This time he didn’t care if he were seen. Shit the regulations and fuck them. He walked straight up to the railings, took the lid from the urn, and without further ceremony, tipped it over the side. Nothing came out. Roger hesitated. Dazedly, he looked inside to see if the ashes somehow had clogged together, or had got stuck, or needed to be prised out with his fingers.
The woman at the purser’s desk was called Kylie, so he assumed she was Australian, but when she spoke it was with the same flat disinterest of the Vigo tour guide. Maybe she was the Vigo tour guide, he couldn’t remember. “How can I help you?” she asked.
“I want to report a theft,” said Roger.
“Yes, sir?”
“It was Jesus. He got into my safe. This urn used to be full, almost to the brim, my wife was a big woman. Now look at it.”
The purser asked, “Was there anything else missing from your safe? Your wallet? Any valuables?”
“No.”
“Just the urn.”
“Not the urn, obviously. I still have the urn. Look, I’m holding it, look.”
The purser took it, looked it over, gave it a sniff. “And this urn contained a powder of some kind?”
“A powder? No. Well, yes, if by powder you mean . . . ”
“Because it’s left quite a sweet smell. You will know, I hope, that transporting certain powders is an offence. Failure to declare it at customs . . . ”
“It wasn’t that sort of powder. It was my wife.”
“Your wife was in the urn?”
“That’s right.”
“You brought your wife onboard.”
“Yes.”
“And does she have a passport?”
Roger stared at her. “No. No, look. She’s dead. Isn’t she? I mean, obviously.”
The purser didn’t even flinch from his stare. “Either you transported her onboard as a passenger, in which case she needs a passport. Or as a powder, in which case, failure to declare it at customs is an offence, and may even be seen to contravene the narcotics act.” Roger didn’t know what to say. “I would hope, sir, that the contents of your urn remain missing. I think that would be the best thing for you, wouldn’t it?” And she confiscated the urn behind her desk. “Now, was there anything else?”
Roger said feebly, “He also called me a shitfuck.”
“What was that, sir?”
“Jesus. Called me a shitfuck.”
“Well, sir,” said the purser. “Maybe that’s because you are a shitfuck.”
Roger opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.
“Yes,” said the purser, as if giving the matter some consideration. “Yes, I think that you’re a shitfuck. We’ve had complaints about you, sir. Harassment. A certain Irene Knowles says you’ve been stalking her.”
Roger was about to tell her he didn’t know an Irene Knowles, but then, “Is she an elderly woman? Sort of grey hair with silver bits in?”
“I am not at liberty to describe passengers’ hair.”
“That’s her, isn’t it? No, look, you’ve got it all wrong. She was the one who approached me. Came to my cabin last night, most surprising, and then she . . . ”
“. . . And then she what, sir?”
But Roger couldn’t say, because he could hardly believe it himself.
“Mrs. Knowles is a regular passenger, sir. We’re all very fond of her. I think you’d better keep away from her from now on, don’t you? I think you’d better keep your nose out of trouble. Smuggling illegal substances, slandering your steward, and sexually intimidating the elderly. This is a pleasure cruise, sir, we just want to make you happy. But there are limits. Do you understand?”
“I suppose so.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good night, then, sir.”
He went back to his cabin, picked his way through the debris of gutted animals, and lay on the bed. With his remote control he turned on the TV. The American woman with the wide smile was still enthusing about the shipboard activities, and he watched her, wondering where she got so much energy. The programme was on a half hour loop, and sometime during his second viewing Roger began to see something more mocking in her smile, it wasn’t a smile so much as a sneer, and there was an anger behind her eyes, they were blazing with something, and whatever she might claim it wasn’t an appreciation of the ship’s beauty salon. And second time round, too, the passengers in shot looked so much older, the kids playing in the pool weren’t kids at all but people steeped in a second childhood from which they would never escape.
