S.O.S.

by Joseph Connolly

  ‘Nice cabin …’ approved Stacy.

  Earl glanced about, as if all this were new to him.

  ‘Yeh. Nice. It’s cool. So, Stace – what do we do?’

  ‘What do you want to do, Earl?’

  And this she said straight, so damn straight – all the ooze and schmooze has quit her, which is kinda freaky.

  ‘Well hell, Stace. I mean – duh! Way you was coming on to me, I didn’t figure we’d wind up playing chequers, you know?’

  ‘OK,’ smiled Stacy (and hey – I think it’s OK again: sure looks foxy to me). ‘Let’s play a different game.’

  ‘Yo! Way to go, Stace! C’mon over here, honey.’

  Stacy was rummaging around in her bag.

  ‘Whatcha looking for babe? Hey, c’mon – we don’t need one of them things …’. And Stacy’s eyes were upon him, as there rose up and around his face a slit-eyed, twisted and wholly lascivious gaping leer. ‘Mean to say, Stace … it ain’t as if you don’t know where I been …?’

  Stacy stood stock-still for barely a second.

  ‘Lie down, Earl. Lie down on the bed.’

  ‘More like it! Hey – what’s that thing, Stace?’

  ‘It’s a blindfold – you like games, don’t you, Earl?’

  ‘I … guess … it’s kinda like in the movie, right?’

  ‘Right. Yes. Well lie down, then. Now tell me if it’s too tight, OK? Is that all right? Comfy? Now Earl – taste this …’

  And from his dark cocoon, Earl was all senses, now. He opened his mouth and received her syrupy finger.

  ‘Now, Earl – while you’re sucking me off, I want to watch you take off all your clothes. Do it, Earl. Do it now. Get the clothes off, Earl.’

  Earl started to unbutton his shirt. Is this hot, or what? Well – tell you truth, I ain’t too sure. All English women like this? I couldda gotten my clothes off a whole bunch easier a while back, you know? Like – when I was standing? So what the hay? I unbutton, I unzip – I can tug hard at these mothers: yeah sure – this I can cut. But wait up: where hell is she now? I got the syrup in my mouth, but the finger I lost.

  ‘It’s OK, Earl. I’m just getting pillows.’

  ‘Pillows, huh? That’s cool. OK, Stace – reckon I’m nekkid. Come get me, honey. Bliss me out.’

  ‘Mm,’ approved Stacy. ‘Magnificent.’

  Her fingers very lightly grazed the softness of his thighs, and then she shuddered at the sight of the hardness in between. Earl just barely whimpered – tautened briefly, and then relaxed into an easy and gloating anticipation. Which means now just has to be the moment to do it.

  Earl felt more syrup slid into his mouth, a little bit more.

  He just had time to half splutter out Hey, Stace – maybe enough with the goddam syrup, huh? But by then Stacy had upended this vast and heavy tin of Golden Syrup right over the centre of him – sweeping it down over his legs and then rapidly back again over his chest and arms, and still there were great and gobbety masses of the stuff to fill up his mouth to glorious gagging point, as well as just obliterating his hair with the final slick of it – and Christ, now: just before the concussion of shock and revulsion is swept out by sheer fury – and it’s happening, yes, it’s happening right now – I must just very swiftly crack the bastard hard across the jaw with my already they feel bruised and aching knuckles and fast, very fast, utterly blanket him with these slit-open pillows and catch my last sweet glimpse of him rasping and choking as the feathers that cling to him and invade are making him retch, and making him roar.

  She ran to the door as the ferociously enraged and puking monster rose up like Swamp Thing and quickly slithered badly in the mess of his own goo as a dizzy cloud of feathers was sent up into his face, wiping out his eyes. Stacy stood poised at the door, just one snarl and a grapple away.

  ‘You hurt my Mum, Earl. And I don’t like it. Not a bloody bit.’

  And then she was out of there and running: yeah, you sod – I just wish you could’ve gone halves with your bloody sister. By the time she reached the lift, Stacy was not just thrilled and laughing but also, she noticed with delight – apart from the fist that had slugged the creep – not even in the slightest bit sticky.

  *

  ‘I’m not saying I won’t, Nicole. I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I merely observed that I think it’s rather stupid having to dress for dinner every night, that’s all. Just think it’s daft.’

  ‘It’s what you do, David. That’s why they call it a dinner suit, you see: you wear it to dinner. Not a very difficult concept, surely. Who’s your new friend?’

