Day Four

by Sarah Lotz

  ‘Celine is very tired,’ Maddie interrupted. ‘Connecting with Spirit takes a lot out of her. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do,’ Leila said, bobbing and bowing and scurrying off to join the other Friends bottlenecking the exit.

  Ray approached. ‘Sorry about that, Celine.’

  Celine’s eyes – already unnaturally hooded from a screwed-up eyelift in the eighties – narrowed. ‘Yeah? What the hell, Ray? I pay you for that?’

  ‘How was I supposed to know he was gonna show up? I checked out everyone else.’

  ‘You should have been at the goddamned door, Ray.’

  ‘Celine, like I say, I fucked up. Won’t happen again.’

  Celine snorted. ‘Damn right it won’t. Where’d he go anyway?’

  ‘Ran into the restroom. Looked like he was gonna puke.’

  Maddie’s stomach rolled over. After stupidly reading a Huff Post exposé about ship-borne viruses, she’d only been able to cope by washing her hands at every opportunity and popping probiotics like an addict. Still, that explained why they hadn’t been hounded by the blogger before. He must have been holed up in his cabin praying to the porcelain god for the duration of the cruise.

  ‘You want me to escort you back to your cabin?’ Ray asked.

  ‘It’s a suite,’ Celine snapped. ‘And no. Get out of my sight. Madeleine can do it.’

  Ray nodded miserably and slunk away. Maddie knew very little about his personal life, but he’d mentioned something about having to pay child support to one of his exes. He may be a letch and a bullshitter, but she almost pitied him – he’d be lucky if he still had a job when they reached Miami. Celine’s bodyguards never lasted long.

  ‘Goddamned bloggers and undercover journalists,’ Celine griped, twirling a hand in the air to indicate they should get going. ‘Forty years I’ve been doing this. It’s my God-given gift . . .’

  Maddie let Celine ramble on as she manoeuvred the wheelchair out via the stage door exit, blinking as her eyes were blasted by the pink and gold neon signage splayed all over the Promenade Dreamz deck. Passengers streamed towards the staircase for the second dinner sitting, and twenty-somethings in tight white shorts and ‘Foveros = Fun! Fun! Fun!’ T-shirts flitted around, rumba-ing to the calypso music in the background and hawking plastic angel wings and devil horns for tonight’s Heaven ’n’ Hell themed New Year’s Eve party. Maddie had no intention of going anywhere near the festivities. She planned on putting Celine to bed, ordering a grilled cheese sandwich from room service (her gut clenched at the thought of eating the mass-produced slop in the dining room and buffets) then heading up to the jogging track above the Lido deck. She hadn’t yet found a gap to do her five miles today.

  A trio of meaty men with fluorescent halos attached to their shaven heads made way for them as Maddie inched Celine into the elevator, which, as usual, smelled faintly of vomit. She pressed the button for the Verandah deck with her elbow and wheeled Celine as far away from the damp patch on the carpet as she could get. A reggae rendition of ‘Rehab’ plinked as they were propelled upwards through the atrium, the glass sides gradually revealing the lobby and cocktail bars below.

  ‘Christ, I need a drink,’ Celine said.

  ‘Nearly there.’

  Maddie dragged the wheelchair out of the elevator and headed in the direction of the VIP staterooms. A couple of giggly elderly women squeezed themselves against the corridor wall to allow them to pass. Maddie smiled brightly at them to make up for Celine’s surly ‘whatever’ response to their Happy New Year wishes, and waved at Althea, the deck’s cabin steward, who was exiting a neighbouring suite, a bunch of towels tucked under an arm.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs del Ray and Maddie!’ Althea called. ‘Do you need any help?’

  Celine ignored her, but Althea’s smile didn’t falter. Maddie had no clue how Althea remained so cheerful while mopping up after arseholes like Celine. Most of the staff exuded an exhausting (obviously fake) joviality, but Maddie was certain Althea’s constant good mood wasn’t a front.

  After swiping the room card several times until the lock finally flashed green, Maddie hefted the wheelchair into the narrow entrance area and pushed Celine towards the balcony and her collection of booze.

