Cowards Die Many Times

by Peter Hey

  Jane exhaled slowly as if trying to delay more bad news. ‘Oh yeh. I’m not sure how long it had been on. It’s such a tiny light. It’s only because it was night-time that I noticed it. Is it related to the keylogger?’

  ‘Yes and no. They loaded a separate program to control the camera and, of course, the microphone. Maybe it was just some pervert who wanted to snoop on you. Watch you, well…’ Mr Abar looked embarrassed. ‘The Internet’s full of weirdos. I spend a lot of time in chat rooms. There’s something about the culture... You see people egging each other on, suggesting… stuff.’ He swallowed audibly to combat a dry, sticky throat. ‘Maybe someone, who’s tech-savvy, has taken a fancy to you and gone to extreme lengths to snoop on your emails and see you… Well, you said the laptop was in your bedroom.’

  The video call

  Jane had reset her main passwords and Mr Abar had helped check her email account for any signs of damaging activity. Nothing was obvious, and he offered the opinion that they’d caught the problem in time. Jane was relieved but slightly concerned the shopkeeper was at the limit of his experience and expertise. Perhaps his BSc (Eng) signified a degree in civil rather than software engineering. Perhaps he’d bought it online from an unscrupulous institution masquerading as a university.

  But there was someone she knew whose credentials were beyond doubt. Someone who was decidedly, definitely tech-savvy.

  Back home, she found herself staring at her phone, strangely reluctant to touch it. Was it guilt for not chasing up to see how he was? Or was another emotion the cause of her unease? She berated herself for being influenced by other voices. She did not trust the psychological assessments of Emma at the tennis club or the eyesight of Mrs Metcalfe. She wasn’t sure Mr Abar’s idea of ‘tech-savvy’ would hold water in the wide ocean of IT outside a little shop in Nottingham. Yet their words ate away at Jane’s certainties. She knew her doubts were misplaced; she had to trust her better instincts, her friendship and her loyalty. But still the voices nagged.

  Jane typed a text and pressed send. She’d added an extra kiss, as if that would someone soften her motive, but immediately hated herself and wished she could draw the message back from over the airwaves.

  ‘Tommy. I’ve haven’t heard from you for ages. I want to see that you’re ok. I know you don’t like phone calls, so we might as well make you really squirm. Can we FaceTime please? Love Jane xxx.’

  A minute or so later, a reply arrived.

  ‘FaceTime? Wouldn’t be seen dead with a poncy iPhone ;-). I’ll do a video call on WhatsApp. Here it comes…’

  Jane’s phone began to buzz. She pressed the answer symbol and Tommy’s grinning face appeared on the screen. Jane returned the smile, but it was a shallow, fragile facade. Her heart had suddenly crashed.

  Tommy looked at her expectantly and so Jane was forced to speak.

  ‘Hiya. Thanks for ringing me. I just… wanted to check how you were.’

  Tommy’s eyes creased as if he could tell something wasn’t quite right. ‘I’m doing okay. A few sleepless nights over this damn project, but that’s business as usual. We’re almost there. It’ll soon be done.’

  ‘Good. You’re not letting it get you down too much?’

  ‘No more than usual. I could do without them wasting my time in bloody meetings. But maybe it’s good for me, forcing me to get out. You know how it is.’

  ‘Yeh, I know, Tommy.’ Jane’s voice was lifelessly unconvincing. ‘But no regrets about taking the job on?’

  Tommy briefly looked away as if the question were painful. ‘Wouldn’t necessarily say that. The money’s been really good, but I don’t think I’d do it again. It’s not worth the stress. I think it’s back to the search engine thing I was doing before.’ He touched his face nervously. ‘Oh, and Jane…?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe I could work more with you on the genealogy research. You know the idea of a partnership you suggested?’

  Jane’s expression hardened. ‘Yeh, maybe. I’m still not 100% sure it’s viable. I’m just about paying the bills. If there were two of us, it might not work out. Financially, I mean. And maybe I should give up anyway and get a proper job.’

  ‘I understand,’ lied Tommy, his shoulders sinking like man whose lifeline has been unexpectedly severed.

