by Alan Veale
She paused, clicking a mouse button in her hand and bringing an image of a naval warship with a badly damaged prow onto the screen. Billie nudged his companion in the ribs and whispered ‘Looks like one of yours.’
‘Ssshhh!’ Ed glanced at Billie and frowned. ‘Trust you.’
‘This is HMS Hawke after the collision,’ continued Emma. ‘An Edgar class cruiser built in 1891 at Chatham. We’re looking at what we civilians might call the sharp end.’
Like most of those around him, Billie found himself appreciating the lighthearted style of presentation, even more so when he glanced at his companion’s less enthusiastic expression. But then Emma ramped up their interest with a dramatic switch of tone. She clicked the mouse again to show a close-up of a gaping hole in the side of Olympic.
‘A year later, history tells us an iceberg in the mid-Atlantic caused the loss of fifteen hundred people. I would argue instead that it was the British Government.’
Eight
‘So, you’re already working on book number two?’
‘Yep.’ Emma gave a nod in the direction of a half-empty box of books before putting her laptop away in her bag. ‘Would you mind?’
‘Here, I can manage both. My friend’s more of a lightweight!’ Ed displayed some gallantry, picking up the box in addition to a full one as the last of the audience departed.
Billie threw him a warning glance and went to hold the door open. He was clutching his own copy of The Tragic Sister as the three of them made their way to the main exit. ‘More of the same, or will it be something new?’
‘Hmmm. How should I answer that, Billie? What would you class as “the same”? A girl doesn’t want to be boring!’
‘Sorry!’ Billie felt a rush of blood to his cheeks. ‘I just wondered whether you’d stick to historical research, which is something I have an interest in myself. Or if you had something else in mind?’
‘Ah! All is forgiven. Okay, as I’m talking to a professional, I’ll give you the honest version.’ She stopped at the foot of the stairs.
‘Go on,’ said Billie.
‘It is, as you said, more of the same. But with new material. Look, would you guys be up for a drink?’ She looked round at the nearby café bar.
‘Sure thing,’ said Ed.
‘Sorry, the bar’s closing now, but…’ Billie exchanged a look with Ed. ‘Maybe we could go somewhere local?’
Emma smiled. ‘Great! I’ll just need to drop these things off at my hotel, but if you can recommend somewhere? Is it easy enough to get a taxi from here?’
‘Dead easy. You’re looking at one!’
She turned to look at Ed. He laughed.
‘No, I’m not a taxi driver, but my car’s outside. As my short-arsed friend here has yet to pass his test, I was going to give him a lift home. And we’d probably have stopped for a drink on the way. Where are you staying?’
‘The Hilton, across the motorway.’
Billie froze. Ed took a deep breath and looked away. For a moment it seemed Emma had lost her popularity, the men turning to each other with expressions somewhere between distaste and denial.
‘It’s only five minutes away,’ she said. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No! No problem.’ Billie considered the situation. He and Ed hadn’t set foot in the Hilton since someone close to them both had nearly died there six years before. How to explain that to a complete stranger? ‘It’s just—’
‘Something we need to sort out ourselves,’ added Ed. ‘Hey, I’ve a suggestion. Why don’t we all go there?’ He flashed Billie a meaningful look. ‘For a drink. It’s been a while now. I’m sure the place will have changed. What do you think, Billie? Give it a shot?’
*
While Emma took her unsold books up to her room, Billie and Ed waited for her in the hotel atrium, taking in their surroundings like a pair of curious meerkats.
Ed exhaled long and slow. ‘Looks different.’
‘More than a fresh coat of paint. That wasn’t like that, was it?’ Billie pointed to the open bar area on his right, now with dark wood panelling, red leather furniture and brass fittings.
‘No. You’re right, Billie-boy. They opened it up. Looks kind of cosy, don’t you think?’
They ambled over and found a quiet half-moon booth with a menu on the table welcoming them to the Connich Bar. Billie picked it up and noted the prices.