  Celine jabbed a talon at the TV. ‘For Christ’s sake change the goddamned channel. How many times have I told that goddamned woman not to touch it?’

  On screen, Damien, the cruise director – an Australian with the fixed gaze of someone dangerously bipolar – was once again running through his tour of the ship. Maddie flicked past a Saturday Night Live parody of failed Republican nominee Mitch Reynard, and a shopping channel, where two middle-aged women were gushing over a reversible jacket, before settling on footage of the run-up to the Times Square ball drop. Without being asked, she scooped ice into a glass and poured Celine a double J&B.

  Celine snatched it out of her hand and took a gulp. ‘Christ, that’s better. You’re a good girl, Madeleine.’

  Maddie rolled her eyes. ‘Did I just hear you correctly?’

  ‘Archie says you’re thinking of quitting.’

  ‘Celine, I’m always thinking of quitting. Maybe I wouldn’t if you stopped calling me a useless bitch.’

  ‘You know I don’t mean it.’ She gestured at the TV again. ‘I don’t need reminding that another year’s over. Put one of my films on.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Pretty Woman.’

  Maddie connected the hard drive and scrolled through the menu until she reached the Julia Roberts folder. She still couldn’t reconcile Celine’s hard-bitten outlook on life with her addiction to nineties romcoms; Maddie had lost count of the number of scratchy motel chairs she’d sat in, waiting for her boss to fall asleep while When Harry Met Sally or French Kiss played out to their predictable conclusions.

  Celine rattled the glass for a refill. ‘So. What are we gonna do about Ray?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘You know he’s got a thing for you, Madeleine.’

  ‘Ray’s got a thing for everyone with a vagina. He’s a dickhead.’

  Celine sighed. ‘I know. The cute ones always are. He’ll have to go. But that doesn’t solve your problem, does it?’

  ‘I’ve got a problem?’

  ‘You need a man in your life, Madeleine. It’s about time you put your past to rest.’

  ‘Not this again. What the hell am I going to do with a man?’

  Celine cackled. ‘Well, if I have to tell you . . .’

  ‘You want to tell me how I’m supposed to maintain a relationship when I’m on the road with you nine months out of the year?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, guilt-trip the old woman. You should go to the party tonight. See if you can snag yourself one of those cute crew members in their tight white pants. How long has it been? You know, since you last . . .’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘That’s not an answer. You want me to ask Archie what he—’

  ‘Enough with the personal stuff, Celine.’

  ‘Just saying, you deserve better outta life.’

  ‘Okay if I use your bathroom?’ If she took her time in there, with any luck Celine would pass out in front of the movie and she’d be able to slip away without too much of an ear-bashing.

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  Maddie fled inside it and locked the door. It was three times the size of the one in her cabin, with a whirlpool bath and a pyramid of rolled white towels. She sat on the toilet lid and rubbed her temples. Thanks to that hipster guy, Celine would be in funk for the next week at least. And no doubt the footage he’d taken would already be all over YouTube. Celine had only signed up for the cruise to get away from the heat after the Lillian Small debacle, but they’d both known it could backfire on them.

  After it had all blown up, Maddie had never said ‘I told you so’. She’d warned Celine not to go on Eric Kavanaugh’s Black Thursday Remembrance Show; the shock-jock was notorious for skewering psy
chics, scientologists and spiritualists. Plus, Celine had been one of the much-maligned ‘Circle of Psychics’ who’d joined together to ‘use their combined energy’ to ascertain the apparently mysterious causes of the four plane crashes that had occurred back in 2012. Kavanaugh had gleefully ripped the psychics a new one when the NTSB released its findings and it transpired that the psychics had struck out on all counts. To be fair, Celine had been holding her own until the subject of the Florida crash had come up. Maddie still had no clue what had possessed her boss to insist that Lori Small and her son Bobby, two of the passengers aboard the aircraft that had plummeted into the Everglades, were alive. Even when Bobby and Lori’s DNA was discovered amongst the wreckage, Celine continued to proclaim that the mother and son were out there somewhere, wandering the streets of Miami, suffering from amnesia. She’d gone too far to back down. Tragically, Lori’s mother, Lillian Small, had spent all her savings hiring private detectives to follow this dubious lead, and now an enterprising lawyer had taken on her case and was gunning for Celine.

