Titanic 2020 t2-1 Page 6

  Jimmy said: 'Damn. I was going to write the headline, We're All Going to Die!

  Scoop laughed. 'This is California we're talking about — Hollywood. They exaggerate everything. In a few days we'll find out that it's nothing more than bad flu.'

  'What about — Californians Should Stop Whining and Go Back to Work?'

  'No.'

  Half an hour later the door opened and Claire appeared, yawning.

  Scoop looked at his watch. 'Jimmy's been here since eight-thirty. It is now ten-fifteen.'

  'I had a swim. Then I had to get my nails done.'

  'We start at eight-thirty.'

  'Relax, would you? It's not like it's a real job.'

  Scoop took this as a direct attack on his profession. 'If you're late tomorrow you will be sacked,' he snapped. 'Then your father will take the appropriate action.'

  Claire rolled her eyes. 'All right, all right, keep your hair on. I'm here now, aren't I?' She took a seat beside Jimmy. He hadn't looked at her, or said a word. He continued to study the screen. 'Good morning, James.'

  'It's Jimmy.'

  'Isn't that short for James? I much prefer James. Kings were called James. Jimmy is someone who comes round and fixes your drains.'

  'It's Jimmy.'

  'Please yourself.' She looked at Scoop. 'Well? What do you want me to do?'

  ***

  Jimmy couldn't believe it. His first proper assignment was to go down to the kitchens and interview Pedroza, the chef. Claire was to go with him to take photographs.

  He had protested immediately. 'But you told me he was as mad as a bag of spiders.'

  'That's what you want in an interview, someone with a bit of personality.'

  'But what if he goes mental on me?'

  'Even better.'

  Jimmy looked at Claire. 'What are you smirking at?'

  'Nothing, James.'

  ***

  They found Pedroza sitting over a coffee and reading an old newspaper at a table on a small section of the deck outside the kitchens reserved for catering staff. The floor was littered with cigarette butts.

  Jimmy hesitantly approached. Scoop had told him that Pedroza was expecting him, but he certainly didn't look like he was. His black eyes burned into Jimmy. 'Ah . . . hello . . . I'm . . . from . . . the newspaper . . .' Jimmy began, pointing down at the paper. 'I'm here . . . to . . . interview . . . you . . .'

  Pedroza looked at him blankly.

  'You sound like you're talking to an old deaf person,' said Claire.

  'Shut up,' snapped Jimmy. Turning back to Pedroza, lie continued, 'Do . . . you . . . speak . . . English? Have . . . you . . . worked . . . on . . . a . . . ship . . .' and he waved vaguely around him, '. . . like . . . this. . . before?'

  Pedroza's brow furrowed, then he spat something short and sharp in a language Jimmy didn't recognize.

  'Where . . . do . . . you . . . come . . . from?' Then he pointed out to sea. 'Far . . . away?'

  Pedroza thought for a moment, then he brightened suddenly and pointed at the water. 'Fish,' he said.

  'Nice one,' said Claire.

  "Will you shut up?' Jimmy exploded. 'I'd like to see you do any better!'

  Claire smiled sarcastically, then sat down in the chair opposite Pedroza and began to address him in fluent Portuguese. Jimmy's mouth dropped open. A few moments later a torrent of words issued from the chef, all accompanied by enthusiastic hand gestures. Claire turned to Jimmy. 'He's from Africa originally, but has settled in Lisbon in Portugal, he's married with six children, he's been a chef with White Star for fifteen years, he only gets back to see his family twice a year and he misses them very much. Are you going to write any of this down?'

  Jimmy fumbled for his pen. 'Ye-yeah — hold on . . .' He began to write as quickly as he could. 'Lisbon . . . six children . . . only gets back . . .' Then he glanced up. 'Why didn't you say you spoke Portuguese?'

  'You didn't ask.' Before Jimmy could respond Claire returned her attention to the chef, and began firing questions at him. As soon as Pedroza responded, she translated in the same animated fashion, and Jimmy quickly jotted down the details. One hundred and five thousand meals prepared every week . . . three hundred thousand desserts . . . one and a half thousand pounds of coffee . . . eight thousand gallons of ice cream . . . When he'd filled seven pages with facts and figures, and they all seemed a lot more relaxed, Jimmy said: 'Ask him how come he screams at anyone who drops food on the carpet, or tries to smuggle it out of the restaurant.'

