“Do not throw any objects over the edge,” a sign said. “We are committed to protecting the environment. Put rubbish in the litter bins provided.” And more. “Do not throw your cigarette butts or ashes over the side, as wind could blow them on to a lower deck.” Roger had always treated authority with the greatest of respect. Deborah had not, and had made him anxious whenever she broke the speeding limit, or joined the express checkout at the supermarket with more than five items in her trolley. It was in the spirit of Deborah, then, that he decided to flout regulations on her behalf. He stole a look up and down the deck, then took the lid off the urn, and climbed up on the first rung of the protective railing.
“Hello,” he heard. “Roger? It is Roger, isn’t it?”
And he climbed back down again. He didn’t recognize the old woman at first. She was now dressed for the formal dinner. Her hair was up, and she wore a ball gown which sort of twinkled when it caught the light—Roger supposed it must have had little sequins on it or something. She was fully made up, too, and her mouth was now a gash of thin scarlet. She held a cigarette. “You looked as if you were going to jump off,” she said, but amiably enough, without apparent alarm.
“What? Oh good God, no. No.”
“It’s a long way down,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed.
She looked at him hard, and one eye squinted as if to avoid the sunlight. Since it was dark, he wasn’t quite sure why she did that. “Loneliness can be hell,” she said. “Believe me. I know.”
“I’m sure,” he said. “No, really, it’s all right. I was just . . . ” And he vaguely gestured with the urn.
She tapped her cigarette ash over the side. “I don’t really smoke,” she said. “But, you know, it sort of suits the dress.” She tapped again. “My husband smoked. He actually knew how to smoke. I just copied him when I had to.” It was true, she wasn’t even smoking now, not really. Never inhaled, just tapped tapped away. “What is it you do?”
He told her, and she didn’t pretend to be impressed. He liked her for that. Caught in the moonlight, with only the flash of the deck seven disco behind her, she didn’t look nearly so old. “What do you do?” he asked.
“I go on cruises,” she smiled. And she did that squint again. “Do you mind me asking how old you are?”
“Forty-three,” said Roger.
“That’s awfully young,” she said. “Was it recent?” And she didn’t wait for a reply. “So young, I’m so sorry. And there’s been no one since, has there, of course not.” She reached out for the urn, nothing forced, nothing demanding, just a little gesture really. And he didn’t know why, but he gave it to her. She weighed it in her hand, smiled just a little, then gave it back. It didn’t feel quite so important to Roger somehow, seemed lighter in his hands.
They both stood at the railing for a while, watched the night sky and the sea, tracing where one ended and the other began. Not looking at each other, but not uncomfortably, she tapping ash, he clutching his. He felt her hand reach for his hand, and took it, but still didn’t look at her, knew that looking would be wrong, would break something. “It can be hell,” she said at last, and only then did he feel he could face her, and there she was, all scarlet gash and twinkling gown, and he thought her eyes were twinkling too. Tears, maybe? Or something else? She held his gaze for a long time. “What’s your cabin?”
“Um. A636.”
“Yours is closer.” She threw away her cigarette without even a final puff.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” he said.
She shrugged.
They didn’t say a word in the lift. “Aloha!” chirped the elevator at last. Roger ushered her into his room, and carefully shut the door behind them. There was a ‘do not disturb’ sign, but he thought hanging it might look a little crass. He put the urn down on the desk. “It’s not a big room,” he said. “Is yours a big room?”
“Mine’s got a porthole,” she said.
“That’s nice.” He looked around the cabin, as if this were all as new to him as it was to her. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Do you have one?”
He opened the minibar. “No,” he said.
She kissed him on the mouth. That little thin gash of red against his lips, and her tongue poking its way past them. Just as Roger thought he might begin to enjoy it, she stopped. “Thank you,” he said, and then he thought, I’m going to make love to a total stranger, not making love, it won’t be love at all. And he was about to clear all the leaflets off the bed, all the details about the cruise excursions, all the discount vouchers for the jewellery shop. But she didn’t seem to want a bed. Without a word she got on to her knees, and pulled at his trousers.
