Authors: Amy Cross
Today
“Stop!” I shout suddenly, sitting up in the dark bedroom, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. “Get the -”
Suddenly I fall silent. There should be a storm raging around me, and people shouting, but instead I’m in a dark, calm room, albeit with light rain falling against the window. After a moment, I hear a stirring sound nearby, and I turn to see that Rob is rolling over to look up at me.
“Sophie?” he says groggily. “Are you okay?”
Staring at him, I start to realize that I had another nightmare. Not that I’m willing to admit to that fact, of course. Denial has always been my preferred policy. The pain in my chest is easing now, but I still feel dizzy.
“Nightmare?” he asks.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He reaches out and puts a hand on my bare chest, just below the collarbone. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine.” Turning away from him, I climb out of bed. He’s right: my whole body is covered in cold sweat, and I still feel as if there should be heavy waves crashing against the walls. Looking down at my bare feet on the wooden floor, it’s hard to believe that the room is so calm and stable. Instinctively, I reach up to feel the small scar on my forehead.
“Sophie?” Rob says again. The bed creaks as he sits up. “Seriously, are you okay? You had another nightmare, didn’t you? Was it about the -”
“No,” I reply, taking deep breaths as I try to calm myself.
“It’s okay,” he continues, “I get it, just -”
“I didn’t have a nightmare,” I snap, “I was…”
My voice trails off as I realize that something else is wrong. There’s a faint ringing sound in my ears, and my whole body feels as if it’s dancing with a sense of tingling anticipation. Looking over at the window, I watch for a moment as a few more spots of rain hit the glass. Despite the rain, I feel as if the world is much quieter than it should be, and as if something is going to breach that sense of calm at any moment.
“I’ll find the light,” Rob says. “We can -”
“No,” I reply, turning to him. Reaching out, I move the lamp’s switch away from his outstretched hand. “Go back to sleep. I just need a glass of water, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? We can watch an episode of something to calm your nerves. Get the laptop -”
“No,” I tell him again, forcing a smile in a (probably vain) attempt to get him to stop worrying. “I’m fine, really. I just need a glass of water. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Putting his hand on the sheets where I was just sleeping, he pauses for a moment. “You’ve been sweating buckets.”
“I’m fine,” I reply, leaning down to him and kissing the side of his face, before turning and grabbing my dressing gown from the hook on the wall. Quickly getting my arms through the holes, I head to the door, hoping I can get out of here before he asks anything else. I swear to God, if I have to tell him I’m fine one more time, I’ll scream. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to the kitchen, I’ll be back in a minute.”
Slipping out of the room before he has a chance to reply, I close the door with a gentle bump and then make my way along the corridor. I know I should calm down, that usually after a nightmare my heart-rate returns to normal fairly quickly, but this time something’s different, something’s wrong. It was the same nightmare as usual, the one about the storm off the coast of Cornwall and the family pleasure cruiser that got into difficulties, and the Sullivan family who drowned despite our efforts to save them… I have that nightmare two or three times a month, but this time something else is happening.
Reaching the kitchen, I leave the light off as I head to the sink and pour myself a glass of water.
My heart is still pounding.
I should be calm by now. Even when the nightmares are bad, I’m usually calm by the time I get out of the bedroom.
So what’s different this time?
Silence, all around. And still that sense that something loud is coming.
After I’ve drunk the water, I pause for a moment, listening to the faint ringing sensation in my ears, and to the calm of the house. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to focus on something that might help me to calm down, but a few seconds later I realize I can feel the floor gently swaying beneath my bare feet, almost as if I’m on a boat again. I take slow, deep breaths, but the sensation continues until finally I realize that, with my eyes closed, I can feel a storm building in the air all around. I try to force the feeling back, but it grows and grows and now the whole kitchen seems to be gently swaying from side to side, and there’s a faint bumping sound in the distance, as if someone’s trying to get my attention.
As if someone’s still banging from inside an overturned hull.
I force my eyes open, and the swaying sensation stops immediately. The banging, too. Turning, I look across the dark kitchen, and suddenly the overwhelming sense of quiet in the apartment feels as if it’s growing, as if it’s going to be broken at any moment by… something. I take a step forward, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck starting to stand up. I don’t know how I know, but I
know
something’s about to happen. I look around the dark kitchen, trying to work out what’s causing the sense of panic that’s gripping my chest, making it hard to breathe, but there’s nothing that stands out. Looking toward the shadows in the far corner, I wait to see if I’ll see her again. She comes sometimes, late at night, and watches me. As I continue to stare, I realize I can see the faintest outline of a human shape in the darkness.
A child.
The longer I stare, the more visible she becomes, and I can hear the worms and other parasites chewing through her body until -
Suddenly I turn as my phone starts ringing. Looking over at the counter, I realize I must have left it here when I went to bed, and now it’s buzzing as the screen lights up, flashing slowly in the darkness. I step over, and somehow I know – before I even see the name – who’s trying to get hold of me. I look back at the corner, but there’s no sign of the girl now, so I glance back down at the phone.
It’s 1:05am.
Mark Phillips is calling.
I haven’t heard from Mark Phillips in a long, long time.
Reaching down, I pick up the phone and hold it for a moment, watching as it rings and vibrates. I briefly consider not answering, as a chill runs up my spine, but I know that I can’t ignore something like this.
Mark wouldn’t call me.
