Titanic 2020: Cannibal City

by Colin Bateman

  He moved towards her. ‘Who is, Claire?’ He put his hand on her shoulders and bent slightly so that she was looking straight into his face. She collapsed against him and burst into tears. Words came out in a torrent, but they were incoherent, jumbled half-sentences. ‘Claire! Claire, shhhhh . . . just slow down – I can’t . . .’

  He led her across the cabin and eased her on to the side of his bed. ‘It’s OK,’ he said gently, ‘you’re safe now.’

  ‘But . . . he’s . . . out . . .’ She squeezed her words out between snorts and wheezes and cries. ‘What . . . if . . . he . . .’

  ‘Shhhhhh. Breathe. Deeper. That’s it . . .’

  Slowly, slowly, she regained control of herself. He got her a Coke from the mini bar. ‘I’m sorry . . . sorry . . . it’s just . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She told him. She tried to remember Scoop’s journalistic training. She kept it as simple and succinct as she could. When she was finished she apologised again for getting into such a state.

  ‘It’s fine.’ He stood up. He rubbed at his jaw. ‘I know who you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘He came on board at Cooper’s Creek, the last stop. In fact, I interviewed him. His name’s . . . his name’s Calvin something . . . Cleaver, I think. Some kind of Presbyterian minister. Said he got stuck at a church convention in New Orleans when the plague broke out, been trying to make his way back to his congregation in New York ever since.’

  ‘He’s a murderer.’

  ‘Claire – are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘Because that type of minister, they all wear those outfits, the big hats, you could easily have mistaken him for someone—’

  ‘It’s him. He’s not a minister, he couldn’t be.’

  ‘And according to what you’ve told me, you only ever saw him at a distance.’

  ‘It’s him! You have to arrest him!’

  Jeffers shook his head. ‘No, Claire. At least, not yet. I’m going to have a little chat with him.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Claire, you’re perfectly safe. He didn’t approach you up top because he didn’t recognise you. If it was him in the woods then the chances are he didn’t get a proper look at you. And besides he would have no reason to suspect either that you’re alive, or alive and onboard this ship.’

  Claire shook her head incredulously. ‘But he could find out! He could talk to someone! He’ll come looking for me! You need to lock him up, you need to . . . you need . . . !’

  There was no convincing him. And, deep down, Claire knew he was right. There were ways to do things. She would be perfectly safe. Or reasonably so.

  Now that she had a job with the Times and felt pretty grown up, Claire had stopped living in her parents’ suite – with their approval, because she drove them to distraction. So they were quite surprised when she arrived back at their cabins in the company of First Officer Jeffers and informed them that she was going to spend the night.

  Mr Stanford, who was wearing a scarlet dressing gown and smoking a cigar, immediately jumped to the usual conclusion. ‘What has she done now, Mr Jeffers?’

  Claire sat quietly while the first officer explained. Mrs Stanford, listening from the bedroom, emerged towards the end and gently put a comforting arm around her daughter. Claire would normally have shrugged it off – but this time she allowed it to stay in place. It was actually quite comforting.

  ‘Why don’t I make you a nice cup of hot chocolate?’ her mother asked.

  Claire managed a smile. ‘Mother, you’ve never made hot chocolate in your life.’

  ‘Well, I can order one from room service. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’

  Her father stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray and turned back to Jeffers. ‘You’ve done the right thing, Mr Jeffers. But if there’s the slightest proof that this might be the man who shot my daughter, then by God we’ll put him overboard, won’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Absolutely.’

  Claire lay in her room, but insisted that the door was left open. Hot chocolate was duly brought and consumed. She tried to sleep, but couldn’t. When, after an hour, she heard Jeffers’ voice at the main door she sprang from her bed and hurried into the lounge. He was just removing his cap and accepting a tumbler of whisky from her father.

  ‘Well?’ Claire immediately demanded. ‘Is he behind bars?’

  Jeffers took a sip of his drink before answering. ‘No, Claire, he’s not.’

  She exploded. ‘You believe HIM before you believe ME?’

