Day Four (32 page)

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.

When the clinic visitors had finally dried up – Martha and Bin had their hands full with the crew complaints – Jesse moved on to check on the passengers consigned to their cabins. The infected passengers who’d been forced to abandon their staterooms on the lower levels had quarantined themselves in the Dreamscapes Dining Room, sections of which resembled a painting from the Crimean War. He’d supervised the cleaning of the bathrooms there, both of which looked like the site of an alien birth. Jesse thought he’d become inured to the squalor: the soiled red bags left willy-nilly – sometimes dumped on the floor right next to a hazardous-waste bin – the plastic bottles and tissues and condoms and God knows what else, but that had shocked even him. The staff were thin on the ground; most appeared to have deserted their posts. He’d been snappish with one of the crew – an assistant waiter who was clearly going above and beyond his job description by venturing into the dining room – and Jesse hated himself for that.

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.

Tap, tap, find the vein,
it’s just a little prick, it’ll be over in a second, trust me, I’m a doctor.
A faint feeling of nausea and then . . . It had rolled in on him, a gentle surge of warmth and calmness and utter, absolute peace. All of it had faded: the worry about the virus, about their situation, the gut-twisting regret about Farouka. The pethidine oozed through his veins and soothed and caressed and worked its magic. He should have given into it ages ago.

It even numbed the guilt.

After that first hit, he’d returned to his cabin – grateful, at least, that he was housed on the passenger decks, and not one of the lower ones – and for the first time since it had all kicked off, he slept, waking at around four p.m. feeling refreshed and almost . . . almost happy. He rubbed toothpaste over his teeth – noting that his gums were numb, a side effect that he remembered from the old days – swilled his mouth out with bottled water, and decided, fuck it, he wasn’t going to bother shaving.

Damien’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘G’day, ladies and gentlemen. We appreciate how patient you’re being.’ Jesse laughed. Damien sounded almost bored. As if he didn’t give a shit. As if he’d given up. As if he’d finally found some self-awareness and become tired of the platitudes and bullshit and the sound of his own voice. ‘. . . and just to let you know, we’ve decided, for your convenience, to open the bars and we will be serving complimentary drinks from now onwards.’

An open bar! Brilliant idea. Add alcohol to an explosive situation – that will help.

Jesse made for the door. He’d need some caffeine to counteract some of the wooliness. Or, he could just stay in his cabin until help finally arrived (
it wasn’t coming, nobody was coming for them – they’d be here by now if they were
), and drift. But that would mean leaving Martha and Bin to deal with the evening’s horrors, and he might be a
doos
, but he wasn’t that much of an arsehole. He wafted his way down to the officers’ mess. Two white-trousered men were having a harsh whispered conversation with another officer – one of the assistant pursers, he thought. They barely glanced at him. The bread was stale, and he helped himself to a few slices of tomato, a handful of olives and a warm can of Coke. He could afford the calories now he was back on the old pethidine diet. The crew member serving the food looked like she’d been crying. Jesse was attempting to formulate something comforting to say to her (
like what, dude? If in doubt, take drugs?
), when the floor dipped and he staggered. The ship’s movement, which he’d become accustomed to, was more pronounced. It wasn’t bad, but he was definitely aware of it. Rough weather. Could a storm be brewing? Perhaps the captain’s ‘bad weather on shore’ spiel wasn’t bullshit after all. Perhaps it had made its way across the ocean to their position.

But he could handle it. He could handle anything now. People talked all the time about how drugs were bad for you and fucked up your life, but no one ever really said that in some cases drugs could actually make you a better person. Martha was a case in point. She was a high-functioning alcoholic. It put her on an even keel.

Jesse cracked the can of Coke, and headed towards the medical bay, hesitating when he came to the entrance to the corridor that led to the laundry room. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know if the
malletje
fuckers had been back, but he had his pethidine shield to protect him, so he decided to make a quick detour to the morgue. There was no sign that anyone had tried to break into the storeroom. It looked like the circus had moved on.

But that wasn’t true. It may be quiet here, but Celine del Ray was no doubt still putting on her show, wasn’t she?

Nope. He wasn’t going to go there.

He opened the storeroom door to double-check that all was kosher. The morgue door was firmly closed, and the storeroom’s dark depths looked oddly inviting. He could hide in here. Zonk himself out and sleep forever. No one would look for him here.

No. Bin and Martha needed him. He shut the door with a slam and got moving.

Baci was waiting for him outside the medical bay. Jesse cursed under his breath. He’d meant to tell him about seeing Alfonso in the Dare to Dream Theatre, but that business about the morgue had wiped it out of his mind. Baci’s pristine male-model exterior was becoming tarnished. Yellowish sweat moons stained his shirt; two-day-old stubble shadowed his cheeks. ‘I have been looking for you, doctor.’

‘How can I help?’

‘Alfonso is back at his station.’

‘Oh. Well that’s good, isn’t it? He fixed the ship yet?’
How droll.

‘No. He is only sitting there at his station, doctor.’

‘Is he speaking?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing about the dark man?’

‘No.’

‘I am worried about him. I do not know what to do.’
Well,
y
ou could take some lovely lekker pethidine and you won’t actually give a shit.
Not true. Jesse did give a shit about Bin and Martha. ‘You will come and see him, doctor?’

‘Now?’

‘
Si
.’

Jesse thought about it. It would be a way of killing two birds with one stone. Alfonso’s burn pad needed to be changed. He had to do it sometime. The engine room wasn’t the perfect place to do it, but where was? The whole ship was a festering pile of faecal matter.

‘Let me get my bag. Wait here.’

‘Thank you.’

Jesse hurried to the pharmacy cabinet. A fresh burn pad, forceps and what else? Stupid question. He slipped another three ampoules and another injector pen into his pocket just in case. And maybe just a soupçon of morphine too. Why the fuck not? They were supposed to sign for it, be accountable for every cc that was used, but hey, he was accountable.
It’s going straight into my fucking bloodstream.

‘Jesse.’

He jumped guiltily at the sound of Martha’s voice. How long had she been there? He hadn’t heard her entering the room. Had he seen him helping himself?

‘Bin’s sick, Jesse.’

Fuck
. ‘Where is he?’

‘In his cabin. I took him some . . . some rehydrate.’

Her words were stilted and her eyes were bloodshot. She was drunk. But who was he to judge? In some ways he was relieved. She was sharp, intuitive, if she wasn’t impaired she’d probably pick up on the fact that he was spacing out big time. Or maybe not; it had taken the other doctors at his old surgery six months to figure it out. ‘I’ll go see him when I’m done.’

Her eyes were half-lidded and puffy. She really was off her tits, as she would say. ‘Jesse. There’s something going down. I’ve been hearing things.’

He didn’t need to know about another round of superstitious crap right now – the staff burning an effigy in the casino or whatever. ‘
Ja
? Hold that thought. I’ll be back now-now. Alfonso is back at his post.’

‘He is?’

‘
Ja
. But it sounds like he’s still out of it. I’m going down there to change his dressing.’