by Sarah Lotz
Althea watched as Rogelio stood up. Strange, because she had not told Mrs del Ray about a scar, only that Rogelio had lost his mother and was supporting his brothers and sisters. But the woman was clever, and Althea suspected she was not the only one who had been sent out fishing.
‘I’m getting . . . she says that there’s a cloud in her stomach. I’m thinking it might be cancer.’
‘You are sure it is her?’ Rogelio said. ‘My mother did not speak English.’
Althea hid a smile behind her hand.
‘We all speak the same language when we’ve passed over, my darling,’ Mrs del Ray said with a tinge of irritation. ‘I’m sensing it was a long illness.’
‘Yes.’
‘My darling, I know how hard it must have been for you. Know this, your mother wants you to know that she’s right here with you, right now, and will always be with you. Know this, your mother forgives you and understands the life decisions you have made.’
Rogelio covered his face with his hands. ‘Inay. Mama.’
He sat down and Jimmy and Annabeth fawned over him.
Now would be a good time to go. She must check on the boy. See if he was waiting for her in her cabin. He’d curled up with her again last night like a cat. It had been comforting. But perhaps first she should go and see Maria. Just because Mrs del Ray had recruited her, Althea had no intention of abandoning her post all together. That would be short-sighted. When help did arrive, when the storm on shore was over, she would be among the few who had done their jobs. She had even delivered fresh bags and water this morning, leaving them outside the staterooms, although she’d allowed herself to ignore the waste bags dumped in the corridor. She would find time to do her station properly later. Except for the Linemans. They were on their own. Whatever she did for them they would be ungrateful. They could rot.
Another twinge in her stomach. She hadn’t felt sick, but now she was certain she was pregnant. She could feel it. Sense it. But they couldn’t fire her if she had been diligent, could they? If she was one of the few who had stayed strong. And if they did, she had a back-up plan. She had also proven herself to Mrs del Ray. Perhaps she would agree to take her on as her assistant. Althea hadn’t seen Maddie anywhere in the theatre, so perhaps she’d quit or been fired. That would be a good job to have; it might even lead to her getting a green card, getting out of Joshua’s clutches once and for all. She didn’t trust the old woman, but Mrs del Ray was just taking advantage of the situation for her own reasons.
She crept through the side door that opened out into the wings, and padded past the black curtains. The backstage technician – Althea didn’t know his name – was snoozing, his head resting on a hand. Mrs del Ray’s muffled voice drifted through the fabric.
Althea hurried to the I-95 and along to Maria’s office. She knocked on the door. No answer. She tried the handle. It was unlocked, and with a quick look around to make sure no one was watching her, she slipped inside. Althea had never been in here unsupervised before. She crept over to the desk and tried the drawers, but they were locked. The rest of the crew decks were below the waterline, but this office was light and airy. She peered through the window and out over the water. They were still drifting, the ship dragging the oil slick of filthy red plastic bags in its wake, like a bride with a bloody wedding dress. Like her. Her wedding had been a grand affair. Her mother had borrowed money for it. Stupid. A waste.
She jumped as the door opened and Maria walked in, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a stretched T-shirt.
‘What are you doing here, Althea?’
‘I was looking for you.’
The woman swayed and seemed to have trouble focusing. Drunk. Another sign of weakness. Maria weaved over to the desk, flopped into the visitor’s chair and dug a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of her tracksuit pocket. Smoking was banned on the ships. Perhaps she would get fired. Maria lit it and blew the smoke out of the corner of her mouth. Althea tried not to breathe in. Joshua smoked; she hoped one day that it would kill him.
‘I have done my station, Maria.’
‘Good for you.’ Maria coughed. Still no eyebrows and her hair was striped with grease. ‘That what you wanted to tell me? That you are a good little worker?’
‘I have not abandoned my station.’
‘Then you are stupider than you look.’
Althea was hit with the tingling sensation she always got in her chest just before she and Joshua had a fight. ‘I am doing my job.’
‘There is no job anymore, Althea.’
‘You are firing me?’
Maria laughed through the smoke. ‘No. That isn’t what I meant. I meant that there is no point you doing your job.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? You are not stupid, Althea.’ She waved her cigarette in the air. ‘The ship. It’s fucked.’
‘Is there any news?’
‘News about what?’
‘The ship. The storm on shore. Rescue. The radio.’
‘No.’ She was lying. Althea could see she was lying.
Althea smiled sweetly. ‘Can’t you ask your boyfriend? Is he not one of the officers?’ Those officers worked their way through the women. Only the ones dumb enough to think it would benefit them bothered sleeping with them.
A flash of anger – a spark of the old Maria – then: ‘There is no outside communication. No ships. No planes in the sky.’ Maria dragged in another cloud and coughed. ‘Something has happened to the world.’
Althea had heard this theory as well. Like what? The world could not fall apart in four days. Perhaps she should bring Maria to Mrs del Ray. But no. She wasn’t sure she could be bothered and she wanted to find the boy. ‘I must go and check on my station.’ She moved out from behind the desk, making for the door.
