“Easy,” Wells mouthed, spluttering water. “Slow it down.”
Kennedy couldn’t catch his breath. He reached for one of the staves.
“Easy. Easy. Don’t wear yourself out.” Wells gripped a splinter of wood.
Kennedy’s lungs were raw. He tried to speak.
Wells was making slow movements, paddling towards him. Further out, others remained locked in intimate embraces. Their short-lived meetings, a flurry of dying reflexes; slow-dancing amid the wreckage.
“She’s gone.” Kennedy’s racked mind couldn’t distinguish the subject of his loss. He mourned everything.
“She’ll be okay.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
They kept the remains of the barrel between them. Their faces were separated only by the haze of their laboured breaths.
“I almost made it,” Kennedy wheezed.
Wells was nodding. “Same.”
“Lifeboat. Where?”
Wells shook his head.
“One in twenty.”
“Was being generous.” Wells coughed out the words.
The cold snaked its way through Kennedy. It coated veins and nerves. He looked down. Wells had him grasped firmly by the sleeve. He tried to cover Wells’ hand with his own. His fingers fumbled, feeling nothing.
A body passed by them, face down, drifting slowly. It made a languid turn, as if performing some elaborate routine. The rictus of Astor’s smile was interrupted by a shattered corolla of split skin and bone. Some last kiss, imparted in the ship’s departure. His face returned to the water.
It was growing quiet again. The ocean was a flat calm. Tranquil.
Kennedy felt himself slipping on the wood.
“Easy,” Wells said.
Kennedy nodded. He had never been so tired.
“Carpathia. One hour.”
Kennedy nodded.
“Keep your head up.”
Kennedy nodded. He wiped his face against his sleeve, trying to dislodge the frozen moisture that crusted beneath his eyes. “Patricia.”
“You’re a father in December.”
Kennedy nodded.
An hour. He looked at his wrist. His Einstein was frozen at two-twenty. He fumbled with the clasp. The pulp of his fingers tore open. The watch slipped off his wrist and into the water. He reached down.
It wasn’t so cold now. He tugged at his holster, releasing it.
He turned back to Wells. He tried to talk. His lips were strips of skin flapping uselessly.
Wells’ face was a blue-tinged mask of repose.
“Wells,” Kennedy croaked.
He made no reply.
“Jonathan?”
There was no reply. No thin wisps of respiration.
A mist must have risen elsewhere, because it was getting harder to distinguish any shapes in the water. Something nudged against him, nestling against the crook of his arm. He tried to turn but the attempt barely elicited a ripple.
The echo of a thousand, thousand days and nights pressed themselves upon him. He followed them to where they coalesced and saw a multifaceted jewel, each edge a petrified moment. An infinite number of possibilities, awaiting his decision. Light flashed a brilliant rose red across its surface, drawing him in.
He made his selection, choosing here and there among the dazzling hues.
Is everything okay?
Everything’s okay.
They sat closer now, almost touching.
I had the worst nightmare, Patricia.
Just a dream, Joseph.
I killed them all.
You imagined the whole thing.
John. David. Martin. Wells.
Dreams...
A chill had taken the air, seeming to issue from the desert floor below them rather than the darkening skies above.
Do you prefer sunrise or sunset?
His sense—of being here before—faded.
His sense of being faded.
I’m tired, Patricia, so very tired. But you’re here now.
There was the soft promise of life beneath the swell of her abdomen, tight against her shirt. She kept still, letting his hand complete the caress.
Is it because I forget everything?
Forgetting will be a good thing, don’t you think, Joseph?
Shifting hues, bronze and orange, spiralled above the chequerboard sand, darkening.
I like this part of the day. The sky changing colour with each passing moment.
It’s all just fluid. Look up, look away, look up again and it’s a whole new world.
There was the soft touch of something penetrating his insensate shroud. Some last quiver of her salved his broken lips.
That’s a sunset, Joseph.
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
... And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all...
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
I
April 15, 1947
New York City, New York
The harbour waters were a murky green where they lapped against the stone barrier of the park. Further out they slipped to a sullen grey under the sky’s low cloud. Four or five ships drifted on the horizon, the ocean’s traffic bare this afternoon.
A woman stood along the barrier. She wore a fur coat over her dark burgundy suit. A parasol was perched over her shoulder as she gazed out to sea. Otherwise, Battery Park was quite empty. The rain had dwindled to a light spatter that she seemed to ignore.
Morgan limped over to one of the park benches and sat down. His knee always ached with the season’s change, and this tardy spring had summoned the aftertaste of every injury that had ever plagued him.
And I only am escaped alone to tell thee...
The morning’s edition of the Times had reported that the Queen Elizabeth had run aground just outside of Southampton. The photographs of that dour town showed him that little had changed over the years. A later edition proclaimed that the liner had been refloated and was being towed for repairs. The image of the ship, listing among a wreath of tugboats, called out to him. The first time as tragedy, the next as farce.
It struck him as a fittingly trivial echo of this forlorn anniversary.
