Titanic 2020 t2-1 (4 page)

T
he long straight corridors were perfectly suited to a speeding wheelchair. Jimmy had to run at full pelt just to keep up. Scoop finally ushered him into a suite on the eighth floor. There was no bed or cupboards or mini bar, instead almost the entire floor space was covered by large cardboard boxes.

'OK,' said Scoop, 'here's the story. Our passengers want to wake up in the morning and have a newspaper waiting outside their door, just like at home. So that's what I do — I write, edit, design and print a daily newspaper. It's a mix of news from the countries the passengers come from — mostly America — and stories about the ship, interesting passengers, profiles of the crew, that kind of thing. It's only small — eight, twelve, sometimes sixteen pages — but it's important; helps people feel that they're not entirely cut off from the outside world.'

'Can't they just switch the telly on?'

'We're in the middle of the ocean, there's no signal. The telly plays tapes we bring with us, mostly old TV shows, and documentaries about the islands the cruise visits. If they want news, it comes from me. Been doing it on different Stanford cruise ships for twenty-five years, son. Ever since I lost these.' He tapped his — well, no legs.

'It wasn't Pedroza, then.'

'I lost them in the first Gulf War. Do you remember that?'

'Before my time.'

'The
Daily Express
managed to get me a place on an aircraft carrier. It was to be my first time as a war correspondent. I was so excited when they told me, I was planning to run all the way home to tell my wife. Except I got knocked down by a taxi on the way. It smashed my legs up so badly I had to have them amputated.'

Jimmy didn't know what to say to
that.
He was actually struggling not to laugh. Sometimes you just can't help yourself. He tried to cover it by nodding at the boxes and saying, 'So what's the deal with this lot?'

'You know anything about computers?'

'Some.'

'Used a screwdriver before?'

'Now and again.'

'Ever wired a plug?'

'Sure.'

'All right then! I need these boxes opened and everything set up. It's a pain in the arse trying to do it from a chair. So you can start by sorting this lot out for me.'

Jimmy looked at the boxes, then back to Scoop. 'I'm not some kind of unpaid slave, you know.'

Scoop thought about that for a moment, and then said, 'Yes you are.'

***

Jimmy was disruptive, unruly and disrespectful. He didn't like being told what to do. But if he was interested in something, he gave it everything. He was also good with his hands — had to be, really, as there was never much money around at home. So if he wanted something, he built it himself. He'd created a motorcycle out of parts other people had thrown away and he'd built a tree house that was more like a fortress, complete with electric lights and a fridge. He could do things if you left him alone to get on with them and didn't breathe down his neck, particularly if he saw some value in it. Working for Scoop in exchange for a free cruise made sense to him.

Scoop himself wasn't entirely convinced, so he positioned himself at the end of the corridor to make sure Jimmy didn't slip out and lose himself in the depths of the ship again. But the office door remained closed, and when he re-entered after an hour he was genuinely surprised to find that all the work had been completed. Two desks were up, each with a computer and scanner on top, both switched on and apparently fully functioning; the printer was set up, there was a column of printer paper sitting beside it; a filing cabinet was screwed to the wall; and all of the packaging had been folded and neatly stacked in one corner, awaiting removal. Jimmy was sitting at one of the computers, installing a program.

'I didn't think you'd even have the boxes open,' said Scoop. Jimmy shrugged. 'This is
fantastic.'

'So what now?' Jimmy asked.'There's no passengers on board yet, so do you just sit on your arse until we arrive in Miami?' He said it without really thinking. 'I mean, you've no alternative but to sit on your arse, but is this all your work done?'

Scoop exploded in laughter. 'Hardly started, son, hardly started! What we have to do now is make sure it's all working, start making up a few dummy papers, print them up, pass them around, get feedback. Each ship has its own design, you see, its own character, and that has to be reflected in the newspaper, so the sooner we . . .'

Jimmy held up a hand. 'You keep saying
we.
Who exactly are you talking about?'

'Well, you and me.'

'I opened the boxes, I set up your gear. I thought that was it.'

'Well — I thought you might want to help with putting the paper together.'

'Why?'