Not at 1:05am.
Not unless something was wrong.
Tapping the screen, I raise the phone to my right ear and immediately hear what sounds like a storm on the other end of the line.
“Sophie?” he asks suddenly, his voice filled with urgency.
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out.
“Sophie?” he asks again. “Are you there?”
“Yeah,” I stammer. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry to call you so late,” he continues, “but I need you.”
I frown. “Uh -”
“Have you seen the news?”
“What?” My mind feels foggy, as if I can barely concentrate.
“The news, Sophie!” He sounds frustrated. “Have you seen the news?”
“Uh, no. Why?”
“Turn it on. Any channel.”
“But -” I pause for a moment, hearing someone shouting on the other end of the line. Realizing that something’s wrong, I hurry over to the kitchen table and open my laptop, quickly bringing up a browser and checking the BBC news feed. My fingers are trembling as I grab the mouse, clicking on a couple of links before -
Suddenly I see it.
In white letters, against a red background:
Live: Emergency Rescue Operation Off Cornish Coast.
I freeze for a moment as I look at a video feed, already starting to load up.
“Sophie?” Mark shouts over the phone. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” I reply, trying to switch into the emergency mode that used to help me through crises. I scroll down the page to find text updates. “What am I looking at?”
“You know what you’re looking at.”
“No,” I reply, “honestly, I -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize he can only mean one thing.
“I think it’s the ferry,” he continues.
I open my mouth to reply, but fear has strained my chest so hard, I don’t think I can even speak.
“Sophie? Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, staring at the screen.
“There’s a hell of a storm building here,” he continues, “and I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think somehow the ferry got caught out in the worst of it. It’s almost tipped over a couple of times already, and the waves are getting stronger.”
I nod.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah,” I say again.
“We agreed I’d call you if it ever showed up again,” he adds.
I nod.
Silence for a moment. The only sound comes from the wind, howling on the other end of the line, and the light rain falling against the window next to me.
“Sophie, talk to me.”
“Have you managed to get a closer look?” I ask, forcing my brain into gear.
“Not really. Conditions are atrocious.”
“But you’re sure it’s the ferry. I mean… Are you sure it’s
the
ferry? The same one?”
“Pretty sure. Looks like a sixty-footer, no markings to indicate a name or point of origin, and it appears to have no engine power or lights. It’s just drifting in the storm, plus there’s substantial damage to the hull and the bad weather’s making it difficult for us to get close. We’re going to try to launch some rescue boats to the scene, it’s about four miles off the southern Cornish coast, but I don’t know if they’ll make it. You should see this storm, and it’s still building.”
“How many people on-board?” I ask.
“No idea. There must be a crew, at least. Maybe passengers too.”
“Have you pulled the records yet?”
“There are no records.”
I scroll down further. “There must be records,” I tell him. “No boat can be out there without records. There must be traces…”
“I’m telling you,” he continues, “there are no records for this thing. It’s like it came out of nowhere, and it’s not responding to any attempts to establish contact. We’re still trying to track its route back, eventually we’ll work it all out, but right now we have to assume there are people on-board, and in this weather…” He pauses for a moment. “Sophie, the storm is getting worse, hour by hour. Check it out on the met pages, you’ll see what we’re up against. With waves this strong, the structural integrity of the ferry is going to be compromised. Whoever’s on-board, we need to get them out fast, or they’re going down with it.”
I nod again, although I quickly realize that there’s no point since he can’t see me. I think I’m in shock.
“It’s the ferry, Sophie. It’s the one we talked about.”
“Okay, but -” I pause for a moment, reaching the bottom of the page and then scrolling back up to the video. Hitting the ‘play’ icon, I wait for a moment as the file buffers, and then suddenly my laptop’s speakers blaze to life with the sound of crashing waves. I quickly turn the volume down as I watch grainy images of spotlights picking out the waves. It takes a moment before I spot a dot in the distance, being tossed about by the storm.
“Rescue attempts are being severely hampered,” the reporter explains, “by worsening weather conditions that make it extremely difficult to get any kind of emergency vehicle close to the ferry. With those conditions forecast to become even stronger over the next few hours, sources at the local coastguard station say that time is of the essence if anyone is to be rescued from the stricken vessel.”
“You won’t make it,” I whisper, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen. “The waves are too strong. How many people do you really think could be on-board?”
“A ferry that size?” Mark replies. “Could be a couple of hundred at least, maybe more if it’s an unofficial operation. One possibility we’re considering is that this boat might have been being used in some kind of people-smuggling ring, in which case it could be packed to the rafters.”
“People-smuggling?” I reply. “This close to the UK? That’d be kind of brazen, don’t you think?”
“Like I said, it’s just a theory, but…” He pauses again. “Sophie, I called you because I want you to get down here.”
“Me?” I freeze for a moment, shocked by the idea. “Mark, I -”
“I know, you quit. I was there, remember? The thing is, there might be hundreds of men, women and children on this ferry, and getting them out is going to be almost impossible in these conditions. I need my best people working with me, and five years after you walked out of here and swore never to come back, you’re still the best I’ve ever worked with.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Plus, we made a deal,” he adds. “We agreed that if we ever had another shot at this ferry, you’d come back.”
“I don’t have clearances.”
“You don’t need them. I’m your clearance. I still have enough clout around this place to bring you on as a consultant, and you’re more than qualified, even after taking time out.”