Titanic 2020 t2-1 Read online

  'Jimmy — it's him, it's Pedroza, he's . . .' and then they heard a groan, and then a cough, and they hurried across the office and there was Scoop, lying face down but trying to get up on to his knees. He pulled himself halfway up, then collapsed down again and threw up.

  'He's been attacked!' Claire cried. 'Pedroza's. . .'

  But Jimmy had spotted something — what Scoop had been trying to get hold of. A bottle of vodka.

  'He hasn't been attacked, Claire.'

  Claire stared at Scoop. Her hands went to her face. 'The Red Death.' She took a step back.

  'Nope,' said Jimmy. He picked up the bottle and turned the label to show her. Her eyes widened.

  'Vodka . . .?'

  'Yup.'

  'You mean he's drunk?'

  'Yes he is . . . and most of the time, apparently. He's an alcoholic. Dr Hill told me.'

  Claire looked sadly down at the old reporter. He was snoring gently now. But her sympathy only lasted for a few moments. 'He's wrecked the place! All our work!'

  Jimmy stood beside her, nodding. 'If we tell on him, your dad will sack him.'

  'My dad wouldn't . . .' But then she stopped. 'Yes he would.'

  'So what do we do?'

  Claire thought for a moment.'OK. You clean up the sick, I'll check the computers.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'OK. I'll get him back into his room, you clean up the sick.'

  'I think not.'

  'Well, someone has to do it. We'll call the cleaners.'

  'And make them promise not to tell anyone? I don't think so.'

  'Well what then?'

  'We do it between us.'

  'We . . .' She looked truly horrified. 'But. . .'

  'Come on,' said Jimmy.

  ***

  Through a combination of dragging, pushing, prodding and shouting — mostly at each other, because Scoop remained out for the count — they managed to get him back into bed.

  Then they cleaned up the sick.

  They were nearly sick themselves.

  They righted the computers and tried to switch them on, convinced that Scoop's frenzied assault on his own office — a crazy attempt to locate a hidden supply of alcohol — had sunk their attempt to produce the Titanic Times all by themselves.

  And yet, amazingly, everything was working perfectly. The stories they had painstakingly written were just as they'd left them, saved, unharmed, on the computers. Claire's photos were still on file.

  They got right back to work.

  Jimmy wrote at speed, picking out the letters on the keyboard with increasing speed and occasional accuracy. Luckily there was a good spell check. Claire tried a dozen different variations of her merged engine-room photos before finally settling on one. When they were both finished they designed the feature page together before checking the rest of the pages one last time.

  'It's a good read,' said Jimmy.

  'And it looks good.'

  'You couldn't tell the difference between our Times and Scoop's.'

  'And that's the whole point. Let's print it.'

  When the ship was fully functioning, three thousand copies would be required first thing every morning, seven days a week. But that wasn't their problem. They had done their job. Whoever came on board in Miami would inherit a fully functioning newspaper production office. And it would only smell slightly of vomit.

  ***

  They had been given an eight p.m. deadline for providing finished copies of the Titanic Times for Captain Smith's approval. Once he gave the go-ahead the paper would be distributed to the skeleton crew. By the time they had finished printing it out they had just ten minutes to spare, and what with the size of the ship it took most of that time to get to the bridge. Claire, a regular visitor to this and many other bridges, was more than familiar with it, but it blew Jimmy's mind. He had always thought of ships' bridges as featuring — well, basically a big wheel, maybe a bell, with waves crashing against the window. And bluff men saying things like 'Ahoy there, Captain!' Perhaps, as a concession to the twenty-first century, there might be some electronic equipment. Like radar. Or a toaster for midnight snacks.

  This was like mission control.

  The place bristled with computer monitors.

  Crewmen in short-sleeved shirts studied electronic charts and forecasts and maps and . . . well, he hadn't a clue what they were all doing or what half of the equipment was for. It was just incredibly impressive.

  Captain Smith was seated behind a desk to the rear, examining a monitor with First Officer Jeffers on his left shoulder and Claire's father on his right. They were all looking very grave.