‘Althea . . . wait.’
‘Yes?’
‘Be ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘Just be ready.’
Althea nodded. She was always ready.
She left the office and headed down to the entrance to the crew deck. Trining was leaning against the wall outside her cabin. Shitballs. She was not in the mood for more conversation.
‘You are feeling better, Trining?’
‘I am still sick. Althea, I heard you talking to yourself last night.’
‘So?’
Trining coughed. It sounded fake to Althea. ‘That woman is the devil. I’ve heard what she can do.’
‘What woman?’
‘The woman in the theatre, Angelo says that—’
‘He knows nothing.’ Fuck-darned Angelo. ‘It’s better there than down here. No one is sick.’
‘Be careful, Althea.’ Trining turned away from her.
Althea shrugged. Perhaps Trining was right. Perhaps Celine was the devil. It was one explanation. She didn’t care. Althea left her and went to see if the boy was waiting for her in her cabin.
The Suicide Sisters
Helen couldn’t see the woman’s face, she was on her hands and knees on the other bed, her hair hanging in her eyes, her fingers gripping the pillow. But Jaco was looking straight at her. Thrusting and smiling. Thrusting and smiling. She turned her head away.
She heard him laugh.
Elise was burning up, she could feel the heat radiating through her nightdress. Helen prayed she was sleeping and wouldn’t wake up while this sickening display was going on.
Jaco was now making grunting sounds and the girl was screeching along in time.
She could do it now, jump off the bed and bash him over the head with her laptop. Thwack. Slam it into the bastard’s jaw with a satisfying crack. She’d thought about it many times. But they were stronger than she was, they would overpower her in no time. And she’d been agonising for hours about whether or not to leave the suite to go for help. She didn’t dare leave Elise alone with them. They might barricade themselves in, and what if she couldn’t find anyone to help? The situation outside had to be getting more desperate.
/> Trapped in her own cabin. A prison.
But what else could she do? Elise wasn’t strong enough to be moved. Last night, Helen had tried to help her to the bathroom, but Elise had barely made it off the bed before her legs collapsed under her. Jaco and Lulia had reluctantly helped Helen heft her upright, but they’d been rough and she didn’t want to risk that happening again.
She hated them. She loathed them with an intensity she didn’t know she had in her.
They’d been smart. Fooled her. She’d been grateful to them at first. Yes! Grateful. Jaco had gone down to the crew mess to bring her a sandwich and extra bottles of water, saving her from having to leave Elise alone and queue at the Lido buffet. Lulia had cleaned the shower and bathroom and although Helen had quickly tired of her blow-by-blow run-down of every show she’d ever been in, she’d appreciated the help. It had been hard looking after Elise alone; exhausting. And it had been cathartic discussing the possible reasons why help had not arrived yet. Jaco was adamant that there was a storm raging at port and the coastguard was unable to send out rescue tugs; Lulia had heard that the ship had drifted out of commercial waters and it would only be a matter of time before they were picked up by another vessel’s radar. Lulia had even promised to watch over Elise while Helen slept. Reluctant at first, Helen had given in. She’d slept for hours, a deep dreamless sleep. It was after she’d woken that things had started to turn sour. While she was sleeping, Jaco and Lulia had helped themselves to the two bottles of champagne Elise and Helen had brought on board. The champagne they’d meant to drink just before they threw themselves over the ship’s stern.
Helen had said something along the line of: ‘at least you could have asked’, and in a flat venomous voice, Jaco responded: ‘I could kick you out right now, you old bitch.’ It had been as shocking and sudden as a slap in the face.
Helen had told him to leave.
He’d told her to ‘make him leave’.
Helen had turned to Lulia for support, but she’d laughed.
She’d given up trying to plead with them. She was eloquent, she could talk her way out of anything, but it was obvious they weren’t going to budge, and they were drunk. She’d moved onto Elise’s bed to be closer to her, deciding that if they attempted to throw her friend out of the room she would fight them to the death. And she reckoned they’d seen that resolve on her face. She’d prayed that Althea or Maddie or the doctor would show up. All morning she’d been on tenterhooks in case there was a knock at the door. Jaco had put the ‘don’t disturb’ sign on the door, so that might explain it, but she was still furious at them too for allowing this to happen. Why had no one come to check on them? Her friend was dying. She knew that. Elise was dying and she deserved to die in peace and with dignity, not stuck in a room with two thugs. She’d thought about telling them that there was little they could do to her that would make any difference. She’d been the lowest you could get. She’d faced death full on and won, but that was a lie. She’d never actually taken the tablets, or climbed over the railings on the Tranquillity deck. She’d read somewhere that the few people who’d jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and survived, regretted their decision to jump mid-fall.
‘Urguuuuuuuuurgh.’ Jaco finished. ‘Hey, Helen. Enjoy the show?’
