“Well, first, dear, tell me – did you tell anybody you were coming over here?”
“No, nobody” Abbie said.
“You’re sure you didn’t tell anybody? Friend? Boyfriend?”
“No, Ethel. Nobody at all. You asked me not to.”
“Ah, that’s a relief.”
“What is?”
“We were a little worried, dear,” Ethel said.
“We? Who’s we? Worried about what?”
“You’ve been putting up flyers, talking to people about the cats,” Ethel said, shaking her head. “It’s no good.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to get Malcolm in trouble. He’s never liked cats.”
“What? Who’s Malcolm?”
“Malcolm’s my son. He’s standing right behind you.”
Cod Beck
Ken stood by the open grave, not feeling the rain or hearing the priest’s words. He looked at the weeping faces beside him, but did not cry with them; he felt only shock.
He opened the kitchen door, shaking his head as he watched the cigarette smoke escape.
“Good idea, Ken,” said Bernie. “Let a bit of fresh air in.”
“Well, I don’t smoke, so I don’t-”
“Best way to be,” Bernie said, taking a big drag on his cigarette. “Nasty habit.”
Ken nodded. “How long do you think everybody will be staying?”
“Just a little while, Ken. Give you a bit of company. It’s not a day to be alone.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s just that…”
“What?” Ken said.
“We’re all worried about you, that’s all. We know how close you and June were.”
“Yes.”
“It must be a terrible loss.”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Come on, Ken. Let’s grab a whisky, and join the others in the front room.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“Come on, don’t stay in the kitchen alone.”
“You go ahead. I’ll be in shortly.”
“OK,” Bernie said, taking the whisky bottle with him.
Ken sat at the kitchen table, picking at a pork pie, waiting for everybody to leave.
He woke up in a sweat, saying, “No, no, no.” Stretching out his hand, he felt only a cold sheet where June used to lay.
He made his way to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and checked the wall calendar.
“A month,” he said, shaking his head. “Where does the time go, love?”
Taking his coffee into the living room, he sat on his end of the sofa. He picked up a red cardigan and held it to his face, breathing through his nose.
“You always did smell good, love,” he said.
Switching on the TV news, he sipped his coffee and thought about leaving the house.
Returning from the hospital, Ken sat on the sofa and re-read the letter. Then he made a coffee, and sipped it while he stared out of the kitchen window.
“Just my fucking luck,” he said.
“Thornaby?” Bernie asked, taking a seat next to Ken on the sofa.
“That’s where I’m from. Where I grew up.”
“Right. Right. What about it?”
“Well,” Ken said. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. It makes no sense. I’ve been living here in London almost fifty years now. And-”
“But why think about it now?”
“I used to do a lot of walking, with my mother and father. Out in the hills where we lived.”
“I see.”
“Some of the happiest times of my life. June was never much of a walker. She-”
“Ken. Stop! Listen to me.”
“What?”
“It’ll do you no good,” Bernie said. “This moping around.”
“I am not bloody moping around.”
“It’s been three months, Ken, and you’ve barely left the house.”
“Yes, I have,” Ken said, nodding his head. “I’ve been to the cemetery, and I also-”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Ken. You need to get out and socialise a bit. Or talk to someone. You can’t go on like this.”
Ken sat in his living room that evening, replaying the conversation with Bernie in his head.
“He’s right, love,” he said. “I can’t go on like this.”
He buried his face in the red cardigan.
Ken rose early the next morning, and had a large breakfast. He had a long soak in the bath, a close shave, then he put on his favourite suit and left the house.
After a visit to the bank he stopped at the florist, taking his time before selecting an expensive bouquet.
He walked to the cemetery and placed the flowers in the planter, then knelt down beside the headstone and talked softly to June.
“I hope you’ll understand, love,” he said, before leaving to catch his train.
He stepped off the train, admiring the afternoon sun and nodding his head.
“It’s as good a day as any,” he said, buttoning his jacket against the mild chill.
He noticed a ticket office, and a small area with plastic seating; everything else was as he remembered. He walked to the taxi rank, and took the first cab in line.
As the taxi drove away, Ken stared at the small shop with the Post Office sign in the window. He’d never used its mailing services, but he could still taste the boiled sweets he used to buy there, daily, so long ago.
He set off walking, beside a quiet road that cut a straight line through the village. The gardens were green and well kept; he was struck by the contrast, between this peaceful place and the noise of London.
He passed a pub, unsure if he remembered it or not. The road led him up a gently sloping bank. He stopped at the top to catch his breath.
“Well, love,” he said, “that’s steeper than I remember.”
He followed the road for another minute, then took a right into Falcon Close. There were six houses in the quiet cul-de-sac, and he stopped in front of the second one.
