Titanic 2020 t2-1 Read online

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.

  6

  Earthquake

  Thousands 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 wou
ld 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.

  7

  San Diego

  It is a universal truth that teenage boys, given the choice of either throwing a bottle they have recently found high into the air and watching it smash or setting it gently out of harm's way, will almost certainly choose to throw it.

  Given the opportunity to throw two bottles, they are unlikely to compromise by smashing one and saving the other.

  The boys in question were called Cameron Rodriguez and Patrick Hernandez, a fact which we are only aware of because just a few days after throwing the bottles they were both dead.

  They lived in a housing project in San Diego, California. It was a rough area, and dangerous. Often, when they wished to play undisturbed by the local gangs the boys wandered out of the project and squeezed under a high wire fence on to a stretch of lush grass surrounding a laboratory owned by a company called Boris Bio Tech. On the morning of the San Diego earthquake the lab's entire staff were taking part in a softball tournament several miles away.

  They felt the earthquake, but didn't for one moment think that it might affect their laboratory or indeed, lead to the end of civilization as we know it. Why would they? They were enjoying beer and hotdogs, while back at the lab the vibrations caused a faulty latch on a cupboard to give way. As a result approximately thirty bottles fell from their shelves. Of these, all but two landed harmlessly on the carpeted floor. The two that didn't bounced off a desk and through an open window. It was a ground-floor lab, so they didn't have a great distance to travel before landing, perfectly intact, on the soft lawn outside.

  They might have remained there until staff discovered them the next day, and the world would not have been ruined, but for the inquisitiveness of Cameron Rodriguez and Patrick Hernandez. They were just having fun. They could not know that Boris Bio Tech's main work was top secret or that it developed poison gases for use in chemical warfare. Not to attack other countries, you understand, but to defend against other countries that might attack using their own poison gases. One bottle contained a very, very deadly poison gas. The other also contained a very, very deadly poison gas, although slightly different. But what Cameron and Patrick achieved by throwing these bottles into the air and smashing them was something the scientists at Boris Bio Tech had never even dared attempt. They mixed the contents of the two bottles.

  ***

  Back on the Titanic, meanwhile, the earthquake remained just a small item in a newspaper almost entirely compiled by Jimmy Armstrong. When Scoop finally returned, later that afternoon, he wasn't looking well at all. His eyes were red, his skin blotchy and his brow damp. Jimmy had surprised himself by how much he'd enjoyed rewriting the stories and then slotting them into the newspaper, and he was anxious to show the nearly finished product to Scoop, but Scoop was too miserable to even look. He said, 'I'm sure it's fine . . . I'll look at it later . . . have to lie down.'

  The suite where the paper was produced had a small bedroom at the rear, and it was into this that Scoop rolled.

  'What . . . what do you want me to do?' Jimmy asked from the doorway.

  'Whatever you like . . .'

  'Do you want me to get a doctor?'

  'No . . . sleep . . .' Scoop hauled himself out of the chair and on to the bed. 'Tired . . . Oh, they found your uniform . . . so be . . . careful. Captain gave me this . . . thought there might be a story in it . . .' Scoop pulled something small out of his shirt pocket and tossed it towards him. 'Catch . . .'Jimmy caught it. His lucky penny. 'You can . . . tell me . . . all about it. Later . . .'

  Scoop's head fell to one side and he immediately began to snore. Jimmy turned the coin over in his hand. He'd forgotten all about it and its stupid history. Well — with Scoop sleeping and his work on the paper finished, now was as good a time as any to get rid of it. He would go to the tallest point on the ship — the climbing wall on the top deck — and chuck it into the sea from there. Jimmy didn't believe for one moment that it was unlucky or cursed, but he would do it for his granda, who clearly did.

  As he turned to leave the room he was surprised to see two prosthetic legs standing in the corner behind him. He smiled to himself. Maybe these were the legs Scoop had intended stretching earlier. He wondered why the old man preferred to use a wheelchair. Still — none of my business. He gently closed the door.