‘I’m glad Emma’s buying. Looks like we’d be paying for the refurbishment in one round!’
‘Hmmm. What do you think of her? Is she what you’d call “a nice wee gel”?’
‘Hey! Enough of the fake Scots. We’re both foreigners in these parts. You feeling better about this?’
Ed nodded. ‘It was the right choice. I needed to lay that particular ghost. No pun intended! But yeah, it all seems like a distant nightmare now. I just hope she’s not in suite 203.’ He paused. ‘What about you? You didn’t answer my question.’
Billie replaced the menu and sat back. ‘Yes. Seems nice. I think her bio said she was from Liverpool. No mention of any family though.’
‘No wedding band either.’ Ed caught Billie’s eye and winked.
A tall figure carrying a tray loomed. ‘Yes, gentlemen? What can I get you?’
‘Er… McAllister Reserve with a splash of water for me, and a strawberry daiquiri.’
‘Pint of Stella, please.’
‘Certainly. You are guests in the hotel?’
‘Guests, yes. But of this young lady over there.’ Ed had spotted Emma coming towards them from the lobby. She waved as she drew near, and the waiter nodded before returning to the bar.
Emma slid into the booth next to Billie. ‘Okay, guys. It’s been a great night so far. Long may it continue. Have you got me sussed yet?’
Billie looked from one to the other, taking in Ed’s puzzled expression before snorting with suppressed laughter. ‘Yes, definitely a northern lass!’
Emma seemed pleased with the reaction. ‘Sorry, Ed. I’ll leave that one for Billie to explain, as I reckon he hails from a similar neck of the woods? Manchester?’
Billie grinned and nodded, suitably impressed.
‘Thought so,' she said. ‘I’m from a place near Liverpool, so best not to talk football. Where’s home for you, Ed?’
He smiled, realising how deftly their female companion had assumed the role of host. ‘New Jersey, but I live over here most of the time. I’m a marine engineer, by the way.’
‘Really? So do you know a lot about ships like the Titanic and Olympic?’
‘Well, not from that era particularly. But they are historically significant in relation to what I do. I enjoyed your talk very much. Learned a lot!’
‘Good. I’m glad.’
‘How many have you done?’ said Billie. ‘You seem very comfortable speaking in public.’
‘Do I? Probably the actress in me. It helps to know your subject. And to have a passion for it, which I have.’ She broke off as their drinks arrived, and she signed the waiter’s pad.
‘Is there a personal connection? With the Titanic?’
Emma hesitated. ‘Sort of. A member of my family worked for the White Star Line.’
‘Ah! That makes sense,’ said Ed. ‘Your Liverpool background. Their offices were built there, and I believe they’ve recently been turned into a Titanic-themed hotel: 30 James Street?’
‘That’s the one. Magnificent building. Have you been there?’
‘Not yet. But I will now.’
‘Sorry, Billie, I didn’t answer your question. This was talk number two. The first one was in Liverpool, at 30 James Street. That was last week, and in a couple of weeks I’m going to be at your home address in Manchester: Central Library.’
‘No kidding? That was where I first started as a librarian!’
‘O-M-G! Small world, eh? Hey guys, here’s to us.’
Three glasses raised in recognition. Three individuals sharing joie de vivre. Then one went a step further.
‘Okay,
here’s what I’m thinking: I’m having a great time with my new friends in Glasgow. I’m probably going to get a little pissed, so before I do, I want to make a serious proposition. Does that sound fair?’
Ever the businessman, Ed spoke first. ‘Depends on the proposition.’
‘Not on getting me pissed, then?’ She raised her eyebrows, checking for reactions before continuing. ‘So, I’m about to start work on a very special project. It does involve the Titanic, and if I could count on the resources of a really, really good researcher, as well as someone with specialist knowledge of marine engineering, then I reckon my next book’s going to be a bestseller!’
*
A second round of drinks did not impact on Ed’s driving, but probably boosted his enthusiasm in the traffic approaching Glasgow's East End.
