The Trespassers

by Meg Mundell

  Kellahan stepped in. ‘It’s been a pleasure working with you. It’s an impressive operation you’ve run here. And no-one’s more relieved than us.’ Ever the diplomat. Smart guy.

  Owen was on about the nano-data again – how were the antibody profiles playing out? – but the locals didn’t bite. They stayed on message: a combination of laser deactivation and nano-viricides had proven effective, the bug shut down, disarmed and discharged. There were no active cases, and viral latency did not appear to be an issue.

  Still, Billie couldn’t help asking. ‘Any clue on where this came from? How it got on board in the first place?’ She addressed Hart, always the warmer of the two.

  Hart glanced at her colleague. ‘No. But that remains a concern.’

  ‘As they say, the investigation is ongoing,’ said Sullivan. His tone verged on breezy, and Billie tried to keep the irritation from her voice.

  ‘Surely this bug would’ve been picked up in the initial screenings? They scanned us daily, right up to departure. How could it lie dormant for three weeks?’

  Hart spoke cautiously: ‘We don’t have any solid answers yet. I’m sorry.’

  It was Kellahan who voiced it: ‘I just can’t fathom it, that this could be deliberate. Who’d do that? And why?’

  ‘Those anti-migration nutters?’ Owen suggested. ‘StayPut and that lot – they’ve made threats before. Back when Heathrow was still running regular flights.’

  Kellahan made a dismissive gesture. ‘Just some fringe group, wouldn’t have the resources. Makes no sense.’

  ‘Did they test the drinking water?’ asked Billie.

  ‘We don’t have oversight of forensics,’ said Hart. ‘We can’t tell you anything. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That crew member who was killed,’ said Sullivan in the ensuing lull. ‘Heard any word on that?’ As if asking out of curiosity, making small-talk.

  ‘There’s been every rumour imaginable,’ said Kellahan. ‘Wild guesses galore. Standard behaviour when people are traumatised and grieving.’ Unusually curt, for him. He drained his coffee, placed his palms flat on the table. ‘Forgive me, I should get back. Another meeting with worried parents. More night terrors.’

  Hart and Sullivan offered their first handshakes, bare palms extended: a rueful acknowledgement this was all over, at least for them. To Billie the cheer felt forced, somehow improper. As if all that suffering had never happened. As if the rest of them weren’t still stuck here.

  ~

  Robbie found her in a quiet corner of the deck, staring landward, imagining grass underfoot. ‘Alright, hen?’ he asked. ‘Got my fiddle back. You in the mood for a singalong?’

  ‘Not really.’ A daunting prospect now, performing for a crowd. Her face too familiar for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Take your mind off things.’ He waved a vague arm. ‘Not to mention this lot. They could use some distraction.’

  ‘I’ve done my share for this lot.’ It sounded petty, she knew: some lingering resentment there, despite her efforts to dispel it.

  Robbie nodded. ‘Right you are, Songbird.’ He offered his tobacco pouch, but she hesitated. ‘Aren’t we safe now?’ he asked.

  Billie sanned her hands, took pouch and papers, rolled a smoke, re-sanned and passed it all back. Held her lighter steady as Robbie cupped the flame, both careful not to touch each other. The old rituals now reinforced tenfold.

  They watched a gang of kids play tag around the mast.

  ‘How’s the wee lad?’ Robbie asked.

  ‘Over the moon to have his ma back.’

  ‘You’ve done a brilliant job looking out for him.’

  ‘Thank god that’s over. I was well out of my depth.’

  Since she’d relinquished the boy, the walking habit had reclaimed her: tracing her old circuits of the ship, that mindless two-part rhythm, a bid to crowd out loss. It had taken her unawares, how much she missed the kid’s presence – their daily routines and visual jokes, their private language of gestures, his small form sleeping in the bed above. The creaturely scent of his hair; the way his head fit into the crook of her neck, neat as an egg in an eggcup. Since his mother’s return, the relief she’d expected to feel had not appeared. Instead there was an absence, a Cleary-shaped hole in the world, and a lot of free time.

  Now Robbie interrupted her thoughts. ‘I was speaking to Juliette. She’s come by some whiskey. A freebie, if you’re keen.’ Robbie had been attempting a reconciliation of sorts with what remained of the galley crew. They’d been grateful for her updates on Scoot’s progress, he said.