  ***

  His intention was to get rid of the coin, but there were, of course, distractions along the way. On the twelfth floor he discovered an amusement arcade which he hadn't noticed on the floor plans. He spent an hour playing pinball. He played a one-sided game of air hockey. There was a vintage Star Wars game which involved an attack on the Death Star. He played that nine times in a row, slapping the machine in frustration each time he was burned to a crisp. When he climbed out of the machine, Claire Stanford was standing there, with her arms folded.

  'Oh,' said Jimmy.

  'So you're the little twerp who ran away to sea.'

  'So you're the owner's stuck-up daughter.'

  'How dare you!'

  'How dare you!'

  'You're in so much trouble!'

  'You're in so much trouble!'

  'Stop that!'

  'Stop that!'

  'You . . .'

  'You. . .'

  'You are—'

  'You are . . .'

  'You are not funny!'

  'Oh yeah?'

  'Aha — didn't copy me that time!'

  'Aha — didn't copy me that time!'

  'My dad's going to toss you . . .'

  'My dad's going to toss you . . .'

  '. . . in a cell and throw away the key.'

  'He'll have to catch me first.'

  Claire glared at him. 'I've caught you.'

  Jimmy laughed. 'I think not.'

  'Yes I have. You're my prisoner.'

  'Uhuh. Right up to the point where I walk past you and escape.'

  'I won't let you.'

  'Uhuh.'

  Jimmy took a step towards her. 'I have a black belt in judo,' said Claire, raising her hands.

  'And I have a black belt at home. It keeps my trousers up.'

  Jimmy went to move past her. He kept his right shoulder down, meaning to give her a good shove on the way. But just as he leaned into her, Claire grabbed his arm, twisted it up, brought it down over her own shoulder, put her entire weight under him and heaved up. Jimmy was lifted off his feet and thrown. He landed in a heap in the corner, and for good measure banged his head on the Star Wars game.

  He looked at her somewhat groggily. Then he shook himself. 'Lucky,' he said.

  'I don't think so.'

  Jimmy got to his feet. She was certainly stronger than she looked. But she was a girl, and he was a rough, tough product of the back streets of Belfast. He wasn't going to hurt her, but he was going to teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget.

  Ten seconds later Jimmy lay in another heap. Claire stood over him, bouncing from left to right. 'Do you want some more? Do you? Not copying me now, are you? Are you?'

  'What do you want,' Jimmy snapped, 'a Blue Peter b
adge? So you know a few tricks. I bet Daddy paid for judo lessons.'

  'So what?'

  'Well we aren't even then, are we? So Daddy's little rich girl has a black belt. Big deal. I bet you have a pony as well.'

  Claire folded her arms and gave him a disdainful look. 'You can say whatever you like. Makes no difference. You're my prisoner.'

  Jimmy looked quickly around him. There were two exits within striking distance. She might be good at judo, but he was fast on his feet. There was no shame in running away. Surviving was more important.

  As if she could hear what he was thinking she said, 'And don't even think about running for it. I'm a sprinter. I have medals for it; I've represented my school at national level.'

  ' Oooooooooooooh,' said Jimmy, 'aren't we great?'

  'Just get up. I'm taking you to the Captain.'

  Jimmy got to his feet. 'What about a fair fight?'

  'That was fair. You're just a pathetic fighter.'

  'I mean, using something in here, something neither of us has had any training on. That would be fair. Like the air hockey.'

  Claire looked at the table. 'I can beat you at anything,' she said.

  'If I win, you let me go.'

  'And what if I win?'

  'You won't, but if by some miracle you do, I'm your prisoner, I'll go quietly, and as a bonus I'll never again repeat what you say.'

  'Is that a promise?'

  'Is that a promise?'

  She almost laughed. She managed to turn it into a grunt and nodded at the table. 'You're on,' she said.

  Claire might have had a rich father and judo lessons from an expensive coach, but Jimmy was an amusement arcade veteran. When he wasn't in school he virtually lived in one. He rarely had money to play the machines, but he hustled it by challenging other kids. He rarely lost. There was no official competition or title, but if you asked anyone in Jimmy's school, they would have confirmed that he deserved to be crowned the Air Hockey Champion of East Belfast.

  They agreed it would be best of five games. He let her win the first one, just to see the cocky, condescending look on her face. He let her win the second, and he loved the way she gloated over every victorious stroke.