Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  How could they do that? How could they run around like that? Without fear or hesitation! He apparently needed a strong smoke and a double vodka before he could even brave the idea of the open air. It would take a lot more to get him running around!

  He shuddered.

  Congregations of older people hovered on the upper terrace, or reclined on the sun-loungers well away from the pool below with its noise and its water slides and hordes of yet more spoilt children being shooed from their disinterested parents as they longed to be simply left alone. They were on holiday too, after all!

  He made his way towards a little Tikki-hut bar, cardkey in hand. As he moved past a crowd of Geordie lads he caught a glimpse of a dark-haired girl in the centre of their midst. Seeming to feel his gaze she looked up, locked eyes and smiled.

  Her smile was warm and inviting and — even as she continued her conversation with the excitable boys — her amazingly dark eyes remained on him until, despite himself, she had coaxed from him a genuine smile in return.

  He queued at the bar, still eyeing the latte beauty who he now recognised as the main character from the god-awful opera that he had been unfortunate enough to witness the night before. She was even finer in real life than she had looked on the stage. Curvaceous and confident with the tightest, most delicious-looking arse he had ever seen; barely covered in a tiny pair of cut-off denim shorts.

  A torn white t-shirt with some colourful image on the front hugged her perfect breasts — and he didn’t use the word perfect often, but, fuck, they were perfect — revealing the soft flesh of her mid-riff; her toned, flat stomach and neat, little bejewelled bellybutton, that sparkled with a sapphire stone.

  He wondered whether and — more importantly — where she might have any other piercings.

  Oh, just the sight of her made him ache. And he couldn’t help but contemplate what kind of sounds she would make. Yet, strangely, he had no real desire to cut her or hurt her. To place his hands around her throat and squeeze . . .

  No. He couldn’t understand it.

  Well, maybe a little squeeze of that tender neck after all. But, he liked the way she looked now. He liked this one alive. He didn’t want to change her, which was a new kind of feeling for him.

  But, perhaps a smack or two . . . to get things going. Yeah. Take a nice handful of that lush, dark hair and wind it tightly around. Pull it. She’d be on all fours . . . and that arse . . .

  ‘What can I get you?’

  The voice was rough, but not too gruff. A young man trying to sound older than his true age; clearly insecure about something!

  He stared at the barman.

  ‘D’you wanna drink, or wha’?’

  ‘Pint of lager.’

  The insolent boy questioned him belligerently as to which lager he would like. He pointed his reply and threw his cardkey onto the bar, never taking his eyes off the young actress. His mind already playing out the movie he’d like to make with her.

  His pint arrived along with the returned card and he drank a delightfully cold mouthful down before approaching the brown-sugar beauty and her dispersing crowd.

  ‘They bothering you?’ he asked as the last of the lads drifted away; smitten, gormless and loudly proclaiming his intentions to the rest of the gaggle as he went.

  ‘Were you coming to my rescue?’ she laughed.

  ‘Something like that.’

  She smiled that warm, friendly smile again and he felt suddenly as gormless as the Geordie who’d just left. ‘You were good last night.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve had that pleasure yet.’ she flirted. And again, he couldn’t help but smile, his thoughts returning to those he had been so immersed in only moments before.

  He raised his eyebrow as he spoke, ‘I meant on the stage.’

  ‘Oh,’ she pretended, ‘So you enjoyed it then?’

  ‘Yeah.’ he lied, ‘It was great.’

  Silence.

  ‘So, what did they want?’ he asked.

  Why did he care?

  ‘Stag do. They wondered if I’d dance at a private party tonight.’

  ‘And would you?’ he asked.

  She considered the question for a moment. Considered her answer; her eyes never leaving his. ‘If the price was right.’

  ‘And was it?’

  She smiled. ‘Not yet, but they have the rest of the day to think it over.’

  He raised his glass.

  ‘Good girl.’

