Titanic 2020 t2-1 (17 page)

I
t was little more than a shack nestling amongst the trees. A small dog barked at them as they drove into a rubbish-strewn yard. Benson was the first out of the car. Instead of facing the house, he looked back down the mountain and out across the bay.

'Would you just look at that,' he said.

Jimmy stood beside him. It was one of the most beautiful views you could ever see, with the trees sweeping down to the azure sea below, the tourists on the beach merely dots in an astonishing vista and even the
Titanic,
sitting, five miles off shore, reduced to the size of a toy ship floating serenely in a warm, freshly run bath.

'Stunning,' agreed Jimmy. 'If you forget about the dead people on their sunbeds.'

Nick, who must have seen the view thousands of times, didn't even look. The dog rushed towards him, wagging a stubby tail, but he pushed past it and continued on towards the front door, calling out: 'Mamma Joss! Mamma Joss! It's Nick! Don't shoot!'

Benson, who'd been issued with a pistol, eased a hand towards his holster.

The door was already half open. Nick stepped inside, followed somewhat warily by Benson, and then Jimmy. It was cool and dark, but it also smelled — Jimmy wasn't exactly sure what it smelled
of
but the closest he could get to it was when his granny used to make soup at home. Not from a tin, but from scratch.

'Mamma Joss . . . Mamma Joss?' Nick called again.

It was a tiny little place with a bed in one corner, a wicker chair with a pile of blankets on it in another. There was an ancient black stove and a big old battery radio. There was an oil lamp sitting on a rickety table, which Nick lit. As the single room brightened Jimmy let out a sudden yell — there was a pair of feet sticking out from beneath the blankets. They were bony and filthy and the nails on them were yellow and curled.

'Mamma . . .!' Nick strode to the chair and pulled the blankets back. 'Mamma?'

***

The dead woman was tiny and shrivelled and the surprise of the blankets being whipped away caused a spider to scurry back up her left nostril.

'Mamma .
. .' said Nick, bending towards her. He took her cold, brittle, birdy hand in his and rubbed it. 'Mamma . . .'

'Sorry,' said Jimmy.

Benson shook his head sympathetically before turning for the door; he signalled for Jimmy to join him outside. When he emerged into the brightness once more, Benson had moved back across the yard and was looking out over the bay again.

'Well,' he said. 'That was a total waste of time.'

'No it wasn't,' Jimmy countered.

'Of course it was! If the old bat couldn't even protect herself from the plague, how could she have saved Nick or anyone else? Come on, let's get out of here.'

He began to move towards the car, but Jimmy stepped into his path. 'No, wait. Mr Benson — you didn't look at her properly.'

'Yes I did, Jimmy. She's definitely dead.'

'Yes — but no. There's none of the blotches, none of the signs. She's dead because she's about a hundred and twenty years old, not from the plague.'

Benson was already halfway towards disagreeing when he stopped himself. You could almost see the cogs in his brain working it out. Finally he nodded. 'You know something — there's none of the typical signs of plague on that woman. I think she might just have died of old age. C'mon Jimmy, let's check this out . . .'

Benson brushed past Jimmy and hurried back towards the shack. Jimmy shook his head in disbelief, then followed. Inside, Nick was still holding the old woman's hand. He glanced up at them.

'She delivered me,' he said. 'And my mother . . . and my mother's mother.'

'Well,' said Benson, 'perhaps she can deliver
us.
This medicine you're talking about, what was it like? Can you find it for us?'

Nick patted Mamma Joss's hand and replaced it under the blankets, which he then pulled up over her. He turned to the little gas-fired stove. There were two pots sitting on it. He peered into one, and then the other. 'I think one is the medicine,' he said, 'and the other is probably soup.'

'So which is which?' Jimmy asked.

'I don't know. I was unconscious when she gave it to me.'

They took it in turns to lean over the pots and smell, but although each had a distinct aroma, they still had no idea which was a nice savoury soup and which could potentially save the lives of thousands of people.

