| |
WE WENT BACK TO OUR cabin and had five surfaces sex. Ashanta refreshed her make-up, I shaved and put some antiperspirant on and we went to lunch, singing. The dining room smelt of boiled liver and cabbage, and a group of people in the corner sang happy birthday to a woman in a party hat holding a silver balloon with 21 Today on. Apart from Wiles, I hadn’t seen Mason or any of his guests all morning. They didn’t seem to be in here either.
“Don’t forget, lunch is a two-hour window,” Ashanta said, reading my thoughts as we each took a tray and joined the queue. “They’re old, most of them. They probably don’t get hungry much. I’ve got a great auntie in Hartlepool who never eats at midday at all. Straight from breakfast to dinner without even noticing. Yet she used to be eighteen stone.”
It seemed reasonable. And if they’d really been on the Aurora for decades, there was probably nothing left on board for them to see. A turn around the deck was probably as dull as a trip to the local Costcutter on a drizzly Sunday. That would explain why we didn’t see them out and about much at all.
“Have the steamed beetroot,” the woman in front of me said, as we approached the serving hatches. “I had it yesterday. It’s lovely.” She turned away and chatted to the man in front.
“Looks like we’ve reached the end of the line, mystery-wise,” I said.
“Apart from Edith Summersby,” Ashanta said. “Don’t forget, that’s far from being solved. Don’t let Wiles’s cunning lull you into a false sense of security.”
“And the underwater lights. Remember last night.”
“The Nautilus. And Carl’s untimely disappearance. Possibly.”
We sat down opposite each other and ate our steamed beetroot in silence. When the waiter took our plates, we discussed how to spend the afternoon.
“There’s a film on in the lounge,” she said. “Syriana. George Clooney.”
“Is it a thriller? Because I’m not sure I can take any more conspiracy theory. Is anyone showing Indiana Jones?”
“There’s Bingo in the casino. And the amateur dramatic society’s putting on ‘Ted Heath: Sexyfast Yachts and International Diplomacy 1968-1972’.”
“Bloody hell, what sort of a title is that? I hate it when they come up with something gimmicky on the grounds that you’ll go just out of curiosity.”
“It’s an info-drama. It’s had rave reviews on the ship’s radio station.”
“I can’t wait till we get to the Falklands.”
She laughed. “You’d think they might call in at, say, Rio or Montevideo. I’m not putting the Falklands down or anything - ”
“We must never have this discussion in Wiles’s hearing.”
“God, no.”
“Anyway, they’re supposed to be very romantic. Just you and your beloved and the sea and the mountains.”
She laughed. “And the seals and the sheep and the killer whales.”
“Stop making out like you’re some kind of urban monster. You’re a farm child, just like me.”
“Oho, really. On what do you base that?”
“On the fact that you’re always telling me how wonderful Ghana is. Yet even Accra’s a bit like Bridlington.”
“It is not.”
“It is the way you tell it.”
“I just accentuate the quaint bits. Anyway, I’m not Ghanaian. I mean, I love my mum and everything, but I’m a London Lady. I’m not a ‘farm child’.”
I raised my Shandy Bass. “Her gracious majesty Queen Elizabeth the second.”
She picked up her grape juice. “To London Ladies everywhere.”
“To all women.”
“To the entire human race.”
“To all sentient beings.”
Someone cleared a throat nearby. We turned and jumped slightly. Mason. God knows how long he’d been standing there. I nearly threw my Shandy Bass over myself.
“I apologise for startling you,” he said. “I wonder if you’ll permit me to pull up a chair? Just for a moment?”
We nodded. This was the scariest thing that had happened since Wiles came hobbling over from the deckchair pile. Ashanta gulped.
“I heard what happened in the casino last night,” he said, “and although I normally wouldn’t make it my business to intervene, since it came about as a result of my dinner invitation and centrally concerned an issue that wouldn’t have arisen without it, I could not permit myself that luxury on this occasion.”
“I think it’s resolved,” Ashanta said. “Mr Wiles apologised. We accepted.”
He nodded as if this was no news. “I understand a rumour has been circulating that you are journalists. I’ve quashed it entirely.”
“I must admit,” I said, “we were beginning to wonder why people seemed so stand-offish.”
“I shouldn’t imagine you’ll find them so in future.”
