Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had the opportunity of actually spending some time with Shona earlier. I got to speak to her properly for the first time.’

  ‘She’s an alright kid.’

  ‘Aye. It’d have been so much easier to simply . . . dislike her.’

  ‘Well,’ Prior said, with an amused smile, ‘Unfortunately for you, that’s one of Shona’s best natural defences. She’s good; she’s kind and friendly and she’d do anything for anyone . . .’

  ‘I get it! I get it!’ Christine said, holding up her hands in mock surrender, ‘And, anyway, she’s no kid. Though, I hadn’t realised she was your step-sister.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Why? Is it a secret or something?’

  ‘No.’ he said simply.

  ‘It was Marc. Though you could have said something yourself, you know.’

  ‘You got the wrong end of the stick?’

  ‘I don’t even think I had hold of the right stick, never mind which end.’

  Prior chuckled and she slapped him lightly on the arm. She shook her head and, with her eyes, made another quick sweep of the deck.

  It had emptied considerably.

  Shona and Davies would now — she knew, without the need for any kind of confirmation — be making their way by torchlight towards the medical bay. Towards Kelly.

  Her heart seemed to skip briefly, then sink once more at thought of the azure-eyed artist with the raven black hair. At the mere soundless mention of her name.

  She shook off the feeling and looked back up at Prior, who was now staring out across an ever-darkening ocean; the inky black water reflecting the handful of pinprick stars above.

  ‘How about a coffee?’ she said, feeling a shiver of cold despite the warmth of the evening.

  ‘The power’s off.’ Prior said, without emotion, ‘I think the last round of hot drinks would have been downed sometime ago.’

  She nodded, feeling a little foolish. Of course the power was off . . . That was the point of all this!

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a pint though.’

  ‘In that case,’ Christine beamed, ‘the first round’s on me.’

  ‘We’re having more than one round?’ Prior asked with a cheeky, boyish grin.

  ‘I bloody well hope so!’

  19:36

  Sunday 15th May, 2011

  Agitated at having to now work by torchlight, Dr Matthews finished up her reports on last the two bodies to be stowed in the mortuary freezers. They were no longer powered, but — she deducted — should remain cool enough to keep the cadavers from degrading too badly before the power came back online. Before they could finally get back on track and pass out of the other side of this hellish nightmare for good.

  She had taken the precaution of bagging each of the bodies, which would lessen the chances of any possible cross-contamination that might potentially occur during the forced defrosting of the chillers. Although, if her standards had been maintained correctly, there should have been absolutely no risk of contamination at all; as the inside of both freezer cabinets and their trays should have been immaculately clean and germ free.

  But you could never be too cautious.

  The autopsy and blood enzyme tests of Fiona Jenkins had been both interesting and informative in their revelations. An abnormal level of creatinine phosphokinase in the blood samples indicated that the woman had suffered a myocardial infarction that had led to a massive cardiac arrest only moments before death.

  This, taken with the other physical evidence, including the lack of ATP in her muscles — along with what Dr Matthews had heard rumoured about the accessories littering that particular crime scene — had aided in the forming of her conclusion that the woman’s final moments of life had been a rollercoaster ride between the sublime physical ecstasy of orgasmic delight and the mortal panic, pain and suffering of the heart attack that had then suddenly killed her.

  But still, if this was the case, it meant that the cause of Mrs Jenkins’ death had — despite the odd set-up of the scene and the placement of her cooling cadaver — in fact, been natural.

  Yes, natural. She had suffered a heart attack.

  Or rather, she had ridden the great wave of a heart attack during the final climatic moments of a gargantuan orgasm. Which, she had then paid for with her life.

  Had Merko Solich not been so brutally murdered in such close proximity to her and, had she not also been discovered propped up in the manner in which she had been (which was hardly a ‘natural’ death-pose) Fiona Jenkins might never have even been connected to the other homicides.

  Dr Matthews signed the bottom of the reports, slipped them into the relevant folders and tucked them under her arm, holding a small torch to guide her as she crossed the darkened room to file them in the tall, metal cabinet. It seemed to make an unnecessarily eerie noise in the lightless room and she found herself suddenly thankful that she was no longer alone.

  She had relieved her staff earlier, sending them instead to the various medical posts dotted about the upper levels of the ship, but had soon come to feel the weight of lonesome regret in that decision. She had felt isolated and spooked no matter how many times she reprimanded herself for reacting so foolishly; so childishly.

  But several minutes earlier, Shona Jacobs had strolled through the large, swinging doors, her arm snaking through that of security officer Marc Davies’. Dr Matthews had sighed audibly and with great exaggeration, though secretly she had been glad to welcome in the pair, who were at least living and conscious company for her.

  They now sat at the bedside of the still-insentient Kelly Livingstone and Matthews watched them, irritated by their every movement.

  Their every sound.

  She had little time or patience for people like Shona. Or Davies.