  Jeffers raised his hands. ‘Listen to me, Claire. Please.’ Claire took a deep breath. ‘OK. So, I found him in the restaurant. Reverend Cleaver. He seems like a perfectly nice man—’

  ‘He’s—’

  ‘Quiet, Claire!’ Her father waved an admonishing finger. ‘Let Mr Jeffers speak.’

  Claire bit down on her lip. Her cheeks were burning.

  Jeffers nodded at Mr Stanford before continuing. ‘As I was saying, he seems very nice and quiet. But he was truly shocked by what I told him. And he sends his apologies for shooting you.’

  ‘Good God!’ This time it was Mr Stanford who exploded. ‘He actually admitted—’

  ‘Shhhh, dear.’ Mrs Stanford put a calming hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Let Mr Jeffers speak.’

  The first officer nodded gratefully. ‘He didn’t deny it at all,’ he continued. ‘He told me he was passing through the woods east of Tucker’s Hole when he stumbled across a young man lying on the track who seemed to be injured – except when he went to help him the man pulled a gun and tried to rob him. There was a struggle, the gun went off and unfortunately the young man was shot. Revered Cleaver was absolutely distraught at this, and also terrified – he tried to save the robber’s life – kiss of life, heart massage – but it was no use . . . Then when he heard what he now knows must have been you and Jimmy in the bushes, he was convinced you were part of this man’s gang and that you’d take revenge – so he grabbed the gun again and fired blindly into the trees before running off. He had no idea that he had shot anyone, he was just trying to frighten you off. He was so scared that he bypassed Tucker’s Hole completely, just kept going until he managed to pick up a lift on the far side of the woods. It took him as far as Cooper’s Creek. And that’s how he got to us. He was very upset, Claire. He wants to know if he can come and see you to apologise personally.’

  All eyes turned on Claire.

  ‘That’s . . . not how it was . . .’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure, Claire?’ her father asked. ‘He’s a minister, for goodness’ sake, why would he want to shoot you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m sure . . .’

  But the truth was that there was a slight hint of a doubt creeping in. Since she’d become a journalist she’d learned that you could look at a story you thought was one hundred per cent true from a different angle and suddenly it didn’t make any sense at all. And it was complicated by the fact that her memory of the events in the forest was somewhat hazy – she had been shot after all, she’d lost a lot of blood. She rubbed at her brow.

  ‘It was him . . . He’s a murderer . . .’

  She wasn’t even convincing herself now. She desperately tried to remind herself of the detail of it. Hearing the gunshot in the woods with Jimmy, sneaking up, seeing the minister going through the man’s pockets . . . Jimmy accidentally making the noise . . . the minister looking spooked . . . raising his gun . . . coming towards them . . . they’d started running . . . She sighed. He could be telling the truth. They had, quite naturally, run before he had the chance to shoot them – but the minister might just as easily have been the victim of an attempted robbery. He might not have been going through the dead man’s pockets, he might actually have been trying to save him and, yes, if you’d just killed someone by accident, of course you’d be nervous, of course you’d fire at the first noise you heard. And he must have run off instead of pursuing them, otherwise he would surely have found her and kill
ed her?

  Claire sat down heavily on a leather sofa. ‘Oh, I don’t know any more!’ she wailed.

  Her mother raised her eyebrows at her husband. ‘Presbyterian ministers,’ she observed, rather haughtily, ‘are not known for their shooting ability. Perhaps we should have him for dinner.’

  Mr Stanford rubbed his stomach. ‘You keep me so well fed, darling, I’m not sure if I could actually eat a Presbyterian minister!’

  Both of them exploded into laughter. Claire stared at them, aghast. Thankfully, Jeffers didn’t laugh either. Sensing that she was about to scream something at them he neatly stepped in with, ‘Claire, Reverend Cleaver is waiting outside. He really does want to apologise to you.’

  Claire shook her head violently. ‘No. Please. Tell him I’m asleep. Too tired. I just couldn’t, Mr Jeffers. What if he really did shoot me? What if he really did kill Jimmy? I just don’t know. But I don’t want to meet him, I don’t want to shake his hand, I don’t want him to apologise. Just tell him to go away, please?’