  ‘Okay. I just wanted to see…’ Jane closed her eyes. ‘I just wanted to see you were okay.’

  ‘Jane? Are you alright? You don’t seem yourself.’

  ‘No, don’t worry about me. Everything’s great.’

  ‘Look, I’m up your way next week. One those damn meetings. I could come and see you?’

  ‘Don’t do that, Tommy. I’m fine and I’m travelling myself a lot. Probably wouldn’t be around anyway.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not getting down again. The two of us, eh?’

  ‘Seriously, Tommy, I’m fine,’ Jane said forcefully before turning her head as if distracted by noises off screen. ‘Sorry, there’s someone at the door. I’d better go. Thanks for the call. Bye!’

  Jane hung up and threw the phone onto the sofa beside her. She had sought one answer and got another. And now her mind spun with a mix of disappointment, anger and betrayal, most of all betrayal. She just wasn’t sure who was betraying whom.

  She began to softly cry.

  Liverpool

  They entered the Mersey estuary on the dawn tide. The previous day they had been in Queenstown and Thomas had briefly lost himself to an alternative destiny, one where he had been able to bring his sweet, fragile Mary home to Ireland. It was a joy she, and he, would never know. After a sleepless night he had left the warmth of his bunk to don his fur-collared coat and stand on a lonely deck, watching the lights of England grow in distance. They dimmed as the March sun rose and the outlines of buildings became clearer. To the right were the fort and grand hotels of New Brighton. To the left was a seemingly endless line of docks with warehouses holding timber from Canada, cotton from the southern states, sugar from the Caribbean islands and sundry goods from all over the world. The confusion of cranes, masts and rigging led towards the church towers and chimneys of the great town far ahead. It had been elevated to the rank of city since last he saw it, but to his eyes its once impressive scale and grandeur were now dwarfed in comparison to the metropolis he had departed just over a week previously. If the entrance to Liverpool was not as spectacular as New York Harbour, the lack of excited passengers cramming the rails was more a testament to the near empty cabins and steerage deck of the mighty liner RMS Servia, which at her launch had been second only to Brunel’s flawed Great Eastern in size. Her twin compound engines, double-bottomed hull and innovative electric lighting were financed by the prevailing traffic towards the New World. On her return journeys, her customers were few and her most valuable cargo was the sacks of mail beneath her decks. Thomas had hardly spoken whilst on board, other than to pass on his requests to the attentive and underworked stewards. In the Babel of New York, his class was defined by his relative affluence, obvious to all through the expense of his clothing. In this floating outpost of the British Empire, dress was secondary. His accent, muted as it was, labelled him unworthy of the interest of his fellow first-class passengers. Even the courtesy of the crew could at times appear facetious, the cost of his ticket not guaranteeing respect. He had been surprised his wife let him spend so much, but realised she considered it another investment, hoping he wouldn't return.

  Thomas’s isolation was of little consequence. He didn’t seek anyone’s approval and had always been happy enough in his own company. He passed his time reading, though his attention was all too often interrupted by conversations being rehearsed in his head. His novel was reaching a happy conclusion; the real-life scenarios that he imagined seldom did.

  As Thomas took in the early morning view of the port city’s skyline, he once again wished he had been able to bring his precious camera equipment. He was using his hands to crop the backlit horizon, seeing it captured i
n crisp monochrome, when he became aware of another person standing close by. He turned sharply to find a young girl, probably in her mid twenties and wearing a coat and bonnet that identified her as belonging to the lower ranks. Her access to this deck suggested she was a personal servant to someone who occupied one of the finer staterooms. Her beaming face indicated she at least was glad to be near journey’s end.

  Thomas touched his hat as an unnecessary gesture of politeness given the girl’s status. ‘Are you coming back or seeing England for the first time?’ he asked.

  The girl curtsied. ‘Coming back, sir.’

  ‘And judging by your voice, home isn’t very far away.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m from just outside Manchester. I’m so looking forward to seeing my mum and… I mean mother and father, sir.’

