by Amy Cross
He nods.
I shake my head. “We need to do it soon.”
He nods again.
“And you need to tell me the truth,” I add.
He turns to me.
“Stratton mentioned that you’re quitting,” I continue. “No offense, Mark, but you live for your work, you’re the kind of guy who’d probably drop down dead within six months of retiring.” I wait for him to offer an explanation, but finally I have to ask. “So what gives?”
“I…” His voice trails off again, and he turns to look back out at the bay.
“And why did you call me down here for this?” I ask. “You don’t need me here. You want me here, I’m useful here, but you laid it on a bit thick when you called.” Again, I wait for a reply, and again none is forthcoming. “What’s this all about, Mark?”
He stares out to sea for a moment, as waves continue to crash against the rocks below the cliff.
“It’s about that goddamn ferry,” he says finally. “Every time we come close to finding it, it slips away.”
“I know, but -”
“I won’t let it happen this time. Still…” He pauses. “You were right earlier. I was so focused on solving the mystery, I ignored the human element. If you hadn’t been here -”
“I was here,” I reply. “Is that another reason for calling me in? To act as your conscience?”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a battered notebook that I recognize immediately. “Remember this?” he asks.
Taking the notebook, I start flicking through the pages. Mark and I used to take turns making notes about the ferry, so there’s a mix of my handwriting and Mark’s. Turning to the first page, I spot an entry marked almost ten years ago, which was when we first became aware of the ferry.
“It became our white whale for a few years, didn’t it?” he says after a moment. “Remember how much time we spent trying to pin the damn thing down? Every time it slipped into view, it’d slip away before we could do anything.”
“I never mentioned it to anyone else,” I reply. “I thought they’d write us off as crazy.”
“Me too, until it hit the Sullivan’s cruiser.”
“To be fair,” I point out, “we don’t know it was the ferry that hit them.”
“Don’t we?”
Pausing, I realize that he’s right: there’s no other explanation. Five years ago, the ferry hit that cruiser and caused it to overturn, and we weren’t able to save the family in time.
“I don’t want to say that I’ve become obsessed,” he continues, “but… I’ve become obsessed. After you quit, I carried on with my research. Over the past few years, I’ve found half a dozen references to the ferry in shipping documentation from around the world, and I’ve personally been involved in two investigations where an old ferry just like this one has been cited as the cause of an accident. It looms out of nowhere and disappears just as quickly, like a…”
His voice trails off.
“Say it,” I tell him.
“Like a ghost ship,” he admits. “Everyone else just thinks it’s a joke, but I tracked down a guy who used to work this coast in the eighties. He’d heard about the damn thing too. Turns out it’s a bit of a whispered legend in these parts.”
“There’s no way a rogue ferry of that size could be operating,” I point out. “With modern radar systems, modern shipping technology, it would’ve been identified and seized by now.” I wait for him to reply. “What port does it sail from? What routes does it take?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then what -”
“People have died because of this thing,” he continues. “Last year, a fishing boat called the Coretianna sank off the coast of Brittany, after being hit by an unknown vessel when visibility was low. Two years before that, another fishing boat near the Shetlands got into trouble when it was rammed by a boat that the captain claimed had come out of nowhere and struck them. He described an aging ferry that ignored all attempts at communication.”
“And you think that was the Aspheron?”
“I know it was the Aspheron.”
“Then what -”
“Did you read the report into the Sullivans’ deaths?”
A shiver passes up my spine at the mention of that incident. “Mark -”
“Did you read it?”
I shake my head. “I avoided it.”
“There was evidence on the upturned hull of their cruisers that they’d been hit by a large vessel.” He pauses. “I went through the records and there was no evidence of another vessel in the area, but -”
“Stop,” I reply, fighting the urge to get up and walk away.
“Now do you understand why I called you last night?” he asks. “If I’m right, this ferry has caused several incidents over the years, including the accident that killed the Sullivan family.”
“You’re putting two and two together and coming up with forty,” I tell him.
“I’m considering the possibilities. When you quit the coastguard five years ago, after the Sullivan family’s accident, I damn near followed you out, but I decided to stay and keep investigating this ferry. I swore that if I ever tracked it down properly, that’d be the end for me. I came close several times, but it always slipped away before I could get to it. Given the link to the Sullivan family, I thought you’d want to be involved. We always agreed that you’d come back if we had a real shot at this thing.”
“There’s only so long you can get away with calling me a consultant,” I point out.
“I don’t care. I’m willing to break every rule in the book to get this thing nailed down.”
Nodding, I watch as waves continue to crash against the rocks below. I open my mouth to tell him about my visions of the dead Sullivan girl, but at the last moment I hold back. Glancing toward the other end of the bay, I spot the distant house. Again, I open my mouth to tell Mark about the girl, but again I resist. Finally, I turn to him and see that he’s still looking out at the horizon.
“I see the girl sometimes,” I tell him, my voice trembling slightly.
