The Company of the Dead (88 page)

On D deck, the reception area was saturated. A tide of water lapping at the vestibule coaxed wicker furniture down into its maw.

A middle-aged man in a corner of the room was hunched over an open suitcase, picking at the scraps that floated away from his overturned valise. Kennedy called out to him and the man answered with a feral growl. Wells advanced and the man swiped him away with a poorly thrown punch. One of the dogs, a greyhound, bounded forwards and tore at his jacket with snapping jaws. His eyes flashed primordial understanding. He threw the bag aside and ran for the Grand Staircase. They all dashed after him.

Morgan slipped on the stairs, slamming his jaw against hard oak. He scrambled to his feet, with Kennedy dragging him up by the collar. The ship seemed to heave beneath them, shifting violently. He couldn’t catch his breath. A knot of muscle in his chest clenched tightly. Springing up onto A deck, he was granted a view of the stairwell below. It wound down into the briny water.

The first-class entrance had been abandoned, save for two men. Guggenheim and his valet. Neither wore a lifebelt. Guggenheim turned to Astor and said, “Goodbye, John.” He knelt down to pat the terrier, and offered the rest of them a cursory nod.

Soft music greeted them on the boat deck. Hartley’s group had abandoned their spirited ragtime in favour of a waltz. The pack of dogs dispersed along the slanting floor, their yelps only compounding the surreal aspect of the night. The shrieks from distant decks might have been the wind but there was no movement over the ship. The air was a frigid mantle.

Astor turned to face them and said, “My gratitude to you all.” He continued to Kennedy, “I believe you would have made it quick, and I’m thankful for that, but I so wanted one more moment with Madeleine, even if it’s shared across the water.” He drew the terrier into his arms and left them, returning to the railing.

Kennedy’s jaw hung slack.

Wells said, “He must have seen you.”

There were no lifeboats in sight. Passengers stood quietly in small groups. A few glanced back at them with quick, furtive movements.

Kennedy said. “He’s as tied to this as we are.”

Wells reached into his pocket and withdrew the scrawny mass of the cat. He presented it to Morgan.

Morgan glanced at Kennedy.

“Patricia likes cats.” Kennedy’s tone was remote.

Some undertow had already taken hold of them. It curled about in a manifest coda to all their dark nights on this ship. It promised an end, at last, to misery.

Morgan felt it reaching a tendril towards him. He found himself taking a step back.

“Do any cats survive the sinking?” he asked softly.

“It can be our secret,” Wells replied.

Morgan reached out and drew the cat away from their dark current. It stirred, warm in his palms.

The band fell silent.

In the ensuing stillness Morgan heard voices joined in prayer. A small gathering on the second-class promenade began singing a hymn.

The stern decks were crammed with steerage passengers and crew. Ahead, the
Titanic
’s bow had yielded to the black ocean. Her rigging jutted out of the rising water, isolated and forfeit. Much further out, the lifeboats coasted beneath the flicker of lantern light; lost stars spread out across the water.

The singers wavered. Individual voices struggled to carry the melody, faltering, until the deep tones of a cello swelled beneath them, bracing their song. The rest of Hartley’s band joined in.

“Is that what I think it is?” Kennedy asked.

“Nearer, My God, to Thee,” Wells intoned. “That’s last call, gentlemen.”

Some crewmen were gathered around the officers’ quarters. Oars had been arranged beneath the collapsible lifeboats. It looked like they planned on sliding them down onto the deck. Within moments, collapsible A was loose. It crashed down to entrench itself in a portion of the splintered floorboards. Collapsible B dropped next and landed upside down on the port side of the deck.

Wells looked at them and said, “They’re going to be our best bet.”

“It’s going to be a shit fight,” Morgan replied.

Captain Smith emerged from the wheelhouse. He had a megaphone pressed to his lips. “Do your best for the women and children, and look out for yourselves.” He moved across the deck, repeating the message at regular intervals.

“If you miss out on the lifeboats, get into the water fast,” Wells said. “You don’t want to be caught on the stern. The crowds will drag you down, if the ship’s suction doesn’t.” He was bent forwards, hands on his knees, as if preparing for a sprint. “The ship’s baker has thrown most of the deckchairs overboard. Gather a few together. Stay as dry as you can. It’s the cold that will get you, not the water.” He turned to them and said, “Good luck.”