  'We've brought the papers,' Claire said proudly. She wasn't supposed to say it proudly. It was, after all, supposed to be Scoop's paper, but she could hardly help herself.

  Captain Smith barely looked up. 'Just leave them there.'

  Claire set them down, but then took off the top copy and opened it to the centre pages. 'Look, Daddy,' she beamed. 'My photo.'

  Mr Stanford sighed and took hold of the paper. He glanced at the photo, then quickly closed it over. 'Yes, very good.' He handed it back. 'Now run along, there's a good girl.'

  But Claire stood her ground. 'You hardly even looked at it!'

  'Yes I did, and I'm sure it's very good. Now if you don't mind—'

  'No!' Claire exploded. 'You order me to do something useful and then when I do it you're not the slightest bit interested! I nearly froze to death and you hardly raised an eyebrow!'

  'Claire, come on,' said Jimmy. He caught hold of her arm and tried to pull her away. He'd been arguing with his parents for years and knew how pointless it was. But she wasn't for moving.

  'Claire, that's quite enough,' her father barked. 'We have more important things on our minds right now.'

  'You always have!'

  Captain Smith clasped his hands before him and said, 'Claire.'

  She glared at him. 'It's not fair, I do my best and all—'

  'Claire.'

  She took a deep breath. 'What?'

  'We've had some very bad news.'

  Jimmy had thought the bridge was quiet for . . . well, a bridge. But now he realized it was more than that. It was as if a dank chill had settled over it.

  Captain Smith gave a little shake of his head, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say. 'Claire . . . Jimmy. The President of the United States — they were taking him to a safe location. But his plane has disappeared. They think he's dead. This damned virus is going to get us all.'

  15

  Miami

  The next few days should have been triumphant. The Titanic was the greatest cruise liner ever built and its arrival at the Port of Miami to undertake its first proper voyage should have been accompanied by brass bands and ticker tape and the excited commentary of television reporters. Instead hardly anyone noticed.

  The President was missing, and his country was descending into chaos.

  Jimmy, who had followed the spread of the Red Death right from the start, had not really been affected by the mounting death toll. It was all happening somewhere else. He was safe on the Titanic. Just reading about it somehow kept it unreal. But with the President missing, probably dead, it brought home just how frightening and dangerous this plague was. The President ought to have been safe. He had repeatedly gone on national TV to reassure people that everything would be all right; he had such power, so many weapons and scientists and experts, so many people to look after him and defend him . . . but they'd still managed to lose him.

  ***

  Scoop finally reappeared as the ship docked in Miami, smiling and joking and saying what a bad flu he'd had but predicting that the beautiful Florida sun would soon sort him out. If he had noticed that two editions of the Titanic Times had been produced in his absence, he didn't mention it. Many of the crew not directly involved in the docking were lining the deck, and Jimmy and Claire, who now felt very much as if they belonged to that crew, were right there with them. That's wh
ere Scoop found them. He rolled up behind them, clapped his hands together and said, 'Hey kids, how's it going?' They turned. 'Hey — look at the long faces. We made it, didn't we? Gonna catch me some rays!'

  Jimmy, who had his overalls unbuttoned nearly to the waist because of the morning heat, removed a folded copy of their most recent Times from his inside pocket and handed it to the veteran reporter.

  Scoop opened it up and examined the front page with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. The headline said it all — President Missing — Hope Fades. 'I . . . I don't remember . . . did I write this? Must have . . . Anyway, life goes on.' He handed it back. 'My pension's in the bank, and I'm all set for a new life on the beach! Could life be any better?'

  'You're going ashore?' Jimmy asked.

  'Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?'

  'Because people are dying,' said Claire.

  'Ah, sure people are always dying.'

  'The President is missing!'

  'Well, they'll find him. And if they don't, they'll elect a new one, they always do.'

  'But thousands of other people are dying as well,' said Jimmy. 'Look at the paper, Scoop, it's happening everywhere.'

  Scoop laughed. 'God, you're awful serious, aren't you? Look — I was a foreign correspondent before I lost these old pins . . .'

