‘You’re a star. Thank you.’ I needed to line my empty stomach.
She went away, to twinkle somewhere on deck, where lovers hung over the rails and made promises into the swiftly flowing foam.
The absent DJ had left a pile of sorted records so I didn’t have to make any decisions. I made a mental note to check this man’s record. He’d missed a bingo session too. Two black marks. I got a little bored with the selection and slipped in a few requests of my own, George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’ and SpyroGyra’s ‘Morning Dance’.
‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ asked an amused, gravelly voice. I’d seen him around on the decks. He was a forty-something American, travelling on his own, who read a lot, stayed on the fringe of the marshmallow matrons.
‘No one sleeps on this ship,’ I said. ‘It’s forbidden. Far too much going on. Sleep and you miss a film, a lecture, a meal, a show.’
‘I’d sure like to miss a few meals,’ he said. ‘No willpower.’
He wasn’t dancing. I’d noticed him before sitting right at the back of the lounge, always a book and a drink on his table.
‘I see you aren’t dancing. There are lots of ladies here who would love a dance,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you ask one of them?’
‘I’m waiting for my dream woman,’ he said. He half-smiled as if hoping his enigmatic statement would not be taken too seriously. He had a crooked eye tooth.
‘Sorry, we don’t have any of those on board,’ I said flippantly.
‘Sometimes dreams are more fun than real life,’ he said. ‘Miss Jones,’ he added, inclining his head. He went back to his seat and opened the book. It was a hardback, looked heavy going. I was sorry he had left the booth. He sounded an interesting person to talk to. Maybe I’d see him in Barbados.
When I played the same dance number twice running, without noticing, I decided to pack it in. It was two a.m. and I was almost too tired for my traditional night deck stroll. Yet it was my special time to myself, for letting my hair down, allowing the night air to cool my skin, watching the fast flow of sea as the Countess Georgina ate up the nautical miles. Time when I assured myself that all was well on-board, and sweet sleep was ahead.
But as I strolled the empty decks, some still wet from their nightly hosing and mop down, I knew that not all was well. Two men had died in mysterious circumstances and someone hated me enough to slash my photograph. Something was wrong.
I was being watched. I had that sudden, shocking spine-tingling feeling run through me. My hand clutched the rail to steady myself. I could feel eyes boring into my body, surrounding me with fear. The spray flew back into my face and I blinked, feeling confused and dizzy, strangely rooted to the deck.
I couldn’t move.
Panic rolled over me. What was happening? I’d been well enough to walk up the stairs and on to the Lido deck. Sleepy yes, but suddenly I was no longer in control. My body was weighted, felt as heavy as an anchor.
One word came into my brain. Sandwiches. I had only eaten two of them, not liking their strong meat content. Had something been put into them? Had they been tampered with? Not enough to kill me, but something to paralyze my nerves or my muscles? My paranoid imagination was into overdrive.
I had to get help but my feet were not obeying the smallest of my instructions. And someone was watching me. I tried to move my head but a stiffness was invading my neck, numbing it, tingling and icy. Waves of sleep rolled over me, and I clung to the railing, trying to keep myself upright.
This couldn’t be happening to me. I wouldn’t allow it. I tried to call out for help but there was no voice inside my throat. My vocal cords were mute. If I could reach my phone, maybe I could call someone for help. Where was my phone? My hands wouldn’t go into my pockets. They floundered about like fish in the moonlight.
The sky was so beautiful, all those diamond-bright stars twinkling in the velvety hemisphere, and this was happening beneath them. But then everything happened under their watchful eyes. They saw everything. Every war, every explosion, every disaster, man-made or natural. Every death.
‘Casey? Miss Jones? Are you all right?’
Richard Norton was walking towards me, his body all wavering about like a mirror at a fun fair, and strangely, tall as he was, I thought I could see two of him, one beside the other.
I tried to say his name but all that came out was a strangled grunt.
Nine - Barbados
Dr Samuel Mallory was none too pleased to be called from his bed in the early hours of the morning. Richard Norton had carried me to my cabin as I was incapable of walking. I don’t remember much about being carried.
