The Company of the Dead (79 page)

This inventory of the dead only served to reinforce his feelings of detachment. The year of 1912 had known a number of disasters. The
Príncipe de Asturias
, sailing out from Spain, was lost with five hundred hands. Towards the year’s end, the
Kiche Maru
, caught in a storm off the coast of Japan, would disappear with a thousand souls. Come August, typhoons would batter the coasts of China, causing devastation on a previously unseen scale. The death count would exceed fifty thousand.

What was so unutterably important about
this
ship then?

He cast back to the question he’d posed to Lightholler over a year ago.
What shapes history, Captain? Events or personalities?

As if on cue, Colonel Astor turned from his seat to regard Morgan with cool eyes. He had his hair slicked and parted in the middle. A generous moustache countered the angular severity of his face. Someone muttered a quip and he returned to his meal.

You
, Morgan thought.
Scandalised in a new marriage, seeking escape from the spotlight in Europe, and now returning home. You’re the only survivor of Wells’ list of the damned. You spoke for your dead brethren. The ripples of your agitation swelled to cause a major rift between America and England.
A rift that might have been avoided with the
Titanic
’s safe arrival in New York. Was this the heart of the matter then? A united America and England might have altered the direction of the Great War.

It was impossible to fathom the motives behind Wells’ intervention without a clearer understanding of the world he’d known. One thing was certain, however. This ship was the nexus point. He realised that when it came to the muddy conundrum of events versus personalities, one important factor had to be kept in mind. Even the heaviest door may pivot on the smallest of hinges.

He turned to Kennedy, eager to discuss the possibilities surrounding Astor.

Kennedy, silent the entire meal, said, “Gentlemen, I think it’s time we took this to the next level.”

“I do hope you’ve been availing yourself of our amenities,” the steward said.

“I’ve taken a tour of the ship, Crawford,” Wells replied. “That was more than enough for me.”

“Very good, sir. I’m sure you’ll have some marvellous adventures to relate when we arrive at New York. At the very least, you’ll be able to offer a detailed description of your stateroom.”

“I’m not one for long journeys, I’m afraid. I’ll be more than pleased if that
is
the highlight of my voyage.”

“I take it, then, that you’ll be dining here in your cabin again tomorrow. Dinner for one?”

Wells granted a smile. “Perhaps. I’ll let you know. I may be dining with a lady friend.”

Crawford cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed, sir, here’s hoping. Good night, sir.” He had the dinner plates balanced evenly on an outstretched hand. He backed out of the cabin with a grin.

Wells poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it. He had his journal open to the last entry. He wondered how he was going to run it.

Sometime in the next two days, Ismay would begin his fruitless quest to break the company’s transatlantic crossing record, held by the
Titanic
’s sister ship, the
Olympic
. By nine o’clock Sunday morning, the first ice warning would arrive. Should he approach Andrews in an attempt to avoid the excess speed or wait for that fateful day?

Sunday, April 14, 1912.
He wrote the date down. Topped up his glass and drained it. Should he leave it to the lookouts or stand ready by the bridge? The binoculars were in his trunk in the baggage compartment.

He was doodling. He looked down at the sheet and read the name he’d written with a smile. Marie. Underlined, and with exclamation marks. She was attractive in an unusual way. Smart, a little older than he liked. Perhaps a recent widow, which would explain her condition and allow him to entertain any number of short-term possibilities in this era. Significantly, she wasn’t on any passenger list he could recall. Dinner for two was becoming an interesting alternative.

He poured himself another measure.

The captain’s vessel inspection would take place sometime after ten, if the previous day was anything to go by. It would take in the corridors and public rooms of all the classes. The kitchens, the pantries, saloons and shops would all be toured. The Captain’s extensive entourage would include Thomas Andrews, the chief engineer, the pursers, the surgeon, the chief steward and the department heads. Morgan, donning one of Lightholler’s uniforms, modified for his build, would have little trouble joining the procession.

Doc, a size too large to be considered for the task, was attired in the livery of a bedroom steward. He had the unenviable mission of searching through the cabins in first and second class. Kennedy, wearing an engineer’s uniform, would take the lower decks.