  'You told me you lost your legs before you became a foreign correspondent. Running for a taxi.'

  'Ah, I just made that up to make you feel better. Truth is, Jimmy, Claire, I've seen massive wars, famines, plagues, earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis — you name it, I've been there, and they're awful things, truly awful, but people recover, they rebuild. Sometimes it takes years, sometimes just a few days, but they survive, they always do. I know this Red Death thingy is bad. But it will pass.' He clapped his hands together. 'So, I'm going to find a nice little hotel along the beach, I'm going to sit by the pool, have a nice cocktail, and wait until this nonsense fades away to nothing.' He held his hand out to each of them. 'Thanks for your help. I couldn't have put the paper together without you.'

  They shook, then watched him roll happily down the gangplank.

  'He has no idea,' said Jimmy. 'About the paper . . . or the plague.'

  "Completely clueless,' agreed Claire.

  With their hectic work on the paper over the past few days, Jimmy had not really given much thought to what would happen once the ship docked in Miami. He was thinking about plagues and presidents, not his own immediate future, so it came as a shock when First Officer Jeffers told him arrangements had been made for him to go ashore in the next hour, in order to catch a flight back to Ireland.

  Jimmy just said, 'Oh.'

  'We've spoken to the port authorities and they've agreed to make sure you catch your plane.'

  Claire, standing beside him, was momentarily lost for words. They'd had lots of fights and bickered endlessly, but they'd also laughed a lot. They had forged a good partnership in producing their Titanic Times.

  'You can't just let him go . . .' she began. 'People are . . . dying out there . . .'

  Jeffers nodded. 'Yes, Claire, there's a few cases — but the authorities tell me it's reasonably safe. We're starting to board passengers for the cruise shortly, Jimmy, so I think it's important to get you on shore before we get too busy, eh?'

  Jimmy shrugged.

  'That's a good lad. I'll give you ten minutes to say your goodbyes, then I expect to see you at the portside gangplank on Deck Three, all right?'

  'All right.'

  First Officer Jeffers nodded at them both and turned away.

  Jimmy looked at the ground. 'Well,' he said.

  Claire tutted. 'It isn't fair. You're much safer on board.'

  'Not much I can do.'

  They wandered in a desultory fashion towards Deck Three. They stopped by the gangplank and looked over the rails at the dock below. A queue of passengers waiting to board snaked back for several hundred metres. They were making slow progress. Dr Hill and a team of medical experts employed by White Star Line were examining everyone — including new crewmen — for indications of plague. Those allowed on board were being issued with antibiotics and painkillers, even though nothing had yet been proved to affect the onslaught of the virus.

  'You should be taking photos of this,' Jimmy said.

  'What's the point?'

  'Aren't you going to keep working on the paper?'

  'It was good fun with the two of us. Not with some new guy.'

  Claire pointed suddenly to her right. Scoop was rolling away along the dock. A porter pushing a trolley piled high with cases was struggling to keep up. 'Look at him go!'

  'He's happy to get his legs on dry land,' said Jimmy.

  Claire looked at him, then they both burst out laughing.

  It faded quickly. Claire looked thoughtful. 'If you could stay — would you?'

  'The point is I can't.'

  'But if you could? Are you that desperate to go home?'

  Jimmy shrugged. He had been a little homesick. But these past few days had been such fun.

  'Right. Then this isn't over yet. Come with me.'

  ***

  They found Mrs Stanford on the top deck, in a bikini, lying on a sunbed. 'I thought I'd stake my claim to one now,' she said as her daughter approached. 'Once the passengers are on board there's a strict policy against reserving sunbeds. I quite agree with it of course, generally speaking — but we do own the ship, so I ought to have first choice of. . .'

  'Mother.'

  Mrs Stanford peered over the top of her sunglasses. 'What is it, dear?'

  'I want Jimmy to stay.'