  Claire repeated the question. Pedroza got out of his chair and poked Jimmy in the chest. He barked something. Then he poked him again. Jimmy took a step backwards. Pedroza snarled something else. As Jimmy moved backwards Pedroza went with him. Claire translated in staccato fashion as she followed them across the deck.

  'He says . . . messy people drive him mad . . . he slaves over food but because it is free people don't care if they drop it . . . they don't pick it up . . . they grind it into the carpet . . . they fill their plates . . . and only eat a little bit . . . and throw the rest out . . . then try something else . . . they are greedy and lazy . . . and the food they leave . . . would feed his village in Africa for many years.'

  Pedroza had Jimmy backed right up against the railings now and was still jabbering away.

  Jimmy looked to Claire for help. 'Claire, please — tell him to back off!'

  Claire spoke rapidly in Portuguese.

  'And,' Jimmy added, 'why don't you tell him he's mad as a bag of spiders, and if he spits in my face one more time I'll twist his ears off and stick them up his nose.'

  'Why don't you tell me yourself?' Pedroza asked, this time in perfect English.

  'I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .'

  Pedroza laughed suddenly, prodded Jimmy once more in the chest, then turned away. He retook his seat and lifted his newspaper.

  Claire stared down at him in disbelief. 'You can speak . . .'

  Pedroza's eyes narrowed. 'Sometimes it is good to have secrets.' He glanced across at Jimmy without any attempt to conceal his contempt. 'And sometimes it is good to know when to keep your mouth shut.'

  Jimmy felt a shiver run down his spine.

  ***

  'Did you notice,' Jimmy asked on the way back to the newspaper office, 'that in every single photo you took of him he had some kind of knife in his hand?'

  'He's a chef, of course he had.'

  'He creeps me out.'

  'ou creep me out.'

  Jimmy made a face.

  'These are really neat,' Claire said, clicking through the photos on the camera as they approached the office.

  'Yeah, right,' said Jimmy.

  When they re-entered the office they were surprised to find Scoop standing by the window, looking out. He rapped a fist on his legs, making a hollow, metallic sound. 'Thought I'd give them a spin,' he said, smiling. 'Land ahoy and all that. Never going to win an Olympic medal for sprinting, but they're not bad. Now then, how was our chef?'

  'Mad as a . . .'Jimmy began, already sitting down at his desk and beginning to type.

  'Fine . . .' said Claire at the same time.

  Scoop looked from one to the other. 'OK, let's get a look at those pictures then.'

  Claire began to push buttons on the back of her camera. 'If I can just hook it up to a monitor we can . . .' But then she stopped. She pushed some more buttons. Then she looked up, her face now rather pale. 'I've erased them.'

  'What?' said Scoop.

  'I was trying to get rid of the ones I didn't like, but I've erased them all.'

  'Let me see.'

  Scoop took hold of the camera. After a while he let out a long sigh. 'Did you by any chance read the instructions before you started pushing buttons?'

  Claire examined her nails.

  'Brain dead,' said Jimmy.

  Claire's eyes snapped up. 'You—'

  'Stop!' Scoop waved a warning finger at her. Claire held her tongue. 'All right, Claire, they're gone, it happens. It's not
the end of the world. However, I want to put this paper together this afternoon, print up some copies, let the Captain take a look. But I can't run Jimmy's feature without a picture. If you race down to the kitchen now and smile nicely at him you might just persuade him to pose for you again.'

  'All right. I'm really sorry.' Claire took her camera back and turned for the door. As she passed behind Jimmy she glanced at his screen. 'There's only one f in chef,' she hissed.

  As she hurried through the door Jimmy shouted after her: 'And there's only one t in idiot!'

  10

  Life in the Freezer

  Scoop was angry. An hour after hurrying off to retake Pedroza's picture Claire had still not returned. The paper was all ready to print but for the space left for her picture of the Portuguese chef. Jimmy knew it was only a dummy edition of the newspaper, a practice run that would only be seen by the Captain and a few crew members, but he still felt oddly excited about it: his article was inside. Scoop had read it over, removed a couple of paragraphs, moved several others around, but then pronounced himself more than happy with it. 'Jim lad,' he said, 'I think you've a talent for this.'