'Well, we'll just have to take them both,' said Jimmy.

They searched for lids for both pots, but could only find one.

'You'll have to guard it with your life,' said Benson, handing the one without the lid to Jimmy.

As they were carrying them out to the car, Nick called them back.

'If you're taking the medicine,' he said, 'in return you must help me bury Mamma Joss. We cannot leave her like this.'

Nick had not been worried about the dead bodies littering his bar and the beach, but Mamma Joss was different. They were tourists, she was family. They set the pots down and set about digging a grave behind the shack. There were only some small trowels with which to work on the sun-dried earth, so it took them more than forty minutes in the boiling sun. Benson tried to get away with just a shallow trench, but Nick insisted on going deeper and deeper, saying he didn't want wild animals to come and dig the body up. Eventually he called a halt, and between them they carried Mamma Joss, wrapped in blankets, out and set her gently down into her final resting place.

They bowed their heads for a moment. Nick said i short prayer. He glanced down at the little dog, sitting beside him now, and said, 'Just you and me now, Barney.'

Barney let out a single bark and trotted out of sight.

While Jimmy and Benson shovelled the soil back on top of her, Nick fashioned a small cross from two fallen branches tied with an odd bit of string and dug it into one end of the little mound of soil they had created.

When they returned to the front of the shack, tired and sweaty, the first thing they saw was the small dog, lying panting contentedly beside the pots.

'Oh God
no .
. .!' Jimmy shouted as he dashed across, causing the dog to rear up and scurry out of the way. 'No . . .!'

But the damage had been done. The pot without the lid had been completely licked clean. The other was untouched.

'What'll we do?' Jimmy asked, looking up at Benson in despair. 'What if that was the one, what if . . .?'

Benson lowered his voice. He glanced around at Nick, who was some distance away, securing the shack's front door. 'We'll have to bring the dog.'

' What?'

Nick was walking slowly back towards them.

'Just leave it to me,' Benson whispered.

Nick stopped beside them. 'I'll miss her,' he said quietly.

'I know you will,' said Benson, patting him gently on the shoulder. 'Anyway — you and Barney, you'll be coming back to the ship with us now. Do with a good man like you on board. And dog.'

Nick shook his head. 'Nice offer, man, but no way. Have to get the bar ready, for when the tourists come back.'

Benson glanced at Jimmy, then back to Nick. 'I'm sorry, Nick — but I don't think they will be coming back. It's not just this island got sick, it's the whole world. There aren't any more tourists.'

Nick laughed. 'They'll be back. They always come back. Till then, me and Barney going to sort this place out, that right?' He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and Barney appeared from behind a bush and scampered up to him. Nick knelt down and ruffled the dog's fur.

Benson looked exasperated. 'Nick — to tell you the truth, we really need Barney to help us out. He may have eaten our medicine. We need to analyse what it is, and we can only do that if we take him to the ship.'

Nick looked horrified. 'You mean you'll have to cut him open?'

'No — not . . . necessarily. It will probably . . . come out naturally. But it's really vitally important. If there's any chance at all that this medicine works, then it could save hundreds, thousands, may be millions of lives if we can reproduce it. So we really have to take the dog.'

Nick thought about it for a few moments.

'And you really think the tourists aren't coming back?'

'I know they're not.'

Nick scratched behind the dog's ears before looking up. 'OK then. You can have the pot for free. But you'll have to pay for Barney.'

'
What?
'

'You'll have to pay.'

'Nick.' Benson's voice became grave and important. 'This is for the good of all mankind.'

Nick nodded. 'I realize that. But if the tourists don't come back, then I don't get any tips. And that's where I make most of my money — I have to make a living. If Barney really can save the world, then that's got to be worth quite a lot. I mean, all these drugs companies, they make huge amounts, don't they?'

Benson shook his head. 'Nick, we can't . . .'

