by C. J. Skuse
‘Yeah. And now I’m left sorting out this dog’s mess.’ She flipped over a stack of paper on the desk in front of her.
‘He’s… dead?’ I said again, completely forgetting to be Australian.
‘Had to import a super-size coffin for him ’n’all, cos of his girth. He was such a sex maniac I doubt they’ll be able get a lid on. Not that we’ve got clearance to bury the bastard yet cos the undertaker’s got a backlog with that plane crash.’ She rolled her eyes. Even an international tragedy was a personal inconvenience. ‘You on’t run then, are yer?’
‘Yes I am. Shit.’ My mouth had gone all dry and it was hard to get the ‘s’ out. Sounded more like ‘thit.’
‘What were it, sex, drugs or murder? I’m guessing… sex?’
I shook my head. It was all I could do.
Dannielle sucked in her breath. ‘Well, I can’t help yer. I’m in enough shit of me own.’
‘I’ve paid for it, he’s had my money!’ I cried. ‘He said he’d sort it for me. Did he leave you any instructions or… a new passport? You knew my name.’
‘Nope, he just said he had a “pregnant girly called Hilary” coming in’t New Year.’ She looked down at my stomach. ‘Where is it, yer baby?’
A black flower stretched out and bloomed in my chest. ‘She’s gone.’
Her face darkened. ‘Oh right. You poor lass.’ Her mouth went to say something but she bit it back at the last second. ‘I’d assumed you were one of his many lovers and the kid was yet another half-sibling.’
‘No I’m not. Last time I saw Bobby I was about six. He knew my dad. He said he could get me a job on his yacht.’
‘Where did he say you were headed, Venezuela or somewhere, was it?’
‘Yeah, South America. Maybe.’
She leaned back. ‘‘S’where he sends most of his “shipments”.’
‘You mean I was going on a boat filled with drugs?’
‘Yep. Count yourself lucky. Yacht’s been impounded by Portuguese police. If you had been on there they’d have taken you in ’n’all. It were a floating opium den. It’ll be the end of my salon. No smoke and all that.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘I am sorry, love, for what it’s worth. How much did he fleece you?’
‘A hundred. And fifty. Thousand.’
‘Oh fucking hell. I’m sorry. And about the baby too. You’ve had a tough time of it, by the sounds. And a wasted journey.’
‘Well, what the hell am I going to do?!’ I shouted.
This was my one basket full of eggs, and every fucking one was smashed.
I knew this would all come back to bite me on the arse. I should have trusted Keston. I should have gone with his plan.
I’m not a panicker, not normally, but since Ivy, all bets seemed to be off. At that moment, with Dannielle Fairly creaking that chair back and forth and telling me she was sorry and that I’d had a wasted journey, panic was properly setting in and I started hyperventilating. The faded grey of the windowless office walls pressed in on me. No air con. Stifling. Suffocating. No way out.
‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Ffffffff-FUCK!’
‘Hey, come on now, it’s all right,’ said Dannielle, bouncing out of the chair and tottering round to my side of the desk.
I was in full can’t-catch-my-breath mode. ‘Isn’t there… anything you can do? He was going to sort it. I’ve… paid him. Where’s it all gone?’
‘A lot of people paid him, love. It’s probably gone up his nose.’
‘Where do I go? What am I going to do?’
‘Lemme get you a glass of water.’ She scampered out, returning moments later with a large tumbler of clear brown liquid that definitely wasn’t water. ‘Here, get this down yer. It’ll help wi’t shock.’
I took the glass with a shaking hand and gulped it back, wincing at the taste. Whisky – ugh. But it did calm me somewhat. She tottered round to her side of the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a bag of mobile phones with chargers tied to them with coloured elastic bands.
‘We haven’t sorted through all of Dad’s offices yet. There might be something left for you somewhere. Gimme a few days. Can you do that?’
‘Yeah. I guess.’
‘Where did he call you from, here or the Funchal Palm? Or the Eden Suites? Or the Casa de Oro?’
‘I didn’t know he had other hotels, I thought this was the only one.’
She jotted down a number and taped it to the back of one of the phones, before handing it to me. ‘If I find anything I’ll call you. It’s fully charged.’