  Jimmy shrugged and said, 'Yeah, right.' In two years at East Belfast High nobody had ever suggested that he had a talent for anything. Apart from causing trouble.

  'Now where is that girl?'

  'Off doing her nails,' suggested Jimmy. 'Or counting her money.'

  Scoop ignored him. 'Do me a favour, will you, Jimmy? Take a run down to the kitchens and see if she's still down there. Maybe she's trying to do something arty with her camera — just tell her I haven't time for any of that nonsense, I've a paper to produce. Get her back up here pronto.'

  At home, if anyone had asked him for a favour he would have told them where to go, or demanded payment in advance and then probably not done it anyway, but this felt different. He wanted to see his work in print. And his name. He wanted to read by Jimmy Armstrong. But it wasn't going to happen unless Claire showed up with her photos.

  ***

  There was no sign of her in the kitchens. Pedroza snapped that she'd been and gone, and ordered Jimmy out because he was busy. Jimmy then travelled up to her family's penthouse suite on the tenth floor. The cabin door was open. Jimmy could see Claire's mother standing on the balcony. He knocked anyway, but when he got no response he stepped into the cabin. Her mum had an easel set up and was painting the setting sun, but the rush of the wind prevented her hearing him approach, so that when he did say hello she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  'Sorry,' said Jimmy. 'I was looking for Claire.'

  'Have you never heard of knocking?' said Mrs Stanford.

  'I did knock.'

  She looked him up and down, rather suspiciously. 'You're the stowaway, aren't you?' Jimmy shrugged. 'Tell me, what are you running away from?'

  'Nothing.'

  'You must be running away from something. If not, why stow away?'

  'It was an accident.'

  'I think I can admire a boy who ran away for a reason. I'm not sure I can admire one who ran away by mistake.'

  Jimmy blinked at her. 'Have you seen Claire?'

  'Oh, she was here a few minutes ago — stormed in and stormed out.'

  'Do you know where she went?'

  'How would I know that? I'm the last person she tells anything to. And a word of warning, young man. She's bad enough as she is — don't you be leading her any further astray. I know your sort.'

  Jimmy just stood there. He was pretty sure that she didn't know his 'sort' at all, and she certainly didn't know him. He nodded at her painting. 'Have you been painting for long?'

  'All of my life, child, all of my life.'

  'Well, you'd think with all that practice you'd be a bit better at it.'

  Jimmy hurriedly removed himself from the cabin.

  ***

  He found Claire twenty minutes later, standing on the very top deck, staring out to sea. Her camera sat on a sunbed beside her. He came up behind her and snapped: 'What are you playing at, you lazy cow?'

  Just like her mother, she hadn't heard him approach — but instead of looking mildly annoyed Claire looked absolutely terrified. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. There was obviously something going on with her. But it was none of his business. She pointed at the camera. 'There it is, take it.'

  'You took the photos, right?'

  'Yes, I took your stupid photos.'

  'Then you have to come down and put them on to the computer and help pick out the right one.'

  'I don't have to do anything. You take it if you want. It's only a silly pretend newspaper.'

  'Right.' Jimmy lifted the camera and was about to walk off. But then he decided he wasn't going to let her off so easily. He stood with his hands on his hips. 'Can't stick with anything for more than five minutes before you go crying to Daddy, can you? You're a complete waste of space.'

  He turned away — but he hadn't gone more than a few steps before she let out a cry, threw herself down on to one of the sunbeds and buried her face in her hands. This only made Jimmy angrier. He stomped back to the sunbed. 'What's wrong? Did your gold credit card fall overboard? Did you chip your nail polish?'

  'Go away!'

  'OK.' He turned again.

  'No, wait!'

  Jimmy sighed loudly. 'What?'

  Claire's face was still pressed against the sunbed's wooden slats. 'Why do you hate me?' she asked weakly.

  Jimmy didn't even have to think about that one. 'It's a mix of your appearance and personality.'

