Eighty Days to Elsewhere

by kc dyer

  Eighteen hours.

  Even if the captain takes time to report a suicidal man on the beach—what if no one on shore can help? What if the captain has to stop the ship and drop one of the rescue boats over the side?

  What if reports have to be made to the local police?

  How much of the eighteen hours is that going to cost?

  I swallow hard, and put my camera to my eye again. I can barely make out the man’s outline, but I swear, he looks like he’s walked in deeper. Only his shoulders and head are visible.

  Dropping the camera, I grip the ship’s railing with both hands. No alarms have rung out. Clearly no one else has spotted him. If I don’t report what I’ve seen in the next minute or two, the man’s life choices will be in his hands alone.

  Is this stranger’s life worth slowing the ship for?

  Before I realize it, I’m running down the deck toward Martin Sixsmith.

  “Help! Martin—help! Man overboard!”

  My voice is blown away once again by the wind, which might not be a bad thing. After all, the guy has not exactly gone over the rail. I try again, waving my arms at him this time.

  “Martin! Emergency! Look!”

  Either he hears me or catches sight of my waving arms, but he looks up at last, as I thunder down the deck toward him. He turns to the crew and says a few final words, and the group disperses. Having given all my wind to the sprint up the deck, I point wildly off the side of the ship toward the beach behind us.

  “A guy,” I gasp. “In the water! Back . . .”

  The ship has slowed noticeably in the last minute or two, and suddenly up ahead, I see someone else standing in the water. This man is closer to shore, but as we approach, his face disappears behind a wave. I grab my camera to focus on him, and as I do, another man appears. This one looks like he might be kneeling. And beyond him, a head, bobbing in the waves.

  “What the hell . . . ?” I mutter, and turn to Sixsmith.

  “It’s—it’s gotta be some kind of mass suicide!” he says urgently. “Look at the fuckers!”

  As the boat cruises forward, the water is suddenly full of men, all marching into the ocean, spread out along this stretch of otherwise deserted beach.

  “What’s going on?” I gasp. “Can you radio the captain?”

  Martin’s eyes are cartoonishly round. “It’s too late for that,” he says, setting his clipboard and tablet on a nearby bulkhead. He begins to strip off his jacket. “I’ll have to go in myself!”

  “You can’t do that,” I cry, reaching out to grab his arm. I come away with only the sleeve of his jacket as he pulls out of it and reaches for his boots. “It’s too dangerous!”

  He pauses, kneeling with his hands on the laces of his boots, and looks up at me. “There’s no other choice,” he says. “Look at them—all out there in the water, like bleedin’ lemmings.”

  I grab my camera again. “Maybe it’s a cult,” I say, desperately trying to focus in on the faces. “What if we call the . . .”

  My words fail me as the camera finally locks onto one of the desperate men’s faces. A wave washes right over his head, and he disappears from view for a moment. Twisting the lens, I catch sight of him again, and for the first time, something doesn’t seem—quite right.

  A wheezing sound from beside me penetrates through my fog of panic, and I drop the camera again to see the first mate draped across the rail. His jacket is puddled on the ground beside him, but his boots are still on.

  I place a hand on his arm, but he’s doubled over, the wheezing sound louder than before.

  “Martin,” I say urgently. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I can run up and tell . . .”

  He stands upright at last, and for the first time I get a good look at his face.

  “Martin?” I say slowly. “Are you laughing?”

  This sets him off again. He drops his hands to his knees. “Maybe it’s a cult,” he manages. “Oh my God—it’s got to be a bleedin’ cult!”

  Bewildered, I turn back to look at the shoreline. I no longer need my camera to see the dozens of men—perhaps as many as a hundred—in the water. And for the first time, I notice that none of them are moving.

  Turning, I find Martin has his jacket back on, an arm wrapped around the shoulders of a newly arrived crew member. Carl from last night, maybe?

  They’re guffawing helplessly. “A cult?” Carl repeats, incredulously. “Wait’ll Sylvia hears this!”