  She beamed at him as if they’d shared some great secret. The kind that was plain for all to see, but which no one picked up on. He downed the pint and returned the glass to the bar. Her smile disappeared.

  ‘Thirsty?’

  There was a strange ring to her voice. And that look in her eye.

  Surely she wasn’t one of those teetotal types. He really didn’t see the point in that; you had to live a little. And he liked to live a lot. He wouldn’t apologise for drinking. To anyone.

  No matter how cute an arse they had.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to kill a really bad headache?’ he said, choosing to ignore her previous comment.

  ‘Is that what you’re trying to do?’

  He nodded.

  She made her way over to the bar, her hips swinging naturally, enticing him. Follow me . . . follow me. Come and play. He didn’t. Though he wanted to. Desperately.

  Bit of self control!

  He watched as she spoke to the prick that had served him; stared as she leaned across the bar. That arse again. Mmmm.

  And he could only imagine the eyeful Mr Pre-Pubes was enjoying. And yet, with her, it seemed that imagination alone was enough to stir his nether brain into a waking state.

  He really couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  He felt like such a dick!

  Clearly he’d gone far too long without shagging something . . .

  anything. He’d have to put that right. This was just ridiculous! Captivated — no — absolutely, boyishly smitten with some whore of an actress; some latte-skinned female Lothario.

  But, still, that fucking arse . . .

  ‘Here.’

  She pressed her body against his, slipping her slender fingers inside his trouser pocket. Finding her way. Or so it seemed.

  She kept her hand right where it was.

  Was she . . . surely she wasn’t going to . . . not up here with everyone standing around watching. Not with Grandma Drool less than two metres away, baking in the early-morning sun; that glazed expression on her wrinkled-parchment face. Not with little Johnny Destructive and his friends racing rings around them, dam-busters style!

  Surely not.

  He struggled to swallow as her short, manicured nails scratched at the thin lining of his pocket, grazing his inner thigh in the most seductive manner. His heart was racing; his downstairs brain throbbing and aching just as violently as the one that rattled around his skull.

  She smiled impishly at him. ‘See you later.’

  With those three departing words she made her way down the steps to the lower deck and back indoors, turning at the last moment to throw a tantalising wink and a wave in his direction.

  He closed his mouth.

  Yes, apparently he had been following her movements all slacked-jawed and bewildered. What a nob!

  He thrust his hand deep into his pocket, feeling the corners of something brittle and plastic. He pulled it out.

  A blister strip of Ibuprofen.

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘Fuckin’ tease.’

  10:15

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  Prior’s legs ached. His heart pounded furiously as though it were trying its best to burst through his sweat-drenched chest.

  But he couldn’t give up. Not now. Not when he was so close. He was coming up to the ten kilometre mark on the sleek, GymTech treadmill that whirred and clunked incessantly under his rhythmic footfall. He wiped the sweat from his sopping brow and pushed out another long breath . . . as he sped towards his i
nvisible finish line.

  There you go!

  He smacked the ‘Cool Down’ button, exhausted at the thought of another two minutes on his now nicely jellied legs. But he knew the importance of correct cool-down procedure. And the last thing he needed was an excess of adrenaline sitting in his muscle tissue, aching and cramping up while he tried to do his job.

  Thirty-nine minutes wasn’t bad for a 10K run. It wasn’t as impressive as twenty-eight minutes; his average time only two years ago. But then he was two years older now. He had always known the day would come when he would have to start listening to his body a little more keenly.

  He was nearly forty-three, after all. Yeah, thirty-nine minutes for a 10K run was still quite impressive. Even if it had nearly killed him!

  ‘Hey, Jon-boy!’

  He knew that voice. Cringing inwardly, he slowed the treadmill down to a walking speed for the last thirty seconds and smiled as the squat form of Adrian Kemp made his way towards him.

  The man never ceased to amaze Prior in his ability to look absolutely dishevelled and bedraggled no matter what he wore. You could dress him in an Armani suit with the finest Italian shoes and still he would resemble a shaggy, great ape more than a human being. Or, at the very least, put you in mind of a freshly washed and starched hobbit.