“Oh,” he said, and his hand moved to help her. A little impatiently she brushed it aside, this was clearly something she wanted to do herself. And she had his fly down, and then his pants, and it was only as she took his penis in her hand it occurred to him what long nails she had, more like talons really, varnished as scarlet as her lipstick (probably the same brand). Ever so sharp, one false move and she could slice his penis open, like a sausage, and all the sausage meat would spill out—he really must take care, he decided, not to make any false moves. And then, to his alarm, that’s exactly what the penis did, it woke up with a lurch, it stiffened and stood to attention so suddenly and Roger felt an absurd urge to tell it to watch out, be careful of those red razors, you could cut yourself! But she was careful, she plucked it gently as if picking out a piece of fruit, and popped it into her mouth.
My God, thought Roger.
Deborah hadn’t ever liked that sort of thing. They’d had sex, of course, lots of times, and she’d even kissed him down as far as his navel, but she’d never ventured south of the equator. “You don’t mind, do you, darling?” she’d asked early on. “But the thought of it, it makes me want to throw up.” His nameless new friend had no such qualms, she was smacking her lips all round it, and he really felt he ought to do something to help, he looked down at her grey hair bobbing away on the end of his dick as if it had just grown this elderly woman somehow. He wanted to give something back, even just a show of affection. He ran his hand over her hair, and he saw it wasn’t so much grey as silver streaked, and it felt starchy to the touch. It felt a bit awkward doing that, and since the mouth and tongue were still so busy licking and sucking and nibbling, the rest of the head barely seemed to register it was being patted like a cocker spaniel. He wasn’t sure what to do with the hand now, though, so he gripped the edge of the desk, and his fingers brushed the urn. He didn’t want to think of the urn. Or what was inside it. Or who was inside it. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the matter in hand, he thought the best way he could help the old woman now was to come as quickly as possible, he imagined she’d be down there til she suffocated otherwise, slobbering away until her breath gave out, and then there’d be two dead ladies to deal with, that didn’t sit well with him at all. So he put all his effort into getting excited, he really tried. The Poseidon Adventure, he thought, that’s what the film was called.
Eventually, of course, she had to give up. As she pulled away, he pretended he’d reached orgasm. “Mmm,” he said, “thank you.” His penis splashed wet but flaccid at his thigh, the erection hadn’t lasted long. “Thank you,” he said again, and gently helped her to her feet. “That was really nice.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Oh yes.” And he smiled at her. The scarlet lipstick hadn’t even smudged for all that effort. He did hope she wouldn’t want to be kissed on the mouth now, considering where it had been. But she didn’t appear to, and accepted the little peck on the forehead as if expecting him to aim nowhere more tender.
“Well now,” he said. “Well. What can I do for you? I mean, I could do the same in return. If you like.”
“Can I have some toothpaste?” she asked. He tried to work out exactly what she wanted him to do to her with
it, and then realized. “Of course,” he said, she nodded, and went into the bathroom. She left the door open, and he saw her squeeze some paste on to her finger and use it as a brush. He blushed, and looked away. For some reason this seemed something too intimate, he was embarrassed. But turning around, he found himself looking at the urn, and that was pretty embarrassing too; he could at least lock that away in the safe, and so took the opportunity to do so.
She stepped back into the bedroom, smiled him a minty smile. “That’s better,” she said.
“I’d still like to give you something,” he said.
“You have.” And she kissed him on the cheek, like an aunt, just a little peck—and her mouth was so small it was hard to believe it could have opened so wide. “Late night bingo in the Pirate Lounge,” she explained, and left him.