“Which girl?”
“The girl from the Sullivans’ boat. Mary Sullivan.”
He pauses. “When you say you see her -”
“Clear as day,” I continue, with tears in my eyes. “Standing right in front of me, staring at me as if she knows I should have done more to save her.” Taking a deep breath, I force myself to keep from crying. “I first saw her that night on the rescue boat after I came around. I thought it was an artifact of the concussion, but ever since, every few months… I have nightmares, too. I never used to believe in ghosts or any of that stuff, but I swear to God, I see Mary Sullivan sometimes. When I’m awake, when I’m asleep…” Pausing, I watch the waves for a moment longer, before turning to him. “I’m glad you called.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“If you really think this ferry caused the accident that killed the Sullivans five years ago,” I add, “then we have to know for sure. Maybe -”
He waits for me to continue. “Maybe what?”
“Maybe it’ll give her some peace,” I continue, although the idea instantly seems crazy as soon as the words have left my lips. Watching the rough sea for a moment, I try to imagine the ferry resting beneath the waves. Ever since the night I failed to rescue the Sullivans, I’ve avoided going underwater, and the thought of diving fills me with dread. At the same time, I know that if we want to get answers to this problem, we have to go down there and take a closer look at the wreck of the ferry. At least that way, finally, we might get some answers.
“Something’s wrong,” Mark says suddenly, looking past me.
Turning, I realize he’s right. In the distance, back at the shore, people are shouting.
***
“There was no warning,” Farrah says as he checks Carter’s temperature again, holding a hand against the man’s forehead for a moment. “He just stepped out to get a coffee and suddenly I heard a bump. He fainted.”
“
I’m fine,” Carter replies, even though he’s clearly dazed. He tries to get up from the stool, but Mark and I have to catch him as he stumbles and almost falls down onto the grass. He leans against the side of the medical trailer, squinting as if he can barely see properly.
“Try not to get too close,” Farrah tells us, gesturing for us to step back.
“The phones aren’t working,” Stratton mutters, turning and heading toward one of the trailers. “I’m going to try contacting London with the EVAC system.”
“Do you think this is contagious?” I ask, watching as Carter is guided back down onto the stool. He looks a little dizzy, and even in just the past few minutes he’s begun to sweat more. It’s as if he’s been gripped by a sudden fever.
“Carter wasn’t the first person who came into contact with the survivor,” Farrah replies, taking a stethoscope and listening to the man’s chest, “but he’s had closer contact. He took a blood sample from the guy just before he got sick. I’m going to have to call the HPA and the ECDC and let them know we might have a situation here. If there’s any chance of a communicable disease, we need the entire site locked down until the problem has been identified.”
“I just stood up too fast,” Carter insists, trying again to get to his feet. This time, he pushes us away when we try to help him, before dropping to his knees and then rolling onto his side.
“Whatever it is,” Farrah replies, kneeling to help him, “it’s fast-acting and it seems to require persistent close contact in order to be communicated. I’m going to have to insist that no-one from the camp interacts with anyone from outside, at least not for the time being.”
“There was an old woman here earlier,” one of the other workers points out. “She was shouting about something, but technically she got through the perimeter. She lives in the house on the other side of the bay.”
“Then the quarantine needs to include her house too,” Farrah continues. “Someone needs to go and tell her.”
“I can do that,” I tell him quickly.
“Don’t worry, I can send -”
“No,” I add, interrupting him as I realize that I actually want to talk to that woman and find out why she was so upset earlier. “I’ll go and talk to her.”
***
“Hello?” I call out, stepping back from the door now that I’ve knocked twice without an answer. “Anyone home?”
I wait, but there’s no sign of life. I didn’t hear what the old woman was shouting about earlier, but I know she was telling us all to get the hell out of town and to leave the ferry alone, so I figure she might know something. So far, however, she hasn’t answered her door, so I make my way around to the side of the house, open the gate, and head around to the back garden.
“Hello?” I call out again. “Is anyone here? Can -”
Hearing a tapping sound nearby, I turn and see the woman watching me from one of the windows.
***
“Quarantine? What nonsense are you on about, girl?”
“Just for a few hours, hopefully,” I reply, as she leads me through to her cluttered front room. “Maybe a day at most. It’s because you came into contact with some of us at the site.”
“Huh.” Clearly not impressed, she glances back at me. “I’m eighty-three years old. I’ve never been quarantined in my entire life and I don’t intend to start now!”
“If it helps, neither have I.”
“There’s no need for any of this rubbish,” she continues. “You must all simply pack up at once and get out of here. These matters will take care of themselves if they’re left well enough alone. No good will come of meddling in things you don’t understand.”
“What kind of things?” I ask.
