Day Four Read online

  ‘Time?’ Elise asked.

  ‘Ten minutes past eleven.’

  ‘That late, huh?’

  They shared a sigh.

  ‘We can’t do it now that the ship has stopped moving,’ Helen said, stating the obvious. ‘They’ll just fish us out again.’

  ‘You think they’d bother?’

  ‘If someone saw us, it’s conceivable.’ They’d scoped out where to do it on the first day of the cruise – the Tranquillity deck, aft of the ship. The main party was scheduled to take place on the Lido deck, and they’d agreed that no one would notice two old women slipping over the railings at midnight. Only it didn’t look like there was going to be a party after all.

  ‘There’s always the sleeping tablets,’ Elise said.

  ‘Too risky.’ But it wasn’t just that. Helen had set her heart on doing it like they’d planned. A watery grave. She’d done her research, and she knew that drowning wasn’t painless – far from it – but the sleeping tablets would help, and it meant that no one would have to deal with the memory of coming across their bodies. If they did it right, they’d simply disappear without a trace.

  ‘Well, it ain’t over till it’s over,’ Elise said.

  Helen closed her eyes and tried to drown out the background noise. Now that their plan was scuppered, she needed to take stock. She’d assumed that as the hours slipped away, the enormity of what they were planning would eventually hit home. It hadn’t. She was well aware that her attitude to ending her life was psychologically abnormal, and she still felt a trace of the giddiness – not happiness exactly, but close – that had infected her since she’d made the decision five months ago.

  It had been Elise’s idea to do it on a cruise. Helen had never been on one before, and she was drawn to the idea of spending her last days on a luxurious vessel with Egyptian cotton sheets and five-star meals. It would be her version of Blanche Dubois, who longed to die after eating a poisoned grape while holding the hand of a handsome ship’s doctor. But it wasn’t to be. Elise had booked them on a Foveros cruise – she had happy memories of cruising with the company in the eighties – and for someone as Internet savvy as Elise, The Beautiful Dreamer’s vast number of one-star reviews on CandidCruisers.com had somehow passed her by. Helen had been appalled when she’d read some of them – one passenger had discovered urine leaking from the bathroom tap. But she’d thought: what did it matter? How bad could it be?

  Bad, but not awful. And to be fair, the first three days of the cruise had been less odious than she’d expected, although she’d had a few dark hours when they’d stopped at Foveros’s private island on the second day. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ a couple sitting in front of them had sighed as the tender boats ferried them to the harbour, but Helen saw only a tawdry mess, a once beautiful island cancerous with shops selling mass-produced tat. Two other Foveros cruise liners were docked next to The Beautiful Dreamer, and Helen was aghast at the number of people pouring out of their innards and streaming into the duty-free compound. She and Elise had found a shady spot next to the pirate-ship-themed beach bar, and although she’d put on a brave face, she’d been listless all day. Back on board, she was more aware than ever of people around her stuffing their faces with junk food, gulping down iridescent cocktails, and leaving half-eaten meals on tables for others to clear away.

  Then, on the raised stage on the Lido deck, she’d seen a woman dancing alone, hamming it up unselfconsciously to a pop song. A friend had brought the woman a plate of food, and she’d continued to dance, casually cramming fries into her mouth without missing a step. Helen had caught Elise’s eye, and they’d both roared with laughter. She still wasn’t sure why this scene had snapped her out of her existential crisis or whatever it was, but suddenly, she wasn’t so filled with despair. It was a contradiction; she was going to die – she’d made that decision – but she didn’t want to die feeling like that. She didn’t want to be just another sad old woman who’d booked herself on a cut-price cruise in order to kill herself.

  Yes, that was the only time she could honestly say she felt down. She’d thoroughly enjoyed yesterday’s trip to Cozumel. They’d rented a rickety jeep from a decidedly dodgy car-hire outlet, and she’d driven them around the island, stopping at a deserted stretch of beach where they’d paddled in the waves. After two margaritas each at Fat Tuesdays, they’d giggled their way back through the compulsory duty-free mall that led to the ship, egging each other on to find the ghastliest curio. After dinner they’d amused themselves at the gallery, posing for photographs. You could have one taken with a dancer with fruit piled on her head, or in front of a grand piano. It tickled them both that those ridiculous photos would be the last piece of evidence of their lives, proof that they were happy, right up to the end.

  She was jerked out of her thoughts by the blare of the PA system: ‘G’day, ladies and gentlemen, Damien your cruise director here. We’d like to thank you for your patience. As you’ve probably gathered, we’re still working on the technical problem, but it should be resolved shortly. The captain has decided that bar service will be resumed as we count down to . . .’

  Damien’s voice was drowned out by an ear-splitting cheer, and the area emptied as there was a stampede for the bar.

  ‘You want something?’ she asked Elise.

  ‘No thanks.’ Elise yawned. ‘Oops. I’m getting sleepy. Last thing I thought I’d be feeling tonight.’