The first port of call was Vigo. Roger had never heard of Vigo before, but didn’t hold that against it—after all, there were lots of places he hadn’t heard of, it didn’t mean they were rubbish. However, Vigo was rubbish. He watched it from the coach, as a tour guide told them of its history: “Our principal export is granite,” she said. “We are very proud of our granite. Out of the window you will see houses, made from Vigo granite.” The way she pronounced ‘granite’ made it seem rich and exotic, and you could almost believe it was, until you looked at the houses in question. In his lap Roger held a Spanish phrasebook, which he wouldn’t need, and the urn, which he wouldn’t need either. He had wondered whether Vigo might be a good resting place for Deborah, but really, she deserved rather better.
At one rest stop the tour coach parked by three enormous anchors mounted on a plinth. Roger supposed they must have some historical significance, but the guide was only interested in pointing out where the nearest toilets were. Deborah would have known, she’d have studied all the travel books before they’d set out, she’d have told him—and for a moment he felt a yearning for her so strong that it almost left him winded. And he knew, with some guilt, that he wouldn’t have much wanted her to explain the history of the anchors, or of Vigo, or of Spain in general, that he’d probably have snapped at her, and she’d have sulked—but at least it would have been some human contact. And then they’d have got back on the coach, and Deborah would have perked up at some new sight she could talk about—a lump of granite, maybe—and all would have been well. He looked around him. Some of his fellow passengers were taking photographs of the anchors; some others, photos of the toilets. He’d rather hoped that his new friend might be here, but there were many tour coaches, she must have caught another.
As the rest stop drew to a close, and Roger took his seat once more, he saw another tour coach pull up. Another guide opened the doors, another set of passengers got off—and there she was amongst them all. He got to his feet, squeezed his way to the exit past those still getting on. “We’re ready to leave, sir,” said the guide. But there was no greater urgency in her voice than when she’d been discussing the mercantile strength of Spain, so he ignored her.
He hurried up to the old woman. Although she didn’t look old as such, that wasn’t fair. She looked mature, that was it. Her face was rather elegantly framed by a wide sun hat. “Hello!” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”
“How are you?” he asked stupidly. “How was the bingo?” he asked, even more stupidly. The coach honked its horn. “I like your hat.”
“Thanks,” she said.
The coach honked again. Everyone onboard was glaring at him, and one couple were taking a photograph. “I think,” she said, “they want you to go.”
“I could go on your coach,” he said.
“It’s full.”
“You can come on mine.”
“But I’ve only just got here,” she pointed out. “I haven’t seen the sights.”
“There aren’t any sights,” he promised. “Unless you like anchors. Do you like anchors?”
She frowned, did that squint again, sizing him up. He waited. “Well,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I do like anchors, yes.”
One final blast on the horn, very long and very angry. He smiled, and said casually, “Enjoy them then! And see you at dinner!” And he got back on to the coach, pretending that all the tutting was nothing to do with him. He looked for her out of the window, and he thought she was looking for him too, it was hard to tell under the hat. He gave her a wave that was a little too cheery. Nothing for a few seconds, then she gave a wave back, of sorts, and turned her attention to the splendour of Vigo.
And she didn’t come to dinner. He’d arrived early, bagged the seat next to him. He’d dressed up, too, put on his suit once more. “You’ve got it wrong again, this is casual night,” Mrs. Flip-Flops told him. Roger didn’t even stay as long as the entrée, told the table he needed the toilet, and left. No one seemed to notice. Maybe she was eating elsewhere. He went to the Steakhouse Bonanza on deck five, the twenty-four hour buffet on the sun deck, even the burger ’n’ BBQs bar up near the pool (although he’d already decided that burgers would not be to her taste). Nothing. So much food on the boat, there seemed no end to it, enough to feed a small nation, all being pumped out to keep a bunch of fat holidaymakers all the fatter—so much food, and she wasn’t eating any of it. He went back to his cabin.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
There were towels everywhere; it was a menagerie in towel form. Roger’s eyes were drawn at first to the monkey suspended from the light fitting by one of the hangers from his wardrobe; the puff of the air conditioner made it rotate a little. But then, peering behind the primate, he saw that the dressing table boasted another rabbit and—what was it? a hedgehog? or, perhaps, an armadillo? On his pillow there were a couple of white mice, on the sheets a duck and the flat triangle of a manta ray. But the biggest animal of all was the elephant. It was too big for the bed, and sat in the centre of the carpet. A couple of beach towels had gone into the main body; hand towels made its ears, a flannel its little tail, and, best of all, the rug that had covered the toilet had been taken, rolled up tightly, and inserted into the head to form an exaggerated parody of a trunk. It was the piece de resistance of all towel animals, it was a work of loving genius. Roger boggled at it, wondered how it could even stand up. He peeked under its massive bulk, timidly, not wanting to topple the structure over.