  Prior didn’t like to think of himself as capricious or mean-spirited, but, even in his designer gym-wear Kemp struck him as vivid, modern Tolkienian nightmare.

  It wasn’t just his height — or lack thereof — or his compact stature, or even the chaos of hair that refused to be managed no matter how he tried to style it. It was the wild look in his eye. Prior had seen it before, in others; distant, but untamed. Almost feral.

  Unhinged? Maybe.

  Still, he seemed to be a pretty decent guy. Even if he did insist on calling him Jon-boy. What was that all about? And yet, oddly enough, Adrian Kemp was one of the only people on the Ianus that Jonathan Prior was on first-name terms with.

  Go figure.

  ‘Adrian.’ Prior sighed, stepping off the treadmill.

  Other crew members tended to shy away from him socially; matters were always kept very formal whenever Prior was involved. Perhaps it was the job; the title. But then, maybe he liked it that way. Maybe he created and instilled that unease in his colleagues and co-workers as a first-line of defence. Maybe he didn’t want to get too close to anyone.

  Again.

  So why was it different with Frodo?

  Prior shook his head, mental slapping himself — one — for getting caught up in psychoanalysing his own thoughts and actions and — two — for being so damn mean!

  ‘Another ten this morning?’ Kemp asked.

  He handed Prior a fresh hand towel and waited for him to wipe his face and neck, looking briefly at his watch. ‘You’re a little behind today.’

  No way!

  Adrian Kemp knew his routine. And not only his routine, but also how long he generally took in that routine.

  It was quite simply the creepiest thing Prior had ever experienced and he felt a chill run down his spine.

  ‘Been keeping an eye on me?’ Prior asked, taking a swig from his juice bottle.

  ‘Come on, you’re like clockwork! You get in here for a quarter past eight, do a few warm-ups, then cardiovascular, the muscle groups and finish with a 10K before hitting the pool. And what is it in there? Twenty-four laps?’

  Prior pushed the towel back into Kemp’s hands, forcing a smile though he felt strangely violated. ‘What are you? My number one fan?’

  ‘No, I just . . . I have to do things in a certain way too. Everything has a place and an order and so if something’s out of place or out of time . . . I just notice.’

  Kemp shifted his weight, trying — hopelessly — to fill the silence.

  Prior found himself wondering just where about on the autistic scale this male nurse would actually sit. Come to think about it, where would he sit? Since he too was clearly entrenched in such an obvious and rigid routine and also suffered a compulsion for numbers in sets and laps!

  ‘I was a bit late getting up this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ said Kemp. ‘Not Like you.’

  Prior stifled a cringe. ‘No.’

  There was that silence again.

  This time it was Kemp who broke it. ‘I know what you how feel. I had to cover for Dr Cunningham this morning. Been rushed off my feet . . . which I don’t mind, but, it was just unexpected. I had to alter my routine and — ’

  ‘Why did you have to cover?’ Prior cut in.

  ‘He didn’t show up this morning. Dr Mathews has been going mental, snapping at everyone.’

  ‘The woman’s a nightmare . . . Professionally speaking.’

  Kemp smiled. ‘She reckons he’s back on the booze again.’

  ‘We’re only one day in!’

  ‘I know, but he’s had trouble . . . in the past — ’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘And there’s rumours that him and his Mrs have been — ’

  ‘Rumours Adrian?’ Prior shook his head. Kemp was the Perez Hilton of Golden Star. He couldn’t help it, he just loved to talk.

  To gossip.

  It was like verbal diarrhoea when you got him going. And was apparently incurable.

  ‘I know. I know.’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘But he did polish off a fair amount of wine last night.’

  Prior had to give him that. He had seen it for himself.

  But, if the man had a problem that he couldn’t control he really shouldn’t have been cleared for a return to work. It wasn’t as though they had an abundance of Doctors on board.