  She was quiet for a moment, then slowly turned and wiped at her eyes. 'I hate you too,' she said, 'but I'm scared and I have to tell someone.'

  'Scared of what?'

  'Do you swear to God you won't tell anyone?'

  'No.'

  'Please! She said it with so much feeling that Jimmy was forced to deliver one of his better shrugs. Then he sat down on a sunbed. Not beside her, but three removed.

  'What, then?'

  Claire took a deep breath and held her hand against her chest while she tried to settle herself. When she spoke she didn't look at Jimmy but at the deck, and her voice was kind of vague, as if she was describing a dream she only half remembered.

  'I . . . went down to take the photos . . . to the kitchens . . . but there was no one about so I walked straight through to the freezers. Have you seen them? They're huge and there's about a dozen of them . . . and I heard voices coming from inside one of them . . . and the door was open just a fraction . . . All I wanted was the stupid photo, you know? Anyway, I looked in and there were . . . like . . . these people in there . . . and they weren't crew they were like a family, men and women and children . . . just sitting there talking . . . The fridge wasn't even switched on so it wasn't cold, there were sunbeds on the floor and clothes scattered all over the place and it smelled terrible . . . and one of them looked up and saw me and I just froze . . . then he shouted something and I moved backwards . . . but straight into Pedroza, and he started screaming at me . . . but not even in Portuguese or English — in some . . . I don't know, African tongue or something. I told him I just wanted to take his picture again, and he calmed down and smiled and . . . that was even scarier. He led me back to the kitchen and he took out this huge knife and stood holding it up and I took my picture and just as I took it he said: "If you tell anyone what you saw in there I will use this knife to cut your head off. And after that I will cut your mother's head off. And then your father's. Do you understand?" And then he just smiled and walked away.'

  She looked up for the first time, straight at Jimmy.

  Jimmy nodded to himself for several moments. 'So how did the photo turn out?'

  'Jimmy! Please! I'm serious.'

  'Well, they're stowaways, aren't they? And Pedroza threatened to kill you because your record with stowaways isn't very good, is it?'

  'That's not fair!'

  'Isn't it?'

  'No. You're . . . different. There's a whole family living in a
freezer! They could be anything. What if they're terrorists?'

  'Did they look like terrorists?'

  'What do terrorists look like?'

  'I've no idea.'

  'Jimmy — please! They shouldn't be there! But Pedroza's going to kill me if I tell anyone!'

  Jimmy nodded. Then he raised a finger, as if he'd had a sudden brainwave. 'I know what's going on . . .'

  'What?'

  'It's all a figment of your imagination.'

  'My . . .?'

  'You made all this up just to add a bit of excitement to your life, or to get a lot of people panicked or worried because . . . well, because that's what you're like. You like being the centre of attention.'

  'You . . . you!' Claire suddenly reached across and snapped her camera out of his hands. 'Right! I'll prove it to you! I'm going down now to get a picture of them. And if you were any sort of a journalist at all, you'd want to come as well, to get the story, but you're obviously not. You can't even spell!'

  She snorted dismissively and stomped off towards the elevators.

  'Let me know if he cuts your head off!' Jimmy shouted after her.

  ***

  If you mix anger with fear, you quite often get adrenaline. Now it buzzed through Claire like electricity. She was determined to prove that Pedroza's mysterious family existed. She only needed a second to take a photo and then she would make Jimmy Armstrong eat his words.

  The first person she saw when she reached the kitchens was Pedroza himself. She almost turned back right there and then. But he was too busy overseeing dinner preparation to notice her and she was able to duck in low behind a counter and run, half doubled-over towards the freezers.

  OK, so far so good.

  Six massive doors lined either side of the freezer room. Five were closed, but the sixth, where she'd seen the family earlier, was still tantalizingly open. Claire swung the camera off her shoulder, set it the way Scoop had shown her, then cautiously ventured forward. There was no light on inside the freezer, so she would have to use flash. It would immediately alert those hiding inside, but she had no choice.

  Hit and run. Hit and run!

  Claire stood to one side of the door. All she could hear was a dull hum from the other freezers, the buzz of the fluorescent lights above and the thundering of her own heart. She checked her camera once more. She would only have one chance. She wasn't going to get them to say cheese.