  ‘They didn’t mean to desert you. Everyone was badly spooked.’

  She expelled a huff of smoke. No sense wasting words on this.

  Robbie was right: diversion would be welcome. Relief had given way to frustration, then flashes of anger, spot fires hinting at a looming conflagration. Talk of hunger strikes, mass protests, sabotage. Starved of information, guarded by armed men, they all felt the pressure building. If anyone tried to escape, to brave the swim and strike out for land, rumour said the soldiers had orders to shoot on sight. No wonder anger was brewing. Billie felt its edge herself.

  ‘Up on the sundeck, after lunch,’ said Robbie. ‘You can join in, or just listen.’

  She knew she’d go – if not to sing, just to fill her head with music. Blot out the other stuff.

  Robbie pointed. ‘Here’s your mate.’

  That dear, dark head: Cleary wobbling towards her on his crutches, gawky as a foal, his mother close behind. The boy’s smile almost shy; something different about him.

  Billie pulled him into a hug while Cate stood back.

  The boy broke free of the embrace, grabbed Billie’s hand. An object dropped into her palm. She opened her hand, grimaced in mock disgust, and Cleary grinned, revealing a missing canine. In her hand lay a tooth, a rime of blood still clinging to the root.

  ~

  Music drifted through the rigging as Billie piggybacked the boy across the deck: a fiddle’s loop and whirl, the drone of an accordion. Resting in the saloon with a group of other parents, Cate had entrusted Cleary to her care. He still hadn’t mastered the crutches; Billie had made a show of griping, said she wasn’t a packhorse, but in truth the weight of him was welcome.

  As they approached the sundeck, someone stepped from the crowd to block their way.

  ‘Where you taking that kid?’ demanded Marshall.

  ‘Move,’ said Billie. ‘I don’t answer to you.’ They glared at each other. The boy’s grip tightened around her neck, restricting her air; irritated, she tugged at his arms. ‘Get to fuck, Marshall,’ she snapped.

  People were watching now, the chief steward clocking the scrutiny. He edged aside and Billie pushed past.

  ‘That kid’s not right in the head,’ Marshall yelled after her.

  Fucking walloper. The kid had more brains than all of them put together. Still, Cleary struck her as tense, subdued. Worried about his ma, no doubt: still weak and ghostly thin, her spark nowhere in evidence.

  Robbie’s wife, Mona, made room for them as he led the musicians in a reel: a kitchenhand wielding the accordion; a dad drumming on a bucket, his kids at his feet. A sulky-faced teen giving the odd honk on a moothie, in tune but never quite in time.

  When the band broke off someone hollered out a request for ‘Caledonia’, and Robbie turned to Billie. He’d promised not to put her on the spot, but of course the man was full of it.

  ‘Songbird?’ he called, flourishing his bow. ‘Will you lend us that magical voice?’

  Applause, hoots and whistles. Juliette met her eye, offered a tentative smile. As Billie rose to join the band she squeezed the kid’s hand, wondered who the reassurance was meant for.

  Silence fell as she stood before them: no soldiers in sight, no grey-clad officials; a strategic withdrawal perhaps, a peace offering of sorts.r />
  One deep lungful, and there it was: her voice still strong and ready, the melody bound up in muscle memory. The swell of music drowning out the recent past. As people stood to dance, to sing along or let out mindless whoops, Billie felt the world’s sharp corners blur. She was inside the music, the song inside her body, sound pulsing through the drowsy air, coursing through them all. People singing along, clapping out the rhythm. Eyes closed, bodies swaying, brought together by pure sound.

  The first bomb hit the children in the front row: violent red splatters, the kids’ faces and clothes streaked scarlet. A moment’s lull before the screaming.

  Red gushes, bloody fountains; the deck a war zone, parents shielding children. A balloon burst against the gunwale, a glut of red liquid spraying into Billie’s face. Cleary’s mouth was open in a panicked wail, his cheeks streaked red. She dived for him, lost her footing on the slippery deck, fell heavily.

  A sour taste in her mouth, a chemical tang: not blood.