  “Why are there hundreds of statues in the water?” I demand, but this only makes Martin lose it again.

  “Not statues,” he gasps. “It’s a cult!”

  As Carl heads off, I straighten my spine. So much for “thanks for the assist, luv.”

  Carl waves at one of the night crew whose name I can’t remember, and within seconds, the two of them are glancing over at me and roaring.

  Martin, wiping his eyes, retrieves his tablet and clipboard. “God love you,” he says, slapping my shoulder altogether too heartily. “I’ll drink free tonight, sister, thanks to you and your cult!”

  Refusing to dignify this with a response, I turn on my heel and stalk back to the privacy of my cabin, my report—and Google.

  * * *

  —

  By the time off-loading begins in earnest, I’ve completed my report, gathered my possessions, and am standing on the bridge, shaking hands with the captain.

  He squeezes my hand. “Are you sure you are ready to leave? You seem to have found your sea legs, and I heard—ah—a rumor that the extra hand on deck last night was a true asset during the storm.”

  I grip the handle of my suitcase, not sure if I’m more relieved that he’s okay with me being on deck in the storm or that he hasn’t mentioned the statues along the beach.

  “Quite sure,” I say hurriedly. “The storm bought me some time, and I plan to make good use of it. If I manage to catch the express train to London today, I can hop the overnight to Paris and get ahead by two full days!”

  The captain looks quizzical. “Do you not want to see anything of the country before you move on?”

  “Oh yes. I need to find the Reform Club in London before I head to . . .” I check my notebook. “Pancreas Station.”

  “That’s Pancras, Liebchen. As in the saint, not the organ.” He pauses as I jot an embarrassed note. “No time for a tour of Liverpool, then?”

  I shrug. “Tight schedule. But I live in a port city. Liverpool can’t be much different than New York, can it?”

  He chuckles gently. “Don’t let any of the natives hear you say that,” he says, and reaches into an inside pocket. “I’d like to offer you this memento, Ramona Keene. To put you in mind of our chat and your first Atlantic crossing, yes?”

  He hands me a slim paperback copy of Verne’s Five Weeks in a Balloon that must come from his own library. I’m so delighted to have something new to read on the train, I throw my arms around him in a big hug. This may have been a mistake, as he kisses me soundly on each cheek at least twice before I am able to make my escape.

  chapter fourteen

  IMAGE: Fab Four

  IG: Romy_K [Liverpool, England, March 26]

  #WrongWay #Liverpudlians #AMusicalEducation

  30

  After the captain’s effusive send-off, I hurry down the ramp toward the customs office. While I’m very proud of finding my sea legs, it feels fantastic to be on land again.

  As my feet hit the dock, I stop a minute and let the rest of the crew stream past. Setting my feet on foreign soil actually feels a little surreal.

  “You made it,” says Second Officer Sylvia as she strides by.

  “I did,” I reply, beaming at her. “I almost can’t believe it.”

  She doesn’t stop walking, but winks back at me over her shoulder. “Ciao ciao, bella,” she calls, before vanishing through a doorway.
“One foot in front of the other!”

  Following her advice, after taking a deep breath of British air, I carry on along the dock and through the door. I’m sure I can still feel the sway of the ship, and the thrum of the engines beneath my feet, even inside the building. I have to ask the customs officer to repeat himself twice, as his accent is so thick, but as soon as I realize it’s not much different than talking to someone from the Bronx, I feel better. He looks bored as he stamps my passport, but I feel a real surge of triumph as I hurry off in the direction of the exit. I’m on my way—and well ahead of the careful schedule I’ve worked out.

  Vowing to update it as soon as I get onto the train to London, I step out into the street to wave down a passing taxi, and am suddenly yanked backwards. I trip over the curb and sit down hard. Where I was standing, a truck whistles past, the wind blowing my hood right off my head. I’ve only just missed being flattened.

  “Christ sakes, ducks!” cries a voice. “That lorry would’ve done for yeh, I swear!”

