The Trespassers

by Meg Mundell

  But Cleary knew better. Despite Declan’s bravado, the plan would never work.

  He felt a gentle weight on his shoulders: Billie, turning him towards her, beckoning now, urgent. Quick – come with me!

  Swept along by a mix of hope and fear, Cleary followed. She led him through the ship’s innards to a door guarded by two soldiers. It opened onto a musty room full of spooks working at desks. They were shown to a corner.

  Billie scribbled, spun the pad so he could read it: Surprise for you!

  A spook raised her arm, and a screen flickered to life on the wall. And there, sitting in a chair, looking straight at him, was his ma.

  She wore a white smock but no mask. Her face had changed: her cheeks hollow, her bones sharper, skin pale as skimmed milk. The chair dwarfed her body. Her collarbones had surfaced, and her arms were thin as sticks.

  She smiled, and his heart gave a kick: the screen was live, she could see him too. My darling, she mouthed, reaching out as if to cup his cheeks in her hands. As she spoke, her words popped up on the screen like bubbles. Hello, my angel. Look at you. She was trying not to cry, or laugh, or both.

  Proof at last: his mother was alive. He’d buried it deep, the fear that Billie could be lying; that in truth his ma was gone forever. Now here she was, so close, but still out of reach. She looked so weak, and all at once he’d had enough of being brave. He wanted to bury his face in her neck, sniff her hair, take shelter in her arms.

  Don’t cry, darling, she said. Look at you! Someone needs a haircut. She snipped two fingers.

  Cleary wiped his cheeks, signed back: Are you okay?

  His ma nodded. I’m good. She tapped her chest. How are you? Her palms up, a juggling motion, finger pointing. The few formal phrases they’d learnt together, a hybrid vocab, mingled with their own invented or borrowed gestures.

  He wiggled his loose tooth, made the sign for money. His ma laughed. You’re too old for the tooth fairy, you chancer.

  He was conscious of spooks hovering nearby, watching. Billie too.

  His ma leant forward, her collarbones standing out like cords. I’m feeling much better. They say I’ll be allowed to be with you soon.

  When, when?

  A headless torso dressed in white moved into shot. His ma waved the person away.

  Not sure, she said, but soon, my love. Billie will find out for us. You be good now.

  A flutter in his chest. She was signing off.

  I have to go now, darling. I love you so much, my brave boy. She blew a kiss. Wrist-bones visible beneath the skin.

  When are you coming back? But the screen had vanished.

  Facing the blank wall he held one hand aloft, the thumb and fingers forming an ‘O’; the other hand a rocket shooting up from his heart, tracing a loop, and home again. To the moon and back.

  ~

  Sleep eluded him that night. Careful to avoid detection, Cleary slipped from the nurses’ cabin and made his way to the upper decks. When the circling guards were out of view he climbed into the rigging and perched there like a bird, bare feet dangling above the yard. He’d be safe up here, out of sight.

  Overhead the mast plunged up into a void prickled with stars. The bay was an arc of lights, a speckled horseshoe ending in the black mouth of the harbour. At regular intervals, like a slow heartbeat, the sweeping beam of the lighthouse winked out over the bay.

  Just across the water lay the ghostly bulk of the hospital ship, his ma somewhere aboard. Seeing her alive, speaking to her, had changed everything. The Steadfast now seemed drowsy and remote, its inhabitants drugged or hypnotised, while Cleary felt alert, sharp, urgent. Abuzz with hope and impatience.

  If anything the pain of separation had grown worse, his yearning now a physical pull, a magnet dragging his heart into crazy shapes. He must try to be patient: she was on the mend, out of harm’s way, safe on the Nightingale. He would never speak a word of what he knew. He’d soon have her back, and one day they’d be free of this unlucky ship, would step ashore together. Leave the danger far behind.

  Lost in these thoughts, he didn’t spot the man’s approach until it was too late.

  Blackbeard came to a halt directly beneath him. Cleary froze as the deck lights revealed the top of the man’s head, a whorl of thinning hair, a gleam of pale scalp. The man stood at the foot of the foremast, surveying the dark shoreline, fists on hips. Something fake or theatrical in his stance, like an adult playing at hide-and-seek, feigning ignorance of the child plainly visible nearby. His presence here no accident.

