‘Nothing … but waves …’ you choke.
‘Right, nothing but waves. The nearest land is hundreds of miles away. The captain obeys me. The crew obeys me. And yet … you don’t obey me. Why is that? The smallest, most penniless mouse on this ship just tried to bite the big cat. You need to be taught a lesson, honey.’
You try to kick him in the shins, but he throws you to the ground and storms out, banging the door closed behind him. You hear a key turn in the lock and realise with horror that he got a key after all. You scramble to try the handle, but it won’t budge.
You curl up on the floor and start to cry. ‘Charlie!’ you whisper. ‘What should I do?’
Charlie was like a god to you when you were eight years old. Like the old Roman gods, he gave gifts to mortals: he gave you the gift of seeing yourself as something more than just a poor girl from Lenola, and he showed you there was another world out there. But you were greedy and misused the gift. You tried to blackmail Mr Dawe and take a share of the profit even though you knew that profit came from abusing people.
You feel so alone, so stupid. There’s nowhere to run, even if you could escape from this room, except over the side of the boat and into the sea. Eventually, darkness falls over the cabin and you crawl into bed, although you can’t sleep for fear of Mr Dawe returning.
As the sun rises, Charlie does provide the answer, though, through what he did in the cat’s guts all those years ago: in enemy territory, he hid until the trouble was over. For you, the trouble will be over when you reach Australia, which is only four weeks away. You just need to escape this room, then find a place to hide or someone to hide you.
Luckily, the brass porthole in your room opens, and you’re just small enough to squeeze through. You drag a chair to the window and pop your head out to find that it’s a calm morning outside, without many people around, which will make things easier. The side of the ship is broad and smooth as a whale. There is nothing to hang on to, nowhere to step, but there’s a big orange lifeboat strapped to the side of the ship directly beneath your window, about as far below you as the drop from the roof of a house to the ground.
You’re not sure what you’ll do once you reach the lifeboat. There might be emergency food supplies and drinking water underneath the canvas cover; if stretched, perhaps it could last you the rest of the journey. If not, then you’ll have to attract the attention of someone sympathetic on the second-class deck who can either get you out of there or bring you food.
Just then you hear Mr Dawe say, ‘Nikolai, this whole corridor is off-limits today, d’you hear me? Tell the guests you’re spraying rat poison or something, all right?’
Oh God, oh God, you think, he doesn’t want anyone to hear me scream. You scramble up, banging your head against the porthole rim. As you put one leg through the window, you hear a key in the lock. Hurry! You manage to get your other leg through, and for a split second you pause, sitting on the curved sill. It’s a long way down. You feel the breeze on your legs and hear the crash of waves against the hull. God protect me, you think, and you drop.
In that giddy moment of flight, you are aware of nothing but the rushing of the wind and the beating of your heart. Then you hit the lifeboat’s drum-like canvas cover with a bang and feel an awful wrench in your knee. You hear a creak. The lifeboat starts to tip. You scrabble at the smooth canvas as you begin to slide.
Hooking an arm over the edge of the lifeboat, you hang on like a limpet. ‘Help!’ you shout. ‘Please help!’
You know that Mr Dawe might be looking down at you, but right now you don’t care – you just don’t want to die. Your injured knee is throbbing, your arm muscles are starting to spasm, and your heart is pounding so hard that your breath comes in wobbly jerks.
You look up and see that the pale rope that holds the lifeboat in place is brittle as straw and strained to breaking point. Strand by strand, the rope starts to give way.
‘Help me!’ you scream, so loud that your throat burns and your eyes water. ‘Help me!’
‘Oh, that poor girl!’ says a voice, and a crowd starts to congregate at the ship’s railing below. ‘Quick, somebody throw her a—’
Crack. The rope breaks and one end of the lifeboat drops, sending you plunging towards the water. You thrash in space, your screams snatched by the wind. The surface of the ocean is as cold and hard as concrete. As you sink, you’re dimly aware of the thrum of the ship’s engine, and a building black pressure. Silvery bubbles rise from your nose and mouth like fishes. Then you slip into unconsciousness, and keep sinking.
To return to your last choice and try again, go to the end of scene 10.