And at some point he must have fallen asleep, though he certainly didn’t remember turning off the television or the lights. And he dreamed of Deborah, she was alive, and she was on the cruise with him. “Thank you for bringing me here, you’ve made me so happy,” and she was happy, by God, was she happy!, “this is luxury, darling,” as she waddled her way around the deck. At least he assumed it was Deborah, but she was so fat, her face had got so wide and chubby its features were all flattened into nothingness, but she was doing that thing with her watery eyes when she wanted her own way, so it had to be her. And the purser was taking him aside in complaint, “Sir, your wife has eaten all the food on the ship, there is no food left, you’ve got to stop her, shitfuck.” And Deborah was starting on the passengers now, biting into them, then wolfing them down, and sure, she couldn’t move very fast to catch them with her great bulk, but they were so old, and there weren’t many places they could run, the uncaring Mediterranean Sea all around them. “Darling, I’m hungry,” she said, and reached out for Roger, and he knew he’d give in to whatever she asked, because he always gave in, didn’t he, and he only wanted to make her happy, that was all he had ever wanted, he just hadn’t known how, it was so easy at the beginning but then she’d had the kids and then she’d had the depression and then she’d swelled up like a balloon. “I’m hungry,” she said, and she touched his cheek, and it wasn’t even flesh, her hands were coarse like towels. . . .
He forced himself awake. But the towels were still there, lapping at his face. Holding back a scream he wriggled free, scrabbled for the bedside lamp. In a moment the room was flooded with light. And then he really did scream.
There was a man hanging from the ceiling right above his bed. Not a real man, of course, but something almost as grotesque—a series of large beach towels knotted together to make up the torso, and the legs dangling from it. It had been one of those legs that had been brushing against Roger’s face. And the whole thing was suspended from a noose, made from nothing more remarkable than a twisted flannel—but it had to be more than that, surely, how could it have taken the weight? A hole had been pinched in the head to form a mouth, opened in an expression of comical surprise, as if the towel man really hadn’t expected to spend his cruise holiday hanging in a cabin after all, he’d as soon as play the bingo instead, what a turn up for the books! But those inevitable chocolate eyes of silver wrapping gave the face a colder, dead expression.
Even in his terror, Roger couldn’t help but admire the detail in Jesus’ work. It made the animals of his past exhibitions look like the juvenilia of a dilettante. The body must have taken hours to construct and hang. And that’s when the impossibility of it all struck Roger; Jesus must have been in his room all the time he was asleep, and standing on his bed right over him. Roger prodded the bed—it was a firm mattress, but not that firm, and the room was rocking gently on the waves. There was no way that Jesus could have been here for that long, balanced over him so precariously, and carried out such delicate work, without waking him up. And yet there it was, Jesus’ masterpiece, twisting to the roll of the sea. I can come and get you any time, that’s what the hanged man was saying. I can come and get you and you’ll never even know.
And suddenly the noose broke. The towels fell on him in a heap, and Roger gibbered with fear, pushed them off, ran to the cabin door and the safety of the corridor outside. He got h
is breath back in a series of shuddering gasps. He saw that the name on his door had been obliterated, crossed through so many times and so ferociously that he could no longer make out any letters at all.
Up the corridor Roger could see the names on all the other doors had been left respectfully intact, and that each one represented a person safely asleep in their beds having a lovely holiday. He read a few of them. And without making any real decision about it, began looking for the name Irene Knowles.
It was a large ship, composed of over a thousand staterooms. He had no real sense of the passing of time, but when he finally found Irene Knowles’ cabin, on Dolphin Deck, it was four in the morning Southampton time, five in the morning Vigo time, and God only knows what time where the ship was now headed.
Roger hesitated. Then knocked. There was a good minute’s wait, and he thought there wouldn’t be an answer. But he didn’t move away, he had nowhere to go, after all. And eventually the door opened.