  Alone with his enemy, the guards nowhere in sight, Cleary resorted to prayer: if he stayed completely still, melted into the mast, the man would not see him. His heart turned over in his chest, a heavy liquid roll.

  Blackbeard patted his pockets, pulled his mask aside and lit a cigarette. The smoke snaked up through the rigging as if seeking Cleary out. He breathed in shallow sips.

  Night offered no protection. The man was strong and could no doubt climb. Would anyone hear him scream? Could he edge along the yardarm, out of reach? Head up into the furthest reaches of the rigging, seek a line too delicate to bear the man’s full weight? Or shimmy to the very top of the mast – but then what?

  All at once Blackbeard was in motion, climbing swiftly up the ratbars, face upturned, a hunter seeking out his quarry. Coming for him. Before he could think, Cleary was scrambling up the rigging, away from his pursuer. Hand over foot, instinct in motion.

  Above him the next platform stuck out at a daunting angle, the ratlines slanting backwards, a hurdle that would slow him, test his strength. He could sense the man gaining on him.

  Up – or sideways?

  No time to risk the obstacle: out along the yardarm his only option. He squeezed through a thicket of cables, stepped onto a foot rope slung beneath the yard, and began sidling away from the mast. His fingers scrabbled for purchase, latched on to a wire overhead. Bare toes gripping the foot rope, Cleary made his way out into the darkness. Far below glinted the hard surface of the deck.

  A violent lurch, the rope bucking and wobbling beneath him. Fighting to keep his balance, the wire digging into his fingers, he glanced back to see the man bent double against the mast, preparing to give the rope another heave.

  This time Cleary braced himself, rode the wild oscillations; clung to the wire above, sought the rope below. Regained his footing and kept moving, taking neat tightrope steps, edging further out of reach, beyond the outline of the deck. Black water glittered far below.

  Now the rigging trembled under a new weight: Blackbeard was coming after him, stepping quick and sure along the foot rope, nimble as a spider. Cleary sped up, but the man was gaining on him, the smell of stale sweat carried on the wind.

  The next jolt tore the foot rope out from under him, left him dangling by his fingers, legs pedalling thin air. He swung over the void, feet seeking purchase, finding nothing.

  The man was almost on him when Cleary shut his eyes and let go. A sickening drop, a blow to his knee, a sharp bolt of pain as he struck the rail – bone glancing off metal – then the full shock of impact, a blow punching all the air from his body.

  An orb of light above him shimmered, shrank, blinked out. Then icy blackness closed over his head.

  BILLIE

  The paperwork was a mess – figures scrubbed out, entries missing, dosages indecipherable. The impression it gave was sloppy at best, verging on negligent to a less charitable eye. Instructed to fill in what blanks she could from memory, Billie had been given a less-than-subtle warning: resist the urge to fudge anything, to cover up mistakes or falsify the record. She pushed the files back into the folder. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

  Alone beneath the kitchenette’s weak light, she pulled out the other pages: eight neatly folded sheets, secured with an old-fashioned staple. She knew the words almost by heart. The comments too: they burnt with a
rancour not easily forgotten.

  Gov Must Right Wrongs to Migrant Workers. The first article had a zealous tone and ended with a teaser: The blame for this disaster lies not with the traumatised victims. The blame lies with those who let this deadly sickness loose in what was effectively a floating prison. The burning question: was this negligence or malice? Updates to come.

  Backflow on the piece was split: roughly one-quarter agreed with the journo, another quarter were fence-sitters, and the remaining half voiced angry disagreement or outright venom. All those howlers, flooding the stream with hatred: foreign filth, dirty scabs, ship rats, fuck off we’re full. Even the more measured responses carried a note of hostility: These people are a biohazard. They must be sent back where they came from. The public up in arms, outraged that a deadly illness might be allowed to breach their borders, terrified these new arrivals could spell the death of them.

  What had that strange official told her? You do have supporters here. But if there was indeed a cheer squad, they were clearly a minority.