Kennedy tightened his lifebelt.

Morgan’s eyes strayed to the bulge of his holster.

Kennedy caught the movement and said, “Do you want me to shoot you?”

“I’ll take my chances, Major. See you on the lifeboat.”

Kennedy crouched down too, more for balance, as the bow dipped further towards the water.

“Joseph?”

“What is it?” Kennedy’s eyes, hooded in shadow, revealed nothing.

There was a sudden gurgling noise as the ocean began boiling over the forwards railings. It swept towards the bridge.

“May your dance bring good cloud.”

Kennedy gave him the broadest smile. “Good cloud, Darren.”

The ship lurched suddenly. Then Kennedy was running, Wells at his side, towards the upright lifeboat. Morgan, stumbling, gave chase.

Someone had cut the falls of the collapsible and it was sliding forwards. Passengers and crew pitched themselves desperately into the retreating boat. A crest of water crashed over the boat deck, spilling most of the collapsible’s occupants. It careened into a davit and began drifting against the forwards funnel. The bridge slipped beneath the water.

Smith had cast aside the megaphone. Morgan caught a last glimpse of him diving over the ship’s side.

Kennedy and Wells were lost to sight.

The lifeboat slipped by, yards away. Morgan felt the cat scratching wildly within his coat. He scanned for a deckchair or a barrel, seeking a dry way to safety. A crowd of people poured from the first-class entrance. They dashed aft at the sight of the oncoming water, only to find themselves blocked by the promenade railing. They swarmed over the barrier or climbed to the irrational safety of the quarters’ roof. The air was rent by their screams.

A woman tore past him, the woollen bundle of a child pressed to her chest. Two men fought over a lifebelt. It split, sending them both off balance and skittering along the deck.

The ship tilted forwards in preparation for her plunge.

Morgan reached for the side railing. Bodies slammed past him, hurled to the waves below. He dragged the hem of his coat as high as the lifebelt permitted, bringing his burden up to his neck. He gave the sloping deck a final search for Kennedy. The collapsible bobbed amid a throng of black bodies.

All along the ship the lights flickered and went out as one.

Morgan leapt out into the void.

Kennedy flailed. A thousand blades pierced him.

He rose only to be drawn down again. The cold pinioned him. He twisted and turned—each frantic movement a paroxysmal spasm.

He broke the surface yards away from the collapsible. He searched for Wells and Morgan. A plank struck the side of his head and he was thrown into the arms of another passenger. Hands scraped his face, hooking under his belt. He lashed out viciously and reached into the darkness. His fingers scrabbled over the edge of a deckchair, tearing at the material.

He tumbled with his prize, seeking balance. The ocean foamed.

The
Titanic
was an impossible shuddering cliff face towering above him. It loomed there, casting an avalanche of bodies and debris. Gutted and torn from within, it trumpeted the Apocalypse; an unearthly, ear-splitting clamour that drowned out the cries of those in the water. It hung there, tottering for long moments, while overhead the vast black finger of her funnel clawed at the sky.

His breath came as rapid stabs. He kicked out towards the collapsible. One chance in twenty. Thrashing bodies churned the ocean in fierce eddies. Astor’s face, a haggard knot of terror, flashed into view. Slipped past. He reached out and his hands closed around a gnarled end of rope. Benumbed, he began pulling himself along its length, only sure of his grasp by the sight of his own frozen fingers shifting along its twining cable.

A crescendo of noise threatened to crack open his skull. He twisted, staring up. The funnel had curved forwards on itself as if seeking severance from the ship. It broke from its mooring, plummeting, filling the night.

The collapsible was a body’s length away.

His hand clutched its side, fingernails tearing at the wood. One in—

The sky fell in an explosion that flung him bodily into a cloud of ash as the funnel struck water inches away. He was spinning, borne on a soot-capped wave, turned over and over.

He gasped for air, swallowing brackish water.

His chest was caught within a vice of frost-tipped jaws.

He knew nothing save this ice-clad, endless, wave-tossed existence.

He broke the surface.

