by Meg Mundell
Heading for the saloon, planning to kill some time on the gamescreens, he’d discovered a door wedged ajar, a set of steps leading below. Crew Only, said the sign.
His ma was down there somewhere. Without thinking he’d slipped through the door, but soon lost his bearings and wound up in this deserted section of the ship. Intersecting corridors doglegged off in unknown directions. Standing at this junction, he had an uneasy sense of having blundered into the crosshairs of a target: X marks the spot.
Stay calm, his ma always said. Slow breaths. They’d visited the Kildare Maze one winter, ended up wandering in futile circles, hemmed in by high green walls that hid whatever lay around the corner. Trudged those muddy paths for what seemed like hours before finally emerging into the open air. A lesson learnt: once your compass points were scrambled, keeping your cool was vital; panicking only made things worse.
Sweet for a split-second, these memories fast turned painful, like a hand reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart, a grip so strong he could hardly breathe. They set off a longing with only one possible cure: being back in her arms.
One wish: to be with her. Cleary didn’t care if he got sick, or died. He’d made every silent bargain he could think of: promised to give up birthdays, forgo Christmas; sworn to never taste another sweet, never open another gift or stay up past bedtime. He’d learn his times tables backwards, brush his teeth five times a day, fight monsters in dark cellars.
She was down here somewhere – but which direction? His carefully placed sticking plasters had been disappearing lately, peeled off the walls by some passer-by or cleaner, leaving a faint tacky residue.
Here the corridor walls were blank, nothing to navigate by.
A prickle at his neck; a sense that he was not alone. Cleary spun around: down the far end of the corridor stood a metal bucket, a mop handle swaying slightly with the pitch and roll of the ship. A minute ago, he’d swear, that passage had been empty. Who had put that bucket there?
Was someone spying on him?
A door flung open down the hallway. A bear-like figure lumbered into view, a misshapen thing without a head; a moment’s horror before the apparition resolved itself into human form – a man walking in reverse, hunched with effort, lugging something heavy. Swaddled in white coveralls, a full-face respirator and gloves, he was carrying an object that resembled a black sleeping-bag. A second figure appeared, holding the other end of the bag.
Whatever was inside the bag looked large and heavy, the crewmen struggling under its weight. An unfamiliar bulk. Man-sized, surely.
As the men manoeuvred their load, a big swell hit the ship, tossing the world loose from its moorings. The bag and its contents hovered a moment at the apex, then crashed to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, the men spotted their observer.
Cleary froze. These crewmen could be anyone. Both tall and faceless, stooped beneath the weight of their load, the respirators lending them an alien appearance. One man was gesturing at him, as if shooing away a dog: ordering Cleary to retreat, get out of here.
Which direction? He chose a corridor at random and walked rapidly out of sight. After several blind turns it ended abruptly, a ladder set into the wall. He scrambled up into a small companionway. Through a salt-crusted porthole he saw passengers bundled against the cold, and beyond them that endless reach of blue. He shoved the door open.
With his back to the wall, his heart beating on staccato, he counted out slow breaths. It was nothing. He’d lost his way, that’s all. His eyes lit on Declan, sitting on a bench, between his parents. His friend waggled his fingers in surreptitious greeting, then his attention flicked to Cleary’s left.
A man appeared from the hatchway. No mistaking him: that rangy body, the stoop, that dark beard bristling from the white mask. Blackbeard leant against the wall beside him, hands in pockets, boots braced apart, like they were old friends surveying a shared territory. The man was so close Cleary could smell him – unwashed hair, dank sweat, a whiff of mechanical grease. His body odour earthy, almost zoological.
Without conscious effort, moving of their own accord, Cleary’s legs propelled him across the deck. Sinking onto the bench near Declan and his parents, in plain sight of everyone, he lifted his binoculars and turned towards the sea.