It was time for Jimmy to contribute something. He'd been listening with mounting incredulity as Benson tried to strike a deal with a man who was not only mourning the loss of a loved one, but was also either on the verge of madness or completely barking. Jimmy put a hand on Benson's arm, and at the same time gave him a surreptitious wink. 'Mr Benson,' he said, 'I think Nick has a point. He should be paid.' Benson looked confused. Jimmy nodded at Nick. 'How much were you thinking of?'

Nick did a quick mental calculation. Then another.

'Fourteen million dollars.'

Benson rolled his eyes. Then he patted his pockets. 'I'm afraid I don't have that much on me at the moment,' he said.

Jimmy gave him a hard look. 'Mr Benson — you know what we do in these cases.'

'Do I? . . . I mean, yes, of course, we . . .'

'We write him an IOU.'

Benson's mouth dropped open a fraction. 'An . . .?'

Jimmy nodded. 'An IOU, for fourteen million dollars. That'll be OK with you, won't it, Nick? You just present it at the British Consulate, and they'll make sure you get the fourteen million dollars.'

Nick studied Jimmy for several long moments. But then he nodded. 'Fine with me,' he said. 'Although to tell you the truth, I'd prefer to keep the dog.'

***

They used a folded copy of the
Titanic Times
Jimmy had in his back pocket to write the IOU on.

Nick examined it happily before folding it into his shirt pocket. He picked Barney up and carried him to the car. He set him down in the back seat and patted his head one last time. 'To think,' he said sadly, 'that the fate of the world might depend on what comes out of your ass.'

***

They left Nick up on the mountain. On the way back down to the beach Benson radioed Jeffers to see how he was getting on at Charlotte Amalie. He grimly reported that the plague seemed to have wiped out the port's entire population. Although this meant that it was therefore safe for the
Titanic
to dock, they were having difficulty establishing contact with the ship. He asked Benson to try from his side of the mountain, but he couldn't get through either.

'It could be anything,' Benson observed. 'Atmospheric conditions, most likely. Maybe there's a storm coming. Or some kind of breakdown on the ship.'

Jimmy added his opinion. 'The plague may have killed everyone on board who knows how to operate a radio.'

'Thanks for that cheery thought,' said Jeffers. Then he ordered Benson to take the inflatable back to the ship to pass on the message that it was now safe to dock.

***

As they shot out across the water Jimmy cradled the pot in his lap, leaning down on the lid with his elbow while holding tight on to Barney. He was thinking about Claire and Ty and trying not to get his hopes up too far. After all, they were gambling on the word of a madman.

What if Claire was already—
No!
He wouldn't even think it.

Dead!

He couldn't help himself. He'd been gone for hours.

***

The team responsible for winching them back on board was waiting on the third deck. Benson brought the inflatable expertly alongside, and with the sea so calm was easily able to attach the required cables. Barney began to bark excitedly as the boat was slowly lifted out of the water. Jimmy patted him to try and keep him calm.

Benson waved his radio up at the crew above. 'We tried to call!'

Despite the fact that he got the thumbs-up sign in response Benson muttered darkly: 'How much do you bet I get blamed anyway?'

'Fourteen million dollars,' said Jimmy.

The inflatable finally came level with the deck and was guided in. Barney, sensing dry land, immediately wriggled out of Jimmy's grip, leaped from the rubber craft on to the deck and tried to dash away. Benson shouted at the crew to catch him, and added, 'For goodness' sake don't let him poo anywhere! He may have vital. . .'

But he stopped then, because what he had taken to be a colleague, standing in a crisp white shirt and baseball cap, was not, in fact. It was Pedroza, and he was aiming a gun at them. He wasn't alone. There were at least a dozen others standing watching them, all armed with pistols or knives.

Jimmy didn't have to be told what had happened.

They had seized control of the ship.

T
hey had been gone from the ship for four hours. In that time a second row over the feeding of the San Juan refugees had quickly escalated into a riot which led to Captain Smith and the senior officers who had remained on board being overwhelmed. Pedroza and his comrades seized control of the bridge, disarmed the crew and locked the Captain, together with anyone who was not 'with' Pedroza, into the theatre under armed guard. These numbered almost five hundred people. Jimmy, still clutching his pot but minus Barney, was now amongst them.

