The Company of the Dead (86 page)

He released us from our duty, bud. Not our honour. He ain’t leaving the ship, and you know it. So how can you?

The morning’s paper had said that some children were lost. And your father would never leave a child behind, no matter what happened.

He had told Kennedy the wrong story.

“Excuse me.” Morgan rose from his seat. The other passengers stared at him in wonder.

He worked his way back to the lifeboat’s side, ignoring the hands that reached for him. Murdoch was signalling the crew to lower away. The lifeboat lurched and dropped a few feet.

Morgan leapt, gaining the railing. Murdoch reached a hand across and dragged him over the barrier. His expression was incredulous.

Morgan muttered, “I left something on the ship.”

“I fear it’s going to cost you.”

“You have no idea.”

Murdoch shook his head and walked away. Most of the remaining passengers had filed down to the aft lifeboats. The deck was bare.

Morgan looked down at the water. Hardas’s shade was dispersing in wisps. It might have been a cloud of escaping steam or the clotted respiration of the saved.

So long, bud.

Morgan turned away.

Four men sat playing cards at one of the tables. Cigar smoke coiled thickly above their heads. A few other men stood by the bar drinking. Everyone should have been in bed. Everyone should have been safe.

A silver-haired man seated nearby absently waved at some bottles that sat opened near several upturned glasses. Kennedy filled two glasses from a bottle of whisky. The alcohol splattered down the sides of the glasses and spilled onto the bar’s polished surface. The silver-haired man gave him a dark look.

Wells said, “Put it on my tab.”

The man took his drink and strode away.

There was a wooden box on a shelf behind the bar. Wells worked his way around the mahogany expanse of the counter and fished out two cigars. He bit off the tips of them both, and handed one across to Kennedy.

Kennedy said, “I don’t smoke.”

Wells produced an ornate lighter from below the bar. Kennedy cocked his head in puzzlement.

Wells raised his glass. “To fatherhood.”

Kennedy touched Wells’ glass with his own. He brought the cigar to his lips while Wells lit it carefully.

Wells lit his own, then said, “I made sure Patricia got aboard, and you helped clean the slate between me and Gershon. I’d say we’re even, so make it fast.”

Kennedy didn’t miss a beat. “What happens to Astor?”

Astor. When it came to the
Titanic
, the man’s fate was an invariable feature of most accounts. He was credited with enough acts of bravery, wit and style to fill any number of disasters. Wells somehow found the thought disturbing. He gave Kennedy the short version, between rapid puffs.

“Is that it?” Kennedy asked.

“That’s it. They found him in the water days later, decayed, his head staved in. They only recognised him by his shirt. His initials were stitched into the collar.”

“He goes down into the cargo hold in my world, as well,” Kennedy said. His expression was pensive.

“I guess he liked animals.”

“You were with him.”

“I was there?”

Kennedy nodded.

“Looks like I get around. What’s so important about Astor?”

“He’s the linchpin. His survival is what sent my world to its doom.”

“Forget about it. He dies.”

“I need to be certain of that.”

“He
dies
.” Wells ashed the cigar. “All the American millionaires die tonight.” He was in strange spirits now. He added, “How much are
you
worth, Kennedy?”

Kennedy snorted.

Wells said, “I’ve got no idea what you have in mind, but I’ll tell you something for free. There are twenty lifeboats on this ship, four are already gone. The rest are going to fill fast. When this ship goes ass up, fifteen-hundred people will end up in the water. Only fifteen of those will get taken into the boats. We’re talking a one per cent return here.

“Now, you’re in reasonable shape—better condition than most of the passengers—so I’ll be generous. I’m going to give you a one in twenty chance of clawing your way out of the water. Thing is, you’re also a sentimental bastard. I have no idea how you made it as far as you did. Taking that into account puts you back squarely behind the eight ball. I suggest you put aside any crazy notion you’ve got fermenting in there and get into a lifeboat. That’s your only way out of here. That’s where you’ll find me.” He glanced at the clock perched behind the bar and stubbed out his cigar. “Adios.”

Someone was standing beside them. He’d approached silently and was regarding them over a pair of oval glasses.

The blood drained from Kennedy’s face.