And then he picked up the phone, and called Jesus’ pager. He sat on the bed and waited for him. Chocolate eyes from all the creatures bore into him, unflinching, cold. It was a good ten minutes before the steward arrived.
“You like?” he said, with a big smile. “You have fun?”
Roger had had time to work out three very distinct ways to explain to Jesus how he felt. He forgot them all at once. “You’re sick,” he said. “Sick.”
Jesus’ smile faltered. Then he beamed anew, as if he’d misunderstood.
“What is this?” said Roger, and reached for the elephant and pulled out its innards. “What is this?”
“Is pot.”
“No. Is not pot. Is my wife. You sick . . . It’s my bloody wife.”
Jesus looked at the urn, around which he had built his towel construct, frowned. “No,” he said. “Is pot.”
“Shit,” said Roger. “You fuck.” And he got up from the bed swiftly. He wasn’t going to punch Jesus, he was sure of that, but Jesus backed away in alarm, got his head caught in the monkey. “What did you do, open my safe? Yes, you saw the combination, didn’t you, thought you’d have a little game with my wife. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“The pot was on the table,” said Jesus.
“No, I put it in the safe.”
“It was on,” said Jesus, with a new coldness, “the table. I wanted you to have fun. Okay? I wanted to make you happy. And you come at me with your shit fuck. Well, you’re the shit fuck, I spent long time making those animals, I spent twenty minutes, because you’re so miserable, you never smile. The people on this ship, every week they come, they pig the
mselves on food, they laze in the sun, they lazy. But they smile, and Jesus, he smiles back, puts on the accent a bit, makes the English not so good, hey? But I speak English fine, and you’re the shitfuck, you Mr. Shitfuck. That your wife?” And he pointed at the urn. Roger nodded dumbly. “She lucky woman. She die to get away from you, hey? Maybe she kill herself? Shitfuck.” And Roger at last tried to hit him, but really, it was so feeble, and Jesus sidestepped it easily. And with a gentleness that was so much more insulting than a punch would have been, he pushed Roger back on to his bed. Roger sat there, stated up at the little Philippino steward, who even now hadn’t once raised his voice, and who even at this late stage somehow contrived to flash him a grin. “I only wanted,” he said, “to make you happy.”
And then he went.
And for the first time since Deborah’s death, Roger cried. The tears just flowed out without any effort, he almost felt detached from the whole process; he just sat there and felt the water stream hot down his cheeks, and waited for it to stop. He reached for the nearest towel—which happened to be the duck—and wiped his face with it. Then he ate the chocolate eyes from the duck, and then, for good measure, those from the manta ray as well.
Because, in a way, he supposed Jesus was right. Maybe Deborah had just been eating to kill herself. Or, if not exactly to die, at least to make herself happy, to give herself the little joy which he so plainly couldn’t. If she hadn’t keeled over in the supermarket she’d have keeled over somewhere else eventually. Perhaps she’d have made it on to the cruise, and she’d have had the formal dinner, and then gone to the steakhouse, and then on to the buffet and the burger ’n’ BBQs; she’d have keeled over on the Mediterranean instead. “Come on,” he said to the urn, and he got up, “let’s get this over with.”
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