The old woman looked at him. Except she wasn’t that old, she wasn’t even what you’d call mature, she looked rested and calm and secure. She was in a nightie, and he only now thought to check what he was wearing. To his surprise he was still dressed in his suit, he hadn’t changed since dinner, but it was now all rumpled from where he had slept in it, the jacket creased, the tie askew.
“I got all dressed up for you,” he said uselessly.
She asked him what he wanted, and he didn’t know how he was going to answer. And then he replied anyway, “I want my wife. I want my wife back.”
She thought about this for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Give me a moment,” she said, and closed the door. He supposed she was putting on some clothes, but when she opened up a couple of minutes later she was still in her nightie. It was Jesus who was now dressed. Jesus stepped out of the cabin, and Roger moved aside to make room for him; Jesus gave him a smile, Roger couldn’t tell how mocking, and then disappeared down the corridor. “You’d better come in then,” said Irene Knowles.
Her cabin was exactly the same as his, except hers had a porthole, and his a hanged man on the bed. “Jesus finds me my widowers,” Irene said. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” admitted Roger. “I still don’t,” he added.
“Why do you want Deborah back?” Roger had been pretty sure he’d never told her his wife’s name. “Is it to say goodbye? It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t want to say goodbye.”
“Or because you love her? You’re in love with a little pile of ash?”
“No, I don’t love her,” and it was true. “I haven’t loved her for years,” and that was true too, but a bit of a shock for him, all the same.
“Then why do you want her?”
“I don’t know,” said Roger. “But I put up with her for over twenty years, so I think she’s mine.”
Irene thought about this. “I suppose that’s fair,” she said. “All right,” and she gave a sigh, “all right,” and her hand went for his fly.
Roger began to tell her that he wasn’t in the mood, but as she pulled his penis out from its little hiding place it made a liar of him and stiffened. “Oh,” he said, and Irene gave a humourless smile. And then she swallowed it whole.
Once again he felt he really ought to do something to help. But her hair was no longer silver grey, but a shiny gold blonde, and he wasn’t sure how she’d feel about his getting his hands over it. His penis felt warm in her mouth, and then she started—and it was as if the warmth had been turned off. And her breath became cold, almost icy, and she wasn’t sucking at him this time, she was blowing. His cock was still stiff in there, he could feel it, but he worried that it was because it was getting frosted. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he didn’t dare—it wasn’t a breath now, it was a wind, he looked down at Irene’s face and her cheeks were all puffed out with the effort, her eyes were bulging too—and it was almost funny, it was the least erotic thing he had ever seen, this beautiful woman with her face all swelled up like a trombone player in mid-blast. But he was too scared to laugh, too scared that she’d blow harder, or that she’d stop blowing altogether before she was done, and that might even be worse. But just as he felt he couldn’t stand any more, that he’d either cry out with the pain, or laugh at the very look of her, it was all over—and she pulled away.
She sat there on the floor, saying nothing.
“What now?” he asked.
“Give me a moment, can’t you?” she snapped. She got up, went to her bathroom. “Toothpaste,” she said, and she closed the door on him, he wasn’t welcome to look this time, but, sure enough, he soon heard her brushing away for all she was worth.
When she came out, his penis was still erect. He couldn’t believe how erect—it was embarrassing, to be honest. She sized it up, nodded. “It’s ready,” she said.
She knelt back down, took hold of it. And began to tap on it with her finger. Not too hard, but firm. Tap tap tap along the stem. She did this for about ten seconds, and just as Roger was about to ask what she was doing, she took hold of his hand. “Cup it,” she said, “no, under here,” and moved it into position under the tip. And that’s when the ash began to spill out.
He was so surprised he almost dropped it. “Careful,” she said. “Do you want your wife or not?” And on she tapped, and out of the end of his penis poured a steady trickle of ash. Truth be told, it didn’t feel like anything very much, he felt detached from the process. He just sat there and felt the ash stream hot into his palm, and waited for it to stop.