Arguments raged amongst the prisoners. Some believed that Captain Smith should have immediately returned the
Titanic
to Miami once the seriousness of the plague both on the ship and on dry land became apparent — they were anxious about their relatives and their homes, their pets and their bank accounts. Others thought that all of the infected on board should have immediately been put on shore in order to safeguard everyone else. Many argued that the San Juan refugees should have been left to fend for themselves on the island. Others believed the ship should pick up as many survivors as it could — it was their duty as good Christians. Or Muslims. Or Hindus. Or just as good human beings. The only thing they
all
seemed to agree on was that they were better off with a Captain who knew how to sail, than a master chef who could rustle up a tender steak and a perfect cheesecake but didn't know stern from aft. As it was, the
Titanic
remained at anchor five miles off St Thomas, slowly burning through its remaining fuel.

Jimmy, once he got over the shock of being made a prisoner, immediately secured the pot of Mamma Joss's soup or life-saving medicine — in a small locker by the side of the stage. His main concern after that was how to get to the hospital to check on Claire. Almost as soon as he set about to achieve this, he was surprised to find Dr Hill and his nursing staff occupying a row of seats near the back of the theatre. They all looked quite miserable.

As Jimmy hurried up to ask about Claire, the doctor was just in the act of reaching up to scratch his head. The movement pushed the sleeve of his uniform up far enough to reveal a series of red blotches on his lower arm. The doctor saw that Jimmy had spotted the fatal marks and quickly pushed his sleeve back down. He put a finger to his lips before glancing anxiously about him.

'I'm sorry . . .' Jimmy whispered as he lowered himself into a stall beside him.

Dr Hill shook his head. 'Can't be helped,' he quietly replied. 'But keep it under your hat, Jimmy — not good for morale if people see that even their doctor has it.'

'What . . . what about Claire?'

'I'm afraid she's not too well, son. And that was a few hours ago. They forced my entire staff out, so none of my patients are getting water or pain relief or—'

'I have a cure,' Jimmy said simply.

Dr Hill nodded, but there was a tiredness about the gesture, as if it was a learned reaction. Patients and passengers must have suggested a hundred different remedies to him over the past few days, each one of them as useless as the last. However, he noted the serious look on Jimmy's face, and decided to indulge him. What harm could it do at this late stage, with the end so near? 'What do you mean, son?' he asked, forcing a note of interest into his voice.

Encouraged, Jimmy quickly described what they'd found on the island: the bodies on the beach, Nick's bar, Mamma Joss's medicine and Barney helping himself to a free lunch. Yet in the telling it somehow didn't seem quite so likely to Jimmy that there really was any hope. He had allowed his hopes to build, but now that he was actually voicing them it suddenly felt as if he was vainly clutching at straws. That it was ridiculous to pin the hopes of mankind's survival on a pot of soup and a mangy old mutt.

Despite his doubts, Jimmy was surprised to see Dr Hill was looking quite thoughtful.

'They were all dead on their sunbeds?' the doctor asked.

'Apart from Nick. And Mamma Joss — for a while, anyway. Why?'

Dr Hill stroked at his chin for several moments while he thought it through. Then he looked at Jimmy and nodded. 'Well,' he said, 'for the plague to kill them where they were, on the beach, it must have been a particularly virulent, fast-acting strain. And from what you say, this Nick certainly contracted it. Yet he recovered. So either his immune system is particularly strong — or this old woman's medicine works. If it does it would certainly be unusual, but not unique. Hundreds of years before we had antibiotics old women just like her were curing people by mixing up herbal remedies. They were also killing a lot of people. It was a bit hit and miss. But she may well have stumbled on something . . .'

'So you think there is a chance . . .?'

'I just don't know, Jimmy — but I do know I've tried everything I can. I know that all the scientists in the world have tried their best to come up with a cure and that they're probably all dead now. So what have we got to lose trying this one out?'

