Call Me Ismay (31 page)

“Does this mean We can now
take
his life, Mr. Lyons?” Gidley asked quietly.

Edward stared at the letter for another long moment, then tore it up in his hands. “No. No, I'll do far worse than take his life,” he thundered. “I'll pull it out from under him!”

Gidley, now at a complete loss as to what to do next, leaned up back against a wall. A large poster that compared the
Titanic
& the
Olympic
was just to his right. “Whatever do You mean by that, Mr. Lyons?”

“Let Me be, let Me be! Let Me think!” Lyons raged, walking over to a punching bag and letting loose with a fierce hit to it.

“You've gone absolutely incandescent,” Gidley mused, “and I must say, I'm pleased. It is well past the time that We settle the score.”

“Shut up and listen to Me,” Lyons interrupted, as he paced back and forth. “The words of the Red Knight, that prose that had been handed down for generations,” Lyons exclaimed, causing Gidley to arch his eyebrows in severe interest. “It always began with
Launched upon a fatal curve, Too late to sway or swerve... Her brow... Titanic. TITANIC.
It is
Titanic, not
the
Naronic,
We were wrong
.
I'm telling You! And the prose
was
the Prophecy! This...
this telegram, this message about the ice...” He held up the Marconigram. “It cannot... it
cannot
be delivered to the bridge. It must never make it there or at least be delayed. There may have been other warnings that made it through, but We're going to intercept this one.”

He held a clenched fist over his own mouth for several seconds before speaking again. His partner had fallen silent, his black eyes following his master's every move. “Gidley, there is a classic naval warfare tactic, it's called 'crossing the T.' If a line of ships move ahead of an enemy on a perpendicular course, they're able to launch salvoes at their target with both forward and rear turrets, maximizing the chances of a direct hit. The front of the enemy ship is left defenseless.” He continued to pace the floor- apparently doing mathematics in his head- as Gidley eyed him carefully. “We delay at least
this
message... the ice... the ice becomes perpendicular to the ship...”

“But aren't We repeating ourselves a bit, here?” Gidley interjected.

“Never mind that. We cannot assume that this is the only message regarding ice that this ship has received. It had to be significant enough, though, if
he
had it in his possession,” Lyons sneered, looking at a still-disabled Ismay, who stood in the gymnasium looking affright with a totally dazed expression on his face, his dress shirt untucked and rumpled.

“Here. We'll put the note back on him, into one of this coat's many pockets.” He folded the telegram many times over, and grabbed Ismay's coat. “He'll have some explaining to do later. We will send him on his way, but not in the direction of the bridge. Get this man dressed again, quickly.”

With urgent efficiency, the two men clothed Ismay properly. As he put the finishing touches on the necktie, an unusually somber Gidley quietly made an observation.

“Perhaps We have outstayed Our existence's usefulness, Mr. Lyons, but if I follow You on this one, it seems that You are preparing a grand exit. Isn't intercepting one warning of 'ice ahead' a bit too small of a gamble?”

“You underestimate Me, Gidley. There are additional measures that will be taken, I can assure You.”

In short order they had restored Ismay to his previous condition, except for the unblinking coma in which he remained. They brought him to the gymnasium door, peeked outside for any foot traffic on the deck, then led him out. Lyons took Ismay forcefully by the chin, and spun him around in the direction of the bridge, and whispered menacingly in his ear.

“You will not-
will not
- head this way. You will reach in your pocket for the message and it will not be there. You will then head for the aft part of the ship- it makes no difference where you end up- but you
will not
head for the bridge.” He turned Ismay around and pulled his hand from Ismay's jaw. “Mr. Gidley,” he said, expectantly.

Gidley stepped forward, his hand in position just an inch from Ismay's face.
“Enough will this blood be.”
He snapped his fingers and the two men made a rapid escape for the forward First Class entrance.

Ismay blinked for the first time in about fifteen minutes, wobbled a bit and clenched his hand to his eyelids. He gasped slightly in pain, realizing that his vision had suddenly become blurred and had an excruciating sensitivity to light. He rubbed his eyes vigorously for a moment, carefully opened them and looked down and wasn't sure which direction he was facing. He shook his head, looking about for anyone nearby who may have seen his strange episode but found none. He drew a restorative breath, then put his hand into his right pocket where he knew the message had been, but it was gone.
Where is it? What did I do with it? What the devil am I doing? Where's Andrews? I need to see Andrews.
A little more cognizant now- or at least with a singleness of purpose- he headed aft, but not feeling quite himself.

3:30 P.M.

In a Second Class two-berth stateroom, Lillith sat upon a small settee, sewing up a tear that had appeared on the cuff of one of Lyons's many shirts. The room itself was a little cove of enamel white walls, and mahogany furniture. Seated across from her on the bottom half of a bunk bed, was Marcus (the still relatively-new valet) fastidiously shining a pair of his master's shoes.

She had done little to engage Marcus in conversation throughout the voyage, finding him a bit slow-witted and shallow. As she watched him go about his work on the shoes, however, she was struck by his focus and determination in getting it right, trying to be thorough and to do a good job, using Australian Kiwi shoe polish with the greatest of care and not so much as uttering a word as he worked. She felt a rush of sympathy, knowing what he did not know, and as the moments wore on she felt it only fair to shed some light of truth on what his employment situation really was.