He spun, searching the waters for a lifeboat. The
Titanic
towered within an expanding circle of her waste. Her stern reared back, slapping the ocean in harsh, futile protest. The wave reached him, a swell that lifted him high above the devastation for a brief moment.

He sought the ruins for a boat. He found the staves of a barrel and propped himself partially out of the water, snatching at the frigid air for sustenance. The cold worked its way through his bones. Despite the pain, his eyes were drawn back to the ship. Her stern rose again: majestic, terrible. Silently she began to glide, forwards and down, in a final approximation of her earlier grace.

The waters closed over her. Bodies, near and far, jerked among the fragments. Their cries were one long dirge. He lent his own cracked voice to the proceedings without knowing it.

Arms closed around him. Sluggish, pulling him away from the barrel and down. His own reflexive retaliation was lethargic; shrugging and twisting slow. A fist connected weakly with his jaw. An open hand tugged at his belt. He kicked, swinging broad sidewinders. Grabbed a handful of thick hair, yanking Wells’ pale face into view.

He released him.

Wells hurled himself back, treading water and staring at Kennedy.

Kennedy panted, floundering. Other bodies, still, glided between them.

“Easy,” Wells mouthed, spluttering water. “Slow it down.”

Kennedy couldn’t catch his breath. He reached for one of the staves.

“Easy. Easy. Don’t wear yourself out.” Wells gripped a splinter of wood.

Kennedy’s lungs were raw. He tried to speak.

Wells was making slow movements, paddling towards him. Further out, others remained locked in intimate embraces. Their short-lived meetings, a flurry of dying reflexes; slow-dancing amid the wreckage.

“She’s gone.” Kennedy’s racked mind couldn’t distinguish the subject of his loss. He mourned everything.

“She’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They kept the remains of the barrel between them. Their faces were separated only by the haze of their laboured breaths.

“I almost made it,” Kennedy wheezed.

Wells was nodding. “Same.”

“Lifeboat. Where?”

Wells shook his head.

“One in twenty.”

“Was being generous.” Wells coughed out the words.

The cold snaked its way through Kennedy. It coated veins and nerves. He looked down. Wells had him grasped firmly by the sleeve. He tried to cover Wells’ hand with his own. His fingers fumbled, feeling nothing.

A body passed by them, face down, drifting slowly. It made a languid turn, as if performing some elaborate routine. The rictus of Astor’s smile was interrupted by a shattered corolla of split skin and bone. Some last kiss, imparted in the ship’s departure. His face returned to the water.

It was growing quiet again. The ocean was a flat calm. Tranquil.

Kennedy felt himself slipping on the wood.

“Easy,” Wells said.

Kennedy nodded. He had never been so tired.

“
Carpathia
. One hour.”

Kennedy nodded.

“Keep your head up.”

Kennedy nodded. He wiped his face against his sleeve, trying to dislodge the frozen moisture that crusted beneath his eyes. “Patricia.”

“You’re a father in December.”

Kennedy nodded.

An hour. He looked at his wrist. His Einstein was frozen at two-twenty. He fumbled with the clasp. The pulp of his fingers tore open. The watch slipped off his wrist and into the water. He reached down.

It wasn’t so cold now. He tugged at his holster, releasing it.

He turned back to Wells. He tried to talk. His lips were strips of skin flapping uselessly.

Wells’ face was a blue-tinged mask of repose.

“Wells,” Kennedy croaked.

He made no reply.

“Jonathan?”

There was no reply. No thin wisps of respiration.

A mist must have risen elsewhere, because it was getting harder to distinguish any shapes in the water. Something nudged against him, nestling against the crook of his arm. He tried to turn but the attempt barely elicited a ripple.

The echo of a thousand, thousand days and nights pressed themselves upon him. He followed them to where they coalesced and saw a multifaceted jewel, each edge a petrified moment. An infinite number of possibilities, awaiting his decision. Light flashed a brilliant rose red across its surface, drawing him in.

He made his selection, choosing here and there among the dazzling hues.

Is everything okay?

Everything’s okay.

They sat closer now, almost touching.

I had the worst nightmare, Patricia.

Just a dream, Joseph.

I killed them all.

You imagined the whole thing.