  Helen checked her watch again. Eleven thirty. She was certain there would still be too many people milling around near the Tranquillity deck to take the risk, and in any case, they couldn’t do it until they’d taken the sleeping tablets and given them half an hour or so to kick in. The Zopiclone was still in their stateroom – Elise had forgotten to slip the pill container into her handbag when they’d been instructed to head to the muster station.

  The hairy-backed angel returned to his group, triumphantly carrying three buckets of beer, closely followed by a woman in a flimsy red tunic bearing a tray of shot glasses filled with purple liquid. Hairy Back downed two of the shots, grabbed the woman in red, and started slobbering over her. She giggled, and pressed herself against him. He clamped his mouth onto hers, and ran his hand up under her dress, revealing a flash of sunburned thigh and a blurry tattoo of what looked to be Elmer Fudd.

  ‘Would you ever have dreamt of behaving like that in public?’ Elise tutted.

  Hairy Back’s friends were now cheering him on, and the sight of his thick jabbing tongue was making Helen faintly sick. ‘Let’s go back to the stateroom and decide what to do next.’

  ‘They haven’t said we can go yet,’ Elise said.

  ‘Since when do we need to follow the rules?’

  Elise laughed. ‘Damn right. Let’s go. At least then we can have a drink. And I don’t mind telling you, I could use the bathroom right now.’

  Helen got to her feet, wincing as pain needled down her legs. Poor circulation. She’d suffered it for years (but hopefully not for much longer). She held out a hand to help Elise up.

  ‘Thanks,’ Elise huffed. Her weight was the only issue they tended to skirt, and Helen’s main concern about their plan was the mechanics of it – she wasn’t sure how Elise was going to heave herself over the railings when the time came. ‘Look,’ Elise nudged her. A slender, dark-haired woman was darting through the crowd, heading for the crew members. ‘Isn’t that the woman who was with the psychic earlier? Celine somebody.’

  ‘Celine del Ray.’ A fake name if ever Helen had heard one. They’d seen Celine’s air-brushed photographs all over the ship promoting her ‘Friends Only’ events. And Celine had been rude, damn rude, when they’d encountered her in the passage as they were heading for the dining room.

  Helen attempted to eavesdrop, but the woman’s words were drowned by the hoots of the increasingly drunk people around her. The Filipino crew member she’d approached unclipped his radio and spoke into it. He frowned, tapped it, and then shook his head apologetically. After a heated exchange, the
woman threw up her hands and scanned the crowd, her eyes locking on Helen’s.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Helen murmured to Elise. ‘Looks like she’s heading our way.’

  Sure enough, the woman wove her way through the knots of revellers towards them. She greeted them with a small, tight smile. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I kind of met you earlier. You’re on my boss’s deck.’ A trace of a regional accent – Midlands, perhaps – corrupted with the odd American vowel.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Elise said. ‘The psychic.’

  ‘She’s actually a medium.’

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘Of course,’ Helen chimed in. ‘Mediums talk to the dead, psychics see into the future.’

  The woman gave Helen another tight smile. ‘Yeah.’ She blew a strand of hair off her forehead. Helen could see every muscle on her forearms – she was far too thin, borderline anorexic, and she crackled with nervous energy. ‘Listen . . . I know Celine was rude to you earlier and I apologise. She can get like that sometimes. Only . . . she’s been taken ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, honey,’ Elise said.

  ‘I was wondering . . . look, I need to go and find the doctor and make him come and see her. They sent a nurse, but he only stayed for five minutes and I’m still worried. Would you mind sitting with her while I go and get him?’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Helen asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. She’s not herself, been saying some really weird things. I’ve been waiting for over three hours now. If she’s had a stroke or something like that, I don’t want to leave her alone.’

  ‘I could go fetch the doctor for you,’ Helen said.

  ‘It might be best coming from me. I won’t be long, I promise.’

  Helen caught Elise’s eye. ‘We’re not doing anything else, are we?’

  ‘Not right now,’ Elise replied.

  The woman’s face relaxed, the lines in her forehead smoothing out. ‘I really appreciate this. I’m Maddie, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Helen, and this is Elise.’

  They followed Maddie across the deck, down the ramp to the Verandah level and through the grubby glass doors that led to the stairwell and elevator station. ‘You sure you want to do this, Helen?’ Elise murmured, already out of breath.

  Helen linked her arm through Elise’s. ‘Perhaps we can ask Celine to tell us what our future holds.’

  Elise giggled, and Maddie, who was striding ahead, turned to look at them.

  ‘Don’t mind us, hon,’ Elise said.

  Maddie hurried along the VIP corridor, unlocked a stateroom a couple of doors down from their cabin, and ushered them inside it. It reeked like a brewery, but apart from that, the suite itself was a carbon copy of theirs – right down to the turquoise colour scheme and the generic angel-themed watercolours. Celine was sitting in her wheelchair next to the television, her head back; her mouth slightly open. But Helen didn’t miss that her hooded eyes followed their progress into the room.

  Maddie touched her boss’s hand. ‘Celine. This is Helen, and this is Elise. They’re going to stay with you while I go get the doctor, okay?’

  Celine grunted. To Helen, Celine looked less like a psychic and more like an elderly beautician. A tower of bleached hair, blood-red talons, and skin that told of decades of facelifts and chemical peels.

