Pressure

by Betsy Reavley

  ‘So you say,’ Frank mutters under his breath.

  ‘This is ridiculous. No one killed him. He must have done it to himself.’ Sam shrugs. ‘Probably freaked the fuck out about our situation and decided suicide was the only option.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Anya hisses.

  ‘Okay, come on, calm down everyone.’ Susie clearly does not like tension.

  ‘Where did the syringe come from? That’s what I want to know.’ Frank drains the last of his drink.

  ‘I believe it came from the first aid kit we keep on board,’ Anya confesses.

  ‘Where is that normally kept?’ I ask.

  ‘On a wall between the bunkrooms and the engine room. Everyone had access to it.’

  ‘I’m going to check it now,’ Patrick says marching out of the living room leaving the eight of us in silence.

  We start to look at each other, wondering if there really is a killer among us and, if so, who it is.

  Moments later Patrick returns with a grave expression on his face.

  ‘The adrenaline auto injector is missing from the kit.’

  ‘So we now know where it came from but we still don’t know who took it,’ Luke concludes.

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill Ray, though?’ Sam asks. ‘None of us really know him, do we? Why would any of us want him dead?’

  ‘A good question,’ I say after taking another sip of the whisky.

  In turn, I examine the face of each of my companions. Every one looks as perplexed as the next. Some look frightened and others look baffled. Luke hangs his head and refuses to make eye contact.

  ‘Have you all forgotten our other current predicament?’ Fiona puts her hands on her hips. She is attractive, in a way, with her curvy figure and shoulder-length dark chocolate bob.

  For a moment I had been so distracted by the drama, I’d briefly forgotten we were sitting, trapped, on the bottom of the ocean. As the realisation returns I feel my stomach begin to turn and the whisky threatening to come back up.

  ‘I can’t breathe,’ I say getting to my feet as the world around me starts to spin. ‘I need some air.’

  ‘We all do, doll.’ Frank chuckles bitterly.

  ‘Are you okay, Zara?’ Susie approaches, her eyes full of concern.

  ‘Not really.’ I close my eyes in an attempt to shut everything out.

  ‘Come on. Come with me.’ Susie puts her skinny arm around my shoulder.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, feeling like I might pass out.

  ‘Anywhere but here.’

  10

  Dominique

  The audition, as intimidating as it was, went well, in a way. At first, Frank Holden wasn’t anything like as scary as I’d imagined. He was authoritative, yes, but a real gentleman. I would have described him as a charmer. At least those were my first impressions.

  On that chilly but crisp February morning I got on the Tube and made my way to West London. As instructed by my agent, who up until that point had been worse than useless, I wore a black cocktail dress and heels. It seemed unusual to have a dress code for an audition but I am not long out of stage school and so I always do as I am told.

  For as long as I can remember I’ve been involved in the performing arts. I started out with ballet and progressed quickly through the stages, eventually joining a dance school at the age of thirteen. My parents were keen that I should follow my dreams and make the most of my talents. As I was an only child they sank all their hopes, ambitions and money into me. I was very lucky.

  My childhood was easy and comfortable. I went to a good school and lived in a large house with plenty of land, which meant I could have a horse. Butterbelle was a Welsh cob and a beautiful palomino.

  I would spend hours with her, grooming her flaxen mane and tail. She was my best friend. Despite the love and energy my parents gave to me I always longed for a sibling. I suppose Butterbelle was the next best thing.

  Unfortunately, after becoming extremely ill and suffering with bulimia nervosa, I had to leave dance school, but soon after that decided I would turn my attention to acting instead. I wasn’t as natural at it as I had been at ballet but I enjoyed the feeling of being on stage again.

  The teachers and my parents kept a careful eye on me, monitoring what I was eating and my weight but, gradually, as I got better they began to relax.

  I will never know whether my illness was linked to my desire to succeed as a dancer, but I suspect it probably was. The pressure on dancers to remain thin is heavy.

  My mother told me that my beauty would take me a long way in this world and that I could do whatever I desired. So, when I was sixteen, I put myself forward to some modelling agencies and the work quickly started to pour in. I’d never had dreams of being a model but the money was good and I needed to do something to pay the bills while I struggled to make it as an actress. I was determined not to live off my parents’ money forever.

  In the five years since leaving drama school I’ve got to know parts of London well and have come to see it as my home, despite being born and bred in the countryside. But London is such a vast place there are still areas of it that remain foreign to me and always will.

  After getting off the Tube, I walked along Sloane Street, passing designer shops, expensive restaurants and lovely boutiques. The whole area smelt of money and I looked longingly into shop windows at clothes and jewellery that I could only dream of affording.

  To my surprise, when I turned up at Frank Holden’s building, I discovered that it wasn’t his offices I was visiting but his home. His lavish apartment was situated in Knightsbridge and had an exclusive One Hyde Park building address.

  A man wearing a suit opened the main door to the building and I was ushered into the foyer. There, sitting behind a large desk, was a concierge who smiled and asked which apartment I was visiting.