  She grabbed for the child, wrapped his screaming head in her arms.

  Chaos as the crowd scrambled to escape the onslaught, bodies crashing to the deck, children shrieking. A red storm raining down, people cowering and slipping, blinded. The crack of gunshots, soldiers firing overhead.

  Billie lifted the boy and staggered away from the carnage.

  ‘It’s paint!’ someone was shouting. ‘It’s just paint!’

  Then the drones were gone, the sky empty. Red-spattered officials helped the fallen to their feet as women consoled sobbing children. Cleaners appeared with mops and buckets. Cleary buried his head in Billie’s shirt, a light tremble emanating from somewhere deep inside him.

  ~

  A familiar room: the scene of her recruitment. The same line-up of senior crew and heavies, the ship doctors and nurses too, but the crew’s uniforms now piecemeal or gone, the old hierarchies levelled.

  Only Captain Lewis had retained his full regalia: seated behind a table draped with a Union Jack, all present and correct despite the heat, the dark smudges beneath his eyes. He gave a signal and one of his men locked the door.

  Cutler, the first mate, called for quiet. ‘We don’t have long. They’ll soon realise we’re missing.’ Still taking up maximum space, nothing in his stance suggesting a demotion. But geotagged no doubt, just like the rest of them.

  ‘Before I hand over to Captain Lewis, a few points. Foreign Affairs back home is advocating for us, but they have no jurisdiction over this vessel.’

  ‘So who’s in charge?’ someone called out. The atmosphere prickly.

  ‘Authority rests with the local incident commander. The captain—’ Cutler broke off, glanced at his superior. ‘For our purposes, Captain Lewis is effectively next in command.’

  ‘When do we get off this ship?’ Ruben’s voice, no hint of deference in it.

  The captain took the floor. ‘I ask that question daily. But our hosts are not being particularly forthcoming.’

  ‘We’re in swimming distance of a quarantine station,’ said another nurse. ‘Can’t they take us ashore?’

  ‘I’m pushing for that,’ said Captain Lewis. ‘But the situation is politically sensitive. The government’s just weeks from an election, and public sentiment’s not on our side.’ A shimmer of sweat on his upper lip.

  ‘We’ve got three passengers on hunger strike,’ said Ruben. ‘I’ve told them it’s useless, there’s no media presence. But they want off this ship.’

  ‘It’s the uncertainty,’ said Holly. ‘People need answers.’

  Kellahan spoke up: ‘The bereaved should not be kept here. Bad memories at every turn.’ Faces too, thought Billie: no space to escape the grief of others.

  ‘Can’t they transfer us to the Nightingale?’ asked Holly. ‘She’s twice the size.’

  ‘The incident commander’s vetoed that,’ said Captain Lewis. ‘He wants to keep their lab isolated.’

  ‘But everyone’s been cleared,’ Billie objected. ‘No active cases. Are we still in quarantine, or what?’

  The captain blew a frustrated breath. ‘The threat level’s been downgraded, but—’

  Ruben cut in. ‘Are we still at risk, or not?’

  ‘We’re guinea pigs,’ muttered a crewman, one of several still wearing his mask. ‘It’s a test, to see if anyone else gets sick. I’m keeping this thing on until those bastards take us ashore.’

  ‘Let’s not start with the conspiracy theories,’ warned Cutler.

  Billie met the captain’s eye. ‘Do you have stream access? You’ve seen what’s being said?’ Careful to phrase it as a question, not admit to prior knowledge.

  He frowned. ‘Some of it. We all know what happened yesterday.’

  The drone attack: people seemed reluctant to refer to it by name.

  ‘I meant the virus,’ Billie countered. ‘Theories on where it came from.’ Recalled that smuggled article: Was this negligence or malice?

  Cutler was quick to reply: ‘That’s for the investigators to determine. There’s no point—’

  ‘They’re saying it was a terrorist attack,’ said Owen. ‘Some extremist cult, trying to shut down migrant labour.’

  ‘I’d put money on it,’ someone agreed. ‘It was fucking StayPut hacked the ministry, leaked the passenger lists.’

  ‘That was never proven,’ an officer objected. ‘No-one claimed responsibility.’