“Thank you for your help,” Ashanta said.
“Do you mind if I speak off the record?”
We weren’t the kind of couple who distinguishes between someone talking on and off the record, so we nodded.
“The rumour that you were journalists was not built on an entirely irrational foundation.”
“Oh?” Ashanta said. I could see she didn’t want to get into another fight. She was prepared to take any ‘you have been acting rather strangely’ on the nose and move on. I couldn’t say whether I felt the same.
Mason shifted in his seat as if it was causing him some discomfort. “I should really get you to sign an official form before going any further, but I’m convinced I can rely on your discretion. It’s more than my job’s worth should my faith turn out to have been misplaced.”
Ashanta and I looked at each other. “I’m not sure ...” she said, deliberately letting the sentence hang.
“The truth is, part of this cruise involves a joint military manoeuvre between C&B and the Royal Navy. We’re helping them test the latest high-tech submarine.”
“Gosh,” I said.
“That’s what that light was last night,” Ashanta said. “In the sea.”
“You saw that, did you?”
“We were on the Sun Deck. You passed us. Although you didn’t speak.”
“I saw you, but I was mortified on others’ behalf.”
“It’s pretty luminous for a submarine,” I said, trying to get back to the subject.
“It’s supposed to be able to locate any vessel in the world instantly using signals fired into the ocean from a network of satellites twenty-two thousand miles above sea level. Once it’s located its target it can either destroy it with long-range missiles or it can achieve physical proximity in super-fast time. Yesterday afternoon, it was at the bottom of the South China Sea.”
“And everyone at your dinner table knows this, do they?” Ashanta said.
“The navy was good enough to deem them worthy of its confidence.”
“Which is why they all thought we were journalists,” I said. “It all makes sense. Mr Wiles said even if we found out what was going on, no one would believe us.”
“If you were journalists, and you were to report it, it might constitute a potential ‘scoop’. But you’d need a lot more evidence than you could possibly garner to overcome the reluctance of a typical news-editor to publish. In that sense, Colin was right.”
“So all’s well that ends well,” Ashanta said. “Thank you for taking us into your confidence. It goes without saying we’ll keep it to ourselves.”
Mason stood up. “I trust we’ll see you this evening at the usual time.”
“Are you sure you want us?” Ashanta said. “We were a bit of a disaster last night.”
He looked surprised. “In what sense?”
“Mrs Soper stormed out, we had an hour’s awkward silence. All because I insisted on saying Grace.”
“Not exactly cutting a dash,” I said.
“Celia needs firm handling,” he replied. “She expects me to put up with her ridiculous Tarot-reading act, which I do. It’s incumbent on her to treat others with the same respect.”
“Is that how you see my praying?” she said. “As an act?”
“I don’t believe in God. However, I don’t doubt your sincerity.”
He waited for her to reply, but she said nothing. He smiled, said ‘Good afternoon”, and left us alone.
“So what did you make of that?” Ashanta said, half leaning across the table.
“Still doesn’t explain Edith Summersby.”
“She’s old. Maybe she’s slightly loopy.”
“Bit of a coincidence that she’s the same woman Carl’s supposed to have ID-ed before he had to go ashore.”
“Maybe Carl’s a Russian spy. Or maybe Edith Summersby’s a spy and she thought we were journalists and she hoped she might pass us a top-secret dossier. She’ll have to find someone else to hand it to now.”
“Do you think we should tell Mason?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She smiled sourly. “I’ll tell you, Hugo, shall I? Because the whole top secret submarine thing is just more bullshit. What’s happened is Mason’s got together with his gang and they’ve decided they have to fob us off with something. But what? Then one of them stands up and goes, ‘I was on deck Three-O last night, just below the Sun Deck, and I heard Miss Jones talking about that light in the sea. She said she thought it was a submarine’. And everyone’s eyes ping and they’re like, ‘Hey, we can use this’.”
“So what do you think it is?”
“A submarine.”
“But I thought - ”
“Hook, yes. Hook, line and sinker, no. Come on, Hugo, C&B and the Royal Navy in joint exercises? And another thing, I don’t know how far away the South China Sea is, but do you really think any submarine could get from there to here in less than twelve hours? At that speed it would plough the Pacific into a giant tsunami.”
