S.O.S. (40 page)

‘Do you see,' he said quite suddenly – and maybe a little too quickly ‘ – this lifeboat above our heads?' Marianne tilted back her head to trace this thing as Tom quite blithely continued. ‘Have you noticed them? You see? They're strung up there the length of the deck. Same on the starboard side too, of course. I've checked.'

‘What about them? They're quite pretty, aren't they, actually? I wonder why some are red and some are white …? Yes – I saw them the other morning. What are you thinking, Tom? You think we're going to
sink
…?'

‘No. No no … I feel very safe.
Held
, if you like. No – it simply occurred to me earlier this morning to do a little
sum. Can you see from where you are sitting the lettering stencilled down the side, just there?'

Marianne slipped down the glasses to the bridge of her nose (contacts can cope with this, she thought) but no amount of socket contortion could compete with all the shimmering light, so she slid them back up again.

‘What does it say?'

‘It says: ‘Capacity – one hundred and thirty-nine persons'. Which I quite agree – seems a lot. Looks rather a
small
boat, from down here, doesn't it?'

‘God – a hundred and thirty-
nine
. I wouldn't fancy that much. Especially at night.'

‘You would – you would if you were in one, and other quite desperate souls were flailing in the sea, and screaming. Screaming.'

Marianne regarded him. ‘What's your point, Tom?'

‘Hm? Point? Oh – hardly have one. I simply multiplied the figure by the number of boats and yes, there's adequate space for both passengers and crew. Which is a comfort. But only
barely
, mind – and one wonders, of course, whether in a state of emergency all could be successfully launched. Particularly if we were listing.'

‘But Tom – you said – !'

‘Oh and I
meant
it. No no. I see no danger. As I told you: I feel very safe. And of course there's
extra
space, now, because there are thirteen fewer passengers, remember, since the commencement of the cruise … maybe that's where they keep them. The dead ones. In the lifeboats. Quite a twist, that would be.'

And Marianne checked her impulse to laugh: is he making a joke? And also – do I find it funny?

‘Mary …' said Tom, then. And stopped.

‘Yes, Tom: Mary. Your wife … what is it you want to say?'

‘I don't suppose … no. No. I don't suppose so for a minute.'

‘
What
, Tom? Suppose
what
? Say it. It's OK. You can say it.'

‘Well, I was just wondering. I don't suppose, Marianne – that anyone ever calls
you
Mary? Do they? I don't suppose so, no.'

‘Well … no, Tom, no. They don't. But if you
want
to …'

‘Hm? Oh no. Oh no. No no no. Don't
want
to – oh Lord no. Should never presume. No – I was just
enquiring
, that's all – just came into my mind to wonder whether anyone
did
.'

‘Well. They don't.'

‘No. Well I didn't suppose they would. No. Shall we walk a bit? Getting a wee bit stiff, just sitting here. It can get quite chilly, can't it? If you don't from time to time move around.'

But despite his stiffness, it was Marianne who seemed to be having the most trouble in extricating herself from this very low lounger (there's nothing here much one can actually get a
hold
of) and Tom reached out a hand to her. When the two of them stood facing one another, he gently released it – but as they turned their faces into the padded punch of the buffeting wind, Marianne fluidly linked one of her arms into the crook of his elbow, and then crammed both her hands deep down into her pockets. They trudged quite doggedly to the very stern of the ship, the whiplash cracks and chafing of the wind making further communication impossible for now (Marianne had tried it once or twice, and no – hopeless). Soon they were leaning against the wet and oily wooden handrail, and staring wordlessly at the churned-up torrent of roaring white water that formed their perpetual wake.

‘I was here the other day!' shouted Marianne – her thin little voice snatched from her mouth even before it could make its journey: it spun away from her and was screwed up and tossed with an easy contempt – over the side, and into infinity. ‘Where we are … it so terribly quickly becomes – where we have
been
…!'

And Tom now glanced at her sharply, before his expression quite slowly relaxed – and he nodded in silence
for so very long that Marianne had to begin to wonder why. She turned away now from the coldly boiling sea and gasped in shock as each of the hairs on her head exerted a panicked and concerted tremendous pull on her scalp in their apparently vicious desperation to take flight, and be done with her. The terrible bulk of the black and red funnel filled her total vision: it soared far higher than even buildings need to – and it was sometimes the very vastness of just everything around her, massed and looming, suspended amid all this seemingly boundless blueness that made her cold and fearful. She wished her arm was still entwined, and warm around another.