  The second article focused on Davy Whelan, the slain crewman, asked why the killing seemed to have sunk from sight. Given that the virus struck mere days after that violent death, were police investigating a possible link between the two?

  Cause of death: exsanguination. Bleeding out. Poor Cleary, witnessing the aftermath.

  She checked her watch: almost midnight. Time to turn in, check on the boy.

  Her hands met with a tangle of blankets: his bunk empty. Billie swore aloud. When she’d last checked he’d still been awake, eyes wide in the dim cabin. She’d kissed his forehead, stroked his eyes shut. Then returned to her paperwork.

  Why hadn’t she made him a mug of hot milk, sat with him until he fell asleep? Some surrogate she was. How long had he been gone?

  No sign of him on the top deck, but a huddle of officials and crew turned at her approach. Bad news plain on their faces.

  ‘Where were you?’ demanded a sailor. Len, the superstitious guy.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ said a hazmatted official. ‘The boy.’

  ‘Where is he?’ A stab of fear and guilt. ‘What happened?’

  The sailor pointed. ‘With the doc, down in the captain’s cabin. Jumped in the fucking water, half drowned himself.’

  She ran, pushed past the crewman guarding the door, barged into the captain’s rooms.

  Kellahan was bent over the boy, checking his pulse. He turned as Billie entered. ‘He’ll be okay,’ he said, moving aside for her. ‘Someone heard the splash and pulled him out.’

  Cleary’s gaze was unfocused, strangely blank. He gave a weak smile as she squeezed his hand, touched his cold cheek. His body so small in the big bed. Heatpacks tucked around him, the bedclothes tented halfway down. An officer stood against the wall, radiating disapproval.

  ‘I’ve given him a shot of pseudopiate,’ Kellahan was saying. ‘His knee’s blown up like a balloon, nasty bruise on the patella. We’ll need to get that x-rayed.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Little fella, I’m so sorry. I’m here now.’ She raised her mask and kissed his damp forehead, tried to keep the worry from her face. His lips made a smacking sound. The kid was jellied.

  ‘Looks like he tried to swim across to the Nightingale,’ said the officer. ‘A media boat picked him up.’ Displeasure plain in his voice. ‘Captain Lewis is next door, getting quizzed by local military. He’s not happy.’

  ‘Captain said you can sleep in here tonight,’ Kellahan said to Billie, ignoring the officer. ‘Watch the boy. He’ll need that ice pack changed and more pain relief in a few hours.’ She felt the doctor’s hand on her back, a light pressure. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. Nobody’s to blame.’

  ~

  The judge’s hologram shimmered on the wall, then settled into solid form. Below the woman’s disembodied torso ran Billie’s name, the date and the words Maritime Incident R52.

  ‘Please remove your mask and state your full name,’ said the judge, turning her attention onto Billie. The woman’s eye contact was slightly off – just a minor miscue in the program, but the effect was disconcerting. Billie felt both exposed and oddly invisible.

  ‘Billie Grace Galloway,’ she said, trying to meet the judge’s eye. Was the effect the same at the far end? She didn’t need some tech glitch making her seem shifty. Breathe, she told herself.

  ‘Ms Galloway, I’m going to ask you a series of questions,’ said the hologram judge. ‘Please answer to the best of your ability. This interview is being recorded.’

  Billie inclined her head, not sure if she was meant to speak.

  The judge indicated the glimmering presence beside her. ‘My colleague, Mr Harper, will ask for clarification at times. Do you understand your obligations?’

  Billie cleared her throat. ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘No need for formalities,’ said the judge. ‘This is a government inquiry, not a court of law. Yes or no will do just fine.’

  They began gently, confirming dates and facts. Billie glanced around the room: these two holograms and a dozen ghostly strangers in white hazmats. At her elbow sat a ‘personal liaison officer’, a young woman apparently tasked with ‘safeguarding’ her ‘emotional and physical wellbeing’. No passengers or crew, no brass in here. Just Billie, alone with all these apparitions, deep in the bowels of the hospital ship.

  ‘Ms Galloway?’ said the judge. ‘Would you like Mr Harper to repeat the question?’

  ‘Please,’ she said. Snap out of it. They’ve barely started.