‘What do I do in the meantime?’ I said, still shuddering from the scotch.
‘Hold tight. Keep yer head down. I can’t say how long it’ll take and that’s if I do find anything. My dad weren’t the most reliable man in the world but he never usually let his mates down. I know some of his associates. I’ll see what’s what but don’t hold yer breath, all right?’
I can’t even remember saying ‘thank you’ as Dannielle shoved the rest of the phones back in the desk drawer and escorted me outside. Back through Reception. Back towards the ship. Back towards inevitable capture.
I stared at the phone – an iPhone 4 with a cracked screen – and started the long walk back down the hill to the town, finding a small square halfway, thriving with stalls and boutiques.
I sat on a vacant bench beneath a tree, shaking all over, despite the heat. I gripped the phone hard. At this point I guessed my only option was to hope Dannielle would come through.
There was a few grand left over from my inheritance that Keston had wired to an offshore account, and I still had access to it, despite the ATMs on the ship charging a fortune per transaction. My anxiety on a rolling simmer, I walked across the square to a small dress shop, scoping it for Hilary-approved outfits – I had to think old school Britney. Pre-pleather Taylor. Pink, white and fluffy, florals and fake smiles, Capri pants and cock-teasing.
I milled around the shops all day, in and out of boutiques and a small pharmacy where I managed to get pile cream, administering it in a blue-tiled toilet in a back street. The place stank of cheese but the relief was immediate.
Later I found a hair salon that was willing to install tumbling twenty-two-inch hair extensions all over my head. It was run by a small group of women who didn’t speak any English and by the time I returned to the dockside, I looked like a much better, cleaner, more carefree version of the person who had disembarked the ship that morning.
The Prossers were spilling out of a taxi in the car park as I walked through the dock gates towards the terminal building – Ken and Gloria were swinging Ty, Jayde was pushing Sansa in the buggy and Ryan Prosser looked like he’d walked off the cover of Men’s Health.
‘Hi, Hilary!’ Jayde called out. ‘I barely recognised you, you look amazing!’
‘Thanks,’ I said, flicking a clump of extensions over my shoulder. ‘I fancied a change.’
‘You look gorgeous, petal, have you had a good day?’ asked Glo.
‘Where’s Bruce?’ asked Ken.
I beamed my bestest Hila-beam, allowing it to falter slightly. ‘Oh, he’s had to stay on. He’s going to have to meet us in Barcelona instead. No biggy.’
‘Aww, I were looking forward to meeting him,’ said Glo.
‘Yeah, you will in a few days. No dramas.’
Ryan Prosser extended a hand in greeting. He had caramel curls and muscles that belonged in the Uffizi Gallery with the other works of art. He looked like AJ but older, good-lookinger and with a bigger bulge. If I’d been in Full On Ho Mode, I’d have been locked on to Peen Land, no question, but childbirth and the pressing issue of life on the run had a lot to answer for.
Ty held out his little pudding hand to me too and I took it gladly.
‘You can come line dancing tonight now, petal, can’t yer?’ said Glo excitedly. ‘I can’t get any of this lot to come with me. And we’ll set another place on our table at dinner. No need for you to be lonely at least.’
/> ‘Thanks, Gloria,’ I said. ‘That’d be… bonza!’
And they swooshed their big family cloak around me and gathered me in. Exactly like I needed them to.
Wednesday, 2 January – Cadiz
People who refer to their other halves as their ‘partner in crime’
Fat celebrities who lose a shitload of weight then whack it all back on a year later after the workout DVD’s done the rounds
German bodybuilder in the gym who manspreads at the pec press machine right in front of my rowing machine. Today his cock fell out of his shorts. And he knew it. And he smiled.
Fake-assed bitches on reality shows – hair, tits, nails, lenses. Even though, technically, I am the bitches. And this is my reality show.
That rap twat, 6ix9ine
I did go line dancing with Gloria. I had no excuses not to. And lemme tell you, if you ever want a laugh, go line dancing. If you want a bigger laugh, go line dancing with a serial killer who’s trying to appear normal by line dancing.