  Cutler raised his hand for silence, but a sailor broke in: ‘My bet is that Spanish ship. Cops harangued us for hours about that new bilge pump, the crate they winched across – who touched what, who pissed where.’

  ‘That’s one theory,’ Captain Lewis conceded. ‘But apparently there’s been no outbreak in Spain. No mysterious deaths on Spanish vessels. They’ve been militant on border control. Aside from a few flu outbreaks, they’re clean.’

  ‘Was me and Jimmy unpacked that crate and fixed the pump,’ said a crewman. ‘We’re still standing.’

  ‘Only two crew fell sick,’ said his mate. ‘Neither one went near that crate.’

  ‘That dead body in the water,’ put in Juliette. ‘Up near the equator. A bug could have got in through the seawater intake. Turn on the showers and bang, you’re done for.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said an officer. ‘That system’s state of the art, the intake’s fully purified.’

  ‘You can’t catch a virus from a corpse,’ said someone. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Damn right you can. Look at the Arctic, all those germs leaking out when the ice melted.’

  ‘Anthrax!’ A loud interjection from up the back: Marshall. ‘Dead reindeer. The bug came back to life when the carcasses defrosted.’

  ‘We’re talking about the equator,’ someone objected, ‘not the Arctic.’

  ‘Alright.’ Cutler, trying to restore order. ‘We’re wasting time here.’

  ‘The kids,’ said Doctor Kellahan. ‘This is a terrible environment for them. Distressed adults acting out, that incident yesterday. The children should not be on this ship.’

  The captain looked exhausted. ‘I’m with you there. But the commander’s position is that they’ve made services available. The counsellors …’ He trailed off.

  Kellahan persisted. ‘This is no place for children. How can this be legal?’

  ‘When will they lift the comms ban?’ This from Lauren, the flaky nurse. ‘I need to call home.’

  A pang: Billie saw her parents’ worried faces, her brother’s goofy grin.

  ‘What do we tell the bereaved families?’ Owen’s voice. ‘They’re asking about funerals.’

  Pounding, a heavy fist against the door. The room fell quiet.

  ‘Open up!’ A man’s raised voice, that flat nasal accent. ‘Unlock this door right now.’

  ‘Let them in,’ said the captain. He threw down his cap and sank into his chair, the gesture of a man defeated.<
br />
  ~

  The official materialised at her side as she left the laundry room. Clad in the grey uniform of their overseers, dark and clean-shaven, close to her own age. Mitch. Not bad-looking, Billie had to admit. He flashed white teeth, a grin so guileless she almost returned it, just caught herself in time.

  ‘Got a minute?’

  She hung back. No reason to trust any of these people.

  ‘Official business,’ he said breezily, holding up a device. ‘I’m doing some fact-checking for forensics. Zoning parameters, quarantine stuff. Won’t take long.’ He jerked his head: this way.

  Another man expecting her to jump at his command. But something off about this one: his manner too familiar, his loyalties unclear. She wavered, but curiosity won out.

  He led her to a booth in a corner of the aft saloon. The room was near-empty, just a couple bickering in the corner and some kids immersed in a motion game. Screened by a vending machine, no cameras in sight, the spot offered a rare semblance of privacy.

  ‘You know those articles?’ Mitch asked as Billie slid into her seat.

  She did, almost word for word.

  ‘You remember the journalist’s name?’

  No: the name hadn’t mattered. The articles now committed to memory, interred at the bottom of her suitcase. Contraband documents in antique form, lone missives from the outside world.

  ‘He’s a contact of mine,’ said Mitch. ‘Specialises in advocacy, human rights stuff.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’ Not content to let him parcel out scant clues and innuendo. This man had made vague promises last time, before the hearing; said he’d put in a good word. Look how that had ended: she’d been blindsided, her character called into question.

  He showed his palms: no weapons, nothing to hide. Good looks aside, he had one of those trustworthy faces. ‘We can help each other. I need info.’

  Billie pressed her lips shut.

  ‘I know,’ said Mitch. ‘You all signed a non-disclose. But I’ll protect your identity. You have my word on that.’

  ‘You’d trust some random stranger in uniform?’

  ‘I’m taking a huge risk here,’ he said, blinking. ‘It goes both ways. You could get me fired, or worse.’