Tip of the Iceberg Read online

  He kicked the valise into the middle of the narrow aisle between the bench and the bunk beds. Throwing the remainder of the chicken into the bottom of the bag he hoped it would act as bait, allowing him to recapture his prized asset without risking further damage to either of them. All the while, he kept the pillowcase pressed tightly against his face trying to staunch the steady flow of blood seeping from the ripped flesh. Once done, he sat back down and waited, his eyes fixed on the space below the bunks where he could hear Pandora scurrying back and forth.

  Only a few minutes had passed before the door swung open, and Bernard stepped into the cabin. He had a broad smile, clearly visible under his bushy moustache, and his eyes sparkled above his ruddy cheeks.

  “I have a dinner engagement with the delightfully widowed, Mrs. Kathleen Black.” He announced flamboyantly, then seeing Patrick’s face he added, a concerned look pushing the smile from his countenance, “Oh! My dear boy, are you alright?”

  Patrick couldn’t help but smile at the older man’s accent. It was a little too polished, too precise. “I’m fine. It looks worse than it is, but I will admit, it does sting a little.” It was a lie; one Patrick sensed Bernard could see in his pained expression.

  “How on earth did you acquire such a gruesome injury?” Bernard placed his hat on the top bunk and turned to push the door shut. A loud shriek heralded Pandora’s bid for freedom as she scampered across Bernard’s foot before slipping through the rapidly closing door.

  The door shut, and Bernard turned to face Patrick, his left hand gripping his chest, a confused look on his face. “I think the sea air must be playing tricks on me. I believe I just saw a monkey leave our cabin.”

  “That was no trick, and the monkey you saw was the cause of my gruesome injury.” He mimicked Bernard’s exaggerated pronunciation.

  “I trust you will protest in the strongest possible terms to the ship’s bursar. It is quite unacceptable that on the maiden voyage of the world’s most expensive cruise liner, you have your face savaged by a wild beast.” Bernard’s face had begun to turn purple he was so angry.

  Patrick studied the old rogue’s face, unsure whether he could trust him, but aware that as things stood, he had little choice in the matter. He looked ruefully at the rug partially covering the cabin’s floor, and said, “I am afraid they will not be so understanding to my plight, as it was I who brought the wild beast aboard. I won him at cards from an old sea dog the night before we left Southampton.”

  Bernard’s incandescent rage evaporated away and the large smile reappeared. “Ah, but the only other person privy to that particular piece of information is me, and I have no intention of telling. It will be our secret ticket to luxury.”

  Patrick remained silent as he considered the possibilities. He could see a voyage of luxury before him as he was in no doubt White Star Line would be eager to avoid any bad publicity on the Titanic’s glorious arrival in New York. It seemed unlikely anyone would discover their clever ruse, and even if they did, what could the authorities do? Hold them on board ship until they reached port then hand them over to the police? Even that seemed unlikely, as bringing charges would inevitably result in the story making it into print. A smile spread across Patrick’s face, causing him to wince in pain as his torn facial muscles flexed.

  Bernard, who had been patiently awaiting Patrick’s response, started nodding his head, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Do I take that smile to mean you are in agreement with my suggestion?”

  “No sir, you may not.” Patrick fixed him with a cold, emotionless stare. “I believe you to be a crook, a con man, and a charlatan, and that, dear boy, is why I am smiling.”

  The twinkle faded from Bernard’s eyes and, for a brief moment, he looked slightly taken aback by the younger man’s impression of his upper-class English accent. Patrick lingered, savouring the moment before he continued.

  “Those are also the reasons I’m agreeing with your suggestion. I think this could mark the start of a very profitable friendship.” Bernard grasped the hand Patrick offered, and the two men laughed until Patrick winced in pain.