The sight of myself in the studio mirror boogying my scootin’ boots, throwing down hoes, turning Monterrey and heel-toe steppin’ with hitches and kicks almost pushed me over the edge into endless hysterics.
It wasn’t lost on me how ridiculous my life had become in such a short space of time. But the experience further cemented my vanilla façade and that was all that mattered. Not that the Huggins murder had made the news yet – it was still all Brexit and plane crashes. And I have to admit, I was kind of relieved. Another day under the radar was a chance to get even further from the UK.
The itinerary and Cruise Letter had been slipped under the door when I got back to my cabin, serving to remind me where I was and how long I had left. After all, this wasn’t a holiday – it was a countdown.
Next stop Cadiz, then Gibraltar. After that came Cartagena, Valencia, Mallorca, Barcelona, Marseille, Genoa, Florence, Rome, Sardinia, Naples, Sicily and finally Malta where the ship would turn around and head back along the African coast via Tunisia. Back towards the UK.
I had about two weeks to find asylum or be in one.
And I don’t like uncertainty, I never have. I like plans, expectations, safety. I like being at home. I like gardens. Planting something and being there long enough to watch it grow. I like knowing what country is going to be outside my door every time I open it. But I was stuck there on that floating tin can for the foreseeable – aimless. Rootless. And no amount of checking that phone screen was going to hurry along a miracle.
Not that I could let the Prossers in on any of this. As far as they were concerned, I was Fair Dinkum and a fantastic new travelling companion who got a round in when expected, was brilliant with children and answered the easiest pub quiz questions about pop music and soap operas (even though I knew the Caravaggio one and the square root of sixty-four).
For the Cadiz stop-off, I stayed with them on the ship all day. I won the bingo twice and shared my congratulatory bottle of wine with my new family. I got in the ball pit with the kids and joined in with the balloon-twisting workshop and mini golf and ice-cream-eating competitions.
At dinner, helped along by said wine, I regaled them with tales of mine and Bruce’s wedding in Bora Bora (it had come up in the pub quiz) and duetted with Ken on ‘It Takes Two’ at karaoke. But by early evening, even though my face was pointed towards the Russian acrobats during ‘Putin on the Ritz’, all my thought owls had flown to the big question marks in my head:
Where was I going? Who was I now? How long could I keep this up?
I pretended to have a headache and excused myself. I went up to the deck and gazed out at the endless sea, listening to old school Simply Red pumping from speakers, watching couples in sandals, walking hand in hand. Men with belly overhang getting in a late swim with their leathery wives.
Mums. Dads. Sisters. Boyfriends. Families. A woman holding a baby against her shoulder. A dad holding a baby against his neck.
I missed Ivy. I missed her so much my womb would contract whenever I thought about her. And though I tried to push past it and be all No Dramas like Hilary, sometimes life sucks the fucking nice right out of you.
The Man Who Walks, for instance, ambled past and I attempted a Hilary ‘Hiya’ and he blanked me. And in a flash, I could see myself pushing him towards the hand rails and upending him overboard.
Ooh, I thought. There she was, briefly: Rhiannon, red in tooth and claw. Hiding in the shadows, waiting for her moment. You can lead a whore to Malta but you can’t make her quit wanting to toss people overboard.
I tried to ping Dannielle Fairly a text but it wouldn’t send. No signal at sea, it would seem.
I went back to my cabin and flicked on the TV. Breaking Bad was on – it’s quite good once Walter White stops fucking coughing. I ordered room service – a burger, a mojito and a bowl with ‘mixed herbs’ – thinking I’d give the sitz bath a try.
Where I splitz, I sitz.
I told the steward it was for my sinuses. I boiled the kettle and I sat there in the middle of the floor watching bald white people shoot each other over bags of blue crystals while bathing my hoochimagooch. When I went to bed, it felt numb. I felt numb. Inside and outside.
And numb was an improvement. On this occasion, numb was good.
Thursday, 3 January – Gibraltar
Parents on cruise ships whose kids take the decorative carrot goldfish on the salad before I can get to it
Waitress called Vicci, which could rhyme with Ricky or itchy but I’ll never know cos I’m not speaking to her again. She didn’t laugh at my Poseidon Adventure joke.