Wells felt a slight shudder sweep his body, feet lightly tripping over his grave. Things were going to take a little longer than he’d expected. He said, “Hello, William.”

Stead smiled back. “Good morning, Jonathan.”

Wells continued, impelled by some unknown power. He said, “This is Joseph Kennedy. Major Kennedy.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.” Kennedy extended a hand.

Stead shook it politely. “So many times,” he said, “but never like this. Never like this. Only two of you, but two will suffice. Where is the girl?”

“She’s safe,” Kennedy replied.

Wells reached for his drink and held it with unsteady hands.

Stead indicated the fireplace with a nod. “Take your time, gentlemen. We’ll talk because we always talk.”

Wells glanced at Kennedy.

Kennedy placed the stub of his cigar on the counter.

“We can leave right now,” Wells said. “We’ll take the next lifeboat. We don’t need to hear this.”

“Really?” Kennedy was miles away. Years, perhaps.

“We don’t need to hear this again,” Wells said stridently. His outburst seemed to have come from somewhere else. He didn’t dare utter another word, for fear of what might be loosed.

Kennedy reached for his drink and rose from his seat.

Wells gazed at him despairingly. He drained his glass and made for the exit. Each step was a momentous endeavour against the imperious force of Stead’s announcement.

We’ll talk because we always talk.

He was drawn back in a decaying orbit to where Kennedy had placed a third chair by the hearth. The fire was a low flicker dancing on the wood. He took his place.

“Usually this is an exchange of information,” Stead began. “Understanding for wisdom. But not tonight. Am I mistaken?”

Patricia Marie Kennedy might be safe and gone, but her words still haunted Wells.

Other attempts
.

Spurred by the catalyst of Stead’s arrival, they tripped a switch in his head. A curtain parted somewhere for him. Suddenly he was in the wings and looking on, and he saw it all for what it was. The faded backdrop, the dusty set, and all the actors weary beyond measure.

The horrors mounted upon themselves, vertiginous; burgeoning in the mystic’s presence. They crashed over him—not as revived memories, but as previous encounters, here, on the ship. They stretched out before him now, diverging into two strains. One found him in a pool of his own blood, lying at Gershon’s feet; the other found him in the water. They alternated, twining about themselves, but always knotting at the end—in his death. It was as immutable and assured as the loss of the ship itself.

He understood that the notion was completely insane, just as he recognised it as being the absolute truth. This was closing night.

“You’re not mistaken,” Wells said.

Kennedy’s expression hinted at his own insights. He said, “An infinite number of possibilities. The revision of a thousand decisions.”

It sounded like a recitation to Wells. The litany of all of Kennedy’s nights, spent chasing him throughout eternity.

“One way or another,” Stead said, “it ends tonight.”

“Till the next time,” Wells replied wearily.

“I know that you’re seeing this tragedy in a new light, Jonathan, now that you find yourself backstage. But you’ve been watching the cast and the props with no consideration for the theatre itself. Joseph didn’t say anything to you about this, because he can scarcely credit it himself. Yet it’s the fear of it that spurs him on.”

Kennedy said, “There
is
no next time, Doctor Wells.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Jonathan, there are things that even the experience of a thousand lifetimes won’t teach you, and you’ve had many more than that. The seams are already showing. The cracks are there. The device that sent the two of you back and forth is at odds with reality. In its own way, it is the greater force of the two. It is set to prevail.”

“Nothing is carved in stone,” Kennedy said.

“True enough,” Stead replied. “And what follows the dawn is closed to me. The night, however, may be plainly read.”

“What happens?” Wells asked.

“I feel like Sisyphus and this rock has grown too heavy.” Stead was looking at the fire.

“
What happens?
”

“The same thing that always happens, Jonathan. Death by water.”

“I wasn’t meant to make old bones.” Kennedy’s voice was a murmur of acceptance.

Stead threw him a piercing glance. “You, sir, weren’t meant to exist at all.” He rose from his seat. “There are dreams that lie fathoms below our waking thoughts. I once wrote a book wherein an ocean liner struck an iceberg in the Atlantic. There was so much loss, so much terror. I entertained the thought that by consigning the story to paper, I might keep it bound there. The arrogance of that deed binds me to this night. I don’t dare imagine the retribution your earlier acts might warrant.” He tendered a slight bow. “If it is any consolation, you should know that this is where you belong, gentlemen. Good night.”