  Twenty

  Joseph Bell had previously served aboard the Olympic, and at the age of fifty-one, had already gained twenty-one years’ experience as chief engineer and had, therefore, been the obvious choice to hold that position aboard the Titanic. A man of strong conviction and sound engineering sense, he was well-respected among the firemen, trimmers, and greasers that comprised most of the ship’s unseen crew, buried as they were, deep in its dark, dusty bowels. He had already experienced the conflicting nature of the job. Mr. Ismay, on the day they left port, had pressed him to run the engines close to full speed on Monday, when the Titanic would be negotiating the North Atlantic’s treacherous ice fields, in the hope of bringing them into harbour ahead of schedule.

  Bell responded by saying he would only run the engines at the speed designated by the captain, a statement which had obviously infuriated Ismay. Bell had taken up his appointment aboard the Titanic while the vessel was still under construction and had every faith, when called on, the two huge Harland and Wolff engines could reach a top speed of 80 rpm, but he understood the captain’s reluctance to push them so early in the maiden voyage, especially in such adverse conditions.

  He checked the pressure gauges one last time and then, in line with the captain’s instructions, ordered the engines increased to 70 rpm. He checked his pocket watch. It was noon, on the dot. With a satisfied smile, he marked the increase in the engineering log then prepared to make his rounds with the third engineer, Mr. Hosking, who would be taking the next watch. Bell would allow himself to eat and grab a few precious hours sleep before returning to the engine room in preparation of lighting the remaining boiler. He would not put it past Captain Smith to accede to Mr. Ismay’s wild demands, after all, it would be another feather in his cap and a fitting end to an already illustrious career. And Smith, like any other liner captain, had an eye for the theatrical. If that proved to be the case, he would need those boilers up to pressure by Sunday morning and that would mean putting further demands on the men under his command.

  Joseph Bell wasn’t the only person in the engine room feeling the pressure. Albert ‘Hoggie’ Hogarth was beginning to wish he had stayed down the Yorkshire coal pit like his father and grandfather and not signed up in search of a better life at sea. The stifling heat and the dry coal dust filled air were no different from the pits of Hell, and certainly no different from the pits of his home county. True, shovelling coal in the depths of the largest liner afloat, allowed him to work on his feet. A luxury not usually afforded by a coal seam, but there he could at least spend his evenings drinking beer under the stars while trying to snatch a kiss from one of the barmaids. Here he had just four hours between shifts, barely time to eat and sleep, and no chance of even seeing a woman, let alone snatching a kiss.

  Driving his shovel into the coal bunker one last time, Hoggie hefted the coal up and into the intense heat of the boiler’s fire then laid it aside, ready for the next watch’s use. He wiped his brow with a thick muscular forearm, unaware he only succeeded in leaving a sweaty streak in the thick layer of coal blackening his face. Taking one of the narrow gangplanks, he walked stiffly to the door and out into the fireman’s tunnel linking the boiler rooms with the living quarters. He began climbing the narrow, spiral staircase up to the forecastle above in search of fresh air and a leisurely smoke before his next shift.

  He had not gone three steps when he thought he heard a soft scuttling sound from somewhere above him. He peered cautiously upward but couldn’t see anything that would account for the noise. Probably just his ears playing tricks on him in the peace and quiet of the tunnel as opposed to the constant whining roar ever present in the boiler room.

  “Bloody rats!” He muttered as he continued to climb the twisting staircase. The refrigerated food compartments were located close by as they required steam pumped from the engine room, and this acted as a magnate for
the ship’s rat population.

  Hoggie clumped upwards, his downcast eyes focusing on his tired feet, willing them to lift one more time with each step. There! That sound again; only closer this time, much closer.

  Hoggie lifted his head, and there, sitting level with his eyeline was a small monkey. It rested on its haunches using its nimble fingers to preen the tip of its long tail. It looked at the sweat and coal-stained stoker with bright intelligent eyes which darted this way and that, taking in every detail of the much larger human, while its fingers continued to dig and scratch absentmindedly through the tail’s matted fur.

  It took a moment for Hoggie’s tired brain to figure out exactly what it was he was looking at. He had never seen any primate in the flesh before, only in pictures. The fact his first experience of one should be in such a strange location, on a dark stairwell, on board a ship steaming across the mighty Atlantic Ocean, had dumbfounded him. He bent forward slightly and peered through the gloom, unsure whether his eyes were playing a cruel trick on him.