  ‘Yes I know but it’s all so self-conscious, isn’t it? Everyone’s prancing about with a sort of ‘look at me: I’m all dressed up for dinner’ bloody fool look all over their faces. It’s just so forced.’

  ‘Well I’m terribly sorry, David. Next time I win a luxury all-expenses-paid cruise I shall try to persuade them to give me one of the lower class cabins and then you can probably roll up to dinner at the self-service place wearing bloody overalls, I shouldn’t wonder. Rather like your new friend, whoever she was. Very casual …’

  ‘Her name is, um – I can’t actually remember her name, now. I thought she looked OK. Oh God, Nicole – you’re not going to – why are you taking off your dress again? You’ve only just this minute put it on …’

  Yes you have, you stupid woman. And if you’re reaching for the goldy one – and you are, you’ve hoiked it down, now – that means that the red shoes are a no-no, doesn’t it, Nicole? Yes it does – I’ve learned that much over the years. And the tights will have to go and probably your bloody underwear too, more than bloody likely. And her name is Jennifer, as it happens, my sweet, and I think she looked bloody wonderful in whatever it was she was wearing. I didn’t actually notice what she was wearing, as a matter of fact, because I wasn’t, I don’t suppose, meant to. She was dressed like a human being, Nicole. And that’s how she sounded, too. She was all right.

  Anyway – that was earlier. We got to dinner, eventually. What have you two been doing, went Marianne: we were just about to order. Yes well – you of all people, Marianne, should know perfectly well what we’ve been doing. I’ve been sitting on my allocated corner of the bed, doing my level best to ignore the insistent drumbeat inside my head (it goes like this: Come on come on come on come on) while your bloody mother continues to faff about with handbags and scarves and bracelets and – oh Christ, this time she’s really excelled herself: gloves. Matching gloves. I know, I know, but what can you do? Maybe later she’s intending to crack a safe or so, who can say? Rather nasty bruise on Rollo’s cheekbone, just there. Wonder how he got it? Let’s just hope his mother doesn’t notice or she’ll be going on about it for the rest of the night.

  ‘Have you noticed the sway?’ said Marianne – to anyone, really.

  ‘I think …’ thought Nicole, ‘I’ll just have smoked salmon to start. Simple. Maybe just a touch of caviar with it.’

  ‘Caesar Salad for me,’ grunted David. ‘Yes I have, Marianne. You have to walk down the corridors like, what is it? Cartoon thing. Popeye, yes. It’s not so bad up here, though. What having, Rollo?’

  ‘Steak, I think. Not specially hungry.’

  ‘Yes, Rollo,’ admonished Nicole, ‘but you still have to eat. What are you starting with? Hm? What about the gnocchi? You like gnocchi, don’t you? Oh my God, Rollo – how did you get that awful bruise on your cheek? Hm? Have you put anything on it?’

  ‘I’ll have the bouillon, Daddy,’ said Marianne. ‘Had it the other night, actually – it’s wonderful. With angel hair pasta. Divine.’

  ‘Answer me, Rollo,’ insisted Nicole – who was still eyeing his face as if expecting it to at any moment explode into a rainbow of streamers.

  ‘Oh it’s nothing, Mum – I just … the wardrobe door. Stupid.’

  ‘And then, maybe …’ reckoned David, ‘mmm – roast veal sounds good. You want to be more careful, Rollo.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ swept in Nicole �
�� just as he might have known she would. ‘And you, of course, David, have never walked into anything, have you? In your whole life. Good God, David – some nights you can’t even walk through an open door. Forever slamming face-first into the wall. God help us.’

  ‘Mum …!’ whispered Marianne. ‘Waiter …’

  ‘Ah yes. Good evening, Peter. Well this evening?’

  ‘Very well, Madam, thank you. Did you all have a good day?’ But there didn’t seem to be a great take-up on that line of questioning, so Peter rattled on glibly, with professional ease. ‘So – what may I get for you all this evening?’

  Nicole was egging on David with her eyes.

  ‘Order, David.’

  ‘Yes. Right. OK, then – my wife will have the smoked salmon – that right? Yes. And with caviar? What say? Yes – a bit. Just a bit of caviar. Right. Yes – with caviar, thank you. Marianne – you’re having the bouillon thing, yes? Yes – and with all the, you know – etcetera. Rollo? Decided? No? Sure? Right – nothing over there …’

  ‘Oh Rollo,’ deplored Nicole. ‘Why? Why not order something?’