Scoop folded his hands in his lap. He looked towards the balcony, and the grey sea beyond. 'Because I can't do it myself. You see, lad—'

There was a sudden sharp rap on the door. Scoop, seeing the panic in Jimmy's eyes, held up a calming hand. 'It's all right,' he said quietly. 'I ordered some food for you. Still — best if you slip into the bathroom until the coast is clear.'

Jimmy hid himself, but kept the door open just a fraction.

Scoop positioned himself at one of the desks, with his back to the door. 'Enter!' As the door opened he said, 'If you just put it down over . . .' but as he glanced around he saw what Jimmy had already seen: Claire, the surly teenager with the pink laces. Her black hair hung down over one eye and she was chewing gum. She hardly even looked at Scoop as she spoke, preferring instead to study her bright pink fingernails.

'Dad ordered me to come down to give you a hand unpack— oh.' She had looked up, finally. 'It's done.'

'Yes, Claire, all finished.'

'You did all this?'

'No. I had a team of elves to help me. Am I right in thinking your dad ordered you to come down
yesterday
to help me?'

'Yeah, well, I was busy.'

'I'm sure you were.'

'That it then?'

'Yes, Claire.'

'All right. See you.'

She shrugged and turned out of the cabin. Scoop waited until he was sure she was gone, then called Jimmy out of the bathroom. 'Sorry about that. The owner's daughter.' He shook his head and sighed. 'And to think that one day she'll inherit all of this . . .' Scoop waved vaguely. 'She'll probably paint it pink.'

Jimmy sat on the edge of one of the desks and folded his arms. He wasn't the slightest bit interested in hearing about Claire Stanford. 'So why can't you put the paper together yourself?'

'Well. It's like this, Jimmy — this is my final trip for the company, my job is just to set up the newspaper here on the
Titanic
like I have on every other ship the Stanfords own, then hand over the reins to the new man when we arrive in Miami. There's a nice big company pension waiting for me if I can get through this trip, as I'll have completed my twenty-five years of service. But if for any reason I don't complete the voyage, then I'll get nothing. It's just the way big companies run. Anyway, the thing is, I don't know if I can do it. I'm just not well, son. It's not the legs, I'm used to them being gone, it's the other stuff — my blood pressure's bad, Jimmy, I've a real shake in my hands, and my eyes go all cloudy and I can't concentrate for more than . . . anyway, the truth is, I lied to the doctors before we set off. I told them I was fine, but I'm not. If you don't help me do this then I won't have a leg to stand on.' He thought about that for a moment. 'Or two, for that matter. Jimmy, I want you to help me run the paper. You'll do a bit of everything — find stories, write them up, design the pages, print it. Will you do it, Jimmy, will you help me?'

'No.'

'Aw Jimmy — why not? You could do it, easy.'

'Look, I'm sorry, all right? I'd be . . . useless, you know?'

'But how do you know?'

Jimmy shrugged. 'I just know. All right?'

Scoop rolled a little closer. His voice softened. 'You got expelled, didn't you?'

'How'd . . .?'

'It was on the report they sent with the photo. What'd you get expelled for?'

'For being stupid.'

'Ah, nonsense!' erupted Scoop. 'You're not stupid, Jimmy! Not stupid
thick
anyway. Stupid
headstrong
probably; stupid
I always know best
maybe.'

Jimmy gave the smallest shrug.

'Jimmy, son, that's the kind of stupid that gets things done, that changes things. They call people stupid when they just don't understand them. Guy that came up with the wheel, they probably called him stupid. Guy that invented aspirin, they probably told him he was thick. Photography, there's a stupid mistake, if ever there was one, and where would we be without it? Do you understand what I'm saying? You can do this, Jimmy, I know you can. It's your chance to prove to yourself that you're not the sort of kid they say you are. So are you on, Jimmy? Will we do this together?'

'No,' said Jimmy.

'I'll pay you,' said Scoop.

'OK,' said Jimmy.

T
housands of miles away from the
Titanic
a small earthquake shook the city of San Diego in California. One person was killed, twenty-seven injured, and a dozen buildings collapsed.

'You see,' said Scoop, 'that isn't particularly massive news — but if you were to check with our passenger list, you might find that dozens of them come from San Diego, and you can be sure it'll be big news for them. They'll be worried about relatives, their businesses — do you know what I mean?'