After a few minutes the cock at last began to droop. “Just the dregs,” she said, holding it straight, and shaking it out. And she’d finished. She got to her feet and walked over to her dressing table. Reached inside her handbag for a cigarette, lit it.
Roger looked at the mountain of ash in his hands. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an urn, or some sort of container?” he asked. “I sort of lost mine.”
She said nothing for a while, her back to him, hardly seemed even to notice he was there. When she turned around she seemed surprised he’d stayed. She frowned at him through the veil of smoke. “There you are,” she said. “Much good may it do you. Or me.” It may have been the light, but she looked very tired, and very frail. She didn’t smoke the cigarette, just tapped at it, tap tap tap.
He made his way up to the top deck, dribbling ash all along the corridors. He kept his two fists tight, holding on to as much of Deborah as he could, but as he climbed the stairs and the ship lurched, he decided it’d be prudent to use the handrail and that one fistful would be enough. He sat on a lounger in the dark, staring out at the sea. He considered letting the remaining ash go over the side, but he looked down at the waves, and at the still beauty of the water, and then he thought of his wife—and he realized that the Mediterranean deserved better.
And so he just sat there, with Deborah, until dawn. And when the sun appeared so did the waiters, setting up the burger ’n’ BBQs, the ice cream sundae bar. The ship neared land. It reached a port. It docked. Roger didn’t know where.
About an hour later an announcement was made that passengers were free to disembark, to explore the city with their tour guides. Roger queued up with the rest of them. He knew he was supposed to take his passport, but that was back in the cabin, and he knew he’d never be going there again. No one asked for it anyway; in fact, no one gave him a second glance.
The first thing he did was find himself a litter bin. It was marked with a language he didn’t recognize. He opened his fist at last, emptied the ashes inside. There weren’t many ashes left, to be honest. Then he went off to find a local.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Where do all the people from the cruises go?”
The man stared at him, didn’t understand.
“The tourists,” he said. “Where?”
The man pointed.
“Thank you,” said Roger. And set off in the opposite direction. He wondered
where he was, and how far he would get before he found out.
THE BIG BOY’S
BIG BOX OF TRICKS
You’ll never hear me complain about children, they’re my bread and butter. And I know there are many people out there who are a lot worse off than me. Teetotal barmaids. Surgeons who are scared of blood. Bakers who are sickened by the smell and very consistency of dough. I have to work with children, there’s no getting around that; it’s an occupational hazard, and I shan’t complain, I won’t. No matter how much I personally can’t stand the little creeps.
Besides, in my case, I feel that my antagonism may even be a good thing. When I go out to meet them it’s usually in anger, disguised anger, and smiling so widely at them through the hatred probably gives a bit of grit to what I do, makes my mind clearer, my instincts sharper. “Today I’m going to slaughter them,” I say, before I go on, “today I’m going to knock the little shits dead,” and out comes the grin, out flows the patter, and I’m in the right mental spot for the magic to begin.
Some people tell me that children are the voice of the future. Some of these people are even in the same profession as me, they should know better, they say it’s a privilege we spend so much time with them, that if we look carefully into their faces we might glimpse a prime minister-to-be, the cure finder for AIDS or cancer. And I’ve tried, I’ve honestly tried. I let the patter take over and sometimes I go on autopilot, the words tumble out as they always do, and I give my prepubescent audience a good long hard look. In turn they just sort of stare back. It’s not that they’re bored, I could cope with bored, we all get bored. What I’m met by is indifference. They’re listening to what I’m saying, maybe, they might even respond to some of the tricks, some of the jokes. But they really don’t care whether I live or die. Yes, that’s it—as I stand out there before them, struggling to raise a little bit of awe, they’re thinking, I know, they’re thinking that by the time they’ve reached my age I’ll be dead, or dying, and they’ll be so much more accomplished, they won’t need to work so hard just to get the approval of infants, maybe they really will all be prime ministers at that.
Remember Why You Fear Me Page 48