As always on this day, the recollections paraded behind his weary eyes. His balancing act on collapsible B, under Officer Lightholler’s strained instructions. The soft splash of water as body after exhausted body toppled over the side of the upturned lifeboat. The thin smear of mist over the Titanic’s grave. Dawn had revealed the Carpathia and an unbroken field of ice to the west. A solitary berg towered among the growlers, its hem decorated by a broad scrape of red and black paint. Lipstick on its collar.
The days that followed had relegated the world he’d known to the substance of fantasy and each passing year had only strayed further from his memory.
There had been no erring to Wells’ inventory, however. Over the years, Morgan had discovered new depths in man’s inhumanity. The Great War had bled continents dry. Most recently, he’d learned what a disgruntled Austrian painter could do, given the might of a rebuilt Germany for his brush and the worn palimpsest of Europe for a canvas. He’d discovered what happened when scientists were given unlimited resources and a mandate for victory—at any cost.
Here, all the suffering his own world had known had been compacted into a few short years; a brief, violent foray on the borders of hell. While some might argue that a new hope had been kindled in the wake of these terrors, Morgan recognised it for what it was: the brutish variation on a time-worn theme.
Only one consolation remained to him, but it blazed brightly enough. The stagnant world he’d left behind had blundered into oblivion. This place had seen its darkest hour and survived to view the dawn. That had to count for something.
Wells
’ journal had warned of the cold days that would follow this dark centrepiece of the twentieth century. Not all the criminals would be brought to justice, nor all the victors know true freedom. It spoke of further conflicts and shadows, but it also spoke of expectation. The weapons of horror, tested so thoroughly, would be put aside. The Nazi experiments in social reconstruction, only now coming to light, would determine the yardstick of humanity’s depravity.
Those depths would never be explored on such a scale again. In far-flung colonies, the browbeaten indigenous would flex hidden muscles against their distant masters. At home, the downtrodden would begin to find their own voices and their cries would grow to resound throughout the years.
The changes would be slow and hard-fought, but there were no quick fixes. He’d learned that under the crimson skies of Red Rock, and the lesson had been enforced in freezing water, while the corpses glided by. The future was to be gained moment by moment. A leap from the shoulders of giants, or a stumbled climb from the deepest pits of iniquity, but always forwards.
The past was to be regarded with a steady eye and never a thought for the “what if” or “might have been”.
Untrammelled by the footprints of travellers from the future, this world was no paradise. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the best of all possible worlds. It was the only possible world, and it had been granted a reprieve.
Today he would pay tribute to the friends and adversary who’d paid for that acquittal in the dearest coin.
Morgan approached the barrier. Standing before the water, cold and miserable, he decided this would be the last time. Half of his life had been a cenotaph to his years in Kennedy’s service. It was time to move on.
The drizzle had ceased. The sun broke through the clouds and a dim rainbow stretched out in the distance, arching from ocean into nothingness. The young woman was watching him with unveiled interest. He wondered what fascination he might engender, an old man tossing crumbs into the ocean. She approached with a curious smile at her lips, only to stop a few feet away from him.
Morgan reached into the paper sack and grabbed another handful of crumbs. Gulls swooped low over the water now, crying out in anticipation. She followed his movements, watching the crumbs arc over the water, the birds lunge forwards to snatch them before they struck.
“Excuse me,” the woman said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you.”
Morgan ignored her. This ritual, performed for the last time, would not be profaned by an inquisitive bystander, attractive or otherwise.
She seemed unfazed. She simply waited until he’d emptied the bag before speaking again. “Mr Morgan?”
She had his complete attention now.
“I hate to disturb you, and I realise that this is late notice, but my mother is staying in town tonight. She was hoping you might be able to join us for dinner.”
Morgan stared, dumbfounded.
“My name’s Josephine Kennedy. I’ve heard so much about you.”
II
Morgan emerged from the cab and gazed up at the hotel’s façade with a sigh. Patricia’s choice in accommodation, by default or design, only stirred more memories. The Waldorf remained one of the few places unaltered by the vagaries of time and change. He shuffled across Park Avenue and entered the lobby. She was staying in the Astoria Lounge.
Of course.
A bellboy directed him along the corridor, but after thirty-six years he still recalled the way. Passing the door that had opened into Lightholler’s suite, he trod softly, fearful of disturbing old ghosts.
The door to Patricia’s suite was ajar. Muted voices issued from within. He waited long moments before rapping lightly on the frame. Josephine greeted him. She had changed into a light-coloured satin dress and wore her hair down.
“It’s good that you came. Mother will be so pleased.”
Morgan nodded timidly. She had Kennedy’s eyes.
He felt shabby in his threadbare suit. He removed his fedora and followed her down the corridor into a drawing room. Patricia was seated by a wide table that had been set for four. She turned to look upon Morgan, and welcomed him with a warm smile. Her skin, always pallid, was translucent over the fine bones of her face. She wore a long black dress, but her look wasn’t one of mourning.