  ‘Mum and dad are fine with me, lass.’ Thomas’s own accent was beginning to slip back, subconsciously mirroring the girl’s. ‘And how long have you been away?’

  ‘We’ve been travelling America for a year – the master’s been on business. We’ve seen some things, I can tell you.’

  ‘I wager you have.’ Thomas felt he should enquire what sights had turned her head, but his heart wasn’t in it. He touched his hat again and began to turn away. The girl, however, was emboldened by his initial questions.

  ‘We took the Union Pacific Railway. We saw a Wild West show in the state of Nebraska. Rough riders, indians, huge buffalo – it was right exciting,’ she babbled.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Thomas.

  ‘And the sharpshooters…’ she continued, ‘They could hit dime pieces tossed in the air 30 paces away. It was a wonder to behold.’

  Thomas simply smiled.

  The girl suddenly remembered how she was supposed to interact with her betters. ‘And you, sir? How long have you been away?’

  ‘Me?’ Thomas knew the answer, but still thought through it. ‘Ten years. A little more, in fact.’

  The girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Your family must have missed you so. I mean, do you have family in England still?’

  ‘Family?’ Thomas looked down at his gloved hands. ‘There’s a word. Yes, I have family. But then again, I don’t. I’ve been… I’ve been so far away.’

  The girl misinterpreted the enigmatic reply. ‘Letters can get lost, can’t they? I’m sure your family are still there. It’s not my place, sir, but I don’t doubt they’ll be ever so happy to see you again.’

  ‘Happy?’ Thomas paused as he studied the girl’s features for the first time. At first he had thought her plain, but he now saw a disarming prettiness. Perhaps he just saw youth and innocence. Perhaps she just looked hauntingly familiar, an echo of his past. His mind wandered and he allowed himself to briefly fantasise about being young again, or at least young enough to woo a simple girl like this, to save her from a life of servitude, to build a different life for himself.

  There was a blast on the ship’s horn as the captain sought to warn the ketch cutting across his course. The Servia was steaming at slow ahead, but her steel bows would not turn easily and would obliterate any lesser vessel that came beneath them.

  ‘’Happy?’ repeated Thomas when the air had cleared to near silence again. ‘I wanted to make my fortune, to make my wife, her father, proud of me. For once. But things didn’t turn out as I hoped.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be very proud, sir. You’re a fine gentleman. The world can see you’re a man of means.’

  ‘Unfortunately I made an... error. Several errors. And now I’m between worlds and not…’ He paused without finishing the sentence. ‘Tell me, young lady, what do think is the most important attribute of personality a man – or indeed, in these modern times, a woman – can have?’

  The girl looked uncomfortable. She was not used to having her opinions sought. ‘I couldn’t say, sir. A sense of duty? Faith in the Lord?’

  Thomas smiled. ‘Commendable, but I would say courage. Every day, every decision, every challenge. Courage.’

  It was Thomas’s turn to feel discomfort as he realised he was unburdening himself on someone whose social standing obliged her to listen respectfully to his musings. In truth, she probably thought him a silly old fool. And she had presumably now heard enough of his accent to know he was an imposter on an upper-class deck.

  ‘Tell me, is there a boy waiting for you at home?’ he asked, diverting the conversation onto what seemed safer waters.

  ‘There was,’ she answered sheepishly. ‘A right grand-looking lad. I hope he’s still there for me, but he’s only written to me twice. I’m not sure he hasn’t found another.’

  ‘Take my advice,’ said Thomas. ‘If he has, let him go. And don’t worry too much about handsome features – always look for someone kind, someone you can trust, someone… brave.’

  They were interrupted by a shrill voice shouting across the deck.

  ‘Betsy! Where are you girl? You are needed.’

  Betsy curtsied again, offered a quick apology and scurried away. Thomas watched her and fleetingly wanted her to stay. And then his face sank.

  ‘I’d surely let you down, too,’ he muttered, his words drifting off on the sea air.

  The seagull

  It was another bad night. Jane finally got to sleep just before dawn and dreamt of her father. It began with a familiar scene, something that had played in her mind since childhood despite being rooted in false memory and deception. Once again, he was on that quayside saying goodbye, beneath the towering, arcing hull of the vast grey ship that was to carry him away to a distant continent, a journey he never made.