No, you tell yourself firmly as you reach the door to your cabin, I’m not going to take part in stealing food out of people’s mouths. As of now, I quit, Mr Bob Dawe. You’re a disgusting crook. I’d sooner side with that German girl downstairs than with you.
‘Where’s the wine?’ says a voice behind you, making you jump. It’s him.
‘Oh, it’s … coming. The cook just had to … get it ready,’ you lie.
‘What the hell’s to get ready about a case of wine?’ he mutters. ‘Well, make sure it’s here by nightfall, princess, ’cos I’m entertaining guests tonight.’ He storms away.
Your hands are shaking as you plan your next move. There’s nowhere you can go to truly escape from him, and once he finds out you’ve leaked what he’s been up to, who knows what he’ll try to do to you. You’ll have to plan everything very carefully.
First of all, you tear the incriminating pages out of the accounts book and slip them into the pocket of your cardigan.
Your knees are knocking as you go back downstairs for the wine. When the cook hands it over, you say, ‘I told Mr Dawe that girl was shouting at you before, and he thought it was very unfair.’ You’re pleased to note he puffs himself up righteously, as you’d hoped. ‘What’s her name and room number? Mr Dawe wants to keep an eye on her.’
‘That’s Frieda Becker,’ he tells you. ‘She’s a feral little pest. She’s in the women’s dorm, number two.’
Lugging the wine, you check for Frieda at her dorm, but she’s not there. You stash the wine in your cabin and eventually find her on deck, murmuring to a beefy man.
‘Hello,’ you say warily, tapping her on the shoulder. ‘I, uh, have something. To show you. Can we talk?’
‘Thanks, Mick,’ Frieda says to the passenger. ‘I’ll see you later.’ Mick nods and moves off.
She eyes you suspiciously. ‘Aren’t you working as Mr Dawe’s secretary?’ she says.
You swallow your discomfort at Frieda’s German accent. The war’s over now, you remind yourself firmly. I need to be bigger than my fears – it’s time to move on and begin anew.
‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you. It’s about your rations.’
‘What’s this?’ Frieda asks as you hand her the paper from your pocket.
‘It’s a list of the ship’s food – he was getting me to halve it and work out his profit if he sold the rest in Australia!’
As you explain the sums and the profit, Frieda’s mouth drops open. ‘The bastard!’ she hisses. ‘So we haven’t run out of food …’ She trails off and looks at you, aghast. ‘But what about you? We have to get you away from him!’
‘I’d love to get away from him,’ you say, ‘but I don’t see how I can. You have to keep this whole thing a secret until we reach Sydney, and I have to keep working for him until then – it’s the safest way. When we reach land, we can have him arrested.’
‘But people are hungry now,’ she says urgently. ‘Some people who were already weak are starting to get sick – I’ve been examining them.’
‘You’re a doctor?’ you ask, hugely impressed.
She nods.
You hadn’t realised the rations situation was so serious. Frieda leans in close to you. ‘It’s time for a revolution,’ she says. ‘I have a plan.’
First of all, Frieda tells you exactly what symptoms to fake, and you spend the rest o
f the day successfully convincing Mr Dawe that you’re coming down with something horrid.
‘It could be coxocephalis B,’ Frieda tells him earnestly as she examines you in your bed. She made sure she was the first person on the scene, before the ship’s doctor could be called for. ‘She needs to be quarantined immediately. It’s airborne, so I hope you haven’t been spending too much time with her.’
Mr Dawe chokes, and runs out of the room waving at his face as if fending off wasps. ‘There’s no such thing as coxocephalis B,’ Frieda confides after he’s gone, ‘but I’ve heard it’s particularly fatal to big-headed men,’ and you both get the giggles.
That night you leave the first-class cabin, supposedly headed for the ship’s sick bay, but really you go to the women’s dorm in second class. Frieda begins rallying her troops immediately, preparing for a wholesale takeover of the ship. You all meet in one of the empty smoking rooms and lock the door.