‘She’s working with Eric Vinke! I can’t believe it. I’m sure I’ve got a couple of his books back home. He’s got a new one out on JFK, you know, but I don’t think it’s as good as Will of the Gods. We’re going to be working with Vinke on his next project! Who’d have thought it?’
Billie interrupted. ‘Yes, but we’ll be working with Emma, not Vinke. That’s what she said. Each of them is presenting opposing arguments on what caused the sinking. And we’re on her team.’
‘Whatever. It’s going to be a first for me, and it should be fun. She’s got an attitude about her, hasn’t she? Did you pick up on what she said about rattling cages in Whitehall? The new information that’s surfaced? I hadn’t realised the Brit investigation had been such a whitewash. And if it’s true she’s found new evidence of what went on at the time…’
Billie tuned out of Ed’s excited voice and lost himself in his own thoughts. Pleased at the prospect of research on such a notorious historical event, he still couldn’t help thinking about more recent history: of how Emma had sat slightly closer to him than she needed to; of fresh perfume and painted lips; of a smile that held so much promise. He was experiencing a thrill of excitement that was unsettlingly familiar. What had he started?
*
Emma stared at her reflection for a moment before using a moist wipe to remove her make-up. It had gone well. She had enjoyed the whole evening, especially recruiting the boys onto her team. That had been an unexpected ace.
She dropped the wipe onto the side of the marble basin and picked up a fresh one, starting under her eyes and working across the rest of her face. Teamwork makes the dream work. Ah yes! The dream. To resolve the nightmare.
There had been just one awkward moment, when Billie had asked if there was a personal connection, but the lie about White Star had come easily enough. Distorting the truth had become a habit in the past. But now there was so much at stake, and she didn’t want any more lives lost.
She gathered up the used wipes and threw them in the pedal bin. The action held her there, bringing back painful images of her brother, and the gift that had not been a gift, stood by the bins of their home in Portadown.
Nine
D-Day: Decision Day. He tried saying it out loud, but it came out more like ‘bidet’ and the thought prompted an involuntary chuckle. But then he couldn’t stop himself, leaning forward in his electric wheelchair, snatching gasps of air and mentally willing himself to slow his breathing and regain control. He didn’t want Helen to witness this. Hiding the incident from his wife was strong enough motivation, and less than a minute passed before his breathing returned to normal. Good. He tried saying that out loud too.
‘Gut.’
But that was okay, because it was a match in German, his mother’s language. He felt his body begin to relax in the sunshine streaming through the huge window on his left, and contented himself with the view over his adopted homeland.
Eric Vinke was in his office on the first floor of the new extension. His own design of seasoned oak, steel and glass, it was a sharp contrast to the red-brick Victorian villa to which it was attached. But that was the point. He relished the contrast of old materials against the new. The grey steel-framed window in front of him on the north-west side of the house was a means of inspiration: it had been deliberately positioned to highlight the magnificent cone-shaped hill of Parlick, standing guard over his beloved Ribble Valley. Vinke had grown up in the flat expanse of the Netherlands but lived and worked for many years in Manchester, where he met Helen. He had come to love this part of Lancashire. The rolling countryside with its sheltered aspect had affected him spiritually, and it had been no hardship to put city life behind him. Once he had an apartment block of students for neighbours, now it was a field of sheep. Much better. Gut.
He stared at Parlick for a long time, admiring her bleak smooth features, almost devoid of trees. Then he tweaked the joystick of his chair and faced his computer monitor. Old and new side by side. The screen told him updates were 72% complete. Next to it sat a telephone handset, a green LED light blinking on its base like a heartbeat monitor. Helen must still be talking. Who would finish first? His wife or Microsoft?
Vinke sighed with helpless frustration. As time passed, he was becoming increasingly reliant on others, while learning that his own body was almost a stranger to him. He was impatient to return to his writing, phrases in his head desperate to find substance elsewhere. Why was even his human brain so much more efficient than a man-made box? Another paradox?
73%.