  ‘Don’t cry, little princess.’ he said, his wild hair caught by the breeze. ‘I’ll come back when you’re grown and I’ll save you, save you from the demons in your head. I put them there and I can take them away again. I’ll put my huge hands around their throats and squeeze out their venom and their bile until they are empty and lifeless, crumbling to ashes and scattered on the wind.’

  And the screaming seagull came down and landed on his pirate shoulder. Somehow its hooked yellow beak shortened and twisted into a leering smile. Its monochrome feathers became flushed with red, green and blue. And then it laughed a cruel, mocking, derisive cackle.

  ‘Don’t trust him,’ said the parrot seagull. ‘Don’t trust any of them. You’re on your own, little girl.’ The bird guffawed again. ‘And I pity you for that – I’ve never met anyone more stupid, weak and hopeless.’

  Jane’s eyes shot open as the creature began ripping and tearing at the right side of her father’s face. Her pulse was racing and she was sodden with sweat. The drama felt like it had lasted for hours, but only the last few fleeting moments seemed within reach. Jane was not someone who believed in the spiritual power of nocturnal imagery. She didn’t try to chase the nonsense that had been taunting her dormant mind and instead looked at the clock. It was mid morning. She grabbed her phone from the bedside table, climbed from under the sheets and went downstairs. Hunched at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee, she replayed the conscious thoughts that had kept her awake for so long, hoping that a fresh day would provide the clarity that had eluded her in the darkness of night. But she was still dog-tired and soon found herself in the same morass of indecision and doubt.

  The evidence had been slim, circumstantial, a coincidental nothing. But she had only asked the hateful question because she expected a resounding, incontrovertible ‘no’. ‘Perhaps’ had caught her off guard and thrown her. And its arm had been strong and fast.

  Jane knew her mood was sinking rapidly and her ability to think straight was being sucked down with it. She had been here too often before. Those ignorantly obvious words resented by every depressive began echoing in her head.

  ‘Just pull yourself together,’ they rang. ‘This is silly. Just pull yourself together. Just think it through.’ It wasn’t working. It never had.

  The more she tried to persuade herself that her suspicions were foolishly unfounded, the more she loathed herself for think
ing them. Was she so weak minded that she let herself be influenced by tittle-tattle and ignorance? Was she being paranoid, irrationality overriding reason, when you start to think even your best friends are plotting, scheming against you?

  But what if it was true? Just suppose… What was the old joke? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. You have to confront him. A simple, honest, up-front conversation. That would clear things up. Quickly, painlessly. But he’s oh-so clever, and oh-so sensitive. No matter how you tried to say it, no weaselling, ‘I don’t believe this for a minute’ ‘or ‘I know this sounds silly’ would disguise the doubts. That wicked word ‘but’ would reveal the truth. You’d hurt him forever and you’d be exposed as the untrusting, cruel, mad bitch you are. Barmy, just like Christine Jackson said. Barmy then, barmy now. Uncured and incurable.

  Jane stared at her phone willing it to ring. She began rocking backwards and forwards as if the motion would calm her like a baby in her mother’s arms. It was a full 20 minutes before the device buzzed with life.

  ‘Hi Jane. Just got your text. Sorry hard to talk right now. At a bloody fire engine convention with that stupid old Duffer of mine. Can you believe it? What a bunch of nerds. Hope you’re ok. Can I call you this evening? Sarah.’

  Jane read the message wishing she’d sent a less composed request. Dared she say, ‘No, I’m not okay; please tell the nerds to stuff their fire engines and please talk to me now, Sarah, talk me out of this spiral of stupidity?’

  The phone began to ring. Jane’s immediate reaction was an exhalation of relief. Her friend’s intuition had overridden her social mores. Then she saw the caller’s picture on her screen. It was someone whose shoulder she had cried on so often, someone who knew her better than anyone and had always helped her through her darkest times. Except one. The one where he had summoned the clouds and blocked out the light.