“Are those for me?” Her laughter tripped lightly, a gentle frisson to her voice.
He held the bouquet of lilies in the meat of his fists, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other.
She rose from her chair and glided towards him. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s so good to see you, Darren. It’s been too long.”
He found her affection a strange bounty after all these years. He followed her to his seat as in a dream. The opulence of his surroundings, the gentle patter of rain against the oak-framed windows, the company he’d never thought to share again, transported him to some other realm. Josephine took her seat and Morgan looked over at the empty setting. On a night such as this, anyone might walk in to complete their circle.
Patricia placed the flowers in a vase.
Two waiters entered with their meals. The banquet was served and consumed in silence. Their only words had been in answer to Patricia’s toast. Absent friends.
Throughout the feast, Morgan’s stare returned time and again to the vacant seat. His gaze occasionally fell upon Josephine, cataloguing her features. Patricia’s pale colouring and dark hair, Joseph’s eyes. Some amalgam around the fullness of her lips. The rest, a throwback to some distant ancestors.
A waiter, returning to collect their plates, served sherry from a bottle on a polished salver.
“I hope that was to your satisfaction.” Patricia took a delicate sip from her glass. She regarded her company amiably.
He murmured his assent.
She said, “Let’s sit in the lounge where we can be more comfortable,” and led him into a smaller room.
The chairs had been arranged in a circle by a large window fronting Park Avenue. The rain, relentless now, strummed the glass. An occasional flash of lightning basked the view in a distant glow, too far away for thunder. A ginger cat was stretched out on the sill. It paid the inclement weather no regard.
Catching Morgan’s glance, Patricia said, “He keeps me company when Josephine goes off on her little adventures.”
“Adventures?”
“My daughter has spent a considerable time abroad these last few years.”
Josephine withstood Morgan’s appraising stare with a steady gaze. He blinked away, his rheumy eyes flashing sudden unease.
“Are you pressed for time, Darren?” Patricia asked.
“Yes.” He viewed them both now with trepidation.
He spied a framed photograph on the mantle. Joseph and Patricia at Coney Island. It had been taken the day they’d gone there in search of Wells. It was washed out, the white sands leeching the colour out of the late afternoon sky. Skeletal roller-coasters back-boned a prehistoric backdrop. They stood in the foreground, hands clasped. The fine details of their faces lost in the poor translation of light to film.
“No.”
Patricia said, “That’s the only picture I have of us.” She turned to face him. “Is there somewhere else you have to be right now? I appreciate that this is all rather last minute.”
Morgan wondered if she already knew the answer. If she knew how he spent his nights, reading by lamplight or listening to the wireless. Typing manuscripts that would never see the light of day.
“Why am I here, Patricia? Why tonight of all nights?”
“Please, Darren, sit down.”
He surrendered. Josephine remained standing, her hands resting on the back of her mother’s chair.
“We made no provisions,” Patricia began. “We gave no consideration to what might follow. Those long months chasing Wells’ faint trail across America didn’t permit such thoughts. Those nights at sea were too fraught with unpleasant revelations.” She paused for a moment, as if composing he
rself, though her countenance betrayed no emotion.
“Doctor Gershon resumed his medical studies. He has a successful practice out on Long Island. He had no interest in being here tonight.” She shrugged. A slight, delicate movement at her shoulders. “As for the rest of us... we never strayed far from where we touched land. You in the Village. Myself... close by.” She let the sentence die, as if reticent to divulge further details.
“We sought no further journeys. We lived our quiet lives watching the disparities grow between what we knew and what we saw unfold. We were told this was our last chance to right the wrongs of untold cycles. But there were no guidelines, no protocols to follow. Our arguments were garnered from sensations gathered at the foot of an abomination.”
Morgan glanced at Josephine nervously. Her expression was unreadable.
“Our proofs lay in the words of a shaman and a spiritualist. Wondering if we succeeded, we greet each new dawn as a stay of execution, each evening with a touch of apprehension. Am I wrong?”
Morgan shook his head wistfully. He felt bared before her.
“There was no denouement,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d been expecting, what sign I looked for in the clear skies of that last cold night. Before I stepped out into the lifeboat, they had both taken me aside, our quarry and my husband. The former shared with me one final, horrifying notion. The latter, my dear Joseph, entrusted me with one final task. I knew then that was to be our parting.”
Her daughter gave her shoulder a squeeze. Patricia raised a hand and left it on Josephine’s.
The wind rattled the panes. Flashes of lightning seared the night in blazing forks, but still no sound heralded their fire. Morgan longed for his reading room and the low crackle of his fire. Patricia topped up her glass. Josephine brought the decanter around to him.
Patricia continued, “In all of Doctor Wells’ protracted ramblings, one consideration had never been voiced. I suppose he had never paused to give it wonder, but that last night opened all our eyes. So I put it to you now, dear friend. Why was the carapace programmed to arrive in the Nevada desert in 1911?”
Morgan recoiled at the machine’s naming.
The Company of the Dead Page 70
