Day Four Page 3
‘But what if—’
‘Just go, Marilyn.’
‘You don’t need to snap at me.’
Dial it back. ‘It’ll be fine, babe. Things like this happen all the time on cruises.’
‘But I need you, Gary.’
‘Hon, I’m still feeling icky,’ he winced at the word – a Marilyn word – but it did the trick.
‘Oh Gary, I didn’t even ask how you were feeling.’
‘I got sick again, had to use your shampoo to clean my clothes.’
‘Oh baby, don’t worry.’
Gary gave himself a mental pat on the back. ‘Now, you go and join your friends and don’t worry about me. Damien wouldn’t have told us to stay in the staterooms if there was any real danger.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. If they tell us to head to the muster stations I’ll come find you.’
‘Okay. I hate leaving you, it’s just . . . I don’t think I could handle staying down here.’
She moved to hug him, and he leaned back, falling onto his elbows. ‘Better not. I might be contagious.’
‘You’re so thoughtful. You know where to go, right, babe?’
‘Uh-huh. I’ll feel so much better knowing you’re safe.’
He almost screamed with relief as the door closed behind her.
Now. Think coolly and calmly. Run through it again, and this time, don’t lose it.
He’d chucked the remaining pills down the pan in the men’s room outside the Sandman Lounge, so that just left his clothes, gloves and cap. He could get rid of those easily during the party when everyone would be whooping it up. But . . . what if they cancelled the festivities? That would depend on whether they sorted out the mechanical glitch or whatever it was in time. They would. He couldn’t worry about that.
Next – would her friends remember him? He hadn’t drawn attention to himself, hadn’t even spoken to his girl at the bar, and he prided himself on his bland appearance. He knew from years of careful study that people tended to fixate on obvious characteristics – a moustache, spectacles, garish clothing, a limp. The security cameras and face recognition systems shouldn’t be an issue – he’d kept his head bent as he’d followed her to her cabin, and his cap would’ve hidden his bald spot. Once he’d disposed of his clothes, there’d be no way they could identify him, and in any case, his plain navy sports shirt and khaki shorts weren’t particularly distinguishing, and could even be mistaken for the uniform worn by the low-level staff.
All good.
So why did he still have the feeling he was missing something? Think.
It hit him like a shock of ice water: the ‘Don’t Disturb, I’m Cruisin’ n Snoozin’’ sign. He had the sickening feeling that he’d already snapped off the surgical gloves when he slid it over the door handle. Ah, God. His DNA and fingerprints would be on it. Could he say he’d touched it as he walked past?
Yes. No. How would he explain what he was doing on her deck? Her stateroom was one floor above his, but it was situated halfway along a corridor that led nowhere.
It was his punishment for deviating from the plan. It was supposed to have happened tonight, New Year’s Eve, when everyone would be drunk and occupied. He was usually so careful. Mr Contingency. He never took chances. He wasn’t sloppy. He had a system. But there she’d been, alone at the bar, staring wistfully at her friends, who were dancing and flirting with the rest of the singles group. It had been too good a chance to pass up. He’d given in to temptation, and now he had to pay. There was a very good reason he always did it on the last night of the cruise – the chaos as passengers were herded off the ship the following morning meant that the chances of a clean getaway were far higher. Most of his girls wouldn’t fully recall what had happened to them until much later. Days, weeks, even. And by then it would be too late. Plus, he’d read on countless forums that the security staff were prepped to convince victims of on-board sexual assaults not to press charges. The last thing Foveros wanted was more adverse publicity.
But if they had discovered her, they’d be forced to investigate. Foveros already had a bad rep for safety on board, and then there were all those accusations that the company wasn’t keeping up with hygiene requirements. They’d be stupid to try to hide this.
What had possessed him?