  The monkey stared back at Hoggie through large brown eyes, its grooming regime now forgotten. The lighter fur around its neck and chest appeared wet and matted, the sticky clumps stained darker. Hoggie adjusted his feet slightly and leant to his right, craning his neck to get a better view.

  “Where have you come from?” Hoggie muttered to himself, his face not more than three feet from the tiny primate. It just looked at him, head cocked to one side, and Hoggie thought it might be transfixed by his presence on the stairs, too scared of the giant human to move.

  Twenty-one

  Pandora was indeed transfixed, but not by the presence of a large, sweaty man squatting on the steps. What transfixed her was the small, rhythmic pulse beating enticingly close to the skin’s surface just below the human’s strong jawline. She could smell the stench humans gave off a mile away, and being this close the vile smell of stale sweat threatened to overpower her. This one smelled far worse than the others she’d encountered, but he had moved to one side exposing his bare, unprotected neck, and she could almost smell his rich, fresh blood.

  It took her sensitive nose a few seconds to detect that sweet, warm aroma hidden in the myriad of smells present in this small corridor. The harsh, dusty smell of coal mingled with the sour sweat of man, and the burnt tang of cheap tobacco mixed with the crisp clean smell of machine grease, but through all that, Pandora picked up the sweet scent of fresh meat.

  It was not just the pulsing of the blood that aroused her, it was the smell of the blood, the trail by which to hunt. As close as she was, Pandora could smell the richness of the liver, this one sweetened by a constant supply of rum, and the soft intestine, scented by a lifetime of country herbs and delicate spices.

  She could almost feel the heart beating as every pulse surged through the engorged arteries of Hoggie’s neck.

  She had to feed.

  Her appetite for flesh wasn’t to be sated by a few measly scraps of boiled chicken and a mouthful of Irish face meat. She needed to consume, to devour constantly. The virus she had carried, dormant in her cells, since her birth in Africa, was awake and demanding food. It had taken over every cell in her tiny body and was now hunting for new hosts, looking for ways to spread. Her body ached in a way she didn’t understand, but she knew feeding made it bearable, at least for a short while.

  Without uttering a sound in warning, Pandora sprang, her strong, agile tail helping her balance; her small hands gripped the large man’s course shirt, her arms pulling her in closer. Her feet, in turn, taking a firm hold as she coiled her tail around her victim’s arm. Then she sank her powerful teeth into the soft flesh of Hoggie’s neck.

  She held on tightly as he screamed in anguish. He tried to pull her off, but she had too strong a grip. He resorted to unleashing a few wild, erratic punches, but even they failed to dislodge her. As he flailed his arms around wildly, he lost his footing on the step, toppling backwards. His body flipped over the curved rail sending him crashing head first to the deck below.

  Still Pandora clung on, her teeth ripping into his soft skin. She increased the pressure, pushing home her advantage. Nature told her this would work. She tasted blood around her gums then; with a little pop, her mouth filled with its thick, sticky sweetness.

  Hoggie’s severed artery spurted blood, each heartbeat weaker than the one before. His vital life force gushed into Pandora’s receptive gullet as he lay crumpled at the foot of the stairwell. He was dazed from the fall and too weak to put up much of a fight as Pandora thrust her strong fingers into his wound and ripped out his flesh. The last thing Albert Hogarth saw before he slipped away was Pandora pulling excitedly on his ruptured windpipe.

  It was less than five minutes later when Joseph Bell discovered the body on his way for a quick smoke topside, before getting his head down for a well-earned kip. By that time, the body was unrecognizable as Hoggie. Even Bell, who had seen many gruesome sights in his travels around the world, could not look at the stoker’s mangled face and ripped open chest cavity, without throwing up. Even when he had nothing left to vomit, his stomach twisted and contorted making him double over in pain as he heaved nothing but acidic bile, leaving a burning sensation at the back of his throat.