  'What? Who?' Claire shifted her position so that her mother could see Jimmy, standing some way back. 'Oh. Him. Well I'm sorry, Claire, you can't keep him. Puppies and stowaways aren't just for Christmas, you know. I know what you're like, he'll be your best friend for five minutes and then you'll lose interest and it'll be me — or one of the servants — who has to do all the cleaning up after him.'

  Claire sat down on the sunbed beside her. She clasped her hands together. 'I want you to tell Daddy that it's not safe to put Jimmy off the ship when there's so much sickness around.'

  'Nonsense. He'll be perfectly fine. This Red Death nonsense is just a . . . hiccup.'

  'Mum — people are dropping like flies!'

  Mrs Stanford laughed. 'Do you really think your father would allow all these people on board if there was any danger involved? It's like any illness, dear, it affects the old first, and those who are already unwell, but if you're fit and well you can shrug it off. I'm not the slightest bit worried about it.'

  'Mum, I've read the news reports. That's not what's happening.'

  Mrs Stanford sighed. She lifted a wide-rimmed cocktail glass and happily sucked her drink up through a straw. 'No, Claire, the answer is no. No, no, no, no, no.'

  'Then I'm going to tell Daddy about Uncle Winston.'

  Mrs Stanford almost choked. She set the glass down so suddenly that the blue liquid within splashed up and over the edge. 'Excuse me?'

  'Five years ago I saw you kissing Uncle Winston. Tongues and all.'

  'Claire! I did not—'

  'I saw you!'

  'You were mistaken. Uncle Winston is a very good friend of your father's and . . .'

  'You were having an affair.'

  'We were not having—'

  'Fine, then it won't matter if I tell Daddy . . .'

  Claire stood up and began to walk away. 'Come on, Jimmy,' she said.

  They'd gone about twenty metres when Mrs Stanford shouted after them. 'Claire — come back here.'

  Claire stopped. She winked at Jimmy, then crossed back to her mother and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  'This . . . nonsense about Uncle Winston, that's exactly what it is. Nonsense. But we are very good friends, and up to a certain point I can understand how it might look to a very young child. While I have nothing to hide, your father is under a lot of pressure at the moment and he really doesn't need some d
readful domestic hoo-haa right in the middle of it. And although I'm sure this . . . sickness . . . will fade just as quickly as it started, the boy is in our custody and I see now that it wouldn't be right to just set him on shore and expose him to . . . well, you know what I mean. So if you want me to put a word in with your father . . .'

  Claire nodded.

  'Just give me another hour or two in this wonderful sun and then I'll. . .'

  'No, mother, it has to be now.'

  'Now? But I've only just—'

  'Now.'

  Mrs Stanford gave her daughter a despairing look, then sighed and reached for her robe. She glanced sadly up at the sun, slipped into her sandals, then indicated for Claire and Jimmy to follow her. As she passed Claire she hissed: 'This is blackmail, you know.'

  'I know,' said Claire.

  ***

  However, their hopes were quickly dashed. Although Claire and Jimmy waited outside Mr Stanford's office, they were able to listen through an open window. They strained at first to pick up the words but very soon they had no trouble hearing at all.

  'And I'm telling you absolutely no way, Catherine!'

  'But it's not safe out there, George!'

  'Don't you think I've enough to worry about? Dear God, Catherine, I'm missing nearly a thousand passengers, sick or dead or stuck in some godforsaken airport trying to get here! And they'll sue me if I leave without them! And I've fifteen hundred passengers coming on board, and Lord knows how many of them are infected! And they'll sue me if this ship doesn't sail on time! A third of my crew hasn't shown up, food and supplies are arriving in dribs and drabs and even Frankie Savoy, who I am personally paying one hundred thousand dollars to entertain the guests on this maiden voyage is missing four members of his band and is refusing to perform unless I double his salary and find him a trumpet player! Do you think I have time to worry about this damned stowaway of yours?'

  'Exactly darling — you shouldn't have to worry. So let him stay on board and forget about him!'

  'I can't! There's a court order demanding his immediate return! There are two Port of Miami police waiting to take him into custody! If I let him sail I'll be charged with taking a minor across international borders and I'll be thrown in prison! The answer is no. No! No! No! No!'