Billie was in shock. His body was responding automatically: walking, talking, making phone calls. But another part of him seemed to be out on loan, no longer in his control. This couldn’t be his own brain. At least not one he recognised, brimming with a stranger’s news: My friend is dead or dying and it’s all my fault. It became a mantra in his head, remorseless by repetition.
The clean white walls of the hospital were transparent to Billie’s eyes. Through them he could still see Ed’s broken body lying beneath some shrubbery. But there had been no blood and no pulse. I can’t find a pulse! Then someone at his side, he had no idea who. A stranger reaching out for signs of life, shouts that were distant and yet so near. Hands grabbing his arms and a female voice in his ear.
‘What happened? Are you okay?’
‘Yes… NO! No, of course I'm okay! But look at ED!’
There were so many questions, from the paramedics and the medical staff here at the hospital, but mostly from the police. No, the driver didn’t stop. No, I didn’t see the license plate. No, I’ve no idea who was in the vehicle. No. No. NO.
He wanted answers himself, not the least of which was: Where was the girl, Emily? But above all else, he needed to know that Ed would pull through. He needed something positive to hang onto. With hindsight he recognised it was Ed who’d so often offered that form of input in recent years. Had the pursuit of this girl been worth it?
*
The important answer was provided by a sympathetic medic at around ten o’clock that night. Billie was sitting in the hospital café nursing a cold cup of coffee and a headache when a man displaying a badge with an unpronounceable name slid onto the opposite bench—and smiled.
‘He was lucky. If he’d been a few years older, or less fit, he would almost certainly not have done so well. You said yourself he’d been running hard. I believe his body was still moving at the moment of impact, which substantially reduced the trauma. He was also fortunate in being knocked onto soft ground, so while his injuries appear serious, they are largely confined to his left leg and pelvic area. No spinal damage, and no tearing to his spleen, liver or kidneys. It could have been a lot worse.’
Billie was urged to go home as there was no chance of seeing Ed until he had been examined again in a few hours. But on hearing that ‘home’ was some two hundred miles away, the surgeon nodded and suggested he explore some of the public areas of Salford Royal in search of a comfortable chair. It was almost a lost cause, but as he haunted the antiseptic spaces of the appropriately named Hope Building, Billie’s brain began to feel more like his own. He settled for a while in an area designated for Outpatients, avoiding the parts where cleaning fluid was being applied to the already spotless surfaces. It gave him time to think, and to remember.
At some point while waiting for the ambulance he realised the woman who spoke to him at the scene was a stranger. She was one of three nameless people who had rushed to assist from the street, or from a parked car. Then a police officer arrived in a fanfare of sound and light, his vehicle ablaze with patterns of white, blue and yellow. He’d taken charge, cautioning against the use of CPR and exerting a calm authority. Many more agonising minutes of helpless frustration passed until paramedics attended and confirmed Ed was still breathing but in a serious condition. Billie wanted to go with him in the ambulance but the police officer needed a statement. A lift to the hospital afterwards was the only consolation, so he took the officer back to where they had first seen the Mercedes. On the ground were some scattered circulars and envelopes, presumably dropped by Emily when the car sped away. Billie remembered being asked if anyone else saw the car. He had no idea why but something stopped him from mentioning Emma’s sister. We’d just been trying to call on a friend at number three, but she wasn’t at home. The officer bent down to examine some skid marks on the concrete but showed no further interest.
Over twelve hours later, exhausted and with the first real pangs of hunger gnawing at his empty stomach, Billie tried to make sense of the events of that morning: A sister for Emma had been found, and then disappeared. A cryptic message had been left, aimed at him personally. The driver of a Mercedes had spoken to Emily and then driven off at speed, prompting Ed to run and try to stop the car. Was it someone Ed had recognised? Whoever it was took a risk, and nearly killed Ed in the process. Now Billie felt alone and bewildered. With only one thing left to focus on, he pulled out Emma’s envelope from his pocket.
401Dox@PROV427
It was a puzzle she had set him to solve. With Emma’s paranoia for security she would have made sure the message was plain enough for him to work out, but impossible for a stranger. So how hard could it be? He was satisfied it was not an email address, and he was ninety-nine percent certain the @ symbol was simply shorthand for ‘at’. Fair enough. Emma was trying to tell him where she could be found. She had gone to ground somewhere, and if today’s events were anything to go by, rightly so. All he had to do was unravel this cryptic jumble of figures and letters. He made himself as comfortable as possible, staring at the first six digits and trying to close his mind to everything else. Minutes later he was sound asleep.
*
It was a beautiful hat, and the face underneath its broad brim was Emma Dearing. Billie reached out a hand to help her aboard but she ignored him. The skirts of her dress brushed his uniform trousers as she swept past, eyes fixed on the ship’s entrance ahead of her. He watched her from behind, admiring her slim feminine shape as she mounted the ramp, gloved fingers lightly brushing the handrail. Captain Smith stood to one side as she boarded Titanic, and he gave a slight bow, but she took no notice. A blast on the ship’s whistle brought a cheer from the dockside. The leviathan was about to sail.
He could see her at the far end of a narrow corridor in a purple gown, but still with a broad-brimmed hat. He called her name. No reaction. She turned a corner out of sight. He followed and found himself facing a bank of three elevators. The middle one was moving. He looked for the staircase but instead found a face he’d seen before. Beaming broadly at him was an older man with deep-set eyes, wispy grey hair and a full beard. Dressed in blue jeans with an open-necked grey shirt and the sleeves rolled up, he looked out of place in the sumptuous panelled interiors of First Class.
‘Billie! I’ve been looking for you. Great job you did back there. C’mon, want you to see something.’ And he turned to lead the way down another corridor.
‘Er… Mr Cameron? I was looking for Emma.’ He ran to catch up with the striding figure and fell into place at his side.
‘She’s looking at this morning’s rushes with Leo. Don’t worry. You’ll catch her later.’
They crossed the First Class lounge on A deck and found yet another corridor, Billie struggling to keep pace with the slightly taller man. There wasn’t a soul around. He stared at the trappings of luxury that he knew would soon be under water. Time was running out, but perhaps most of them were in the lifeboats this time?
‘In here,’ said Cameron, pushing open the door to cabin A36. ‘Have you met Vic Garber, Billie?’
He found himself staring up at the gentle face of Titanic’s designer, Thomas Andrews, or at least the actor playing the role. They shook hands and he was invited to look closely at the plans spread out for examination in the centre of the room. He felt drawn in to the detail, Indian-inked onto fine white parchment sheets displaying the skeleton of the very ship in which he was standing. Garber was talking excitedly about water flow and temperature levels, but Billie’s attention was drawn to the corner of the sheet where Cameron had placed a finger. Right next to Andrews’ title as designer was the build number for Titanic: 401.
He knew the number had to be important, but then so was the need to find a lifeboat. And if he couldn’t find Emma, he would need to report back to Ed. Had he managed to pump the water back out of the hole in the side? Of course he must have. He was an engineer.