  Several other engineers responded to Bell’s shouts for help. Eventually they were able to drag Hoggie’s lifeless body, draped in discarded coal sacks to hide his hideously disfigured face, into an unused refrigeration room while they awaited the ship’s doctor and master-at-arms. Although there was no sign of whom, or what, attacked Hoggie, several of the men noticed that some of his wounds bore a striking resemblance to bite marks.

  Twenty-two

  As Patrick slowly climbed the polished wooden stairs leading to the ship’s medical suite on C Deck, he was momentarily overcome by a feeling of nausea. He felt like the stairway had started spinning around him, leaving him confused and disorientated. The few passengers descending the stairs appeared to rush towards him; crowding around him, their voices blending into a disjointed clamour with no clear rhythm or coherence.

  Then they were gone. Hurrying by on their way to lunch, eyeing the man with a bloodied pillowcase pressed to his face, with suspicion. Patrick had a firm hold of the bannister, a reflex act of self-preservation that had prevented him from tumbling backwards. He eased his grip, taking a few deep breaths to clear the fogginess in his head.

  “Steady there. You might want to slow down a little. I expect you’re experiencing some delayed shock.” Bernard pressed his hand against the centre of Patrick’s back, helping him preserve his balance and regain his composure.

  Patrick’s skin felt like it was ablaze, the sweat pouring from his brow had further soaked the pillowcase. Turning to thank his companion, he struggled to think of the right words. His mouth opening and closing silently before, frustrated, he turned his attention back to the climb.

  Bernard, thinking Patrick looked weary, tried to persuade him to rest for a minute, but Patrick was determined to push on. He was beginning to feel hungry, and he sensed he would find food at his destination.

  “The medical suite is not far, and I’ll be able to rest there,” he insisted. The two men continued up the stairs, with Bernard providing the younger man with subtle, tactile support.

  It had been Bernard who’d insisted Patrick visit the medical suite. “Let’s start by getting you some medical attention, then maybe we should repair to one of the cafés to conjure a plan,” he had suggested. They were intent on milking Patrick’s injury for all it was worth, and to the wily old Englishman the logical first step should be to get official confirmation of the wound, and better still, its probable cause.

  By the time they walked through the inviting doorway of the medical suite, Patrick’s breathing had become laboured. Struggling to take a few deep breaths, he felt the unpleasant sensation of fluid bubbling in the base of his lungs, causing him to cough. Politely placing the back of his hand over his mouth, he coughed a fine spray of bright red blood across h
is fingers. Wiping it away with the already stained pillowcase, he noticed his skin had taken on a pale, almost translucent appearance, and his veins formed dark threads, like a rash spreading across his hands, and disappearing under his shirtsleeves.

  “That’s quite a cut you have there, sir.” The nurse’s tone was dour and unimaginative as she rose from her small desk. Her slate gray uniform, buttoned to the neck, hung to a point a quarter of an inch above the floor, the spotless white apron starched rigid. She bustled towards the two men, shooing Bernard away with a dismissive wave.

  “This man can talk for himself. We don’t need people loitering about spreading germs. Please go about your business elsewhere, and I shall send for you if needed.” With that she ushered him out into the corridor, shutting the door before he had a chance to reply.

  She turned her attention to Patrick, and with a dismissive air, indicated he should take a seat. She had treated many similar facial wounds, either caused by a bite or by a bottle, and the one thing they all had in common was drunkardness. It was the disease of the working class, and she didn’t have time for it and even less time for those getting into fights because of it.

  Addressing Patrick brusquely, she returned to her desk. “I am Sister O’Malley. Was that caused by a bottle, or did someone bite you?”

  Patrick tried to answer her question but he didn’t know how. He could visualize the words in his head; although if he were honest, he would have to admit he was unsure whether they were the right words. But try as he might, he couldn’t remember how to speak. His lips twitched, and his jaw swung up and down, but even uttering the feeblest of sounds eluded him. The confusion this caused him was compounded by the nurse’s impatient stare. She obviously thought he was wasting her precious time and made no attempt to disguise the fact.