~
Mealtimes were a welcome lull. The nurses formed a warm human barricade, a buffer against dark thoughts; a safe place to switch off, to drop the constant vigilance that left Cleary frazzled and wrung out. They ate together around the kitchenette table, masks off for the duration of the meal, knives and forks strictly allocated, a cup set above each individual plate at twelve o’clock so they wouldn’t get mixed up. Meals arrived on a trolley, identical serves in covered trays, like in hospital. Dessert was jelly, custard, canned fruit, some mysterious sweet mush; Cleary often devoured a double serve, the women marvelling at how much a boy his size could put away.
Whenever someone spilt salt, Holly, the pretty blonde one, would flick a pinch over her shoulder for luck, and Cleary would send out a silent prayer: Come back to me.
After dinner the nurses sat and talked, drank tea, played chess or cards, the smokers taking turns off the tiny balcony while Holly worked through a dog-eared book of crossword puzzles. Cleary would sit and draw, lose himself in a world of colours and shapes, where bad dreams could be tamed and worries pinned to the page with careful strokes of ink: a skull and crossbones flapping in the wind, the pink tresses of a jellyfish, a gunmetal shark fin spiking a cobalt wave. The kitchenette walls were decorated with his best work.
A waft of smoke as Billie leant in close behind him. Cleary focused on the page, filling in the outlines with steady strokes: two masked figures trapped in a labyrinth, a black shape slung between them; a mop poking from a bucket, corridors branching off in all directions. Only one possible exit: a zigzag path winding through bird-filled trees, a wide green field, and the columns of a city sparkling in the distance. Along this path, free of the maze, a child and his mother walked hand in hand.
BILLIE
Summoned without warning to the captain’s quarters, Billie was relieved to find Kellahan amongst the senior staff in attendance. She submitted to the san pump then squeezed onto a settee beside the head doctor. The crew remained stationed around the walls, as if standing to attention. Juliette gave her a faint nod.
Captain Lewis sat behind his desk, scrolling through a screen, a stack of fresh masks at his elbow. The frown he wore seemed to have become permanent.
‘That’s everyone, sir,’ said Cutler, locking the door.
The captain turned to Billie. ‘Ms Galloway, welcome. Doctor Kellahan is usually the designated medical presence at these meetings, but I’ve requested your attendance too. Given your role.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Your expertise.’
She’d been prodded awake by Holly, saying a crewman was waiting outside the door. She’d followed him reluctantly, her sleep-scrambled brain still trying to shake off an uneasy dream. Buckets full of bones and dirty hypodermics, a singing contest with a broken microphone.
Earlier that morning they’d lost another one: Prisha, a young woman from Hounslow. Time of death: 3.42. Long black hair matted with sweat, wide hazel eyes, chipped silver polish on her fingernails. Holding the sick woman’s hand Billie had admired the colour aloud, hoping to stir a response, but she was too far gone. One of those reserved patients who buried pain deep inside themselves, faded away without a visible fight, unable or unwilling to vocalise what their bodies knew was happening. Prisha’s sister, dosed up on Calmex, would now have been informed.
Number ten. A stab of guilt: Billie was relieved the girl had not died on her shift.
‘I cannot allow any further loss of life,’ said Captain Lewis now, fixing a stare on Billie, then the doctor. ‘There must be no more deaths.’ It had the weight of an order.
Kellahan removed his glasses. His eyes looked raw and
sleepless. ‘None of us wants to see more deaths,’ he said. ‘We’re fighting this as best we can. But the ship was not equipped to deal with this. And we don’t know exactly what we’re up against.’
‘What more can we do?’ asked Captain Lewis. ‘Why haven’t we been able to contain this thing?’ An edge to his voice she’d never heard before.
Billie spoke up. ‘Our containment strategy is absolutely by the book. But in a setting like this – everyone squeezed in together, communal meals and bathrooms, the ventilation system—’
‘What more can we do?’ the captain broke in. ‘What else?’
‘We’re doing everything we can,’ said Kellahan, replacing his glasses. ‘Your staff are scanning everyone twice daily. We’re running surveillance, hygiene protocols, contact tracing, a buffer zone …’ He trailed off, and Billie took up the list.
‘Perimeter controls, a strict donning and doffing regime,’ she counted on her fingers. ‘But in this setting, social distancing’s near-impossible. We have to assume human-to-human transmission, but there may be other vectors too. And we don’t know the incubation period. No lab analysis, no anti-virals.’