  A round, pink-faced lady, her bleached curls tucked tightly inside a black hairnet, looks down at me, shock written across her face. “All right, luv?” she squawks. She’s still clutching one of the straps of my daypack.

  “I think so.” I take a shaky lungful of air, and scramble back to my feet. “Thank you for that. I did not see him coming.”

  “Oh, y’er an American? Well, that explains it, don’t it?” she says as I dust myself off. Apart from a sore butt, I can’t feel any damage. “Yeh need to look to the right first, luv. Maybe look both ways before yeh cross, to be safe, aye? Y’er not in Kansas anymore.”

  She chuckles at her own witticism.

  “I’m from New York,” I say, scooping up my dropped suitcase. “I’ve never actually been to Kansas.”

  “New York, eh?” She nods at me approvingly. “I got a cousin there—more of a second cousin, really. Been there since we both were kids. We talk all the time on the Facebook. I do love the Facebook.” She glances down at the watch on one plump wrist. “Ooo, must be gettin’ on. There’s a taxi stand at the bus station, just up the way. You can’t miss it.”

  A tiny green man lights up on the walk signal across the street. As all the traffic screeches to a halt, pedestrians pour out onto the road, walking across, and even diagonally through the intersection. Feeling like I’m somehow breaking the rules, I scurry off in the direction of the taxi stand.

  The smell of the sea fades as I get deeper into the city, and overhead the golden skies of early morning swiftly vanish under a grey fog. In seconds, it’s pouring. Spotting a cab, I wave, and glory of glories, he actually pulls over.

  Flinging my suitcase straight into the back, I jump in after it. Again, as soon as I open my mouth, the cabbie has me pegged.

  “You from America, then?”

  “I am,” I say, trying to find a dry spot on my cuff to wipe the rain off my face. “New York, actually.”

  The cabbie beams delightedly at me in the rearview mirror. “Was there last year with the missus. Pilgrimage to see the Dakota, y’know.”

  “John Lennon?” I guess.

  In the mirror, I watch all the cheeriness drain from his face.

  “My uncle loves the Beatles,” I say. “Were they from near here?”

  The vehicle swerves sharply as my cabbie’s eyes bulge out of his head.

  “You are sorely in need of an education, young woman,” he says. “You wanting the coach or the train today?”

  “Train. I need to get to London. Then Paris. Hopefully today.”

  “Ah. Then it’s Lime Street Station for the express. And that way I can drive yeh past a little local history, eh?”

  “Okay.”

  His shoulders relax a little, and I spend the next fifteen minutes with my nose to the window, absorbing Beatles trivia, and copying most of it down into my notebook. Merv is going to be impressed, but more importantly, it’ll add local flavor to my ExLibris report.

  “And that’s the pub Paul dropped into last summer,” the cabbie says, as we screech up to the curb at the train station. “Played the piano, and everythin’. Imagine singin’ ‘Lady Madonna’ while sharing a pint with the man?”

  He wipes his eyes, and then gestures roughly through the window.

  “Here you are. Sure I can’t convince you to at least take a magical mystery tour while y’er here?”

  “It’s on my bucket list,” I promise, collecting my credit card. “Thanks for the ride—I’ll e-mail my uncle tonight. He’ll be so jealous!”

  The cabbie gives me a cheery wave as I head into the station. And all his Beatles stories bring me luck after all, as I manage to snag a ticket on the last express train of the day to London.

  chapter fifteen

  IMAGE: Reform Club, The Pall Mall

  IG: Romy_K [London, England, March 26]

  #WhereItAllBegan #DressCode

  37

  ExLibris Destination Report, submitted by Ramona Keene

  CITY/REGIONAL SUMMARY: Liverpool, fourth largest city in the United Kingdom. A must-see on the way to London.

  TOP PICKS TO SEE AND DO: The home of the Beatles, so don’t miss the original Strawberry Fields. Can you find the secret symbol on each of the Fab Four at their statue on Pier Head? For readers, the Central Library has been recently remodeled, and is on William Brown Street.