Looking at the detached house, he took in the neat garden and the fence that enclosed it.
“That fence wasn’t there before.”
He looked at the windows, replaying childhood memories. He put his hand on the gate, deliberating.
“I’d better not, love,” he said, stepping away. “I don’t know who lives there now. What on earth would I say to them?”
He walked back to the main road, glancing over his shoulder and wiping his eyes.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“I’ll have the filet mignon, please,” Ken said. “Well done.”
“And to drink, sir?”
“A large whisky, please. An expensive one.”
“Yes, sir,” the bar server said, scribbling in his notebook. “The food will be about forty-five minutes, if that’s OK?”
“That’s fine. I’m not in any rush.”
He looked around the pub, seeing a lone drinker at the bar, and a young couple sat in a booth by the window. The bar server brought his whisky; he took a slow drink, nodding his head appreciatively.
He picked up a newspaper from the empty table next to his, and flicked through it as he waited for his meal.
“Thank you very much, sir,” the bar server said, seeing the large tip that Ken had left him.
“You’re welcome. It was lovely.”
They chatted a little, as the bar server cleared the table and Ken finished his third whisky.
“Up by Cod Beck? Don’t you have a thicker jacket, sir?”
“No. Just this one.”
“Oh, well, be careful, sir. Don’t stay out there too long.”
“OK.”
“It gets very cold, out in the open.”
“I should be OK,” Ken said. “Thanks again.”
He followed the road leading from the village, taking a right and walking down a small slope to the rese
rvoir. He took a seat at a picnic bench, looking out over the water.
He re-read the letter from the hospital, then tore it up, watching the pieces blow away on the wind. Then he took a path through a wooded area, which bordered one side of the reservoir.
The path led him up a small hill. At the top of the hill he took a left, and walked a little further. Then he sat on the grass, taking in the expansive view over Cod Beck and the surrounding countryside.
“Just as beautiful as I remember,” he said. “This is the spot, love.”
He lay back in the grass and closed his eyes, listening to the wind, hearing the voices of his parents, long gone. And he could hear June, whispering his name.
He smiled, knowing that he would see them all soon.
Not Coming Back
Mark made a mistake; a terrible mistake.
He denies it, but I was there and I heard what he said. He’s my friend, and I know he’s not a murderer - but who knows how they’d see it at the inquest? They might find him guilty of murder. Or manslaughter. I’m not sure which, but it’ll ruin his life.
Should I tell them everything? What does it really matter? The old guy’s dead, no matter what.
Mark worked in the casino, one of the twenty croupiers under my direct supervision. He’d only been on-board a few months, but we’d become good friends over numerous drinking sessions in the Crew Bar.
I was still feeling the effects of one of those sessions, when Mark and I reported for Embarkation Duty that terrible afternoon.
“Jesus Christ!” I said, taking in the crowd of people in the gangway area. They were waiting to board the tender, the lifeboat that was used to ferry passengers ashore.
“I hate this shit,” Mark said, shaking his head beside me. “Why do they even call it Embark Duty?”
“What do you mean?”
“They should call it the company’s too tight to pay for extra boat crew duty.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “Come on, let’s get started.”
The casino was one of the departments that worked the least amount of hours on-board the ship, along with the dance cast and musicians. So, obviously, some idiot came up with the idea of us helping out in areas that were under-manned and over-worked.
The duty was a pain, but it only came around twice a month and it rarely lasted more than a couple of hours. That day Mark and I were assigned to help with tender operations, loading passengers onto the lifeboats that ferried them to the white sand beaches of Grand Cayman.
The passengers from the returning lifeboat would step onto the pontoon between the ship and the tender, then climb a few steps onto the ship and file through the security checkpoint; when all the passengers had exited the tender, Mark and I would start the process of reloading it with the next group of passengers who wanted to go ashore.
“Have a nice day,” Mark said to them as they walked the final few steps to the tender.
By 3 p.m. the wind had picked up and the water was very choppy. An empty tender was fastened to the pontoon, rolling in the swell. Mark and I stood at the foot of the steps, watching the waves, as a number of passengers milled around behind us.
“Bloody hell!” Mark said, as a wave bounced the tender against the pontoon. “Did you feel that?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty rough,” I said. “Keep your eye on this lot behind us. Make sure they don’t go walkabout.”
“No worries.”
“The Lifeboat Commander will let us know when it’s safe to start boarding again.”
I heard one of the passengers asking Mark a question as I climbed the steps, then a couple of seconds later I heard a very loud scream. I turned just as the tender slammed into the pontoon again.
Descending the steps quickly, I ran to Mark.
“What happened?” I asked him.
His mouth opened, but he made no sound. I stepped to the edge of the pontoon and looked down; the body of an old man floated in the swell, the blood a shimmering carpet on the water.