“Things that have gone on for many years just fine,” she continues, shooing a cat from the sofa and gesturing for me to take its place. “Things we don’t have any right to interfere with. I always knew a bunch of busy-bodies would show up eventually and try to poke their noses into everything, that’s the problem with the modern world, you’re all determined to explain every goddamn thing that happens.” Leaning on her stick, she heads to the table and picks up a framed photo for a moment, staring down at the image. “None of you can just leave well alone and let things simply be.”
“You’re talking about the ferry?”
She eyes me suspiciously for a moment. “What do you know about it?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Well, it’s been doing its job since before any of us were born,” she replies, leaning on her stick again as she sets the photo down and then heads to the bay window. She pauses for a moment, looking out at the bay. “It’ll still be doing its job long after we’re gone. It doesn’t need our help, it doesn’t need us to understand, it just needs us to stop poking our ignorant noses in its business. No good can come of getting too close.” She turns to me, with tears in her eyes. “We’ll all get to take a journey on that thing, some of us sooner than others, but only when our time comes. It’s foolish to meddle.”
“There were people on-board -”
She shakes her head.
“There were,” I continue. “I saw them.”
“You saw them?” She pauses again, clearly shocked. “You foolish girl, how close did you get?”
“I went down on a line from the helicopter and -”
“Oh, you idiot,” she hisses, before muttering something under her breath.
“We shouldn’t have tried to save them?” I ask, surprised by her attitude.
“Save them?” She smiles. “Do you know how long I’ve lived in this house?”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Eileen Shaw,” she replies, “and I’ve lived here since I was a girl, and before that my mother lived here, and before that her mother, and so on and so forth. Now, I’m not saying that I know everything that goes on out there, I’m not an arrogant woman, but I’ve seen and heard enough to realize that we have no right to meddle.”
“But surely -”
“Bad things will happen if you keep doing what you’re doing,” she continues. “I saw you earlier, down on the beach, pulling someone from the water. Please, tell me you sent him straight back out.”
“He’s sick.”
“Is anyone else sick yet?”
I pause for a moment. “Yes, actually. The man who was examining him.”
She nods. “There’ll be more.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s what happens when you mix these things,” she replies, clearly losing her patience with me. “You have to understand that when the ferry collects those people, it’s supposed to take them away from all of this, it’s part of the natural order. They’re no longer a part of our world. Once they go on-board, they’re not fit to walk among us, just as we’re not fit to walk among them!” She sighs. “It’s really very simple, I don’t know why you’re making such a meal of it all. Send the poor unfortunate fellow back out there, let things take care of themselves, and forget any of this ever happened.”
Staring at her, I realize that regardless of whether or not she’s right, she certainly believes every word she’s saying.
“How many times have you seen the ferry before?” I ask.
“Not many. A half dozen in eighty-three years. The first time, I was just five.” Another pause, and there seem to be more tears in her eyes. “My brother was eight. We became fascinated by the damn thing, especially after we realized our parents would brook no discussion of the matter. Eventually we found our grandfather’s notes, and that just spurred us on until…”
Her voice trails off.
“Until what?” I ask.
“One day, when he was in his teens, he sailed out to get a closer look. He’d studied the notes and he thought he knew when the ferry would comes past again.”
“And did it?”
She pauses. “I don’t know. He never came back. A few pieces of his boat were found later, smashed to pieces. But poor George wa
s never seen again.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “That must have been awful, but -”
“That survivor you pulled from the sea,” she says sharply, interrupting me, “you must send him back at once!”
“He’s sick,” I point out. “He needs help. If we send him back out to sea, he’ll die!”
“Poppycock,” she hisses, clearly frustrated as she looks out the window again. “You’re idiots, all of you. You’ve got no sense at all. You’re going to make the same mistake George made.”
“Maybe you should just tell me what’s really happening,” I continue. “You obviously know more about this, or you think you do.”
“You’re too young,” she mutters. “Too arrogant. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She turns to me, and I can see she’s trying to decide. “That ferry usually only passes this bay every few decades,” she says after a moment, “although sometimes the stars bring it more often. I’ve studied it, and I’ve read about it, just as my mother studied it, just as her mother and father studied it before. I never wanted to go close to it, though. I learned that lesson from my brother’s disappearance. It’s not something to be trifled with, it should just be left to get on with its work.”
“And what work is that?” I ask.
“What work do you think?” she replies, clearly exasperated. “The transportation of the dead, taking them away from the world of the living. It doesn’t do to have these things mix. The dead have their land, the living have theirs, and the two should never touch.”
Staring at her, I can’t help but wonder if she’s a little crazy. Sure, the ferry is unusual and there are some slightly creepy aspects to everything that has happened so far, but she seems to have taken those elements and turned them into something else entirely. I guess the tragedy of losing her brother might have made her a little over-sensitive to certain aspects of the story.
“You don’t believe me,” she says after a moment. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I…” Pausing, I realize that I can’t dismiss her entirely. “I’m not sure.”
“Don’t test it,” she continues. “Don’t make the same mistake my brother made.”