He retrieved his glass, rinsed it out, and returned it to the bar. He left the smoking room in silence.

“It’s not carved in stone.” Wells was staring at the embers. “It’s writ on water. There are a few lifeboats left. We can leave any time we like.”

Kennedy nodded, absently.

“I’m usually dead by now. Gershon usually kills me in this timeline.”

“He shoots you in your cabin,” Kennedy replied.

“We’re never here, talking like this.”

Kennedy remained silent.

“There’s a man travelling in second class by the name of Lawrence Beesley,” Wells said. “He gets on a lifeboat within the hour and lives to write an account of the sinking.”

Kennedy turned to regard him.

“In the fifties, there’s a resurgence of interest in the
Titanic
,” Wells continued. “They make a movie about it and Beesley is one of a few survivors called upon as a consultant. But he only knows the end of the story through hearsay. Only by what he saw from the safety of his lifeboat. When they begin filming the actual sinking, he forges an actor’s union card and slips onto the set.”

“He gets on the ship?” Kennedy had a strange smile on his face.

“He gets on the ship. Stays while all the lifeboats are filling. Thing is, the director spots him just at the last moment and tells him to leave.”

“He gets a second chance and chooses the water,” Kennedy mused.

Wells asked, “What is it about this place?”

“I’m not sure,” Kennedy replied.

Wells reached for a poker and stirred the coal. The fire hissed and the cinders danced. He said, “I think I know why this kept happening to us.”

Kennedy nodded slowly. “It’s what Stead was trying to tell us.”

“We have to get off the ship right now.”

“It’s okay, it’ll be taken care of,” Kennedy replied. “I already knew. I told Patricia.”

“Will she be able to handle it?”

“She took care of you, didn’t she?”

Wells smiled. “I wonder if we got it right this time?”

“
We?
” Kennedy gazed at him for long moments. He said, “I think it’s as close as we’ve ever been.”

Wells considered the experiences of his untold nights on this ship. It didn’t
have
to end in the water, but he’d be damned if he left the
Titanic
before Beesley, or Ismay.

There would still be time.

He said, “Officer Lightholler is only loading women and children on the port side. It’s not going to be a popular decision, no matter what the storybooks will say. That’s where we’ll be the most use.”

Kennedy stirred at the officer’s name. He patted his coat pocket. The edge of the journal was just visible at the brim. He said, “We have to get rid of these first.”

Wells felt a sudden pang. The sensation passed swiftly. His eyes wandered up towards a painting that hung above the fireplace. It was titled
The Approach of the New World
.

Kennedy continued, “They can’t ever be found. This is where we break the circle.”

He removed the documents and tossed them into the fire. The journals flared briefly. The plastic coating dripped to cover both manuscripts in splashes of coloured flame and they burned as one.

There was a glow on the horizon. It seemed to flicker.

“It’s a masthead light,” Wells explained to Kennedy. “Captain Smith has ordered a few of the lifeboats to row out to her. Some will try. It’s a safer bet than hanging around here, waiting to be swamped after we hit the water. All the accounts will say that she seemed to recede from their approach. Some will argue that she’s a whaler, trespassing and unwilling to reveal her presence. Most will decide that she’s the
Californian
. Personally, I could give a damn.” He turned away from the view. “She never comes to our aid.”

An officer stood nearby, operating a Morse lamp. He was repeatedly signalling to the far-flung light. Another rocket split the skies, raining shooting stars of bright white fire.

“Someone on the
Californian
does report seeing this, however.” Wells sneered contemptuously at the pyrotechnics. “They’re going to think we’re having a party on board.”

Kennedy was staring at the empty davits. “Which one’s next?”

“Lifeboat four.”

They descended to the enclosed promenade on A deck. The boat dangled tantalisingly out of reach beyond the thick glass windows. Crewmen worked at their seams, trying to pry them open. The deck’s list was more pronounced, keeling forwards and to port.