Perhaps he’d been lulled into a false sense of security because it had all been going so well up till then. On the first day, he was always especially attentive to Marilyn, arriving early and booking her into the spa so that she’d be occupied while he did his preliminary sweep of the passengers. Foveros’s New Year’s cruises always attracted a batch of eager singles, and he wasn’t fussy about age. He preferred slightly larger ladies, blondes or redheads. No one too obviously confident; a follower rather than a leader. Over the years he’d become adept at picking out the ugly duckling at the party, the hanger-on, the afterthought bridesmaid at the bachelorette party. There were usually hundreds of Brits on the New Year’s cruise, eagerly taking advantage of budget cabins and cheap cocktails. Brits partied harder than American girls, and (in his opinion) tended to have lower self-esteem.
He’d spotted his girl that evening during Happy Hour in the Sandman Lounge, had watched her out of the corner of his eye while Marilyn got steadily drunk on half-price Mai Tais. It always amazed him how he recognised his girls straight away, as if they were calling out to him. She was just his type, thirty or forty pounds overweight, stringy blond hair, hanging out on the periphery of a large group of thirty-somethings, laughing self-consciously at their jokes. On the second day he’d seen her in the pizza queue, her thighs and shoulders bright red from over-exposure to the sun, and it was even more obvious that she was being sidelined by the rest of her group (he’d rejoiced at the bleakness in her eyes). Another piece fell into place when she’d excused herself, and he’d followed, keeping his distance, as she made her way to her stateroom – taking the stairs rather than the elevator. Gary noted her stateroom number – M446 – and walked on past.
And last night, well . . . it was almost as if it was meant to be. Marilyn had been exhausted by the time they returned to the ship after the day in Cozumel. He’d signed them up for a beach resort excursion followed by a tour around some dull Mayan ruins (Marilyn had complained about the heat and the mosquitoes the entire time, as had most of their fellow cruisers), and doped by the unusual amount of exercise, she’d fallen asleep almost as soon as they’d returned to the ship. He’d sneaked out, intending only to continue his recce and make absolutely sure the girl he’d chosen was The One.
And there she’d been, waiting for him.
He always kept his tools on him – it wouldn’t do for Marilyn to come across the little bag of goodies. It had been easy to saunter to the men’s room, pocket his glasses and don the cap. Easy to check that the barman and the surrounding patrons were otherwise engaged. Easy to crumble the tablet into her cocktail glass. Easy to hang back and watch as she began to lose focus. Easy to wait for her to stumble out of the room. Easy to watch her weave her way into the elevator, while he made his way down to her deck via the stairs. Easy to trail her down the corridor, feeling his pulse quicken, anticipation twitching in his groin. Easy to lend a hand when she fumbled with the key-card. Easy to shoulder his way in, murmuring that he was just there to help her. Easy to—
Gary jumped as seven loud beeps echoed over the PA system, followed by: ‘G’day, ladies and gentlemen, Damien your cruise director here again. We are now asking you to calmly and carefully make your way to your assigned muster stations. This is not a drill, but there is no cause for alarm. Crew members will be on hand to help you find your assigned stations, which will be clearly marked on the back of your stateroom doors and on your Foveros Fun Cards. I repeat, there is no cause for alarm. Your safety is our primary concern.’
The sound of raised voices, slamming doors and running feet floated in from the corridor. Gary didn’t move, merely listened as the chaos outside petered away.
His girl was supposed to have been number four. His lucky number.
He’d helped her over to the bed – she hadn’t said much, murmured she was feeling sick, something like that. She’d slumped onto her back, her eyes glassy. When her face went slack, he began. He didn’t allow himself to touch at first, just look. Then, lightly, softly, he ran his hands over her thighs, breasts and torso. Tight shorts, a strappy top. He yanked the top up, revealing a flesh-coloured bra. He’d have to roll her over to undo it, had been about to do just that, when she’d coughed, gurgled, and he’d jumped back as vomit spilled out of her mouth. She shuddered, coughed again. Choking. She was choking. He—
Bang, bang on his door. He sat absolutely still. Bit down on his tongue, hoping against hope that whoever it was would pass on. The lock clicked, the door opened and an Asian man poked his head inside. He wasn’t their usual steward – a pretty Filipino girl Marilyn had taken an instant disliking to. ‘Are you unwell, sir?’ the steward asked. ‘Did you not hear me knocking the door?’
