Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  Kelly now knew that Christine was — or had been until recently — a criminal psychologist . . . and, more importantly, she was a published author. Her quiet modesty had pressed her into down-playing this fact until Kelly revealed the seemingly gargantuan task she’d been asked (yeah right, asked) to complete by the university. Armed with such an exchange of information, they had quickly come to an agreement that seemed to satisfy the both of them.

  Christine would help Kelly with her submission so that she didn’t look like a complete nob! And in exchange Kelly would introduce and talk Christine through some of her artistic works; giving her a personal guided tour from her earliest through to her latest pieces.

  ‘Just don’t tell Captain Andrews. I don’t think I could handle the bitch-fit he’d throw if he thought he was missing out!’

  Christine had stifled an explosion of laughter, if only to save Kelly from being covered in Mojito.

  She seemed to have really enjoyed the drink. Good call, Shona.

  Ah, Shona.

  Pulling her phone from the jeans she had stepped out of on her way to the shower, Kelly then searched for the receipt — the golden fucking ticket — that Shona had inscribed with her number and slipped inside her shirt pocket earlier.

  She unlocked the phone, her fingers gliding over the sleek reflective surface, the touch-screen responding eagerly to her commands as she entered a new number for the second time this evening.

  Christine Kane had dictated her number before they had parted ways fifteen or so minutes earlier. She had watched Kelly with interest as she’d added her details and asked her to smile before taking her picture and attaching it to the mobile number, email address and all the rest that she now had stored in what seemed to be her micro-computer.

  ‘I’m so rubbish with phones,’ Christine had confessed, overwhelmed by Kelly’s apparent skill, ‘I must have lost at least four and I know I’ve definitely broken two on top of that . . . maybe three.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without mine.’ Kelly had said, laughing as they had stood in the rotunda; the central hub that would lead them back to their rooms at opposite ends of the impossibly vast cruise ship. ‘It’s like having a personal assistant.’

  Pulling on a fresh pair of jeans, a plain, slim-fit t-shirt and grey-with-pink v-neck cardigan, Kelly hurried to reapply her eyes.

  A master of shading and liner, it all took less than three minutes.

  She flitted around the room, distractedly.

  Give the fringe a quick straighten. Good old GHD! Add a little moulding wax; scruff up the top some.

  Scent . . . hmm, tricky one. She ran her fingers along the tops of the six au de toilette bottles lined up like soldiers on the dresser before her.

  Ralph?

  She brought the bottle to her nose, inhaling. Eyes closed. A scent filled with memories; good times. Yes. Ralph it was.

  Spraying the perfume and replacing it precisely, she slipped her feet into a pair of converse and headed out of the door . . . turning back just before it closed. She ran into the room and grabbed the cardkey.

  I’ll be needing that later.

  Making her way towards the Dionysus Theatre, Kelly checked her watch. Nine fifteen. Not bad, not bad at all. A new personal record even.

  Rounding the corner, Kelly slammed suddenly into a human wall. She proceeded to filter into the dressed-to-the-nines crowd, falling into step as they pressed through a set of heavy wooden doors before spilling into the wonderfully atmospheric auditorium.

  Taking her seat — an aisle stall-seat ten or so rows from the front — Kelly took in the scene around her; the world she found herself suddenly swallowed up inside. It was a living, breathing fairytale nightmare that even the Brothers Grimm would have had trouble contending with. It was fabulous!

  As the lights began to dim and the orchestra — under the firm guidance of an eccentric-looking conductor — proceeded to generate the opening phrases of the score, Kelly felt the monstrous headache beginning to claw its way back from behind her eyes, her stomach instantly somersaulting.

  No!

  She’d hoped a nice shower would sort her out. Apparently not.

  Struggling to follow the action as she battled against the pain in her head and the urge to regurgitate her expensive, Captains-table meal, she focused on Shona. And somehow, watching her own the stage so completely seemed to make it . . . bearable. No, more than that, it made it worth the pain; like travelling through purgatory to gaze upon a saint. Or something shit like that.