Morgan met up with the captain’s staff on the enclosed first-class promenade. Their march took in the majority of the ship, examining and noting the cleanliness and condition of the pristine equipment. Andrews and the captain spoke often; Andrews suggesting that perhaps the wicker furniture on the starboard side be stained a shade of green, or that one of the reading rooms, less popular than expected, would make an excellent stateroom. He appeared to take in every detail, at one point stating that a sirocco fan in the engine room could do with replacing.

Of interest: a fire in bunker ten, one that had started over a week ago while the ship was in Belfast, still raged. Morgan wondered at its significance.

He encountered Doc backing out of a stateroom on B deck. Morgan nodded. Doc shot him a disgruntled look and shook his head. Morgan muttered, “Back to work then, lad.”

Making certain that only Morgan could see him, Doc offered a two-fingered salute.

Andrews seemed approachable. He was quite happy to answer enquiries from other members of the assembly. Morgan, catching his attention as they ascended the staircase to A deck, said, “I was supposed to meet up with a Jonathan Wells this afternoon, but he’s nowhere to be found. Do you know him?”

“Elusive chap, that one,” Andrews said. “One of JP’s mob.” He touched a finger to his nose and smiled. “Had a brief chat with him this morning.” He inspected Morgan’s uniform.

“Dawkins, sir.” Morgan spoke hastily, giving the name of a crewman known to have signed on but never sailed upon the ship. “Transferred over from the
Olympic
.”

“Well, Dawkins, he booked passage under the name of Ryers, for what it’s worth. C deck. Keeps to himself mostly. American, like yourself.” Andrews seemed to be fishing for information.

Morgan thanked him. Before Andrews could voice a question he was interrupted by a passenger descending the stairs. Morgan slipped back into the crowd. The entourage was dismissed at the entrance to G deck. From here the captain would proceed to the engine rooms with only the chief engineer in attendance.

Morgan doubled back to B. Doc must have been in one of the staterooms or moved on. He checked the passenger list at the purser’s office on C deck. Ryers’ cabin was down the port-side corridor, across from the barber’s shop. From where he stood, he caught a glimpse of the safe, beyond the thick glass window. He stood there for a moment and tried to imagine how it must have looked to Hardas, locked below the icy depths of the Atlantic. He felt a chill and cheered himself with the thought that
this
deck would never see any more water than the daub of a soaped mop.

He went to find Kennedy.

They met in the smoking room.

Most of the passengers were still finishing their lunches. A few couples idled in the Verandah Café next door. They were left to themselves. The Georgian splendour of the empty chamber dwarfed them. They stood by the fireplace while Kennedy inspected the day’s postings. They’d made three-hundred-and-eighty-six miles in the twenty-four hours. Morgan told him that they had lit more boilers overnight. He said that they’d make five-hundred-and-nineteen today and increase the speed to five-forty-six on Saturday.

Doc asked if that would crack the record for the crossing and Morgan told him that the
Mauretania
, a Cunard liner, easily held the record at a pace of twenty-six knots an hour. Kennedy gazed at him, impressed.

Morgan said, “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

Kennedy chuckled briefly at the remark before sobering at his own news. “I had no luck below.”

Doc said, “My back’s killing me. These guys have packed more luggage for a week’s cruise than I’ve worn in ten years.”

Morgan said, “It shows. Did you check out cabin eighty-six on C deck?”

Kennedy started to smile. No wonder Morgan was in good humour.

Doc checked a slip of paper from his wallet. “The steward was in there, name of Crawford. I didn’t get a chance to check it out.”

Morgan said, “He’s our guy.”

Kennedy’s response was a cold decree. “We take him tonight.”

Wells was reading a novel he’d removed from the library on the first day of the voyage. Jerome K Jerome’s
Three Men in a Boat
. He leafed carefully through the cut pages to the front. 1889. A first edition. Timeless when he’d first read it as a youth, Jerome’s experiences on the Thames were something he could now readily identify with.