  WHERE TO STAY: Best hotels can be found near the city docks at One Water Street.

  WHERE TO EAT: For fine dining, you can’t beat the Art School on Sugnall Street, but don’t forget to try the plaice & chips, served in newspaper, from a chippie by the sea.

  WHAT ELSE: Fear not, if you witness what looks like mass exodus into the waters of the River Mersey. This installation, known as Another Place, is a collection of iron figures, each sculpted in the image of his creator. Glub glub!

  My train pulls into Euston Station as I complete the finishing touches on my report, and I’m feeling dangerously accomplished. I’m ahead of schedule, my stomach is full, and I’ve even bought myself a bag of something called Worcester sauce flavored crisps—which I’m almost certain are potato chips—for the train to Paris. Not only that, but my follower count on Instagram has taken a real leap while I’ve been at sea, with my posts regularly scoring over thirty likes—more than double what they were before I left New York. I feel a flush of pride heating my cheeks as I jump onto the platform.

  Near the ticket booths, a small orchestra, populated mostly with a selection of balding elderly gentlemen, plays an uplifting march to speed me on my way. They are the Great Western Players, and I hurry past them to collect my ticket from one of the machines along the wall. The Paris train doesn’t leave from here, but from another station called St. Pancras—not Pancreas, thank you, Captain Anhelm. Embarrassing public mispronunciation is the curse of us introverts, who learn more words from books than from other humans. I’m just saying.

  En route to St. Pancras, I need to find my London checkpoint: Phileas Fogg’s Reform Club. The glow of self-satisfaction fades a little when I realize how far across the city I have to travel in the hour before my train departs, but not for nothing am I a New York girl. Clutching my fresh feelings of confidence as tightly as the handle of my suitcase, I head down into the London Underground.

  * * *

  —

  One train—two, if you count the District line car I jumped on by mistake, and got off only by jamming my suitcase into the doors as they closed—plus a ten-minute walk later, and I’ve made it.

  The place where it all began, at least for Phileas Fogg.

  The Reform Club exists in real life, looking more like a stately townhome on an elegant street than a private gentleman’s club. Not that I’ve ever seen a private gentleman’s club, in any case.

  The sun is setting, but as the rain has stopped, I use my Canon to take a couple of shots of t
he club flag flapping out front. Then, careful to look both ways in case of random vehicles, I drop my suitcase on the curb and pull out my phone. It’s time to take a quick selfie by the front door.

  I’ve just centered myself beside the number when the door swings open behind me.

  A sharply dressed young man wearing a suit jacket and striped tie stands inside the doorway. “Deliveries are taken around the side,” he says, making a shooing motion with one hand.

  “I’d love to get a picture inside . . .” I begin, but he raises his palm to cut me off.

  “This is a private club, madam,” he says, giving me a sweeping glance from head to toe. “We have—a dress code.”

  I admit to being a little travel creased, but I’m wearing jeans that were freshly laundered yesterday on the Guernsey Isle, and even my Converse are mud free at the moment. “You have a dress code for selfies?” I ask.

  “Denim is never permitted,” he replies with a sniff. “As for selfies?” He pronounces the word like it tastes bad in his mouth. “Selfies inside this premises will not be tolerated.”

  As the door swings shut in my face with a muffled sort of boom, I grin up at the closed-circuit camera above the transom. For the first time on this insane journey, a feeling of well-being washes over me. The members of the Reform Club had scoffed at Fogg too. In any case, regardless of this fellow’s disapproval, I’ve got my picture. The first checkpoint on my itinerary is officially crossed off, and ahead of schedule too.

  It’s time to catch my train to Paris.

  My confidence lasts all the way to St. Pancras Station, and right into my très comfortable coach seat on the Eurostar train. The service provides complimentary—and even functional—Wi-Fi. When I log on, there’s a single e-mail sitting unread in my inbox, sent by one Frank Venal.

  Subject line? “Eviction Notice.”

  chapter sixteen

  IMAGE: Eurostar

  IG: Romy_K [London, England, March 26]