  Though, she hoped Shona wasn’t too much of a saint. Sinners were so much more fun.

  Her head continued to spin, throbbing as the male lead pushed Lucrece to the damp forest floor. The timpani exploded into life; the rumbling of kettle drums and percussion; guitars wailing as the Chorus took up an eerie, cursing chant, closing in on Tarquinius even as he forced himself on Shona.

  No, not Shona. Lucrece.

  Kelly struggled to stand. Everything was blurred; merged into one. All that surrounded her was real — she knew it — and yet all was strangely distant. Eyes. Eyes everywhere, watching her.

  Stumbling — not too quietly — out of the nearest door, feeling the cold, harsh glaring looks lapping against her as she went, Kelly raced up the three flights of stairs that took her to the open deck. Finding the nearest bin — and not a moment too soon — she launched herself over it, throwing-up . . . again and again; the red heat of shame creeping across her chest and up to her cheeks.

  She couldn’t stand to meet the eyes of those around her. Staring at her.

  Head down, she fled back to her room.

  Disgusted with herself.

  22:19

  Friday 13th May, 2011

  He watched the strange young woman stumble from the seat in front of him. Grinning as she struggled to escape the stifling theatre, drawing tuts and knife-edged glances from the snobs that pressed against them.

  She didn’t look well at all.

  Shit! If that’s what opera did to you, why was it so popular? And so bloody expensive!

  He’d watched her rubbing her temples and pressing her thumbs into her eyes for the better part of half an hour and felt a dull pain beginning to claw its way up from the base of his own skull, squeezing the back of his neck. Was that . . . what did they call it . . . psychosomatic?

  Maybe it was just this bollocks. Getting to him. Grating on his nerves.

  Vince had told him to ‘lie low’, to do things he wouldn’t ordinarily do, go places he’d normally avoid like the plague. So here he was.

  For fuck’s sake!

  They were off again. Warbling and prancing about, making a big song and dance — literally — over some tart getting exactly what she deserved, flooding the performance with morality lectures; diluting his idea of a perfectly good night out with notions of right and wrong; of comeuppance, judgement and punishment.

  Nah. Bollocks to this.

  He couldn’t take another minute; the pain in his head was now expanding at a rate of knots, peaking his already-elevated irritability scale to its absolute zenith. He didn’t want to end up feeling as rough as that dark-haired dyke had looked as she’d staggered out just now.

  Painkillers and stiff drink. That’s what he needed.

  He could hear his mother’s pointless voice somewhere in the back of his mind telling him that a bit of fresh air would do him the world of good. Not bloody likely! Not on this thing.

  Stupid woman.

  Now, Vince, he was a good man. Well, no, Vince was actually a very, very bad man, but he was good at his job; a good mate and — above all — an excellent right-hand. He trusted him in everything; with his very life even. But, arranging for him to hide out on a bloody cruise ship?

  Maybe he wasn’t such a great mate after all!

  Vince was older than him. Old enough to be his brother . . . Though he wasn’t. Still, they could have been family and for as much as Vince followed his orders to the letter, there were also ti
mes that he knew Vince had kept him in check. Reined him in . . . for his own good.

  But, Vince knew he hated water. That he was fucking petrified of the sea.

  Not his fault; he couldn’t bloody swim!

  He’d watched small animals drowning in a lake near his house when he was younger, seen their bodies bloat as they floated on the surface for days and weeks after. He’d watched other kids struggling in chlorinated pools with those awful plastic arm-bands that pinched at the tender flesh.

  Instinctively he rubbed his arms.

  He had woken up a little earlier in a fabulous suite with a great, big fucking window and a view of the ocean! They’d clearly had to knock him out to smuggle him onboard. Nice one, Vince!

  Still, the police were also aware of his mortal fear of water and so would be unlikely to search for him in such a hellish place.

  He could probably come and go unnoticed and undiscovered for the rest of his life were he to invest in a boat of his own. The thought instantly tied his stomach in knots and set his teeth on edge.