'OK — then I'll get some, we'll try it on you, see if it works. If it doesn't we'll squeeze Barney until he pops, and we'll try whatever he has as well.'

The doctor shook his head. 'No, son, I've a couple of days in me yet.' He picked up his medical bag from the floor and opened it. 'I'm going to show you how to make an injection. Then I want you to fill half a dozen of these syringes with the medicine and somehow get them up to the hospital. Just inject everyone you can. They're in a much worse condition than I am. Find your girl. Inject her.'

He wanted to say,
She's not my girl.

She's just 'a' girl.

But he couldn't.

The doctor quickly showed him what to do. He took the syringes and turned to hurry back across to where he'd hidden the pot. Then he stopped. 'Doctor?' he asked. 'What if it isn't the medicine? What if I inject them with soup?'

'They're dying, Jimmy. Just do it.'

Jimmy nodded once and dashed away.

A nurse sitting on the other side of the doctor, who'd been listening in, waited until Jimmy had gone before touching the doctor's arm. 'Doctor — what are the chances of it working?'

Dr Hill took a deep breath. 'About one in a million, I'd say.'

Her brow furrowed. 'But then why send him off with such . . . hope?'

'Because, Nurse Hathaway, hope is just about the only thing we have left.'

***

Jimmy knew the
Titanic
better than virtually anyone on board. Others might know their specific areas well — Pedroza in his kitchens, or Jonas with his engines — but Jimmy now had an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the entire ship and reckoned he could work out a way to get out of the theatre unnoticed by the guards Pedroza had posted. They had guns, certainly, but they also had beer and wine and spirits and several of them were openly smoking drugs. They were in charge, but not very alert.

He quickly discovered a ladder at the back of the stage which led up to a lighting gantry; he was able to cross this to a narrow walkway which in turn led to a small control room from which the entertainment director normally oversaw his productions. This led directly on to an unguarded corridor one level above the theatre. Jimmy nipped along this as fast as he could while still trying to protect the contents of the syringes. He had to stay hidden for a few minutes in order to get into an elevator undetected, but from there on he was fairly certain he'd be safe. Pedroza had abandoned the hospital patients to their fate. They didn't need guarding.

***

It was like a scene from hell.

The dead were left in their beds. The fevered cries of the dying went unheard. Jimmy pulled his T-shirt collar up over his face in a hopeless attempt to block out the smell as he tramped first through the hospital, then the adjoining cabins used for the overflow, looking for Claire.

When he eventually found her, he was shocked by her appearance. She must have lost half of her body weight. Her blonde hair lay dank on the pillow and her red eyes rolled back in her head. Her lips were dry and cracked and her face was covered in red blotches. She was breathing, but it was very shallow indeed. Her mother and father were in beds on either side of her. A family, dying together.

Jimmy took Claire's hand in his. He gave it a squeeze. 'Claire . . . can you hear me?' A foamy bubble issued from her mouth. Jimmy tutted. He set the syringes down on the bed and chose one. 'Claire . . . I'm going to inject you now . . . and if it kills you . . . I'm sorry.'

What else could he say?

Well, he could have said how much he'd hated her when they first met, but that now he really liked her and she was his best friend and they had great fun and incredible adventures. That he didn't want her to die because the
Times
needed her and
he
needed her to help him fight back against Pedroza. That he didn't really think her ponies had been eaten. Or perhaps only parts of them had been. A leg, maybe. Or he could have said, 'If you can hear me, Claire, I've just had a look, and your arse isn't so big any more.'

But he didn't. Instead he took a deep breath and plunged the syringe into her arm. He had no idea whether it was soup or medicine: or, if it really was medicine, what the correct dosage was.

He wasn't the type to say a prayer. But he said one anyway.

***

He wanted it to be magical. Instantaneous. He wanted Claire to sit up and yawn and say something sarcastic. But there was no reaction at all. She just lay there.

Jimmy sighed. There was nothing else he could do for her now. Or for any of the others that he injected over the next thirty minutes. They would die, or they would get better.