‘Sleeping pills,’ said Samuel, putting away his stethoscope. ‘Double vision, sleepiness and mental confusion? Did you take some sleeping pills and then go up on deck?’
My voice was coming back, sleepily, slurred. They had been walking me around to keep me awake. But I desperately wanted to put my head down and sleep.
‘No sleeping pills,’ I murmured. ‘I don’t take them.’
‘Wake up, Casey. Don’t go to sleep. Wake up, talk to me.’
‘Don’t wanna talk. I’m tired enough, running that disco, and it’s late. I don’t need … a sleeping pill …’
‘Come on, think. What did you have to eat or drink?’ He didn’t sound at all sympathetic. He’d left his bedside manner in his cabin.
‘I had orange juice and s-sandwiches in the Galaxy Lounge. I didn’t finish them.’
‘Any alcohol?’
‘I was drinking orange juice. But you bought me … two brandies.’
‘Sufficient time lapse, I think. I made sure there was a lot of soda.’
‘I don’t know … anything.’
‘I’ll get the juice tested. And I’ll take a blood sample to find out exactly which type of benzodiazepine was used. Probably Mogadon or Dalinane. The effects come on in about half an hour. Or it could have been a barbiturate, Nembutal is another short-acting one.’ He jabbed a syringe into my arm and helped himself to some blood. No ‘please’ or ‘may I’? ‘Try to keep awake, Casey. We don’t know how much they gave you.’
‘But I’m so tired. I wanna go to sleep. Please let me have some sleep,’ I moaned. ‘Who gave me what? What do you mean? Let me sleep.’
‘Sorry, not yet. We’ll see what they pumped into you and the percentage still in your blood. Drink lots of water. When the level becomes non-threatening, then you can sleep it off.’
‘I’ll keep her awake,’ said Richard Norton, to the rescue. ‘I’ll read her a manual on fire safety on board ship.’
‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Dr Mallory, closing his bag with a snap. ‘You could have fallen overboard. And no one would have known.’
‘There was someone there … watching me.’
‘Hallucination.’
‘It’s not an overdose, is it?’ I asked, still slurring my words. ‘No. You’d be in a coma by now if you’d overdosed. You’ll live to compere another spectacular show. I’ll do these tests, then I’d like to get some beauty sleep. And I need it more than you do.’ If I hadn’t felt so woozy, I’d have rated that as a second-grade compliment. As he left, Richard poured some more water down me. Then he slipped a cardigan over my shoulders and propelled me towards the door. He seemed to be enjoying it. He was very much like a big, cuddly bear.
‘I think three times round the Promenade Deck in the fresh air would be a splendid idea. If anyone sees us, they’ll think we’re lovers, too much in love to say goodnight. That’s a song,’ he explained wryly. ‘But I guess you’re too young to know it.’
‘I think I know it,’ I said, still struggling, barely able to keep my eyes open. My eyelids weighed a ton. ‘A duet.’
‘Come on. Let’s hit the deck. Three circuits on the trot.’
‘That’s a whole mile,’ I said, shaking my head as the air hit my face like a wet flannel. It was tinged with salt. ‘I can’t walk a mile. I can’t trot.’
But I did, leaning heavily on Ri
chard, making my feet work, pushing them forward. It took ages, staggering about. Richard was big enough and bulky enough to support me and keep me in some sort of line, otherwise I’d have been bashing into rails and stacked deckchairs and deck equipment. The sides of the ship were going in and out, the deck wavering.
Richard took a call on his mobile. We stood in the shelter of a windbreak. The dawn was beginning to tinge the sky with streaks of rose madder, peeking from the horizon like a timid nymph.
‘Norton here. Yes, she’s still walking. Reckon she’s really worn out by now. Her legs are definitely shorter. Can we give her a break? Good, that’s great. I’ll tell her that the levels are not lethal. Twenty minutes more and she can go to bed, if she’s coherent and lucid.’
‘I heard that,’ I said, yawning hugely. ‘I am coherent and lucid. What do you want me to do to prove it? Say my nine times table?’
‘How about something a little less mathematical and more in keeping with the dawn? Do you know any suitable poems?’