  ‘He’s probably just sleeping off the hangover.’ Kemp continued, ‘I’m sure he’ll claw his way into Medical later. Probably just couldn’t stand the fury of the Dragon while he’s got a bad head.’

  ‘She’ll have you for that, if she hears you.’ Still, Prior couldn’t help but laugh as the image of it nestled itself into his visual cortex; a head-sore Dr Cunningham in full Knight-garb attempting to ward-off a three-headed and scaly Dr Matthews.

  ‘Don’t tell her, will you?’ Kemp pleaded playfully, ‘She’ll have me cleaning surfaces for a month! D’you know, sometimes I think about creeping back into the medical bay after everyone’s left and simply dragging a great, big smeary hand-print across the front of all that bloody stainless steel.’

  ‘You’re a truly scary person, do you know that?’

  Kemp smiled. ‘The best part is that she wouldn’t be able to prove it was me. Even with the prints. I mean, it’s not like we have any decent crime scene equipment.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. And it’s not for lack of trying, I can tell you. But, the Powers That Be just don’t seem interested. I told them how much time, money and manpower it could save in the long run. But they just see the initial pay out.’

  ‘It’s bollocks isn’t it.’

  Prior nodded absently, ‘I’m not happy with Cunningham though. He knows procedure. Even if he is hung-over, he needs to log in with security so that we know he’s safe. And he hasn’t done that, or at least he hadn’t when I stopped in at the office earlier.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Kemp said honestly, ‘Have I made more work for your now?’

  ‘Keeps me out of trouble.’

  Prior threw a pleasant, half-smile at Kemp and made his way out of the gym. He wasn’t going to let Cunningham’s incompetence disrupt his routine. Twenty-four lengths of the pool before he showered — again — and began his rounds.

  Twenty-four lengths.

  Just as Kemp had noted.

  Prior suppressed another shiver.

  11:35

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  He followed her. Quietly, cautiously. Always six or seven paces behind her. Now and again he’d let her round the corner, put some distance between them. Just in case. He didn’t want to alarm her.

  Not right now, anyway.

  Up on deck she’d made such a fool of him. Been giving him the come
-on and talking about all kinds of shite.

  And he’d listened! He’d actually listened to her drivelling on . . . he’d even actively engaged with her. Offered advice on the various, pointless, inconsequential problems she’d droned on and on and on about.

  He’d bought her a drink. Well, he’d cardkeyed her a drink. But, still.

  Stacey Atkins.

  Bride-to-be. Degree in Art and Design, just completed a PGCE and gained QTS. Couldn’t wait to start teaching in Surrey after the big white wedding to Michael, who — incidentally — was a mortgage advisor or something and . . . blah, blah, blah. He really didn’t care.

  But, she was having doubts.

  Was it too soon? Was she too young? Was this going to be it . . . for the rest of her life? Apparently his family could be quite intense. There had been so many things she had wanted to do, places she had wanted to visit. Which was one of the reasons why Michael had surprised her — and her friends — with this all-inclusive hen-party cruise.

  What a guy.

  She had pondered aloud on the subject of his family’s wealth. They certainly weren’t strapped for cash. But was that, in fact, the real reason for her accepting his proposal? Was that the reason! Had she been blinded by the money? Just seen the secure future and . . . agreed?

  He didn’t care. Really. Didn’t. Care.

  But, she was good to look at. And the more she moved that big mouth of hers, rolling her tongue around and around, the further his mind wandered towards the idea that he could be putting that particular talent and energy to far better use.

  Her blonde hair had bounced about her shoulders, softly framing her animated face as she had continued to bend his ear. Chewing it off more like. And all over nothing!

  He’d never understood how — or why — people could get so caught up in these strained relationships. These strangled, tortured things that rendered both parties miserable and alienated.

  ‘Why don’t you just leave him?’ he’d asked, cutting her off mid-ramble.