‘I’ve tried begging the cook and the captain himself to increase our rations, but they won’t budge: they’re all in this together,’ she says to a circle of angry passengers. Apart from you, there’s Mick, a wiry tattooed guy called Sergio, and a very serious-looking bald guy called Dom, who you later find out is an ex-army gunner. They are all Italian. ‘We have to capture the ringleaders – the captain and Dawe – and lock them up. Then we can see if the rest of the crew will follow our command.’
‘I hope you realise this is mutiny,’ Dom says, ‘punishable by imprisonment or death. But I’m in.’
Frieda looks around the rest of the circle to see how they’re taking this. Sergio has an angry glint in his eye, and Mick cracks his neck from side to side like a boxer about to step into the ring.
‘Me too,’ they both say.
‘And me,’ you offer.
Frieda grins at you. ‘Actually, your imaginary case of coxocephalis B has given me a great idea. Here’s how we’re going to do this …’
BY THE NEXT morning, you, Frieda, Dom, Mick and Sergio have recruited thirty-six new ‘victims’ of the dreaded coxocephalis bug and coached them in how to mimic the symptoms. They form a moaning queue out on deck, and Frieda takes her time examining each and recording their names. The others warn passengers to keep back in case they catch it too, and soon a current of alarm begins to spread around the ship. A nasty contagious disease out at sea with no port in sight could be very bad news for everyone aboard.
The shipboard doctor, who like the rest of the crew is Russian, runs up in a state of great agitation. Frieda takes him aside and speaks quietly to him, pointing to her notes and to the crowd of ‘very ill’ people. An old man in the queue falls to his knees then faints on the deck; the crowd gasps in horror, but no one runs to help – they’re too scared of catching coxocephalis B. The doctor looks perplexed at first, then nods several times and sends a crew member to tell the captain, before melting away into the background himself. She must have filled him in on the plan. You’re relieved he’s going along with it.
The captain is built like a polar bear and seems just as menacing when he appears on deck. ‘What does this mean?’ he shouts in English at Frieda.
Frieda doesn’t flinch. She calmly explains the illness, then reveals to him that, luckily, she does have a small stash of medicine that works quite well – not as a cure, but as a preventative.
‘What I propose,’ she tells the captain, ‘is that we offer this medicine to the most vulnerable passengers on the ship: children, the elderly, and any pregnant women. They’re the ones who would be most likely to die from coxocephalis B.’
‘Die from it?’ the captain splutters. He looks at the waiting queue of sick passengers and grimaces.
‘I bet he’d chuck them overboard right now if he thought he could get away with it,’ Sergio whispers in your ear, and you can’t help but agree.
‘Give me the medicine!’ the captain demands. ‘I’ll decide who gets to take it, not you!’
‘With all respect, sir,’ argues Frieda, ‘that medicine is mine, and I’m not going to just giv—’
‘Give it to me now!’ he roars. ‘Where is it?’
Frieda looks downcast. ‘I’ll bring it to you in your cabin … sir,’ she murmurs.
‘No!’ shouts a man in the watching crowd. ‘I need it! I’m feeling sick!’
Other passengers start to shout over each other too.
‘I’m taking my children to meet their father – we haven’t seen him in six years!’
‘Please, I had the flu just last month and I don’t have my strength back – I need the medicine more!’
‘No, I do!’
Frieda stands on her chair to shout: ‘We will create a quarantine zone for the sick, and I advise the rest of you to stay in your rooms and avoid mingling with others. Please stay calm!’
Nobody stays calm. Mothers snatch up their babies and run for their cabins as though they are soldiers under fire. Others press in on Frieda, nearly trampling her, begging for medicine, and Sergio, Mick and Dom have to act as bodyguards.
You, Frieda, Dom, Mick and Sergio return to the smoking room and lock the door.
‘The doctor worked out what’s going on, but he’s on our side,’ explains Frieda. ‘Everyone else is totally convinced!’ She turns to Sergio and hands him a bottle of white pills. ‘Take these to the captain,’ she says. ‘He’s built like a lumberjack, so he’ll need to take three – actually, four, to be on the safe side – to really knock him out. They’ll work in less than half an hour. After the captain’s knocked out, tie him up then go and give three more of them to Dawe and do the same. Mick and Dom, you can come with me to the sick bay to help keep the peace in the meantime.’