  ‘Do you know where to go?’ Elise asked Maddie.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got the deck plan. I really appreciate this.’ With a last grateful look, Maddie ran for the door. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Elise sat on the bed and mouthed, ‘Now what?’

  Helen approached Celine’s wheelchair. ‘Hello, Celine. How are you feeling?’

  Celine’s gaze slid away from her, and she moved her mouth as if she was chewing on something.

  ‘You think she could have had a stroke?’ Helen asked Elise.

  Elise shrugged, and mimed pouring a bottle into a glass and drinking.

  Helen took Celine’s wrist and felt her pulse, which was strong and steady. Close up, she could see the thick make-up coated over the fine lines on Celine’s cheeks, the folds of floury flesh under her chin, the hands and neck betraying the true age as they always did. A snatch of a poem she’d always loathed popped into her head: Oh fat white woman whom nobody loves . . .

  Celine lifted her head, licked her lips, and stared right at her.

  ‘Celine? Can you hear me?’

  Helen was certain she caught a flash of something in the woman’s watery blue eyes.

  ‘You think it’s okay if I use the bathroom, Helen?’ Elise said.

  ‘Of course.’ Helen smiled at her. Elise was one of those people who always announced whenever she had to go to the bathroom. Helen found it endearing rather than annoying.

  ‘Helen?’ Elise said, hesitating outside the bathroom door. ‘Helen? I think there’s someone in there.’

  ‘There can’t be.’

  Elise knocked on the door. ‘Hello?’ Elise pressed her ear to the door, then gestured for Helen to join her. ‘Listen.’

  Elise was right. A faint sound was coming from within – a woman’s voice humming a jazzy tune. Al Jolson, something like that. Helen dampened a spark of grief before it spread – Graham would have been able to identify it. She knocked on the door. ‘Hello? Is someone in there?’ The humming stopped abruptly. ‘It might be coming from the cabin next door.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘What else could it be? Here, try the handle.’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Elise said. ‘You do it.’

  Helen hesitated, then opened the door. The scent of lavender wafted out, but the bathroom was empty.

  Elise shivered. ‘Ugh. That gave me the jitters.’

  She disappeared inside and Helen made her way back to Celine. The air inside the cabin was stifling, and she moved towards the balcony to crank the door open, catching her breath as a flicker of movement caught her eye. There was someone behind her – a man – she could see his reflection in the glass of the balcony door. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face a blur. Slowly, heart in her throat, she turned around.

  The room was empty.

  She almost screamed when the toilet whooshed in the bathroom. Elise emerged, shaking her hands to dry them. ‘Helen? You okay?’

  Helen forced herself to smile. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I tell you, I hope Maddie hurries up. I’m going to get us a drink.’

  While Elise poured them both hefty doubles, Helen glanced at the balcony door again. Stress, that was all it was. Exhaustion. Her mind playing tricks on her.

  ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ Elise winked, handing her a glass. Helen wasn’t much of a whiskey drinker, but she knocked it back gratefully, the burn as it slid down her throat bringing her back to herself. They perched on the bed.

  The sound of a cheer filtered down from the Lido deck above them, and Elise clinked her glass against Helen’s. ‘Happy New Year, hon.’

  ‘Happy New Year.’

  ‘Happy New Year, Celine,’ Elise said.

  Celine raised her head slowly, and then she gave them a smile full of intelligence, and, Helen thought, something that looked very much like malice. ‘It will be,’ she said. ‘You’ll see.’

  The Angel of Mercy

  Jesse still didn’t dare breathe through his nose. He’d seen (and smelled) far worse – he’d interned at Makiwane Hospital, for fuck sakes – but the odour of stomach acid and decomposition in this confined environment was really getting to him. His first death on board, and right in the middle of everything else he had to deal with.

  Ram, the more senior of the two security guys waiting at the door, cleared his throat. ‘How much longer will you be, doctor?’

  ‘I’m about done.’ Jesse hated to admit it, but the ship’s security staff intimidated the crap out of him, and none more so than Ram, who was something of a legend. According to Martha, the font of all ship gossip, Ram was an ex-Gurkha, a veteran of Afghanistan, and someone you seriously didn’t wan
t to mess with. Devi, the guard with him, was more of a mystery. He was almost a head taller than his boss, and unlike the other security staff, was clean-shaven – the others tended to sport identical moustaches. Jesse hadn’t spoken to him before, although he’d seen him once or twice in the crew bar.

  ‘Can you tell us time of death?’ This from Devi. His boss glanced at him sharply.

  ‘I’m not a pathologist,’ Jesse sighed. He’d taken the girl’s core temperature, factoring in that the air-con would have been blasting out before the ship stopped. The purplish red of lividity was evident on the girl’s thighs and stomach, and rigor was still present, but he didn’t have the equipment to do much more. The body showed signs of being dead for twelve hours at least; more like eighteen or even twenty. He needed to tread carefully; he couldn’t risk this backfiring on him. ‘Don’t quote me on this, but I’d say from twelve to twenty hours, give or take.’