  ‘Told you, Mum. Not very hungry.’

  ‘Oh but still you must eat, Rollo. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Am eating, Mum. Having the steak. Told you.’

  ‘Right,’ resumed David (oh Christ – it could go on all bloody night, this bloody palaver). ‘Right, OK – nothing there – and I’ll have the Caesar Salad. OK. Then to follow …’ (Oh sweet Lord – here we go again: the bloody waistband on these bloody trousers – telling you … cutting me in half) ‘ … well look, all just order what you want, yes? Easier, I think. I’ll be having the roast veal, please – all the bits, what is it? Wild mushrooms, risotto – yeh, all that. Nicole?’

  ‘That does sound very nice … oh God: did you feel that one? Heavens, Peter – the ship is really rocking around tonight, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve known it worse,’ laughed Peter. ‘This isn’t too bad.’

  ‘Not too good either …’ came Nicole’s quite hesitant judgment on that. ‘I do hope Pat’s all right. Not too bad, anyway. I tried to persuade her to come to dinner, you know, but she said she wasn’t at all up for it. Poor Pat.’

  ‘Order, Nicole,’ said David, quite swiftly.

  ‘Oh yes – sorry, Peter. Yes – I think I’ll be terribly boring and have what my husband is having: sounds wonderful. What about you, Marianne? And Rollo – are you sure you just want a steak? Yes? Well all right – a steak for my son, then. Fillet – medium, please. And plenty of chips. He can never get enough chips, can you Rollo?’

  ‘Not actually that hungry,’ tried Rollo, quite feebly.

  ‘Oh don’t be so silly. You’re always hungry for chips!’

  ‘Could I have the roast cod, please?’ piped up Marianne. ‘New potatoes – ooh and yes, some of that wonderful pea puree, if you’ve got that.’

  ‘Certainly, Madam,’ said Peter, scribbling in his pad. ‘Pea puree. Absolutely no problem at all. Would you care to see the wine list, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ said David, immediately. ‘Well actually no – needn’t bother. That burgundy I had last time: very good. The wine fellow knows – he’ll tell you. Sauvigny, or something. Couple of bottles of that.’

  ‘Well I won’t be drinking much,’ said Nicole, rather stiffly. ‘A glass will do me. And Marianne only sips – don’t you, Marianne? And some fizzy water, please, Peter.’

  ‘I’ll have a lager,’ said Rollo. ‘Lager, yep.’

  ‘There you see, David: no one’s going to be drinking the wine, are they?’

  David sighed. ‘Right, um – Peter. So that’s one lager, one bottle of sparkling and a couple of bottles of the burgundy. Right? OK – good.’ (Thank Christ that’s over – and bring the wine quickly, will you?)

  ‘You cold, Mum?’ went Rollo.

  At the departure of Peter, Nicole’s face had relaxed – well down from hyperactive and quite a bit mad – but it returned to taut and plastic rather rapidly, now.

  ‘No. Why? What do you mean?’

  ‘I just wondered about the gloves. You can borrow my balaclava, if you like.’

  Which David thought was quite hysterically funny, actually: didn’t show it, though.

  ‘Highly amusing,’ was Nicole’s conclusion to that particular avenue of surmise. ‘I think you ought to put something on that bruise, Rollo. Savlon, or something.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Rollo.

  Yes it is fine, as it happens, because all I ended up with was a bruise. Ribs are aching a bit. Telling you, though – those people hadn’t come in when they did, he was going to kill me, that bloke Sammy, you know. Wasn’t fooling. Christ – he scared me half to death. I still haven’t got over the shock of him just bursting in, like that. Got all his spit on my face, which was pretty disgusting. Don’t quite know what’s going to happen, now. Jilly wouldn’t talk, afterwards. Wouldn’t say a word to me. Just kept shaking her head. Anyway – try and get to her later. Right now I’d better have a go at saying something, I reckon: one more mention of the bruise and I might just tell them exactly how I got it. Which would be something, wouldn’t it?

  ‘How’s your weirdo chum, Marianne? Still a bundle of laughs, is he?’

  ‘Oh shut up, Rollo. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘What ‘chum’?’ Nicole wanted to know. ‘Who, Marianne?’

  ‘The loony,’ laughed out Rollo. ‘The vampire from the black lagoon.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Rollo? Marianne – what is, who is Rollo talking about?’

