeping him at an almost painful distance since he had managed to disappoint her with his misjudgements of Miss Livingstone and the foolish, unthinking comment he had made about this not being ‘her job’ earlier that morning.
Now she was laughing and smiling again. Seemingly without a care.
With both him and Davies.
Marc Davies; the lad could charm the sparrows from the trees; charm the defences from the battlements and bring the walls crashing down.
Again, that feeling of paternal pride swelled his chest. It took the form of an almost audible voice somewhere deep down inside of Prior. ‘Good lad.’ it seemed to whisper.
‘So,’ Prior said, shaking off his sentimental other self and returning to business. ‘Would you say Mike was violent?’
‘I don’t know.’ Davies said, ‘He’s got a temper and, like I said, he’s a bit of a . . . well, he’s not the nicest of guys. I’ve hardly spoken to him since he’s been on the ship. I think he’s avoiding me.’ Davies grinned impishly, drawing yet another smile from Christine.
‘Which one is Mike?’
‘You’d know him, Guv’. He’s the Numero Uno, Prima Ballerina; the one that kicks-off when he doesn’t get a nice, big, juicy role in whatever they’re doing. He doesn’t seem to have been too bad, lately. Only ‘cause he got the lead, like.’
Prior nodded, searching his min
d, trying to picture the dancer. ‘Was he the one Shona was seeing for a while?’
Davies shrugged, ‘Could have been. Like I said, I haven’t really spoke to Mike since the incident on the Stratum.’
‘And Shona?’ he asked, an urgent tone creeping into his normally steady voice.
‘She hasn’t really said anything to me about him, but . . .’
‘No,’ Prior said, distracted, ‘but, she did to me.’
He stood and, noticing Christine beginning to follow suit, resisted the urge — this time — to rush to her aid. Davies too was on his feet.
‘I want you to go back through Mike’s file. And Blakely’s too if you need to.’
‘What am I looking for, sir?’ asked Davies, nodding.
‘Any oddities. Connections. Like the one you’ve already made.’ Prior said, moving around the table. ‘I need to speak to Shona.’
‘Shall I come with you? Or am I better off here?’ Christine asked.
‘No offence, Dr Kane,’ said Davies, lowering his voice as he spoke, ‘But, it’s already crowded in there. And more than a little bit ripe. I don’t think anyone should have to put themselves through that if they’ve another choice, really.’
She smiled and glanced at Prior, ‘Looks like I’m with you then.’
Davies began clearing the waste from their breakfasts into the nearby bin. He returned to the table and picked up the half-full, still-warm coffee that Prior had been drinking. ‘Do you want the rest of this, Guv’?’ he asked spritely.
Prior spotted the glimmer of hope in the younger officer’s eyes and laughed. ‘Go on, you can finish it.’
‘Cheers, sir.’ he said cheerfully, making his way back towards the claustrophobic office.
‘Keep in touch.’ Prior called as he and Christine began to move through the desolate reception area.
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