Cold Play

Cold Play - Chapter Two

2. Saturday, Vancouver

 I’m dreaming.

She’s disguised, masked head to foot in layers of transparent white gauze, gliding towards me, silent. I’m expecting emptiness when her arms embrace me, the weightlessness of eternity. But there’s warmth. And gentleness. And an unexpected sense of touch. And her scent.

She draws me into the folds of gauze. I part the layers, searching for her face. But I never see it...she never lets me. Her lips touch mine, the tip of her tongue. I will myself motionless, wanting her but not daring to move. If I do, I will find only emptiness. She’ll disappear.

She’s making love to me, slowly, tantalizingly. Teasing me. Her fingers tracing pathways down my chest, lingering....

“Jason! Morning! Turnaround!”

It’s Quentin, on a break, banging on my cabin door.

“Fuck.”

My dream vanishes in a flutter of scented white netting.

“What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen,” Quentin says, helpfully, through the door. “Rise and shine.”

“Fuck. Thanks.”

“You’re entirely welcome,” Quentin says, and I can hear the humour in his voice.

Bastard.

#

The Purser’s Desk is on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward, and the Entrance Hall is full of passengers anxious to get off. This, in spite of the fact they’ve been told to wait in their cabins. Or the public rooms. Or anywhere except the Entrance Hall on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward.

But they’ve got tours to join and flights to catch. And after last night’s events, they’re hyped up and tense. They’re standing around in restless little groups, wearing the same clothes they came aboard in last Saturday, talking, texting, tweeting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Laughing Boy, from the Atrium Room, in baggy shorts and a backwards baseball cap, conducting a sly reconnaissance. Looking for trouble, something to pilfer. Last Saturday, after Sailaway, in what now seems an ironic turn, he pulled a fire alarm, thinking he’d have some fun. But no bells sounded, no sirens. Because the alarm was silent, he assumed his attempt had failed, and so he did a tour of the decks to satisfy his craving for anarchy. And on his fifth try he was caught – by me – nabbed in the act. His principal reaction, the same as last night, was to laugh. I don’t suppose he expected me to collar him and march him off. Not generally within my remit, really, to act as Law Enforcement.

But collared he was, and hand-delivered to Kevin, Chief of Security, who subsequently informed Laughing Boy’s parents that if they weren’t prepared to exercise control over their maleficent progeny, the entire family would be escorted off at our next port of call, and left to find their own way home. No wonder, really, that he wasn’t best pleased to see me again last night.

And here comes Laughing Boy’s mum, to harass Quentin.

“Listen, I don’t understand why it was so necessary for us to have our bags packed and outside our cabin so early last night.”

“Yes, we’re terribly sorry about the inconvenience.” Quentin has it down to a fine art. He’s Scottish. A practiced touch of empathy, at the same time maintaining a distant tone of absolute authority. I could never be a Purser. “But we do ask for your patience and understanding. We have 800 passengers on board, which does mean around 1,500 pieces of luggage we needed to move, sort, store, and offload first thing this morning. I’m sure you can appreciate the situation.”