  Mr Jeffers nodded. ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘Get some rest.’

  Jeffers turned to the door. Claire slipped into her room without a further glance at her parents. Partly because she was mad at them, but mostly because she didn’t want the minister to be standing there when Jeffers opened the door.

  She tossed and turned for ages. She kept replaying the events in the woods. After a while her mother came into the room with another hot chocolate and apologised for being insensitive earlier – she had just been so relieved that the minister had turned out to be innocent and her beautiful daughter was safe.

  Claire sipped her drink, and said nothing. When her mother got up to go, Claire again insisted that she leave the bedroom door open, and the light on in the lounge.

  ‘Of course, darling,’ said her mother, and kissed her brow.

  Some time after midnight she finally drifted off to sleep. She was dreaming about her ponies when something disturbed her. She opened her eyes. Her room was dark, save for little moonlight coming in through the porthole. But the lounge was also dark – although she had demanded that the light be left on.

  Movement.

  There was something in the doorway.

  Someone!

  And then, drifting towards her, a very soft, melodic humming.

  ‘Give me oil in my lamp . . .’

  Louder, closer, a black figure moving . . .

  Claire screamed and screamed and screamed and . . .

  15

  Training

  At exactly five a.m., and still dark, the barracks door was smashed open and Mohican strode in screaming: ‘Out of your pits, you lazy bunch of good-for-nothing losers!’

  He also had a small air horn in his hand, which he blasted three times. This is a contraption which sounds loud outside; inside it was deafening. But it certainly had an effect – everyone was instantly awake. What it didn’t create was any kind of order – they sprang from their beds and began to run about like headless chickens, panic stricken, disorientated, convinced they were under some kind of attack. In short: uproar.

  The horn blasted again, but this time, with the sleep driven from them, they were more inclined to notice Mohican standing calmly in their midst. He dominated everything. Beside him, even the biggest and strongest of them felt small and weak.

  ‘All right, you have ten minutes to get showered, into your uniforms and eat breakfast! Today, ladies and gentlemen, you become United States Marines!’

  He strode out, leaving them all stunned – for about three seconds. Then there was a mad scramble to get dressed and out and fed. That is, apart from Jimmy. And Rain Man.

  Jimmy said (but not to Rain Man) – ‘Do you think you can order breakfast in bed?’

  Rain Man said (but not to Jimmy) – ‘I’ll have my eggs sunny-side up, wholemeal toast and a glass of milk fresh from a fat cow.’

  The rest of them were now bolting out of the door. Jimmy lay back on his bed. Rain Man lay back on his.

  ‘United States Marines,’said Jimmy (although not to Rain Man). ‘I’m not even American.’

  ‘I wonder if they do room service?’ Rain Man asked (although not of Jimmy).

  They had been well fed on arrival at Fort Hope, in what Mohican called the mess hall. Then they’d been shown to this barracks hut, which had been enticingly warm; the long rows of bunk beds were fresh and comfortable and smelled of new pine. He had told them to get a good night’s sleep because they’d be up quite early for some light training. It was all very welcoming, like arriving at a summer camp (except, obviously, it was cold and damp outside). Jimmy had fallen asleep at once, his immediate doubts assuaged. Now, with bright sunshine steaming through the open door, feeling refreshed and revitalised, Jimmy stretched and yawned and turned over for another sleep.

  He had been lying there for perhaps ten minutes, and was just slipping into a nice hazy dream state, when his feet were grabbed and he was dragged off the bed. The back of his head hit the floor with a loud thump; he let out a shout, but neither one of the young soldiers who’d taken hold of him paid any attention. He was pulled across the floor, down four steps – banging his head again on each one – then thrown down into the mud. He was wearing only his boxer shorts, which had seen better days. He heard two groans of pain – one was his own, and the other came from Rain Man, lying in a heap beside him.

  Dazed and hurting, Jimmy blinked up. Mohican was standing over them. The rest of the troop was now spilling out of the mess hall and milling nervously outside the barracks.