‘No. I’m fine. Just tired.’
‘Sir. You have to get to your muster station. Do you know how to get there?’
‘Are you checking all the cabins?’
The steward frowned.
Gary could hardly believe he’d said something so stupid. ‘I mean, to make sure that everyone will be safe.’
‘Oh yes, sir. Your safety is important to us.’
‘I need to get dressed.’
‘Please hurry, sir. I will come back.’
So this was it. If she hadn’t been found, if by some miracle her friends or steward hadn’t discovered her yet, there was now no chance she’d remain undetected. He pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt, trying not to think about the sodden clothes in the corner of the stall. Then he sucked in a breath and slipped his feet into his sandals.
His only chance was to brazen it out.
He hadn’t even checked to see if she was still alive, but he’d known. Known in his gut that she wasn’t. His girl had choked to death while Damien chirped on the TV, the back of her hand flapping on the mattress, smack, smack, smack, ‘. . . don’t forget to check out our signature stand-up shows in the Starlight Dreamer Lounge . . .’ smack, smack. ‘. . . and for a limited time only, Xenus watches will be going for a staggering forty per cent discounted price . . .’ After several unendurable minutes, a sound came out of her throat . . . not a death rattle exactly, but a hiss. A final, defeated exhalation. Without considering the implications of what he was doing, he’d used his foot to roll her off the double bed and into the gap between it and the wall, and threw the duvet over her.
That had been his greatest mistake. Now they’d know for sure that someone else was involved. If he’d just left her lying on the bed, more than likely they’d put her death down to alcohol poisoning.
He crept out into the now deserted corridor and waved at the steward, who was checking the last of the staterooms and sliding red cards into the key slots. ‘Thanks for waiting,’ Gary called. ‘Sorry to cause any trouble.’ Good. His voice sounded calm, controlled. The man I encountered did not appear anxious or guilty, he imagined the steward relating to the head of security – or God forbid the FBI or Scotland Yard or whichever agency was tasked with investigating British passengers’ deaths.
‘No problem, sir. Please hurry. Your life vest is there at your muster station.’
Gary walked stiffly towards the stairs, his sandals slop-shooshing on the carpet. It was gloomier here, the staircase’s metal rails warm from countless hands. He sniffed. Marilyn was right, there was a smoky odour wafting from the lower level. He increased his pace, hesitating when he came to his girl’s floor.
It would be so easy to hurry around the corner and peer down the corridor to her stateroom. He took a couple of steps towards the next flight, then whirled around and jogged back towards the entrance to her deck. His gut clenched again – he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing, but something had taken him over and he couldn’t stop.
The red cards indicating that the cabins were unoccupied were all slotted into the doors of the staterooms leading up to hers. The corridor stretched like an optical illusion, its end shrouded in darkness. He hustled along it, stopping dead when he saw the red card inserted into his girl’s door, too.
Someone had checked the cabin. If they’d found her, he would have expected to see a security presence, unless the ship was already engaged in a cover-up. Or perhaps she’s not dead, after all. She could be in the medical bay, groggy and confused, trying to piece together the night’s events. He retraced his steps, moving as fast as he could, and it was only when he reached the stairwell that it hit him: he’d forgotten to shield his face from the security cameras.
The Devil’s Handmaiden
Althea slapped on the smile she reserved for the most difficult passengers, and waited for the man lumbering down the corridor towards her. Mr Lineman; stateroom V23. He and his wife were truly disgusting, leaving their toilet bowl stained and sodden towels all over the floor. ‘Hello, Mr Lineman,’ she called, adding a respectful lilt to her voice. ‘You should be at your muster station now.’