  But particularly Shona; being the bouncy, happy, chatty, pointlessly optimistic, boasting, bragging bundle of boundless energy that she was. It seemed that the girl suffered an incurable disease shared by those in the performing arts professions. Though, in Dr Matthews’ opinion, the real acute form of this particularly annoying personality type definitely seemed to reside within those flighty creatures that were inevitably drawn to dance as a profession.

  Oh, they were like lepers to her.

  But, at least she was no longer alone in the dark with an ineffective freezer full of slightly chilled cadavers, furniture that had suddenly decided to mimic the sound-track to a horror movie featuring her as the disinclined victim and a freshly stitched and tended-to gothic-looking lesbian who seemed intent on carving a new career out of winding up bleeding and unconscious in her medical bay.

  More than anything, Dr Matthews just wanted to get back to her room and relax. She desperately needed to rest and had already begun secretly planning a long vacation following the resolution of this whole manic and ridiculous debacle!

  Passing by Shona and Davies, she rolled her eyes as Shona giggled yet again and squeezed Davies’ arm. Oh, every tiny movement and sound that woman made grated on the last of her dwindling and weary nerves.

  She pushed out another long and heavy sigh, hoping it would highlight her annoyance and her lack of patience with the pair. Hoping they might take the hint and shut the hell up.

  But they didn’t seem to notice.

  Retaking her seat noisily and, folding her arms across the metal surface in front of her, Matthews lay her head down, listening as the security boy-wonder and Captain dance-pants continued to talk drivel in gratuitously cheery tones.

  ‘Yeah . . . so, I don’t know but, I’m pretty sure she thought that you guys had been together at some point.’ Davies chuckled, ‘She certainly didn’t have you down as being Prior’s baby sister!’

  Shona giggled. Again. ‘Then again, me and Jon . . . being related. If I was outside, looking in, I don’t think I’d make that connection myself unless someone pointed it out.’

  ‘But, at least you would have had the sense to ask, instead of just . . .
presuming stuff and getting all het up about it.’

  ‘Yeah, but just coming straight out with it?’ Shona said, shaking her head, ‘Asking for the answer to a question like that is like asking for assistance to a woman like Christine. And I really don’t think she’s comfortable with asking for help at the best of times!’

  ‘You’re right there, kid.’

  The pair laughed again and Dr Matthews found herself pressing her thumbs into her the lids of eyes as she began to drift in and out of sleepy consciousness, still aware of their ever-flowing and gossipy conversation.

  It seemed to hop from one subject to the next without limit or closure as they speculated and commented on anything and everything. Nothing was safe or sacred or out of bounds for these two.

  Didn’t they ever tire? Would they ever shut up?

  19:38

  Sunday 15th May, 2011

  Prior. Jon . . . Jonathan Prior.

  DI Prior.

  The man with the green eyes. Of course! That was his name.

  How could he not have realised?

  That’s why he looked so familiar.

  Oh, this was brilliant!

  And to think he had come here in search of the artist; to take her life and give it to his brother. To create an everlasting image.

  Though he knew it would pain him to take her life, he was more than prepared to do it. To do it, then shed a silent tear after. As he had with Nona.

  And all for his brother.

  To honour his brother with a meaningful sacrifice that would speak volumes; that would scream and fucking bellow their names in such an obvious way that people couldn’t help but stop and stare. And remember.

  And remember . . . forever and ever. Amen.

  Kelly Livingstone was — after all — a celebrity of the art world. Talk about high-profile.

  Despite himself, he had actually come to admire her.

  In his own way.

  He certainly admired her talent and her ‘fuck-you’ attitude to the world that was so clearly present in all her work. And he knew it would be a shame to put an end to that. To put a lid on that talent and nail it shut with such a shocking and brutal finality.

  But, then again, had he not learned all that he could from her? What else did she have left to offer? To him and all the world.

  He had grown so rapidly as an artiste, gone from a single-celled organism to a fucking Goliath of creativity in such a short space of time. He had generated works on board this ship that — quite simply — made the work of Kelly Livingstone seem dated, stifled and obsolete. He had quite simply eclipsed her; transcended the spectrum of her natural talent and ability.

  She had been his unknowing master; he the careful padawan. If he didn’t take the reins soon he would remain forever in the shadows.

  Of Kelly Livingstone. And of Matty.

  No.

  What he had planned was sure to make waves, both in the whorish, media-driven real world and that of the creative looking-glass.

  But, then again . . . . Kelly fucking Livingstone. He stopped. Considered. What was she to Matty?

  Nothing.

  And so it would mean nothing. It would be yet another empty sacrifice.

  Another empty promise.

  That simply would not do.

  But the revelation of the green-eyed man’s true identity; that juicy, little morsel of information was too sweet to be ignored. An absolute treat of a tit-bit that had been dropped into his lap. Dangled on a string and so easily within his grasp.

  He could do so much more with this.

  Jonathan Prior.

  The memories flooded back in a vivid torrent of fresh and violent truth, as though Matty was standing there now, screaming at him; Look, I’ve given you this on a plate . . . because you were too fucking dumb to work it out for yourself.