‘What can I do?’ you ask her.
‘You shouldn’t go anywhere; you’re too “sick”, remember?’ Frieda replies.
You know she’s right, but you can’t help complaining. ‘Can’t I go along, just to listen? This will be too good to miss!’
Frieda smiles. ‘Okay. Just don’t let Mr Big-head see you.’
As you sneak along with Sergio to the captain’s cabin, you marvel at Frieda’s daring and commanding style. She could lead anyone to victory.
As you approach the captain’s cabin, you hear two men’s voices inside and freeze, listening.
‘Just what I need, a damned pandemic on the ship,’ groans the captain, his English heavy with his Russian accent. ‘No way do we share this medicine.’
‘Look at it this way, Vlad: sick people eat less, right? So that means even more profit! No one will blame you if there are deaths.’ It’s the beefy American voice you know only too well.
‘Mr Dawe’s in there!’ you hiss to Sergio. ‘You go; I’ll wait out here.’
Sergio’s English isn’t as good as yours, and you have to stifle your giggles as he says something like: ‘Tree. You taker tree. But sir, for you is taker four, because you is very fat. He fat too, but more short. Okay, you taker four both. Is okay, four and four. Taker now please. Because the sick is very strong, is bleeeuurrgh, make you dead, like that.’
Sergio emerges triumphant. ‘They took them!’ he says to you in Italian. ‘Four each, the pigs! How was my English?’
‘Perfect, Sergio,’ you tell him with a grin, ‘just perfect.’
BY THAT EVENING, the ship’s second-in-command is doing a fine job managing the ship’s crew. They all believe that the captain and Mr Dawe are very sick, and are quarantined together in the captain’s cabin. Only Mick, Sergio, Dom or Frieda take them their meals – half rations, of course. Sergio did an excellent job of tying them up: his knots are a lot tighter than his English. Meanwhile, the passengers are reassured that the outbreak of coxocephalis B is under control. The only other person who knows the truth is Viktor, the ship’s doctor, and he has promised to take the matter to the police and have both the captain and Mr Dawe arrested upon your arrival in Sydney.
That night, you and Frieda are both lying in darkness in your bunks, feeling satisfied and full after a deliciou
s meal.
‘You did it,’ you whisper to Frieda.
‘We did it,’ she corrects you. ‘Together.’
You feel a glow so bright and warm, it could illuminate the whole ship.
Go to scene 16 to continue with the story.
‘Help me!’ you mouth over Bob Dawe’s shoulder to the blonde girl. She winks, and darts over just as Mr Dawe opens his walrus-like mouth to ask for the third time. Skidding theatrically, she manages to upend her bowl of warm mush all over the back of his shirt and he jumps up as if stung.
‘What the heck?’ he roars, slapping at the dripping ooze and whirling round like a dog trying to catch its own tail. ‘You think this is funny, lady?’
Although there’s a devilish spark in the blonde girl’s eye, her face is perfectly straight as she replies, ‘Of course not, sir – I’m terribly sorry.’
The other passengers titter behind their hands, enjoying the spectacle, as he storms out of the room, stopping at the doorway to thrust a hammy finger in your direction and shout: ‘And you! You … can forget about being my secretary!’
‘Wow, he offered you a job?’ asks the blonde girl in accented English, putting her now-empty bowl on the table. ‘What a nice guy – you’re so lucky.’ You both snort with laughter. ‘I didn’t spill any soup on you, I hope?’
‘I’m fine.’ You smile.
‘My name’s Frieda,’ she says, shaking your hand.
‘Where are you from?’ you ask.
‘Köln,’ she says. Then, seeing your blank expression, she adds cautiously: ‘It’s in, uh, Germany.’
She’s German? You bristle involuntarily. Those men, who took your house like they owned it; those German snakes Mamma warned you about … Only good for nothing but making rules and shooting people, Mamma’s voice says in your head.
‘Are you okay?’ asks Frieda, and you realise your expression must have frozen. Your manners kick in automatically: you hastily try to smile.
‘I – I – didn’t like the war, you know,’ Frieda stammers. ‘I didn’t choose for it to happen – or support what Hitler stood for.’
Move the Mountains Page 5