  ‘I gave you an order!’ Mohican screamed, his face flushed with anger.

  ‘I thought it was like . . . a request . . .’ Jimmy mumbled.

  Mohicans lips curled up in disgust. He drew his black army boot back to kick him. Jimmy tensed as he swung it forward – and then stopped it just short of impact. He lowered his foot, snarled down at Jimmy and turned to address the anxious onlookers.

  ‘This is your first day at Fort Hope. I want you to remember where you are! The name is HOPE! H – O – P – E! The world as you know it is no more! The only H – O – P – E for any of us is to stick together, to learn discipline, to train hard so that we can serve the President and rebuild this great country of ours! Behaviour like this will not be tolerated! You are all now part of a team! If one member of that team disobeys orders, then the whole team gets punished! That means no lunch today for any of you!’ A moan rolled through the troop. Mohican returned his attention to Jimmy and Rain Man. ‘Get up and get changed! The mess hall is now closed!’

  Mohican strode away.

  Jimmy and Rain Man climbed somewhat painfully to their feet, well aware that they were being scrutinised with obvious contempt by their comrades.

  ‘Do you think,’ Rain Man said quietly (although not to Jimmy) ‘that that means there’s no room service?’

  Mohican’s concept of ‘light training’ was light years away from everyone else’s. Of course, in every group there are going to be natural athletes – jocks – but even they were in a state of shock. It was torture. They started with running around the perimeter of the fort, four laps, all under the gaze (and guns) of the guards in the watchtowers. Then there were press-ups and squats and step exercises. After an hour of this the gates were opened and they were marched out to the woods, where they were forced to run up and down the steep hill they’d painfully ascended the night before. Worst of all, when they got back to base, they had to sit and watch while hundreds of soldiers queued up and ate lunch in the mess hall.

  Jimmy and Rain Man could feel eyes burning into their backs as they sat alone. They spoke, but not to each other.

  ‘I didn’t sign up for this,’ said Rain Man. ‘In fact, I didn’t sign up at all.’

  ‘I have no interest in becoming a Marine,’ said Jimmy. ‘I wonder who you complain to?’

  ‘They can’t just not feed us,’ said Rain Man.

  ‘They can’t treat us like dogs,’ said Jimmy He was angry and hungry.
‘Who does Mohican think he is? Big bloody bully.’

  ‘I’ll bet the President doesn’t know what he’s like,’ said Rain Man. ‘I bet he’d sort him out.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Jimmy, getting to his feet. ‘I’ve had enough of this crap, I’m taking it to the top.’

  He pushed his way out of the mess hall and began to march away across the yard.

  ‘Give ’em hell,’ Rain Man called out, while remaining exactly where he was.

  Jimmy was seething. And when he was like that he didn’t always wait for his brain to get into gear before he sprang into action. He’d sometimes been like this on the Titanic, where, mostly, he’d gotten away with it. One thing about being the boss of something, the way Jimmy felt he was boss of the Times, is that you get used to giving orders, not taking them. Now he was being ordered about like he was a little kid and he wasn’t going to take it any more. He was Jimmy Armstrong, editor of the Titanic Times, and he had a lot to offer that didn’t involve press-ups and running around in circles. Or rectangles.

  He didn’t know exactly where the President was, but he headed for the group of larger buildings and hoped it would become obvious once he got there. But they all looked pretty much the same – all set in a pentagon shape around a central yard. A kid who looked about four years younger than Jimmy but in full army uniform and with a pistol in a holster on his belt, was just hurrying across the yard.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ said Jimmy, ‘where’s the President?’

  ‘In the White House.’

  ‘No you idiot – where’s our President?’

  ‘In our White House, you idiot.’

  The boy soldier pointed, and true enough, there was a wooden hut, slightly larger than the others, painted with a bright white gloss.

  ‘All right, smart arse,’ Jimmy snapped back, already marching towards it.

  There were two armed guards outside, standing on either side of the door and at the top of a short flight of steps. As Jimmy hurried up and then tried to go between them, they quickly closed ranks.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ one asked.

  ‘I’m here to see the President.’