‘I know a few poems but I can’t recollect any at the moment. I can remember the words of some songs.’
‘Songs will do,’ he said. ‘Sing to me and then I’ll take you back to your cabin.’
That’s how I came to be walking round the Promenade Deck as the dawn rose in all its splendour, singing Cole Porter and Gershwin and Hoagy Carmichael in a suspiciously groggy voice. It took a long time to live down. Word got around the ship about the perambulating singer at dawn. Even Captain Nicolas started humming every time he saw me.
*
Barbados loomed on the horizon in all its Caribbean glory. The palm-fringed beaches stretched in all directions. A diamond necklace of beach-front hotels dazzled with their white walls and balconies and sprawling bougainvillaea, hibiscus and oleander. Little England they called Barbados but the climate was far from the UK norm. Today was a blistering summer temperature tempered by the trade winds.
The Countess was too big to weigh anchor along the bustling waterfront of Bridgetown and instead she was docked in the new dock area. It was a typical frenetic dockyard, beset with restrictions on movement, and there were lines of coaches waiting to take passengers on island tours, and shuttles for those only wanting to go into Bridgetown to shop, gawp and wander.
Passengers were warned not to walk around the dock area on their own. It was strictly restricted admittance. Things had changed since my last visit. You caught the shuttle bus or stayed on-board. I hoped the passengers would take notice of these restrictions. Bailing someone out of the police station immediately before departure was no fun and pretty fraught.
I still felt a little woozy but I had slept off the worst of the drug. Several cups of black coffee had woken me up enough to dress and get to the office. The weekly departmental meeting was fixed for this morning. It was a good time when the bustle of the ship keyed down and most of the passengers went ashore. A few stayed on-board, liking the quietness of the ship to themselves. No stampede to find a free lounger.
The two deaths were recorded and Richard Norton said he was making the necessary enquiries. Dr Mallory made his report, no epidemics. The other departments brought up a few issues. Entertainments (me) said Ray Roeder, the Eighties pop star, was a last minute replacement booking. He would be joining us in a few days. But Estelle Grayson was due to arrive today. There was a general groan. Every department on ship would feel her mighty personality.
Estelle Grayson arrived, late. She had been somewhat put out that the port agent’s vehicle was a minivan and not a limousine. The fact that it was a sensible mode of transport for all her baggage, plus the replacement dancer, and the new comedian, had quite escaped her.
‘I don’t travel on a bus, you know,’ she said immediately as I greeted her on-board. ‘I expect something better than a bus.’
‘There were three of you, Miss Grayson,’ I said. ‘And all the baggage. It would have been a bit of a crush in a car. Anyway, you’re here now, safely, and I’m very happy to welcome you aboard the Countess Georgina.’
I smiled at them. The skinny-thin dancer looked as if she was about to drop with the heat. The comedian was white-faced, having been flying for twenty-four hours. He’d travelled from South Africa, after leaving another cruise ship. Estelle Grayson was the freshest of the bunch and yet she was making the most fuss.
‘I hope I’ve got the same cabin,’ she said. ‘And the same steward. He knows exactly what I want.’
‘It is the same cabin,’ I assured her. ‘But not the same steward. Your usual steward has gone on leave. Some family matter.’
‘Oh no, that’s impossible. I can’t have some strange steward. I shall be completely thrown. Everything will be diabolical.’
‘He’s a very good steward. One of our best. He’s been taken off stateroom duty, just so that he can help you settle in. You’ll find him exceptional.’ This was a complete fabrication, made up on the spur of the moment, to placate Ms Grayson. All our stewards were good. But she seemed to swallow it and started dabbing her brow with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.
‘Show me to my cabin then, Miss … er?’
‘Jones. Casey Jones. I’m the new Entertainment Director.’
‘Oh, so you’re new, are you? No wonder I got a minivan.’ She sailed away, following a flotilla of stewards with her hand luggage. She had more make-up cases than our entire troupe of dancers.
Both the comedian and the dancer had been waiting patiently. The comedian was an old hand at this and nothing worried him. He threw me a sympathetic smile.