He acknowledged Crawford’s gentle knock at the door and bade him enter.

The steward smiled as Wells presented the spine of the novel to his enquiring look. He said, “I see you have been keeping yourself amused at least, sir. How was dinner?”

“Fine.”

“Our chef hangs on your every word, sir. I’m certain he’ll be delighted with your appraisal. I must say that I’m sorry to find you dining alone.”

“If you must know, Crawford, I took a turn on the deck earlier. With my friend.”

“Indeed? Same time tomorrow?”

“Thank you.”

Crawford bowed and left.

Wells went to his valise and removed the journal. Since arriving on the ship he’d made no entry of any consequence. Merely dates and names, a form of shorthand detailing his scattered thoughts. He turned to an earlier entry and wondered at the state of mind of the author. He looked at his wrist. Only a fine seam of raised tissue remained of his attempt at surgery.
Knives
. He snorted at the thought.

He poured himself a glass of whisky, and pledged he would allow himself two tonight. He reached for the ink and a pen, and began sketching, the nib tracing an irregular sigmoid curve. He went over the peaks, making them sharper, and completed the drawing with a flourish.

“Not this time,” he murmured.

There was another knock at the door. Without thinking, Wells said, “It’s open.”

He slid the journal aside, waiting for the ink to dry. He had the whisky to his lips when the door opened. He glanced up and the glass dropped to the carpet with a soft thud.

“
Gershon?
”

“Yes. And no.”

The man had a gun in his hand but that was the last thing that Wells noticed. The stranger was a dead ringer for Gershon. Older, heavier, with tinges of grey at the sides of his thick curly hair. The voice was the same.

Wells rose unsteadily from his seat, reaching out to the apparition, already mouthing an apology.

“Don’t you take a fucking step.”

Wells froze.

Two more men entered the room, flanking the doppelganger. One of them also carried a gun. Unlike the contemporary piece the first man bore, it was a Colt automatic, its barrel extended by the black cylinder of a silencer. The man locked the door behind them and said, “Hello again, friend.” It was the person he’d spoken to on the first night, out on the forecastle.

The steward’s bell was out of reach, by the bed. All Wells had at his disposal was the pen. He swayed uncertainly. “Who are you?”

Gershon’s twin said, “Back up against the porthole. Keep still. Mind you, if you decide to leap outside, I won’t be fussed.”

Wells backed up as instructed. The other two men approached his desk.

Wells’ eyes flitted to the journal and back. “Did
he
send you? Did Jenkins send you?” The accusation was a whisper.

“Didn’t I explain to you that Jenkins isn’t coming?” The lookalike’s voice rose to a pitch of anger that Gershon had never shown. “Didn’t I tell you that the night before you buried me?”

“Doc,” the second gunman said. His quiet tone was admonishing.

“Jesus Christ. This isn’t happening.”

The double’s gun was aimed firmly at his chest. “Didn’t I warn you that your presence in this time changed everything?”

“
Who are you?
”

The second gunman placed the Colt in his coat pocket. His companion reached for the journal, placing his fingertips on the fresh pages. The inked outline of the iceberg smudged beneath his thumb. The second gunman withdrew another manuscript from beneath his coat. It was old, water-damaged; the pages coated in modern plastic. He began to flick through it rapidly. The coating snapped against his fingers. He said, “My version’s not smeared.”

The other man said, “What does that mean?”

“We need to check both versions for discrepancies.”

The other nodded.

Wells thought he was going to faint.

The gunman said, “My name is Joseph Kennedy. This is Darren Morgan. You knew Doctor Gershon.”

Wells nodded stupidly. Gershon was dead.

Kennedy said, “It’s best you take a seat, Doctor Wells, we really need to talk.”

They sat around the table with the two journals between them. The clock chimed eleven on the mantle.

Morgan explained that they were the descendants of the world Wells had created. A world consumed by atomic fire.

Wells may have had the hollowed look of the fanatic, but there was nothing of the extremist in him. He sat quietly while Morgan summarised the events that followed the wreck of the
Titanic
.