  ‘Oh …’ supplied Marianne, with deep reluctance. ‘Someone I’ve been – talking to, that’s all. Someone I met.’

  ‘I see,’ said Nicole. ‘Is that this ‘Tom’ you mentioned to me? Well you might have introduced us. But maybe from the way Rollo was describing him … maybe not.’

  ‘Oh he’s not like that at all,’ snapped Marianne. ‘He’s very – nice.’

  Yes – he is. Very nice and very wise and very deep, I think. But the point is where is he? Oh dear God where is he? I’ve just searched everywhere. I asked one of the, I don’t know quite exactly what he was – steward, or something, he could have been. Anyway – in uniform … and he said Oh, not to worry, Miss – it’s a big ship, this – you’ll bump into him sooner or later. Yes but look, I was going, I’ve searched just everywhere and I’ve left dozens of messages in his cabin and I’m really very worried. Hm, he went: hm. Tell you what, Miss – if he still hasn’t shown up by the morning, report it to one of the officers on duty, yes? They’ll probably put out a Tannoy announcement, or something. But I really shouldn’t worry, Miss, if I were you. Sometimes, tell you – there’s a woman works in the Purser’s office, and I don’t clap eyes on her for days on end – I wouldn’t mind but I’m married to her: can be a blessing, sometimes. Yes well, I said: thank you. But I’m not at all sure he was taking me seriously.

  ‘Where’s the bloke with the bloody wine …?’ hissed out David, impatiently.

  ‘Oh just wait, can’t you, David! You and your bloody wine … Does anyone want,’ continued Nicole, perfectly seamlessly, ‘to come to the Casino, tonight? Terribly good fun.’

  ‘How much have you won, Mum?’ asked Rollo, quite cheekily.

  ‘Oh Rollo that’s not really the point, is it? It’s just – fun, yes?’

  ‘How much,’ grunted David, ‘have you lost, then?’

  ‘Oh leave her, Dad,’ put in Marianne. ‘If she’s enjoying herself …’

  ‘Well thank you, Marianne,’ gushed Nicole. ‘At least someone in this family is on my side. So will you come? Yes, Marianne? Say yes.’

  ‘Well …’ doubted Marianne, ‘it’s not really my thing, Mum …’

  No it isn’t. Also – I’ve just got to look for Tom and this time find him …

  ‘What about you, Rollo? No good asking you, is it David? You’ll be getting plastered with Dwight, no doubt.’

  ‘You can lose for both of us,’ smiled
David. And then he got worried. ‘Actually, Nicole – you will go easy, won’t you? I mean look – how much have you lost, actually?’

  ‘Oh you have to go and spoil it, don’t you, David? That’s just you all over, isn’t it? If anything good’s happening, then along comes bloody David to fuck it all up.’ And in the silence, she was contrite. ‘Sorry, Marianne. I’m sorry, Rollo.’

  Hm, thought David: I don’t get a ‘sorry’, you notice. Yes well – I take that not at all spontaneous outburst to be a hastily erected smokescreen – an attempted obliteration of the fact that she has, in truth, dropped a fortune. On my credit card, of course. The one and only, general purpose, free for all, just come and get it, why don’t you, credit card – nominally the sole liability of apparently the only man on this bloody ship who hasn’t actually got any money. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God … I think I could lose my mind …

  ‘Would you,’ asked Peter, ‘care to taste the wine, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said David. ‘Just pour it, will you?’

  *

  So Nicole ended up going to the Casino on her own. She ran into Charlene on the way, but she was in a great rush to be in her cabin and get more packing done – yet again: my God – how much packing can one woman do? (Not too much now, Charlene had assured her: just the stuff I got in the Harrods store? The Wedgwood, the War-Sister and the Spayed, Spood – I can’t never recall how that one goes.) And yes, Nicole had lost again. Rather a lot. Don’t actually want to talk about it, thank you, if that’s quite all right with you (I think it must be rigged). And now I have changed into the crimson taffeta and asked for and received fairly concise directions to the Captain’s quarters, and that is where I am headed. Because there’s something, I think, I just must try; I’m a trier, you see – and I need to win.

  Goodness, though – the ship is really moving about tonight. I mean it always goes a bit from side to side (you expect that) – but now it’s very discernibly going forward and back (up and down) as well. God knows how Pat’s coping down below – God only knows. Poor Pat.