He huffed, his cheeks flushed from the effort of walking the hundred metres or so from the stairwell. The dim emergency lights accentuated the folds in his baggy face; his knees sagged under the strain of the load they were forced to carry. ‘Just what in the hell has happened to the goddamned ship?’
‘I am so sorry, Mr Lineman, but I don’t know any more than you do.’ This was almost true – she’d been napping at her station when the Bravo alarm had sounded – but she’d heard from Maria, her supervisor, that B Deck had been evacuated because of the smoke. Althea wasn’t worried. In her four years of working for Foveros, there had been several similar incidents, and Maria had said the fire was minor.
‘Why the hell can’t we stay in our staterooms?’
‘It’s for your own safety, Mr Lineman.’
His jowls wobbled. ‘I thought there was no danger? Damien said there was no danger.’
Smile still in place she said, ‘That is true, but it is standard procedure for the captain to muster the passengers in a situation like this. I really must urge you to return to your station.’
‘I had to come back for my medication. You people want me to get sick?’
No. I would like you to die a lingering, painful death. ‘Of course not, Mr Lineman. A crew member should have accompanied you back to your stateroom. Would you like me to collect it for you?’
‘I can do it.’ He flicked the red card that she’d inserted into his stateroom’s lock. ‘What the hell’s this?’
‘It indicates that your stateroom has been checked and is empty, Mr Lineman.’
‘Hmmmf.’ He threw it on the carpet, slid his own card into the slot and slammed his way inside the suite.
She leaned against the wall and stretched like a cat while she waited for him to re-emerge. That bitch Maria would be on the prowl if she wasn’t done soon, and she still had to check Trining’s station on Five Aft – she’d meant to do it hours earlier. The lazy puta had come to find her at lunch, said she’d started puking halfway through her morning shift, but Althea suspected she’d been drinking again. Trining was already on a warning – it would be her third sick day this month – and she’d promised Althea fifty dollars if she’d cover for her. The extra money would come in useful, but today Althea could do without the hassle. Her limbs were heavy with exhaustion; she hadn’t been sleeping well. She’d convinced herself that she was tired all the time because she’d been working too hard, taking on too many extra duties.
; The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
Damien’s voice droned over the PA system, repeating the same message yet again. The man was in love with his own voice. Althea had never spoken to him, but Rogelio, the only pinoy assistant cruise director, said he was an egoist with a nasty heart. Rogelio . . . now there was someone she should have married. Handsome, hard working, and always courteous. The opposite of Joshua.
The toilet whooshed in Mr Lineman’s cabin, and seconds later he reappeared, a hefty Walgreens bag cradled in his arms. She smiled again, but he stomped past her without a word.
‘Putang ina mo,’ she said under her breath.
He paused and turned, his piggy eyes gleaming. ‘What was that?’
Shit. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What did you just say? What language was that?’
‘Tagalog, Mr Lineman.’
‘Taga what?’
‘Tagalog. It is a Filipino language.’ You ignorant pig-bastard. ‘I was merely wishing you good luck,’ she lied.
‘Learn to speak English, why don’t you,’ he muttered.
Althea wished that she could tell this stupid cone-head that she spoke English, Spanish and Tagalog fluently and could curse in five additional languages, whereas he could barely speak one, but she would lose her bonus if he gave her a negative rating. ‘I am so sorry, Mr Lineman. I meant no offence.’
He looked slightly mollified. This time, she watched him carefully as he trudged away. The ship was listing more radically now, enough to affect his balance. Good. Fall, bastardo, fall.
She replaced the red card in his door and then checked the suite shared by the two seniors, Helen and Elise. Spotless – their twin beds were exactly as she’d left them when she’d serviced their stateroom earlier that evening. She expected a large tip from these two. Althea had worked on enough ships to recognise the big tippers, and it was never the ones who demanded extra bottled water every hour, bleated about the air-con temperature, or whined if she didn’t fold a different fuck-darned towel animal every night.