  Besides, he’d never really been one for a quiet life.

  His head thumped over and over. He couldn’t take this any longer, no chance of holding out for the interval. Pushing out of his seat, he strode quickly towards the double doors. Climbing a flight of stairs and stepping into the nearest Ianus mini-market he could find, he made his way directly to the till, his eyes scanning eagerly over the behind-the-counter products.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the young, Polish girl opposite him.

  ‘Don’t you have anything stronger than paracetamol?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ she said, leaning over the counter and lowering her voice as she spoke in her delightfully clipped accent, ‘The company was have trouble with people, you know . . . overdose.’ she paused, ensuring he’d understood her, ‘If you want stronger now you must get from pharmacy. You must see doctor.’

  Typical! Fucking toffs and bastard celebrities! Why couldn’t they just do that shit at home? Why spoil it for everyone else!

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll take a pouch of whatever mellow tobacco you have and a packet of papers.’ He was pretty sure Vince wouldn’t have sent him on a trip without any of his favourite recreational drugs. He’d roll a nice fat joint when got back to his room . . .

  ‘You know there’s no smoking in room.’ the Polish cashier piped up as if reading his mind, ‘only open deck. They have sensors.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ he said, ‘this is worse than prison!’ Producing a note from his pocket he slapped it on the counter, stealing up the papers and tobacco. ‘Keep the change.’

  He started back towards his room, checking his pocket for the card key. Still there. Good. He’d simply have to face his fear; open the balcony door — the glass, fucking door — just a crack and blow out the smoke. Like a kid sat on his bedroom windowsill, trying not to be caught by his parents. Fucking hell!

  His stomach churned at the thought, the pain in his head pounding harder than before.

  Shit. He should have bought the paracetamol after all. For all the fucking good it’d do.

  Then again, maybe he should go speak to the ship’s doctor. Might even be able to whizz some sleeping pills from him.

  He had a love for trying new pills. It was somewhat of a hobby. The best he’d ever had was a blue one with a yellow dot in the centre that wasn’t exactly an E.

  It was better!

  He’d felt like Katrina and the Fucking Waves for three days! And talk about hard-on, he’d shagged eight or nine girls, and possibly two boys — he couldn’t quite remember — before he’d collapsed of exhaustion, sleeping off the twelve-hour come-down. Then he had thrown himself into the shower and taken matters into his own hands as he recounted the explicit memories; the faces, positions, mouths, eyes, terror, delight, flesh, blood. Bodies.

  Vince had cleaned up after him. He always did.

  Good ole reliable Vince.

  Without really thinking about where he was going he found himself stood before the open-planned waiting area of the Medical bay.

  The place looked deserted. No receptionist, no nurse . . . no other people. He was about to leave the sterile half-room that smelt of disinfectant and French vanilla, when the greyest, most miserable-looking man he’d ever seen emerged from the room opposite.

  Looking like a mortuary assistant in a lab-coat, the man struggled to focus on him.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, trying — with little success — to cover the slur in his voice.

  ‘I was looking for a doctor.’

  ‘I’m a doctor.’ He announced the fact as though in expectation of a medal or — at the very least — a round of applause. ‘What do you want?’

  Wow. Nice bedside manner!

  ‘I’ve . . . I’m suffering with these . . . like headaches and sickness . . . I was told you could prescribe something stronger than — ’

  ‘You shouldn’t be bothering me with this. There are plenty of nurses stations on this ship . . . they can deal with you.’

  ‘Can they prescribe?’

  The doctor squinted in defiance. ‘Some of them.’ He turned his back on him, heading towards the room he’d just come from.

  ‘I tell you what, how about you give me some painkillers and some sleeping pills,’ he said, advancing suddenly on the grey man, ‘and I won’t report you for being drunk on duty.’

  ‘You can’t threaten me. There’s CCTV here . . . and you — ’

  ‘Come on, don’t try and kid a kidder. You and I both know you’ve turned those cameras off.’ He smiled carnivorously as the doctor hung his head in defeat.