  ‘I’m here to see Frank Holden,’ I whispered quietly, feeling self-conscious in my new heels, which were now rubbing and starting to cause blisters.

  ‘Take the lift to level two,’ the well-spoken concierge replied, signalling towards the elevator on the left-hand side of the large entrance hall.

  Walking slowly, so as to not anger my feet further, I pressed the button for the lift and waited patiently.

  Although my acting experience was minimal, I had done lots of modelling and was used to being in front of the camera. My good looks held me back in some ways but they had also led me to that moment, standing there waiting for a lift in Frank Holden’s prestigious apartment building, and for that I was grateful.

  By the time I’d made it to the second floor my nerves were really beginning to kick in. I’d been given little information about the film I would be auditioning for and felt daunted by meeting the director for the first time at his home. It didn’t help that the balls of my feet were aching and the backs of my shoes were cutting through my stockings and into the flesh on my heels.

  Taking a deep breath and standing as straight as I could, given my shoe situation, I knocked as confidently as I could manage on the door.

  A large-bellied man with thinning hair and small eyes opened the door and looked me up and down. He was older than I had imagined. He was wearing only a dressing gown.

  ‘Dominique.’ He lunged forward, slipping his arms around my waist and kissed my cheek as if we were old friends.

  Thrown by his overly friendly welcome, I remained standing on the wrong side of the door, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Come in, doll.’ He winked and moved back so that I could pass.

  Stepping into his home was like walking into a world I’d never encountered before. The curved hallway of his opulent apartment was both grand and elegant, modern and light despite the dark wood panelling. I could see at the end of the hallway there was a very large reception area with a large balcony, which I imagined he used to entertain.

  As we went into the main living space there was a well-proportioned open-plan kitchen, which led to the living room that had its
own double door entrance. To the right, through a wide open door, I could see a beautiful double bedroom and a huge king-size bed made up with dark grey satin sheets.

  ‘You like it?’ Frank watched me look on in awe at his home before clapping his hands together and saying the word ‘lights’. Instantly the lights were dimmed, which seemed like an unnecessary thing to do given that the winter sun was flooding in anyway.

  ‘Let me take your coat,’ he said, slipping his large hands around my shoulders and removing it for me before I had a chance to disagree.

  ‘Thank you.’ I felt ridiculous standing there in a cocktail dress on a weekday morning. Particularly given that there only appeared to be two of us in the apartment.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? Champagne?’ He sauntered over to the marble table and removed a bottle of chilled champagne from a designer cooler filled with ice.

  It was not yet midday but I didn’t want to appear rude so accepted the glass he was already pouring.

  ‘So tell me about yourself, Dominique.’ He said my name in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be an actress,’ I started speaking and he rolled his eyes.

  ‘No, no, stop.’ He put a large hand up. ‘I’m not interested in hearing any old spiel. Tell me something you haven’t told anyone else.’

  Standing before me was a renowned filmmaker, who was wearing only a fluffy white dressing gown, supplying me with champagne and asking me inappropriate questions. What could I do? I was terrified of upsetting him, or blowing my chance of acting in his next film, so I said what I thought he wanted to hear.

  ‘I once was asked to be in a porn film.’ I don’t know where that came from. It wasn’t even true but I sensed this was the kind of thing he was after.

  ‘Please tell me you did it?’ His piggy eyes glinted and his fat tongue ran across his lips.

  ‘I err…’ The words escaped me.

  ‘Well, missy, if you want to have a part in my next film perhaps you’d better show me what you’re made of.’

  He went and sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him.

  ‘This film is going to require men and women living in very close quarters. I need to know you’re up to the…’—he paused grinning—‘position.’

  He undid his robe and began to massage himself. Horror-struck by the vile act taking place in front of me, I froze. I wish I’d run out screaming but I didn’t. I just stood there while he finished himself off.

  ‘Oh you’re good.’ He wiped his hand on his robe before retying it. ‘You’re a good girl but a dirty girl.’ He smirked, pointing to the ground.

  What I hadn’t realised until then was that in my shock I’d spilt the contents of my champagne glass onto his plush cream carpet.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ My throat felt dry but I was too scared to kneel and clean it up.

  ‘Don’t sweat it, doll. I’ll call housekeeping and get them to come and deal with it. Benefit of being rich and famous.’ He chuckled.

  Still I remained glued to the spot wondering if I’d just imagined what had taken place.

  ‘You got the part, kid. I’ll get my people to call your agent and give you the details.’

  The mixture of horror and elation was not like anything I’d ever felt before.

  ‘Great,’ I managed to whisper.

  ‘But, doll, you know how this works, right?’ He fixed me with a stare and all of the faked softness left his face. ‘You talk to anyone about this and I will make sure you never act again.’

  Then his face relaxed once more as he slipped behind me and helped me to put my coat on before pressing up against me. ‘Now, be a good girl, keep your mouth shut and fuck off.’

  I have never left a building as quickly as I did that day.

  It took some time to get through the London crowds and make my way back to the flat that I shared with friends in Fulham. The first thing I did was put all the clothes I had worn that morning in the bin. Then I took a long hot shower.