  For a moment he felt a tremor of shame and of anger. Nothing he did was ever quite good enough. And for those brief seconds he felt an absolute burning resentment towards the brother who still appeared to be organising his life, even from beyond the grave!

  But then, Matty did seem to have a point.

  This would be much more appropriate in the sense of an avenging sacrifice. And yet, he had planned everything so carefully now . . .

  Why not do both? Get creative. You were always good at that.

  ‘Could I do both?’ he whispered, questioning the voice that was his brother’s.

  Of course you could.

  In the dark, he smiled, ‘Thanks, Matty.’

  20:39

  Sunday 15th May, 2011

  Christine pulled the soft cashmere cardigan over her arms as she stepped out through the double glass doors and made her way steadily back to the balcony.

  Already sat at the patio table, Prior swirled a large glass of merlot in his right hand as he stared out across the sinister-looking unknown of the ocean.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’ Christine said as she returned to the chair next to him.

  They had previously visited one of the largest of the upper level function rooms, along with several of the smaller ones, but had found each one to be ridiculously over-crowded and already struggling to accommodate the demands of the hundreds of card-bearing punters who now had nowhere better to go. And nothing to do, but drink.

  Prior had shaken his head in irritation, ‘This isn’t going to end well.’

  Christine had reminded him that it was no longer his problem.

  At least not for this evening.

  Catching up with the pair as they had made their way inside after the remembrance service, Captain Andrews had ordered Prior to take the night off and — as Christine had expected — the ex-DI had immediately objected.

  But Andrews had been insistent.

  At first Prior had been too annoyed to see what Christine had spied so easily; that Andrews was trying to make amends and to ease his own sense of guilt.

  He was giving Prior the opportunity to mourn the loss of his friends and his lover.

  Christine had finally been forced to reveal this notion to Prior, to spell it out for him as he had grumbled and complained his way through ship in frustration. Eventually, he had let the subject drop as they had entered the restaurant/bar and now general holding room-come-shelter that she remembered and recognised as the beautifully decorated Grande Central Dining Hall.

  The tables had been cleared to provide more space, but the sheer volume of bodies — not to mention the noise that had also flooded the place — had been so overwhelming that it was not too long before Christine found herself suggesting her own suite as an alternative; listing its qualities in succession.

  It was located — as they both well knew — within the upper levels of the ship and had a balcony. This meant that they would have access to plenty of fresh, unfiltered sea air and so wouldn’t be going against Andrews’ embargo preventing lower deck passengers and crew from returning to their rooms.

  The fear of carbon monoxide poisoning had become suddenly very real to those who knew the true nature concerning the demise of the ill-fated engineering staff.

  Prior had needed little convincing and on their way to Christine’s suite he had called into one of the smaller function rooms, made his way behind the bar and lightened it of two deep-red coloured bottles of wine; bringing their personal stock to a now uneven three.

  Under different circumstances this may have bothered Christine, but not tonight.

  Odd. Even. It would all be drunk the same!

  Prior had just opened the second bottle and had been refilling their glasses when Christine had left to find her cardigan.

  He stared at her now as she sat opposite him.

  She waited and lifted the glass to her lips.

  ‘Sorry.’ he said, ‘Did you say something?’

  She smiled, softly, ‘I said penny for your thoughts.’

  He nodded slowly and gave the only reply he could muster. ‘Rachel.’

  They sat in silence for several minutes, listening
to the lap of the water as it batted against the sides of the ship, bobbing them about on this seemingly endless ocean.

  Christine had all but forgotten that he was there besides her as she closed her eyes, allowing the soft motion to rock her and lure her into a relaxing state of being. She was drifting so far into her own thoughts that she was caught completely off-guard and jumped with surprise when she suddenly heard his soft, but gravelling voice intoning the words of a song she thought she knew:

  ‘I’ve never been here before,

  Didn’t know where to go,

  Never met you before . . . .’

  ‘The Stereophonics.’ he said, seeming to only just realise that he had, in fact, uttered the melodic words out loud, ‘She loved them. They are a decent band, to be fair. I liked them myself, before . . . though, I think I’ve heard more of Kelly Jones’ voice in the past few months than I ever did when they were first out!’

  ‘The things you do for love, eh?’

  ‘I saw them play once, you know.’ he said, nodding, his eyes clouded with memories, ‘And it was quite an intimate, little gig too. I used to tease Rachel about it ‘cause she’d never gotten round to seeing them play live. It was on her ‘to do’ list.’ He brought the wine glass to his lips and drank a great gulp. He paused. And did the same again, replacing the near-empty glass — with a resonant chink — onto the table, ‘I’d bought tickets for the O2 gig. December. We were both due some leave and . . . I’d planned the whole weekend.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jon.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They sat in silence once more, listening to the waves. This time, Christine did not relax back into her chair. She did not close her eyes.

  Instead she sat and watched him for a long time, wishing she could hear his thoughts, desperately wanting to draw him into speaking the words that weighed so heavy on his mind. Knowing that he would be silently blaming himself, retracing his steps; wishing he could change the awful way in which things had been played out. Wishing he could step back in time and pull Rachel free of harm’s way.