  They stepped inside the room which could have been any standard office in any GP surgery across the country; a desk, a large comfy chair, a computer screen, a second chair — not nearly as comfy-looking as the other. On the desk there stood an all-but-empty bottle of red wine. A large single wine-glass next to it.

  ‘Drinking alone?’

  The doctor shot him a look, taking a large bunch of keys from his top drawer.

  ‘Surfing the web?’ he pressed, nodding towards the doctor’s crotch as he fumbled with the keys to open a second door. The grey man ignored him as he laughed to himself.

  Following Dr Drunkard, he stayed close to the wall, waiting as the lights blinked slowly into life. This room was much larger than the previous, pokey little office. It was much more open and even more sterile.

  The room was littered with stainless steel everything . . . three benches stood in the centre, two desks lined up against the far wall, another computer and another. There was a vast free-standing medicine cabinet, fridges, lab equipment, instrument trolleys and gurneys; masks and paper suits.

  ‘Wow.’ he said genuinely, turning to his left as his took in the room. There he spied eight, small, stainless steel hatches that glimmered and gleamed; four across, two deep. The scents of bleach and polish filled his nostrils.

  He’d always liked the smell of bleach. Bleach could kill anything. Even AIDS . . . apparently.

  He stepped forward, drawn to the metallic fronts. ‘Are they . . .’

  ‘Don’t touch them!’ snapped the drunken doctor, ‘Don’t touch anything. I cleaned everything down earlier. This is meant to be a sterile room.’

  ‘They’re for bodies aren’t they?’

  A simple nod.

  ‘Dr Matthews can’t stand fingerprints on anything, obsessional woman!’ he slurred, holding up a spray bottle, ‘Had to bleach everything. On my own.’ he returned the bottle to a cupboard spilling with bleach-based cleaning products.

  ‘Sounds like demeaning work for a Doctor. You must be in her bad books.’ He grinned impishly, moving closer, ‘Does she know about your . . .’ he inhaled, making an obvious retort at the overwhelming smell of alcohol, ‘. . . habit?’

  ‘Get out!’ the grey doctor hissed suddenly. He slammed the painkillers onto the work-top next to a bowl filled with instruments soaking in sterilising fluid.

 
‘What about the sleeping pills?’

  The doctor cocked his head, staring with a renewed intensity through his intoxicated haze.

  ‘Don’t I . . .’

  ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’

  Why? Why did he have to do that? Why even say it?

  Maybe there was still time to defuse the situation, to convince the inebriated medic that he had been mistaken.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ he said, reaching for the painkillers. He felt his hand beaten back, swotted like a fly, as the doctor pulled them from him. ‘Don’t do this.’ he warned.

  ‘No, I do know you . . . I know your face . . .’ He was clearly intent on doing this. Shit. ‘You’re that — ’

  With surprising speed he plucked a scalpel from the bowl, planting it soundly — and somewhat satisfyingly — in the doctor’s drunken head.

  Watching the doc’ slump to the floor, limbs twitching and sprawling as a bubble of dark and sticky blood crept over the bridge of his nose drew a wry smile from his assailant. His heart fluttered; his breaths light and shallow. It had been so long since he had taken a life with his own hand.

  ‘I did try and warn you.’

  Still, he couldn’t have been in a better place to deal with this unexpected little distraction. And, in all fairness, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed sticking the blade square in the plastered physician’s stupid, dreary face. And at least it was nice and clean!

  The other doctor — Matthews — should appreciate that particular facet when she found him . . . eventually.

  He hauled the body over to the freezer units, feeling a heat of excitement in his stomach. And his trousers. Opening the hatch and sliding out the tray, he tucked the doctor in for the long sleep before returning the tray and shutting the door.

  Now to clean up. Good job they were well stocked.

  He hummed a merry tune as he set about his task.

  Killing . . . death, blood, murder . . . slaughter. His head swam with a world of possibilities.

  It was at this point that Vince usually stepped in, taking over; calming him down. Talking sense and reason.

  Think logically . . . don’t let it get the better of you.