Jimmy had found the story on a newspaper website. Now he proceeded to copy it into the cruise ship newspaper they'd begun to put together that morning. Scoop stopped him. 'No, Jimmy you can't just copy it. You have to make up your own story, based upon what you've read here.'

'Why?'

'Because those words, in that order, belong to that website. You have to take the facts that are there, and rewrite them.'

'So I can steal their facts?'

Scoop sighed. 'Up to a point. You should look at this story on perhaps a dozen different news sites, because each one is going to have their own version of it. One will know the name of the man who died, another will have an interview with the leading expert on earthquakes, yet another might know how long it will take to repair the damaged buildings. Do you see what I'm getting at?'

He did, kind of.

'Any story you write has to answer the five basic rules of journalism, and they're quite simple: you ask
who, what, where, when, how.
All right?'

'Who, what, where, when, how,' Jimmy repeated.

'That's it —
who
is who was killed,
what
is what caused him to die,
where
is obviously San Diego,
when
is clearly when did it happen, and
how
is what caused the earthquake.'

'Who, what, where, when and how,' Jimmy repeated again.

'Exactly.'

'So
who
is going to get me my lunch? Is that what you mean?' Jimmy asked.

'Well I . . .'

' What
are you going to get me? And
where
are you going to get it from?'

'Jimmy, it's only eleven . . .'

' When
are you going to get it then? And
how
are you going to get it before I starve to death?'

'That's very funny, Jimmy,' Scoop commented dryly.

'It's not funny. I'm starving. Being a journalist is hard work.'

Scoop took a deep breath. 'All right Jimmy, even though we've hardly started, I'll go and get you something.' He turned his wheelchair towards the door. 'Although if you weren't a wanted criminal it would most certainly be the other way around.'

***

Jimmy was a bit concerned about the design end of things, but Scoop quickly reassured him:

'Don't worry, Jimmy — there's software for that. A monkey could do it!'

'Are you calling me a monkey?'

Scoop gave him a long look. And then: 'There's some very bright monkeys around, you know.'

***

In the late afternoon Scoop said: 'I'm just going to stretch my legs, as it were.'

When he'd gone Jimmy returned to surfing the Internet for the latest news, and it was while doing this that his thoughts returned to home. His parents would be tearing their hair out (and his dad didn't have much to spare). He had the opportunity now to send them an e-mail — if only they had an e-mail address, access to the Internet, or, indeed, a computer. Well, they could just wait a few days. Maybe it would teach them to appreciate him a little more. There was nothing to stop him sending a message to them via his school, of course. It had a website.

School — he was actually missing it, a tiny little bit. Not the work, obviously, but his friends. Messing around. If he could have changed anything about the past few days it would have been to bring Gary Higgins with him on this adventure. They would have had a cracking time together.

Thinking about Gary reminded him of his expulsion. What choice had his headmaster had? None at all. He'd been reckless and disruptive and had almost destroyed a school bus. He should e-mail Mr McCartney and apologize for his actions.

Jimmy logged on to the school website, and clicked on Mr McCartney's e-mail address. He wrote,
Dear Mr McCartney.
Then he hesitated. He knew what he
should
write. He knew what he
ought
to write. But he was Jimmy Armstrong, and there was really very little doubt about what he
would
write.

Dear Mr McCartney. How're you doing you scabby-faced baldy-headed vulture? Do you know that your secretary looks like a hamster? Does she keep nuts in her cheeks? Does she have an exercise wheel? Are you having an affair with her? If you are your children will be scabby-faced baldy-headed vultures too, but with the added attraction of big teeth and cheeks for nuts. Yours sincerely, Jimmy Armstrong.

Jimmy's finger hesitated over the 'send' button — but only for a couple of seconds. He was finished with school. He was on the high seas now, he had a job and he was getting paid for it.
So stuff you, McCartney!

He sent it.

***

Jimmy was a journalist now. He typed a headline:
Small Earthquake in San Diego — Not Many Dead.

It was true, there weren't many dead. But what he couldn't know, not yet anyway, was that the earthquake would set off a chain of events that would lead to the end of civilization as we know it.

Really.