  It wasn’t the first time Celine had got it wrong – but it was certainly the most high-profile of her blunders. But then . . . Maddie wasn’t being entirely fair, was she? Celine had occasionally been right, hadn’t she? There was tonight’s insulin revelation for a start (but it was possible Ray had passed on that nugget – she’d have to check). She knew that statistically Celine had to hit on some facts that weren’t fed to her by Maddie or whichever hapless ex-cop she’d hired to play the part of her bodyguard, but it still made her feel uneasy. And the guilt she usually managed to keep at bay was getting to her. Needling at her. It was a mistake getting to know the Friends. Maybe she should just quit. And do what? A shitty minimum wage job was the best she could hope for with her record. She could always move back to the UK, slink back with her tail between her legs. Her sister would love that: I told you so, Maddie, I told you it would all end in tears.

  ‘You fallen in?’ Celine shouted.

  ‘Coming!’ Maddie called. So much for Celine passing out. She was about to get up, when the floor lurched, forcing her to grab onto the toilet-roll holder. Her knees began juddering, a strong vibration hummed under her feet. The lights flickered, there was a long mechanical yawning sound and then . . . silence.

  Pulse thumping in her throat, Maddie unlocked the door and hurried into the suite. ‘Celine? I think there’s something wrong with the ship.’

  Maddie was expecting Celine to say something along the lines of: ‘You’re goddamned right something’s wrong with the ship, it’s a shithole,’ but her head was slumped forward; her arms hung listlessly over the chair’s sides. The glass lay on the carpet where it must have slipped from her fingers.

  On screen, Richard Gere rolled down Hollywood Boulevard. Then the television blinked off.

  ‘Celine? Celine, are you okay?’

  No answer.

  Maddie crept forward and touched the crepey skin on Celine’s forearm. No response. She moved around to face her and sank to her knees. ‘Celine?’ Without lifting her head, Celine sucked in a breath, then began humming a jaunty, jazzy tune that reminded Maddie of Lizzie Bean, another (albeit less vocal) of Celine’s spirit guides. ‘Celine?’ It was becoming difficult to swallow. ‘Hey . . . Come on, Celine.’

  Celine raised her head, a look of such raw terror in her eyes that Maddie yipped and fell back on her haunches. ‘Jesus!’

  Maddie leapt to her feet, meaning to lunge for the phone, but then the lights went out again, and she stumbled as the ship listed to the left. She fought to control her breathing, had almost done so when a voice cut through the silence. ‘Ho-hum, me old ducky,’ Archie cackled. ‘This is going to be fun.’

  The Condemned Man

  Gary pressed his forehead against the wall, shivering as the cold water streamed down his back. The skin on his stomach and inner thighs stung from where he’d scrubbed at himself with Marilyn’s nailbrush; the pads of his fingers were ridged and waterlogged. He’d been in the shower for upwards of an hour, and the reek of Pantene was becoming unbearable – he’d used all of the complimentary body wash and Marilyn’s shampoo on last night’s clothes, stomping on them like a demented wine presser. They were bundled in a ball in the corner of the stall: without bleach, there was no guarantee they didn’t hold a trace of his girl’s DNA. He’d have to dump them over the side as soon as possible.

  Concentrate on the water. Think about the cold. But it wasn’t working; the black thoughts were creeping back. Marilyn had bought his upset stomach excuse, but he doubted she’d let him skip the evening’s festivities unless he was really at death’s door. He supposed he could make himself vomit within her hearing, stick his fingers down his throat, but he was so consumed by anxiety he was beginning to think he wouldn’t have to fake it.