A cushioned pad supported his neck and skull, and while he could still take the weight himself for fairly long periods, movement to right or left was growing more laboured, so he had become more adept in steering his chair and letting his eyes do the work. Now he looked upwards to the contents of a bookshelf. All of it was nonfiction, several volumes bearing his name, but one had more prominence: The Will of the Gods. It was not his first, but it was his best. Tens of millions of curious readers had proved that, even if many more had treated it with scepticism. What did they know? He had so many more hypotheses to share about man’s origins and his future, plus a few conspiracy theories. If Windows would only let him get on with it.
75%.
Vinke had once published his views on Apple’s business practices, making it politically undesirable for him to be seen using any of their devices. For that reason alone, unlike many of his peers, he had resorted to alternatives that earned his wrath on occasion (like today).
A need for nature’s soothing influence drew him back to the window. It was mid-afternoon and barely a cloud interrupted the azure sky as his gaze wandered westward towards the slight rise of pine-topped Beacon Fell.
Old and new. Blue. Words were playing chase me in his head. Did it help? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
It was the length of the phone conversation that intrigued him. A short call would have meant a clear-cut decision. Probably, “No, tell the old bugger it’s out of the question”, or something similar. He could deal with that. Reluctantly. But as time ticked on he knew Helen must be discussing all the pros and cons with his agent. A joint project at his time of life held a lot of appeal for him, especially with someone much younger, and with her own personal take on an enduring mystery. I’m not sunk yet!
Vinke squinted at the reflected sunlight glancing off the roof of a car on the Chipping road. Back to check his other Windows: 92%. That was more like it.
He braced himself as he heard his wife’s steady footsteps on the stairs behind him. What was the final decision?
‘Ah, there you are.’ Helen Vinke trotted out the customary platitude and perched on the edge of a seat positioned to appreciate both valley and sunset. At seventy-five she was a couple of years older than her husband, and her once vivid blue eyes appeared pale and moist above broad cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose. To him she was still a beauty, and the sight of her sitting close prompted a smile that came late in reaching his lips.
‘Dara?’
‘Yes, it was Tara. She sends her love.’ Helen paused. ‘She might be free to come up one day next week, but you know what to expect.’
He knew. His literary agent o
f thirteen years had an almost pathological dislike of the countryside and had yet to call on him at home. A promise to visit had never been fulfilled since his relocation, nor was it likelier to happen now. Because of his ‘condition’.
‘Emma’s doing well! Tara is delighted with initial sales of The Tragic Sister, and she’s lining up a series of talks over the next few weeks. That’s for Emma not Tara, of course. Do you need anything?’
His eyes rolled and his head tossed back an inch in a manner she felt was almost Eastern European, but she knew the gist: No, get on with it.
‘Sorry. Tara said she’s happy for you to work with Emma on the principles we already discussed. She says she likes the idea of you mentoring at the same time as actively contributing, and she feels your established name will count enormously at the marketing stage.’
‘But?’
‘But she does want to arrange a meeting between the three of you because she is still concerned about the legal implications. Political implications.’
‘Trap!’ He spat out the word and instantly regretted it.
‘What darling? Did you mean trap? Or...?’
‘Ker. Ker!’
‘Oh, you were being rude. Ladies present, darling.’ She admonished him. ‘And you will need to be on your best behaviour when you meet Emma again. I think Tara will arrange somewhere for us in central Manchester towards the end of August, so that’s good isn’t it?’
His eyes swivelled in the direction of his monitor, and she turned in her seat to check.
‘Oh, it’s working! Are you going to try it out? Here, let me hand it to you.’
She picked up a small black plastic object from her husband’s desk and placed it on the shelf attached to Vinke’s chair below his right hand. Steering with his left he positioned the chair so he could view the screen at a comfortable distance. A blank page from his word processor had already loaded and Helen watched as Vinke’s fingers tapped over an arrangement of nine buttons on the device. Immediately a crowd of letters danced onto the screen and provoked a snort of satisfaction from the occupant of the wheelchair.