Tom was pointing at a door and mouthing at her, she thought it could be: In! Going In! And yes … it was probably the time to do that, now. The warmth of inside was scalding immediately and Marianne's ears were red and burning and full again now with so much
sound
.

‘Thirteen,' said Tom.

‘My God! My whole face is hot and freezing!' yelped out Marianne. ‘Sorry, Tom – what did you say?'

‘Thirteen,' he repeated, in exactly the same flat tone. ‘Unlucky for some, we feel.'

And then he spun around to face her, quite alarmingly quickly, and this, Marianne realized, was the very first time he had truly beheld her.

‘I just want you to know,' he said very softly. ‘About Mary. You see – I
helped
her. Helped her, yes. And now I have to go.'

And Marianne was surprised – just struck by surprise and nothing else yet as Tom just walked away from her. He made no gesture – and she had hesitated, now, for just too long to fall in step.

‘See you later …!' she called out – and not much more than feebly, and feeling foolish as she did so. And yes – several knots of track suited people, clinking their coffee cups:
they
looked round, oh yes – but Tom walked on, regardless.

Marianne wandered in the direction of the staircase, and past the big green baize table filled with jigsaw, her mind now verging on so much thought, she couldn't begin to even, oh –
think
… so I'll look at the jigsaw instead. Work had been done since the last time, that much was plain to see. Yes, look – the balcony on the chalet was very nearly quite whole, and so was the chimney, with that lazy curl of smoke. And now from the clumps of completed sky, you could see that snow was falling.

*

The thing is, the thing is, the thing is is, um … oh God oh God oh God
remind
me: what's the
thing?
What's the
thing?
Oh
please
just help me a little bit, God, David was silently beseeching. At least he
assumed
it was silent, all this beseeching – but it needn't have been, needn't have been: certainly his lips were moving as he bustled down corridors and cannoned off walls and careered in and out of function rooms and bars – no
not
to get a drink, hell with drink, I'll never ever, not me, drink again – but to
find
her, track her down, get to her before she has time to assail Nicole … oh but God, oh God – hang on, this is silly. This is mad, this – I'm doing it all wrong. I got out of our
cabin
, right, because what would I do if Trish just took it into her bloody little head to phone Nicole and spill the whole damn cassoulet and I was just standing there and affecting oblivion while happily going along with all the fun of the mix 'n' match game, this to involve my toning separates? Or even turn
up
 – quite capable, she's perfectly capable, that woman, of just turning up at the cabin door and shouting her mouth off and watching me squirm and die. Because look – face it, face it: she did not book herself on to this trip – and how did she
do
that, actually?
When
did she do that? Even when she
was begging me not to go, saying how much she'd miss me … she'd already bloody well got hold of her
ticket
, hadn't she? Christ oh Christ – there's no
man
, is there? There's not one man on God's earth who could dream of pulling a stunt like that. Women – oh God, women. Why do we do it? Hey? Why do we ever get
involved
, at all? Hey? Well – obvious, really:
sex
. Sex is why, yes – because I tell you one thing for free, amigo: all these people (and you hear it all the time, now – people are forever saying it) – all these people who go round telling you that such-and-such a thing is better than sex … well what exactly are they
on
about, someone please tell me? I mean – sometimes they're
joking
, right? Like when they say Ah yes – a lovely cup of tea: better than sex. Joke, presumably (hope so, at least, or else God help them). But then you also hear people say that, I don't know – pulling off some City business deal: better than sex. Driving like a fucking lunatic in a bloody Ferrari: better than sex. Eating sodding
chocolate
: better than sex. Coming up trumps in the Lottery – yep, you got it: better than sex. The phrase has completely taken over the ‘best since sliced bread' thing and all I can say is they're
mad
 – nuts, completely loopy – because look, just
look
: anything on
earth
is better than sliced bloody
bread
, isn't it? I mean –
unsliced
bread, for bloody starters. But sex, well – well the whole point is that there isn't
anything
better than sex, not ever. That's why sex is sex, Christ's sake – that's the whole bloody
point
of the thing. And that's why we sniff it out and gulp it down and mortgage first and then sell wholesale our entire bloody life on earth for the sake of it and then when the hint of more and different has us twitching and lustful, then we mess up, oh – everything we have and like a missile just
go
for it, like I do. Which is how I come to fuck up. As it were. And maybe women don't feel like that, I don't know. Mind you – the new breed probably do: the ones who drink pints of Sancerre and keep renewing their lipstick between fags and tankards – they probably do (frighten the life out
of me, that type, quite frankly). But people like Nicole, well … I should think that winning a keyring in some competition that it took her twenty quidsworth of labels from, I don't know – denture sterilizer to even amass the wherewithal to even
enter
(and yes, she did that once) … I should think that for her, that'd be better than sex. Or sex with
me
, anyway. And whether she knows what it's like with anyone else, well … honestly couldn't tell you.