Lulia laughed.
‘Hey, Helen. I’m talking to you.’
Despite herself, she turned to look at him. He was wiping himself on the sheet, preening and smirking at her. He didn’t have a good body in her opinion. Graham was the only man she’d ever slept with, but they’d once been to a nudist beach, where all kinds of comparisons were on show. Jaco’s stomach was too round, his legs too thin. He stomped off to the bathroom, and she tried to block out the trickling sound of him relieving himself.
You’ve got squatters, girl, she heard Graham say, clear as day.
It was so unexpected, it made her laugh.
‘What is funny?’ Lulia snapped. ‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘No.’
‘I think now you must leave here. The old lady, she will die anyway, yes?’
‘Lulia, you know Elise can’t be moved.’
‘I do not want her to be pissing and shitting in here again.’
‘That won’t happen.’
‘If it does, then I will—’ Lulia clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes widened and she let out a little yipping noise, not dissimilar to the sounds she was making just minutes ago. Helen followed her gaze. A man, a tall man, was standing in the corner of the room, next to the television, his face in shadow, wringing his hands. Helen couldn’t tell if he was doing this in consternation or in a threatening manner. She found that she didn’t care.
And she found that she wasn’t afraid.
‘Jaco!’ Lulia screeched, the raw terror in her voice filling Helen with glee. Good, she thought. Good.
Jaco bolted out of the bathroom, his penis flapping ridiculously. ‘What?’
‘Look!’ She pointed at the dark figure.
Jaco jumped. ‘Yah!’ It was almost comical. ‘How the fuck did he get in here?’
The man stepped forward.
‘Helen,’ Elise whispered, and Helen’s heart leapt – she was speaking. Thank God. ‘Humming. You hear it?’
‘No.’ But then she could. It was the same tune they’d heard before. The tune they’d heard in Celine’s bathroom when they sat with her on the night the ship stopped moving.
The closet creaked open. A throaty giggle.
‘Did you let him in?’ Jaco was saying to Lulia. ‘Well, did you?’
‘No.’
The man with no face shuffled forward another step.
‘I am not staying in here!’ Lulia shrieked. ‘Jaco—’
Something the size of a large dog scrabbled over the carpet towards Lulia.
‘Helen,’ Elise whispered. ‘Helen.’
Helen turned away from what was happening in the room, hugged Elise to her and buried her face in her hair. She really was burning up; a spicy sweat blasted off her skin.
Lulia was sobbing now, and she was muttering something in her own language.
Someone screamed – Helen hoped it was Jaco, and then he said: ‘We’re going! We’re going, okay?’
Thump, thump.
The door slammed.
The humming stopped, and only then did Helen look up.
The room was empty.
The Angel of Mercy
He’d thrown in the towel after the passenger tried to smack him across the face.
The morning had been a non-stop conveyor belt of scared passengers shouting at him to fix their girlfriends/husbands/wives. All had stories of the injustices they’d experienced; all were going to sue. Among other things, he’d dealt with a broken hand that would probably need surgery in the future; a food allergy (thank you, EpiPen); a woman with stomach pains who thought she might be having a miscarriage (all she was incubating was the beginnings of the noro); a thirtyish man with chest pains, convinced he was going to die (a severe panic attack). All of them were terrified, all of them were angry. All of them seemed to hold Jesse personally responsible for the ship’s predicament. Damien’s latest message was a version of the ‘storm on land’ bullshit that the captain had spouted. This didn’t reassure the passengers he’d encountered. If anything, it made it worse.
‘Are we lost?’ I don’t know.
‘Have we drifted off course?’ I don’t know.
‘What if the storm heads this way? Is there going to be a hurricane?’ I don’t know.
‘Isn’t there a transponder on board? Why can’t they track us with that?’ I don’t know.
‘Can you die from the norovirus?’ No.
In the end, he’d sent Bin to request a security presence, but none had been forthcoming. All security personnel were needed up on the main deck, where he’d heard fights were breaking out continually. And he had to cope with the repercussions. Several blood-soaked faces and two possible concussions.
It couldn’t go on.
It had been past noon when he’d made it up to the VIP suites. And that was when it had happened. The woman had cornered him as he was about to knock on Elise Mayberry’s door. His heart sank. He recognised her as the wife of the man who’d abused him yesterday. She insisted that her husband be airlifted off the ship immediately. He patiently explained why that wasn’t possible. She accused him of lying. He said that her husband only had a virus and it would pass. She insisted on seeing the captain. And then she’d gone to hit him. She apologised immediately and then became hysterical. She’d snapped: she’d been pushed to the limit. He knew how she felt. He also wanted to break down and cry. He hurried back to the medical bay for some Xanax – she wouldn’t last the day without a helping hand – and that’s when he’d done it. It had been so easy.
The ampoules were waiting for him in their little soldier rows. Howzit, Jesse. Knew you’d pitch eventually. Come on in and join the party.