People who slam doors without a thought for those in the next cabin
Outside broadcasts on morning TV – when the presenters go outside to test supercars or barbecues. Get back on your sofas, you pricks.
People who Instagram Every. Fucking. Moment. Of. Their. Holiday. ‘Here we are, walking up some stairs. Here we are, walking back down the stairs. Here we are, eating breakfast – toast today lol.’
The Real Housewives of Anywhere
The following day the ship docked in Gibraltar but seeing the Prossers talking to another family in the endless buffet queue outside the Caravel, I ducked out and headed for the quieter Brigantine restaurant. Irritatingly, a lot of other fuckwits had the same idea and the queue was twice as long.
When I did finally get in, people attacked the buffet like vultures, taking handfuls of whatever was on offer. I couldn’t get near anything, save the last croissant and a glass of tepid juice. I took them both outside to eat.
The speakers out on deck were playing Carpenters classics that day. ‘Ticket to Ride’. What a mournful song that is. I don’t remember it being quite so depressing when the Beatles did it but I suppose they weren’t in the throes of anorexia. There weren’t many people around, save an older couple in M&S summer gear chatting over quoits. Friends laughing. Happy holidaymakers. The Titanic, pre-Iceberg. Thoughts of Kate Winslet flinging herself off the starboard bow flittered into my head as I chewed my stale croissant. I wondered if I should do the same.
Who was I kidding? I’m too arrogant to kill myself.
The dulcet sounds of an old posh woman bollocking two kids drifted down from the upper deck – the Diamond Deck.
‘Do you see any Giant Jenga up here? No. So go back down to the youth area. This is for Diamond Class passengers only and your parents are not Diamond Class. I can tell by your mother’s leggings.’
Two boys loped down the small stairway, past the ‘Private’ sign, and disappeared inside the ship. I set down my crumby plate on a sun-lounger and climbed the steps. There wasn’t much up there – a grass-roofed cocktail bar, a few sun-loungers and a hot tub shaped like a Martini glass.
‘This is for Diamond passengers,’ said the same bored drawl.
A dumpy old woman with a stern expression lay on a sun-lounger, draped in chiffon, piña colada in hand. I flashed my pass like a homicide detective, covering the gold bar with my thumb. That was the only di
fference between the classes – her pass had a diamond, mine a gold bar. ‘I am Diamond Class,’ I said. She closed her eyes and gave herself to the sun’s rays.
‘Not a fan of kids then?’ I said, perching on the lounger next to her.
‘Can’t stand the little fuckers.’
‘You not seeing Gibraltar today?’
‘No. Once you’ve climbed a chunk of granite in the battering wind and had your nuts pinched by an ape, you’ve seen all Gibraltar’s got to offer.’
Her face bore the expression of someone who’d lived a thousand years and was half past give a shit with it all, like the old Countess in Downton. Like every wrinkle was a folder full of memories. There was a wheelchair parked beside her lounger and a gold sequined scarf hanging on the back.
The Man Who Walks appeared at the top of the steps. He opened the gate, closed the gate and kept on walking past.
‘Ugh, I can’t stand that guy,’ I said, eyeballing him.
She saw him too. ‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘Nothing. He just walks. I’ve never seen him sitting down, even in the dining room. He circumnavigates this bloody ship like a hamster in a wheel.’
‘He’s lost.’
‘Buy a fucking map then.’
‘Without his wife, I mean,’ she added, sipping the remains of her drink. ‘They’ve been coming on this cruise for years. She died last summer. Aneurysm.’
‘Why does he still come on the cruise?’
‘Doesn’t know what else to do, I presume. He’s grieving.’
‘We’re all grieving. We don’t all lap a ship fifty times a day like a prick.’
‘Oh dear, we did get out of the Mediterranean on the wrong side this morning, didn’t we?’ I hadn’t realised I was being myself – and my un-Australian self at that – until she’d called me on it.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m having a bad day.’
‘Don’t apologise, it’s refreshing. There’s enough bullshitters. People who bid you “good day” but wouldn’t piss in your mouth if your teeth were on fire.’
I decided I liked her. I liked being myself in her company. It was a risk, of course, but I’ve always been a risky pixie.