“Marcus,” she began quietly, “what did Mr. Lyons say to you when He agreed to bring you on as valet?”

It took a few seconds for Marcus to come out of his shoe-shining reverie, and he honestly was not sure of what she had said.

“Pardon?”

Lillith set the shirt aside and gazed at him intently. “What did Mr. Lyons say to you when He hired you? How much did He tell you of what would be necessary in His employ?”

“Just the usual of what's expected of a personal man-servant. That, and perhaps one day I might be assigned specific duties, like a silver specialist.” His focus began to pull towards his shoe-shining once more.

“What did He tell you of this voyage? What did He say the purpose was?”

Marcus glanced up at her. “Not much, really. Some business about possibly staying at the Waldorf-Astoria for perhaps a month or more while he attended to some of his affairs in New York.”

“Affairs
, how interesting,” Lillith replied, trying hard not to allow herself a wry smile. “Marcus, did He inform you that any part of this journey would take Us much farther west?”

“No, I should say not-”

They were both startled by the door to the stateroom flying open, and Bartholomew Gidley promptly making his full, overbearing presence known by taking several strides in with the assistance of his cane. Marcus stood at attention abruptly; Lillith refused to budge.

“Marcus!” Gidley snapped.

“Yes sir.”

“Leave Us. Now. Go find yourself a book or something in your master's quarters if you're not too stupid to read, but go, now.”

Marcus, frightened and his cheeks red with embarrassment, collected his master's shoes in a panic and fled. Gidley slammed the door shut behind him as he left.

He turned to Lillith and leered at her. “Ready for a bit of chaos?”

“What do You want? Where is Mr. Lyons?”

“He's off... preparing for a bit of fun... with much thanks to you.” Gidley sat on the end of the settee, just inches away from her feet.

“What are You on about?” She eyed him suspiciously. “I've done nothing wrong. I've been holed up in this cabin for days, darning His master's socks, pressing His master's shirts, I've-”

“That is not all that you have been up to, apparently, ever since We left Southampton.” He set aside his cane, folded his arms and viewed her imperiously.

“I don't know what You mean,” she replied, getting annoyed and concerned over Gidley's behaviour. “Really, I've done nothing, and it seems if anyone should be judged for wrongdoing, it should be You, after Your 'feeding' or killing or whatever it was on that train.”

“That bastard copper had it coming!”
he shouted, spitting his words out viciously. “We never would have made it out of England if I hadn't stopped him-
in his tracks
, and I do appreciate the irony of that pun because that is exactly how it is intended. It was a beautiful thing to dispatch that little bastard.”

“A copper!” Lillith gasped. “Dear God, You killed a policeman? I've never killed anyone, Bartholomew Gidley, and don't You ever forget that. The only feedings I ever did were consensual or mutual, never fatal, maintaining my virus just to please His master and to survive, and nothing more. As for You, You enjoy being a monster, You revel in it, and for that I hate You.”

“Ah yes, but maybe someday I'll get My mutual feeding from you, and it will be one you'll never forget,” he boasted, running a lascivious finger over her chin. “The debt I owe that man, Mr. Lyons, for preserving My illness and resurrecting Me when necessary is the only,
only
thing that has kept My paws off of you. But one day it will be inevitable, and I'll take blood from you in painful and pleasurable ways that you never imagined.” His breathing was becoming labored and menacing.

“Never, You sodding pig!” Lillith snapped, tearing Gidley's finger away from her face with tremendous force and going so far as to let fire flicker in her eyes for an instant. “I know what the vulnerabilities are, and don't You for one moment believe that I wouldn't hesitate to use them!”

“Come now, little one,” Gidley intoned creepily, seeming to enjoy the chase. “You haven't been so particular in all of your little divine adventures, now have you? Weren't you at least able to allow yourself sweet nothings of love to a certain someone on this ship, and not just Edward Lyons?”

“You are arrogant, insane and disgusting,” Lillith exclaimed. “I have done no such thing.”

“Oh, but my darling, I know for a fact that you have,” he said, smiling at her with a predatory grin. “You see, We came upon a letter, written in your own hand, in another man's pocket- a letter that practically sang of sweet love.”

“I have done no such thing!
Are You deaf, blind
and
stupid?” she cried, getting angrier and angrier at his accusations. “I have not been allowed out of this cabin for days, I'm not even on the ship's manifest- I am invisible, I am no one, and if You bring Mr. Lyons here, I will be more than happy to confirm that for Him. I
am
nobody. Nobody at all!” She began to sob.

“You didn't seem quite so unsure of yourself in that letter, saying that you didn't need to
convince
the object of your affection of anything more- that Mr. Lyons treated you as nothing more than a madam.”

Lillith convulsed from another sob, then completely froze. “What did You say?” she whispered, her stunned face streaming with tears.

“Oh, does it seem familiar to you now, then? Quite a performance with the self-righteousness and the tears there, you pitiful tart.” Gidley's eyes glowered with hate. “Perhaps you missed your true calling, and should have sought a spot on the stage.”

Lillith, emboldened and strengthened as never before, turned to face him completely and boldly. “Bartholomew Gidley. What did You just say that I wrote?”