‘Spare us the jargon,’ spat Cutler. ‘The captain’s asking you a question: why is this thing still spreading?’
Kellahan bristled. ‘Perhaps you should direct that question at your staff. They’re responsible for hygiene compliance. For the scans, the decon regime, patient meals. Are they doing everything by the book?’
‘Meals?’ said Juliette sharply.
Cutler stepped forward, ready to arc up, but the captain planted his fist on the desk. ‘No-one’s laying blame here. Blame is not the issue. The issue is that people are dying on board my ship. We must prevent further fatalities. What more can we do?’
A hush fell as Captain Lewis surveyed the room. He’d always seemed to Billie like a man of no great conviction, slightly bloodless, not quite real. Dapper, with the kind of blandly handsome face you saw on ageing newsreaders or soap actors: pink skin, a thick head of silver hair, white teeth, a hint of jowls. But lately his presence had sharpened, taken on a more urgent cast.
‘I’ve said this from the start,’ said Kellahan into the hush. ‘We need to break course and seek emergency assistance. Demand a medical evacuation.’
‘No government will grant permission,’ someone objected, and Billie realised it was the chief steward, Marshall. ‘We’ve tried them all: Brazil, Argentina, South Africa. Even Madagascar. We’re barred from docking. Nobody will take us.’ Marshall eyed the doctor. ‘You seen a map lately? You understand where we are, right?’
Kellahan ignored this. ‘What about medevac?’
‘We’ve been told that’s not a viable option for a population this size,’ said an officer. ‘We got you the airdrop. That’s the best we could do.’
‘I’ve been instructed to continue to our destination,’ said Captain Lewis. ‘The Australian government has assured me they’re fully equipped to deal with this. They’re waiting for us.’
‘We’re a week from land,’ said Cutler. ‘We just have to make it through the next seven days. Keep as many alive as possible.’
Kellahan sat forward. ‘Alright. I think we should increase the crew screens – up the scans on stewards, cleaners, kitchen staff. Anyone involved in food handling or waste disposal. Thrice daily, before meals.’ The captain nodded, flicked some data into his screen.
Smart to offer options, give them concrete things to do. Spread responsibility. Billie took up the theme. ‘Let’s ramp up the hygiene comms too. Really press it home. Broadcast it every few hours – and keep changing the wording, so people don’t tune out.’
‘They’re all terrified,’ an officer put in quietly. ‘I don’t know what to tell them. All those kids …’ This was the man working with Owen on family liaison.
‘How’s the young girl?’ asked the captain, and Billie saw it: he was frightened too.
‘She’s stabilised,’ said Kellahan. ‘We’re hopeful she’ll pull through.’
Marshall pointed at Billie. ‘This one’s got a little kid staying in her cabin,’ he said, addressing the doctor. ‘With all those nurses.’ He spat the word. ‘You call that safe?’
Beside her, Billie felt Kellahan tense up, but the captain spoke first.
‘I’ve approved that arrangement,’ he said firmly. ‘Ms Galloway knows more about disease containment than anyone on this ship.’
There was a silence.
‘What about the rumours?’ asked the liaison man. ‘What are we meant to do about them? It’s rampant. All sorts of bad stuff flying around.’
‘Fear does that,’ said Kellahan, pointedly. ‘And grief. People get angry, latch on to any explanation.’
‘We all saw those protesters,’ said Juliette. ‘The day we left – the lunatics with the signs. Vigilante nutters. Wouldn’t put it past them.’
Billie had seen the placards: Ship rats! Deserters!
‘That lot are headcases,’ agreed the officer. ‘But murderers? That’s never been proven.’
‘Maybe they got it wrong,’ said Marshall. ‘Maybe it wasn’t meant to be fatal.’
The captain fixed a warning eye on his chief steward. ‘Crew are not to engage in rumour-mongering. Consider that an order. Speculation is unhelpful. Dangerous. Now,’ he said, turning back to Billie and the doctor, ‘how can we support your work? Tell us what you need.’