Two hours later I was in the Security office, smoking too many cigarettes and answering questions for the incident report.
The Chief Security Officer sat at his desk, making notes on a yellow legal pad. The Staff Captain and Casino Manager were present, as was Jan, the Human Resources Manager.
The Staff Captain said, “Let’s watch the video.”
The CCTV footage was black and white, no audio; it was recorded by a camera mounted inside the ship, looking out over the pontoon area.
It showed me chatting with Mark, watching the tender roll up and down in the waves. Four passengers stood behind us on the pontoon. Then I left Mark, and started climbing the steps. Mark watched me leave, not seeing the old man leave the group and pass behind him.
The old man lifted his right leg to step onto the lifeboat, but the waves pushed the boat away, creating a gap of over a metre. The man lost his balance and fell into the gap; then the boat slammed back against the pontoon, closing the gap.
“Jesus Christ!” I said, and lit another cigarette.
Jan said, “Are you OK, Graham?”
“Yeah. I don’t know,” I said. “It’s awful.”
“We’ll take a break,” the Staff Captain said.
I saw a lot of blood, but it was the screaming that woke me from my nightmare.
My mouth tasted of booze and cigarettes; as I splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom, I remembered something from earlier that day, something I’d heard just before the old guy died.
“No way,” Mark said, shaking his head. “No way.”
“I heard you say it, Mark.”
“I did not say that.”
We were sat at a table in the Crew Bar. The music was low, and the place was fairly quiet.
“I heard the old guy when I was going up the steps. He said ‘Can we go now?’ And you said ‘Yes, sir, it won’t be too much longer.’”
“I certainly did not.” He took a sip of beer. “And even if I did say it, which I didn’t – how would that make him try to get on the tender?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he only heard ‘Yes, sir.’ Maybe he was hard of hearing.”
“Maybe you’re hard of hearing.”
We were then joined by other casino staff, and we didn’t get chance to talk about it again. I wondered if he truly couldn’t remember, or if he just couldn’t admit it to himself.
The next afternoon I went to see Jan, the Human Resources Manager. We sat on a couch in his office; I told him what I’d heard the old guy say, and I recounted the conversation I had with Mark about it.
He seemed slightly unsettled by what I told him, and he took a few moments before answering.
“And you’re sure that’s what you heard?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“But Mark says he doesn’t remember?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Have you told this to anybody else?”
“No. Nobody.” I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m not even sure if it’s all that important, but I thought I should let you know.”
“No, of course,” he said. “Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”
On my way to work that evening, I passed Jan and the Staff Captain as I walked through the Rendezvous Lounge.
“Hi, Graham,” they both said. Big smiles.
The Casino Manager asked me if I had a few minutes, so we went into his office. I sat in a chair by the surveillance monitor, and after closing the door he sat in his big leather chair and talked.
He was an English guy named Dan, and I got on with him quite well – but he really liked to talk. We chatted about my upcoming Performance Review, and how I thought I was doing in my current position. Then we moved onto the death of the old guy.
“Albert Green,” he said. “A widower from Scotland.”
“Who was he travelling with?”
“One of his friends, I think.”
“How old was he?”
He c
hecked some papers on his desk. “Seventy-four.”
“Jesus.”
“The Staff Captain says there’s going to be an investigation, and it’ll probably end up in court.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They’ll try to say it was avoidable, blame the company somehow.”
“How would they do that?” I asked.
“They’ll question the procedures in place, maybe point the finger at some of the tender staff.”
I shook my head, and said, “It wasn’t our fault.”
“I know,” he said, holding up his palms in a calming gesture. “I know. But if a crew member screwed up, that wouldn’t be good at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s going to look very bad for the company if a crew member is found to be responsible for Mister Green’s death. There’d be lawsuits. Its safety record would take a hit, and that would mean less people cruising with us.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure the company would look very favourably upon somebody who would help them avoid all that negative publicity.”
“Oh, yeah? How?”
He shrugged and smiled. “I see no reason why that employee shouldn’t get promoted quickly.”
My shift finished at 1 a.m. I bought six beers from the Crew Bar, and drank them in my cabin while I considered my options.
Maybe it was time to think about my career. I’d been on cruise ships for five years, and a Casino Supervisor for the last two years; I felt that I was ready for promotion to Assistant Manager. The position came with more power, more money and a bigger cabin. And I’d work four month contracts instead of six.
But there were more senior Supervisors within the company, and they were ahead of me in the pecking order. Being nudged up the list would save me a lot of time and effort.
Anyway. That was last month. I’ve made up my mind.
What did Mark do wrong, really? He made a mistake, but he certainly didn’t mean for anybody to die.
Nightmare Waiting Page 3