  I cried for a week afterwards, but never dreamt of turning down the part when my agent got in touch and excitedly confirmed that I had been offered a role in the film. Neither did I ever consider telling anyone what took place in Frank’s apartment. I would rather have died.

  11

  Child

  When I started to fail my spelling tests things got worse for me. Mummy was so angry, and so ashamed that her child was thick, she began to punish me much more frequently.

  I decided to try and hide the results of my homework from her but when she found out she would get even angrier.

  ‘You’re thick,’ she’d spit, ‘just like your father. Thick and worthless.’ Her newfound toy to play with was a thick metal belt. She always used the end that had the buckle. I will never forget the sound it made when it connected with my skin. ‘I rid myself of your father because he was useless. Am I going to have to get rid of you too, you little shit?’ she would roar before taking me down to the cellar to beat me.

  I used to think she took me down there to frighten me, but as I grew older I realised it was because my screams could not be heard so easily.

  I’d never known my father. We had never met. Mummy told me that as soon as he discovered she was pregnant he up and left without a word. She said it was my fault that she was on her own.

  ‘If only I’d gone to the clinic when I found out I was carrying you,’ she would say, ‘I could have had a decent life.’ Mummy would rant while she tied my hands to a pipe in the cellar and stripped my torso bare. Then the whipping would begin. She only ever did seven lashes. No more, no less. And with each hit she would recount the seven deadly sins, although I never really understood why.

  When she had finished, she would then cover my bruised and battered back with a woollen blanket and leave me down there, still tied to the pipe. I hated that blanket. It smelt like mothballs and on occasion, when the belt buckle would rip my skin, the fibres of wool would cling to the wound as it dried. When she reappeared to untie me, I dreaded having to shed the blanket because I knew it would open up the wounds again.

  ‘I don’t know why you make me do this,’ she’d mutter, pushing me up the stairs as my wobbly legs did their best to climb each step.

  Once at the top, it always took me a while for my eyes to adjust to the light and I’d squint, almost wishing I was back down in the darkness again.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy.’

  ‘Go and wash yourself. You’re a mess and you stink.’ Then she’d take herself off to the kitchen to pour herself a large vodka, leaving me to clean myself up and tend to my wounds. Every time she beat me with the belt I knew I would not get supper that night and I would go to bed hungry – yet another of her punishments that I had to endure. But as the abuse started to become a routine I worked out ways to avoid feeling hungry.

  At school, at lunchtime, I started to sneak fruit out of the lunch hall. I kept it in my sports bag, which Mummy never checked. I would take the fruit home, where I kept it in the bottom of my cupboard, ready for the nights when I knew I wouldn’t be fed. It worked for a while and I got away with it but then one day Mummy found out.

  I came home from school on a Thursday in December to discover the house was quiet and Mummy was nowhere to be found. She had never not been at home when I’d returned from school before so I knew something was wrong.

  Wanting to hide the apple I had in my sports bag, I skipped up the stairs to my bedroom, but when I opened the door I found Mummy sitting on the bed. Next to her was a pile of fruit. She’d found my secret stash.

  A cigarette hung from her mouth and she just sat there, arms crossed, staring at me. I came into the room, closed the door and hung my head in shame.

  ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you? You thought I wouldn’t realise you were hiding food. You are so stupid I sometimes struggle to accept you came out of my body.’ A large piece of ash fell from her cigarette and onto my bed sheets as she picked up a large red apple and inspected it. A crook
ed smile spread across her lips and she looked at me from below her eyelashes. Then she stood up and hurled the apple at me.

  The fruit hit me in the chest, knocking the wind right out of me. Seconds later she was hurling it all in my direction, one piece at a time. I crouched on the ground and attempted to cover my head as apples rained down on me hard. One hit me in the face and split my eyebrow open. Another hit me on the back where wounds were still attempting to heal.

  When she had finished she sat back down on the bed panting. My skull ached and the blood was running down my face blinding me in one eye. It was then that I wet myself in front of her.

  The urine bounced off the wooden floorboards making a loud noise, and my shame was complete.

  ‘You disgusting little maggot.’ Mummy came over to where I was crouching on the ground and grabbed me by the throat. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot.

  ‘Clean yourself right now,’ she bellowed, making sure she didn’t stand in the puddle of wee.

  Unable to breathe as her grip tightened, I wished right then that I could die.

  Then without warning she released me and I collapsed into a heap on the floor, lying in my own urine.

  ‘No Christmas and no dinner,’ she said as she left the room, slamming the door closed behind her while I lay shaking and trying to breathe.

  It did not take long for the tears to come and that night, as she had promised, I went to bed hungry and in a lot of pain.

  12

  The Pica Explorer

  Day two. Hour 08:45.

  We have decided it would be best if we moved Ray’s body into one of the large freezers. It meant having to take a lot of food out, and risk it going off, but that is a better prospect than having a rotting body under our noses.

  Thankfully I am not involved in the task of moving him. Patrick, Sam and Luke are doing it, though Sam is making an awful fuss. Frank, meanwhile, has refused to help, leaving the other three men to it.