‘Well done, Casey girl,’ he said. ‘Got anything for me to sign? Then, if you don’t mind, I’d like a kip. My head will be out before it touches the pillow.’
‘Lovely to have you on board again.’ I said. I’d looked him up on our computer files. He was a regular. ‘I know you’ll be as brilliant as ever. I won’t miss one of your shows.’
‘Got a few new jokes,’ he promised.
‘I’ll look forward to them.’
I took the young dancer to meet the troupe. She was obviously timid and nervous despite the trendy Top Shop and Monsoon clothes. Her luminous make-up was melting down her face. ‘Is it always as hot as this?’ she asked, fanning herself with her crew card. ‘I can’t stand it.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the heat. It is the Caribbean, after all. And the ship is air-conditioned everywhere so you’ll be comfortable enough on-board.’
Susan was eyeing me from the other desk as I completed the paperwork attached to the newcomers. She was as pasty faced as always, a roll of fat over the belt of her jeans. I don’t think she ever went out on deck, whereas I was collecting a dusky honeyed skin without any sunbathing.
‘You recovered from your little fracas?’ she asked, off-hand, flicking through a new manual that had arrived. Someone had to read it.
‘What little fracas?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Out on the deck, after the disco. Singing and larking about. I heard there was some trouble,’ she said, looking all innocent and unworldly. ‘I hope everything is all right?’
‘Heavens yes, no trouble,’ I said, keying in replies to some urgent emails without looking at her. Emails might be fast and efficient but they always needed answering. You could put a letter in an in tray and forget about it. ‘Merely a very pleasant stroll around the deck in excellent company. Pleasant company is always a bonus, don’t you agree?’
‘Nice company, of course. But I heard you were in trouble. Someone spiked your drink.’
‘Then you heard wrong,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Do I look as if someone spiked my drink?’ This was a bluff. How is someone supposed to look? Hollow-faced and red-eyed?
‘No, you’re looking very smart,’ she said sulkily. ‘But then you always do.’
*
I didn’t get much time ashore in Barbados. Estelle Grayson suddenly found a dozen things which were not to her liking. Her rehearsal times, one of her cases was mi
ssing, the flowers were giving her hay fever, she had jet lag, the pianist didn’t know how to transpose keys, some sheet music was lost.
I went ashore on the last shuttle bus into Bridgetown. The sight of the fields of sugar cane, the hills and dales, the limousines and donkey carts, the peaceful and unhurried ways, were an instant tonic. Agriculture was still the main occupation of the island but tourism was fast catching up. The Bajans lived in their colourful wooden houses that clustered along the roadside, women sitting on the front balconies, making ready the vegetables to cook for that evening meal. There would be fresh fish from the sea to bake.
There was only time to wander around the waterfront of Bridgetown and down Broad Street, the main shopping street, and then along the Careenage to where boats and schooners are repainted and refurbished. A statue of Admiral Lord Nelson still stood in Trafalgar Square, a slightly smaller version than his London abode. He’d saved their sugar profits in the nineteenth century and this was their thank you. The air was full of steel bands playing and the cries of street hawkers.
I strolled over the many bridges of this inlet, before turning to catch the last shuttle bus back to the ship. It was very full. Many of the passengers had left it to the last minute to return. I squeezed up on a seat to allow an extra person on-board. We could not afford to leave anyone behind.
But anyone who missed the last shuttle could always get a taxi. The drivers knew this and stood around expectantly. No hassle about fares when the Countess was waiting to depart.
‘I’m glad to see you looking so well,’ said Samuel Mallory, pushing himself on to the seat beside me. He was too close. I could feel the heat from his thigh against mine. We were both hot.
‘I needed the sleep,’ I said, reminding him. I had not seen him since that episode. No follow-up call. ‘It did me the world of good.’
‘Your orange juice had been doctored,’ he said, then realized what he’d said. ‘Not by me, your doctor. What I mean is there were traces of barbiturate. Fragments in the glass which had not dissolved. Fortunately, not enough to kill you. But you could have passed out on deck and fallen overboard. It would only have needed a little push. If someone was there for the push.’
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