  ‘How long did you work at Glasgow South Hospital?’ He had a pudgy, patient face and a thatch of black hair that looked dyed, although that might be the optics.

  ‘Almost four years.’ She resisted the urge to add: It’s all in my file. No doubt they were familiar with its contents.

  ‘Why did you leave that position?’

  ‘I was laid off.’ She’d been good at her job. There was no red flag on her profile, just a suspicious gap: an empty space hinting at omission, erasure, obfuscation. One solitary lay-off, at a time when every pair of hands was needed.

  Harper’s expression remained benign. ‘So, superfluity. No other reason? No other contributing factors?’

  Here it was. This would become part of the official record. She could not risk a lie.

  ‘I got … involved with someone. A supervisor.’ The holos waited. The room was still.

  ‘Please go on, Ms Galloway,’ prompted the man.

  ‘He was a senior staff member, an ID specialist – Infectious Diseases. Married. It lasted maybe three months. I called it off.’ How deep would they dig? The one work friend she’d confided in had disapproved, broken the confidence. No sympathy there when Billie had ended it.

  ‘And your relationship with this man – how does that relate to your departure from the hospital?’

  She sensed the hazmats stirring, their attention sharpening.

  ‘He was using pseudopiates. I didn’t realise, not at first.’ No-one prompting her now. Just letting her stumble forward into the silence. ‘The stock was closely monitored. So he asked me to … obtain some for him.’

  The judge remained impassive. ‘And you agreed?’

  ‘Just three times. Then I said no more – never again. And I broke it off with him.’ Not until her affair with Luke was over did she realise how isolating it had been, how much time and energy it consumed – the waiting, the cautious frustration, the snatches of stolen time.

  ‘Did hospital management discover you’d accessed these drugs without authorisation?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was brought before a disciplinary panel.’

  There was no avoiding Luke at work, but she’d been doing well – until the shock of being hauled before that grim-faced row of higher-ups.

  ‘And what about this man, your
supervisor?’ The judge’s image splintered, then drew in sharp again.

  Billie tried to meet the woman’s eye. ‘He was there. On the panel. They had no idea. Nobody knew the stuff was for him.’ Luke had kept his head down as she sat before them, telling the lies that saved his arse.

  The judge frowned. ‘You protected this man? Why?’

  ‘He promised to advocate for me, make sure I wasn’t blackmarked. I was going to lose my job anyway. No sense in us both going down.’ How foolish it sounded now. How slow she’d been to admit it to herself: that Luke’s appetite for chemicals far outweighed his affection for her. That his skewed desire had cost Billie her job.

  ‘Did he offer you any incentive?’ asked Harper. ‘Any inducement to accept the blame?’

  Billie hesitated. ‘He made sure I was recorded as a lay-off. Agreed to be my vocational referee.’ What kind of fool would fold without compensation? They’d have access to her bank records anyway. ‘And he paid my rent for three months. That was the deal.’

  It was a shock when Harper named the exact sum. Was that the payment she was referring to? It sounded like a lot, but without a job it hadn’t lasted long. Not until actual hunger struck did she wish she’d set her price a little higher.

  That mess she’d left behind: it was irrelevant. They were just muckraking, seeking dirt. But why?

  Next topic, naturally, was drug use – prior, current, alleged. Nicotine and alcohol, she answered, the odd sleeper, all in moderation. The drugs she’d lifted had not been for her. She’d never failed a workplace drug test.

  Had she been unwell during the past five years – any undisclosed physical or emotional issues? No, nothing; to disclose vocational trauma was to risk losing your job.

  Then an odd string of questions: had she applied for BIM intake with any rival shipping companies? Known anyone who worked for other shippers? No and no. Billie snuck a glance at the official beside her: zero eye contact.

  At last, the guts of it: describe your professional qualifications and experience. How you were recruited to care for patients on the ship. Your understanding of the agreed reimbursement and conditions. The virus’ clinical manifestation, the care regime and medications used, how responsibility was delegated. The containment and waste-disposal protocols you put in place. Available equipment, workarounds devised, reasoning behind said workarounds. How your fellow recruits coped with the conditions, the mental strain. How you stored the bodies.