“Yes, assuming it utilises our current technology, but - ”
“But bullshit. Mason’s pupils were wobbling. He obviously doesn’t like lying, but he’s in whatever it is too deep.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Nothing. Edith Summersby knows we’re not journalists so I doubt she’ll pester us again. If she’s in some sort of trouble, she’ll give Mason the slip at the Falklands. Either way, not our problem. I got into this thinking it might be fun but last night was a wakeup call. I now know exactly what it is to be scared for your life. We’re going to make like we’re fine with the idea of C&B and the Royal Navy fiddling about with an underwater Bluebird K7, and enjoy the rest of our holiday.”
At five o’clock that evening, we were about to start getting ready when there was another knock at the door. Midshipman Collins with a bottle-bag, this time 70cl of bourbon. We’d hardly started on last night’s tequila, and to be honest, neither of us really felt like drinking.
“How are we going to break it to him we’re not dipsos?” Ashanta said.
“He must know we can’t drink half a bottle of spirits each every day.”
“Maybe he’s a teetotaller. Sometimes they don’t grasp these things.”
We ignored it and carried on grooming, Ashanta painting her face with a giant brush and whirling an aerosol round her hair, me cutting my fingernails. At about six forty-five we were done. Ashanta slipped her arm through mine and we went into dinner completely sober. As last night, we were the last to arrive. There were no absences and Celia Soper was back, looking as if nothing had happened.
For the first time, it was like a normal dinner-party. The guests spoke in turn - Ashanta and I didn’t have to lead - everyone said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, enquired after each other’s well-being and looked reasonably happy. Even Ashanta saying Grace didn’t put a dampener on things. I won’t go so far as to say I enjoyed the whole thing, because it was still a bit too formal for my liking, but I certainly didn’t feel excluded. If I’d been Mason, I’d have judged it a success.
At about nine, Celia Soper shuffled her cards and made a circle with them. Then she turned them over. The Fool, The High Priestess, The Hierophant, The Moon, The Sun, The Tower, Death, The Hanged Man, The Devil, and finally The Star. Then she gathered them up and put them back in the box. I suppose if a pall fell on the proceedings, it was here. Everyone moved away, leaving Ashanta and I alone with Mason again. We came to sit at the head of the table, on either side of him.
“Thank you for the bourbon,” Ashanta said. “But we’re irresponsible enough already. And we haven’t finished the tequila yet.”
“Would you like something a little less potent? Maybe a decent wine.”
“Things have been ... difficult here before,” she said. “I enjoyed it tonight and I haven’t touched a drop. Conclusion: I don’t necessarily need oiling to have a good time. All that’s necessary is for people to stop thinking I’m a journalist.”
“How about you, Hugo?”
It was the first time he’d really shown any interest in me apart from Ashanta. Things were looking up.
“I’m very grateful for the thought,” I said. “But half a bottle a day tends to make me smash furniture.”
We all laughed then he shook our hands and left us. We sauntered outside into the night air. The moon was alone above a ragged line of cumulus clouds that looked as if someone had discarded them thoughtlessly on their way out of the bathroom. They glowered in grey and black while the moon radiated a triumphant silver above them. The gentle breeze was insufficient to disturb the wisps of fog crawling on the sea. There were no stars.
“Did you notice the cards Mrs Soper dealt were exactly the same as last time?” Ashanta said.
I shrugged. “Are you sure?”
“I felt it quite strongly.”
“It’s a difficult trick to pull off, that. Shuffling a deck of cards then laying the first ten in a predetermined order. Derren Brown could do it. Celia Soper, I’m not so sure.”
“I bet you it’s in Magic For Dummies.”
“Why would she?
“I don’t know.”
We leaned over the railings. “The bigger mystery is why she never says anything afterwards.”
She sighed. We both knew it was pointless speculating, this one was just too deep. “Would you like a Polo?”
“I’m fine, thank you. What shall we do tonight?”
“Apparently, they’re showing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in the lounge. By popular request. Hang on, what’s this?”
It was another note in her bag. Half a side of A4, same handwriting as the first. She unfolded it and showed it to me.
Those who descend beneath the hold
There Edith Summersby may behold.
“Why the bloody hell can’t she just leave us alone?” she said.
It was obvious from her eyes we were both thinking the same thing, though. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang would have to do without us.