But it's
Trish
, all of a bloody sudden, who's very much the point here. And that's what I was saying, wasn't it? Oh – about two or three decks and several staircases ago (I seem to have apologized to just about every single passenger
twice
for having barged into them, trodden upon their feet, caused their children to scream and bolt – and still I'm not close to tracking her
down
). But what I was
saying
is that no matter how she managed to get on this bloody ship she didn't coldly plan to do so just by way of sorting out for herself a little bit of a
break
, did she? Touch of bracing ozone, few days'
rest
? I don't really think so. No – she came here because none of the players in this little drama has any chance whatever of
escape
: she's got us, Christ – exactly where she wants us. And right
now
she's elsewhere, oh yes – because she
chooses
to be. But when she thinks the time is right … oh God. Oh God oh God oh God – I think I'll lose my
mind
. And now Nicole is alone in the cabin – so Jesus Jesus: that's where Trish could be too. Right now. Or maybe she's sick again – maybe it's that. Because she hates boats, Trish – always has done, terrible sailor; and that alone shows the level of her determination, doesn't it, really? So maybe she's sick. Maybe she's
dead
, yes? No – I really shouldn't think like that. But I think I will anyway: maybe she's
dead
. Yes? Because this is the thing: I don't
want
her, you know. Not one thought of that nature has so much as crossed my mind for even one second. Now admittedly, it's not much of a come-on when it's late and you're pretty well completely plastered and your wife is just hanging around
and then your mistress saunters over and spews up her guts all down and over you – I mean it's not exactly one of life's Romeo and Juliet moments, is it? No – granted: fair enough. (And it's not the first time something like this has happened to me, either. One time I was at a stag party – my allocated tart spent the whole of the evening cramming down eclairs. Turned out she was, what's that thing? Bulimic. Only time I ever heard of where the bloody cake came leaping out of the
girl
. Telling you.)

But even since … I was sort of assuming that I'd track her down, fuck her briefly and
then
set about giving her hell or pleading for my life, whatever seemed right at the time. But no. Don't want to fuck her. Not a bit. And maybe it's been brewing for a while, this, you know: not sure. But whenever I went over to her place lately she always wanted me to comment on the
music
and swoon over the
candles
(and the scent from some of them, telling you – put you in a coma); and then I was meant to eat some sort of gourmet
meal
when I was already full to bursting with peanuts and crisps and Scotch and Scotch – and then she wanted us to share a
bath
. Well I mean – God's
sake
. Look – I did it once (quiet life) and
honestly
. It's not as if she's got one of these big marble sunken Roman efforts or anything – it's only a bleeding
bath
, Christ's sake. Yeah – and guess whose bloody spine was jammed up hard against the taps? Yes indeed; with the plug and chain snuggling up quite cosily into the cleft between my buttocks. Isn't this, she sighed –
romantic
? I frankly thought she was unhinged. Anyway – what I'm really driving at here is that it got to the stage where there was just so much to be
got
through before I could even see a glimmer of the business end of things that I started thinking Oh Christ is it really bloody
worth
it? All this? I mean – just a basic blow-job would be, oh – so much more
convenient
. (Put it to her once: she said she just couldn't go through with it – not with a straight face. What are you supposed to think? I ask you. She didn't believe, she carried on – perfectly
deadpan – she didn't honestly believe that she could pull it
off
. Dear Christ.)