  Because they must have found his girl by now. The cabin stewards were thorough, servicing the cabins twice a day, and it’d been more than twelve hours since she’d—

  A rumbling under his feet; a jolt. The shower water sputtered and Gary opened his eyes onto blackness. For a second he was convinced he’d gone blind – a punishment from God! – then, as a vibration rocketed up through the soles of his feet, it dawned on him that something was wrong with the ship. He shut off the water, fumbled for a towel, and listened. The background whir of the air-con was absent, which made his head feel lighter somehow, as if he could finally think rationally. He felt around the sink for his glasses, then edged his way out of the bathroom. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness – but of course they weren’t going to adjust, there was no natural light in the cabin; he always booked one of the cheaper internal staterooms. An alarm beeped several times, there was an unintelligible message crackling with static, and then: ‘G’day, ladies and gentlemen, Damien your cruise director here. Just to let you know we are experiencing an electrical problem. There is no cause for alarm. For your own safety, please return to your staterooms and wait for further instructions, thank you. And like I say, there’s no cause for alarm. We’ll be updating you in more detail shortly.’

  Gary inched his way to the door and eked it open. A bare-chested guy wearing plastic devil horns rounded the corner, a woman in a bikini and strappy gold heels jiggling after him. As they came closer, the emergency strip lights on the floor turned their skin a sinister greenish colour. The floor dipped and Gary stepped back, letting the door slam. Saliva flooded into his mouth. Outside, doors banged, a woman hollered, someone shouted for Kevin to ‘get a fucking move on, dude’.

  He shuffled back to the bed, flinching as the lights wobbled on. They were far dimmer than usual, and cast a sallow glow around the cabin. Water crawled through the hair on his legs, his panic now so intense he could almost see it as a physical thing in his peripheral vision.

  It was just a mechanical glitch – it happened all the time, Foveros was notorious for them. And even if they had found her, the last thing they’d do is stop the ship. No. He was just letting paranoia get the better of him again. He squeezed his wrist, clung to the shallow thump of his pulse, made himself count back from a hundred. Then again. And again. Good. It was becoming easier to breathe.

  The lock clicked, the door slammed open and Marilyn burst in. ‘Gary! You’re here!’

  Speak. ‘Where else would I be?’

  ‘Honey, I reckon we should get out of here. Get to the muster station. I could’ve sworn I smelled smoke.’

  ‘Damien said we’re supposed to stay in the staterooms.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? I smelled smoke, Gary.’ She was out of breath, her flat face greasy with perspiration. ‘The elevators have stopped working – gotta be people trapped inside. What do you think’s happened?’

  ‘Some sort of mechanical fault. Nothing serious, you’ll see.’ His voice sounded uneven, a pitch higher than usual, but she didn’t seem to notice. Marilyn wasn’t the most observant of people – one of the reasons he’d married her.

  Marilyn narrowed her eyes. ‘Honey . . . why are
n’t you dressed?’

  ‘Been in the shower.’

  ‘Again? With all this happening?’

  Deep breath, don’t lose it. ‘I was in the shower when it happened.’

  ‘And you really think it’s nothing serious?’

  ‘Yeah. Remember what happened to The Beautiful Wonder? They fixed that in no time.’

  ‘Oh. I guess . . . I still think we should go. Paulie and Selena said they’d wait for us on Eleven. Remember, hon, our muster station is right there.’

  ‘Who the hell are Paulie and Selena?’

  ‘They’re just the cutest couple. We got talking at dinner. I decided to go to the Lido buffet instead of Dreamscapes, although the lines at the noodle bar were so long! That was how we got talking – in the line. We were sitting together on the Tranquillity deck when it happened. And hon, you’ll never guess what.’

  ‘What?’ He did his best to sound and look interested. His cheeks were aching.

  ‘They’re Silver Foveros cruisers just like us, and they were on The Beautiful Wish last year – the Bahamas route – just a week after we went!’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘I know, right? That’s what I said. They were really concerned when I told them you were feeling sick.’ Typical Marilyn: she made it her mission to hook up with as many strangers as she could on their yearly cruise. Most of her new friendships were short-lived, she was fickle like that. Gary toyed with the idea of asking her if she’d noticed his absence early this morning. It wouldn’t be that unusual, he’d been feigning insomnia for years, and she hadn’t yet taken issue with his excuse that the only way to cure it was to go for a walk. But this was different. If she had woken in the early hours and noticed he was gone, would she be prepared to give him an alibi? He couldn’t be certain. He pictured her seated in court, sobbing that she had no idea she’d married a monster.

  ‘Gary!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said, I still think we should get going. Aren’t you going to get dressed?’

  ‘You go. I’ll catch up.’