~
Before her shift she met Robbie on the foredeck. The wind was up, the sea a ruffled black expanse, clouds scudding across the star-speckled void above.
‘Wasn’t sure you’d be here,’ said Billie, easing down next to him. ‘It’s late.’
‘Can’t sleep, hen,’ he said. ‘Those pills you gave me are mince.’ He was bleary-eyed and smelt of booze. Bundled in thick layers of scarf, he seemed older, more fragile.
‘Don’t take double,’ she warned. ‘It’s strong stuff. I told you not to drink on them, right?’
Robbie waved a hand. ‘I won’t drop dead from a wee drop of whiskey and a sleeper.’
She was too tired to nag a man this stubborn.
‘It’s pure shan having both pubs shut,’ he said glumly. ‘Especially now – medicinal purposes, stress relief etcetera. You’d think brass would see the logic.’
For a virus seeking a fresh host, a pub packed full of sloppy drunks was heaven. They’d discussed this: Robbie understood the facts, but Billie knew he missed the booze and camaraderie.
‘How’s Mona doing?’ she asked. Terrified he would fall sick, Robbie’s wife was triple-sanning his cutlery and slathering him in decon at every opportunity.
Robbie gestured at the sky, as if lamenting madness in a loved one. ‘Mona’s all worries. Made me chuck my baccy out the other day, saw me drop someone a pinch and got all paranoid.’
Her turn to speak, but Billie found her mouth empty. A stillness had taken hold, fatigue pressing down like gravity. Clouds churned overhead, grey scraps of vapour wiping out the stars.
He peered at her. ‘You alright, hen?’
‘I’m pooched,’ she admitted. ‘They keep switching our shifts around, my head’s a muddle.’ Nursing the sick and dying was gruelling stuff, no matter how strictly you cordoned off emotion. She’d forgotten how draining it was, how much it took from you.
He rummaged in his pocket, surfaced with a jar. ‘Here,’ he declared, triumphant. ‘A healthy amount. Clean as a whistle, I sanned the fuck out of it.’
Amber liquid glowed beneath the deck lights, the jar almost full.
‘Thanks, Robbie,’ she said, sanning her hands. She held the container up to the light. Its weight was satisfying, no visible smudges on the glass. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Don’t be daft. You’re keeping the lot of us alive.’
A poor choice of words, but she resisted the obvious rejoinder: Not
all of you. Regarded the alcohol with a mix of ardour and mistrust. This was foolish – her, of all people, taking contraband under these circumstances; accepting a jar of grey booze whose provenance she couldn’t track, no clue as to the hands it might have passed through, the mouths that may have taxed a sly swig in passing. People did all sorts of things when nobody was watching.
‘Got it from Juliette,’ he said. ‘A peace offering. It’s clean.’
‘You saw this poured out with your own eyes?’ she asked, weighing the liquid in her hand.
‘Poured it myself from a fresh bottle,’ said Robbie. He sounded miffed, as if she’d questioned his integrity. ‘Wiped the whole thing down before I cracked the seal, new gloves and all. Jar fresh out of the bloody dishwasher too.’
Fire with fire, that was the way to handle Robbie. ‘Don’t blame me for being careful. If you’d seen half the things I see, you’d be double-checking too.’
‘Alright, love,’ he said, contrite. ‘But you know I’d never risk it. Couldn’t live with myself if you got sick.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, curbing an urge to pat his arm. ‘You’re a good egg, Robbie. Get some sleep. I’m off to stash this. Duty calls.’
TOM
When the next survivor was carried into recovery, I didn’t recognise him at first. A pale skeletal presence, all ribs and eye sockets. My former Romeo.
Once the nurses had retreated, I levered myself out of bed and shuffled down the row to his bedside. He lay motionless on his back, staring at the ceiling.
‘Hey,’ I said softly. ‘You made it.’
No response, but I sensed a shift, a tension in his body. He was listening.
‘Not long now. A few more days and we’ll all be off this thing.’
Still nothing. Feeling foolish, I spoke a little louder. ‘That’s right, don’t talk, save your strength. Blink twice for yes.’ A feeble joke.
