The Last Voyage

Please be aware, this story contains adult themes.

            Constance at her table, stared out of the window of the ship, the wake the only thing visible in the darkness.  Lost in thought, she listened with half an ear to the conversation at the table next to hers.

“Here’s to us!  Tom and Jack” said one of the men.

            His partner was clearly not as keen on yet another toast, the fourth Constance was aware of throughout the meal, “Dinner was good,” Jack replied, trying to divert the conversation.

            Tom nodded his head in agreement, looking to his left at Constance sitting alone, staring outside.  “Have you been on many cruises?” he asked her and she was so lost in thought she didn’t register he was talking to her.

            “Tom, leave the poor woman alone,” hissed Jack, regretting ordering a post dinner Cognac for his husband.

            As Tom’s persistent smile in her direction hadn’t abated, Constance turned and answered with a polite smile, “Oh no, I’ve been on one before, many years ago now.  You?”  So far the questions of whether you’d cruised before, or how many you’d been on, seemed to be every opening gambit on board and whilst Jack could see she didn’t really want to chat, Tom was oblivious.

            “Us, no, first one.  It’s out thirtieth anniversary.”

            Constance was aware that both men carefully watched her face for any recoil or display of surprise/confusion/disgust but continued to politely smile, “Congratulations to both of you, quite the achievement!  My last cruise was thirty years ago.”  

            “Wow, did you ever travel on this ship?  It’s why we’re here, well, sort of.  The last ever cruise on the legendary Queen Catharine and seeing the Northern Lights with our eldest.”

            Constance reached for her glass, “That’s exactly why I’m here; to look up to the sky and bid farewell.”  She nodded politely and made it clear she was returning to drinking her wine and gazing through the plate glass in peace.

            She listened to them argue quietly as they gathered up their reading glasses and jackets, nodded a goodbye and settled back quietly with her musings.  Suddenly the one called Tom reappeared, checked under his napkin and triumphantly recovered his phone.

            “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

            “I’m Constance.”

            “Good to meet you, I’m Tom, my husband is Jack.  Enjoy your evening.”

            “And you,” she smiled with what she hoped was a dismissal as he made his way through the smartly dressed middle and old aged diners.

#

            Constance Bryant took her wine out to the upper deck.  The Queen Catharine was pitching and rolling, the high wind baffling Constance’s hair.  There weren’t many people about, mainly because of various areas being roped off for safety.  She’d not come to look at the sky though, not tonight, it was cloudy.  No, she’d come to see if it was still there.  Turning a corner she stopped, avoiding a huddle of hunched people trying to grab a smoke as the wind blew their matches out.  She knew the place immediately; yes, if she looked hard enough it was still there and she reached out to touch it, letting the memories swamp her, weeping and knowing she couldn’t stop.

            Having washed her face and applied make up to try and hide the puffiness around her eyes, Constance felt less upset; partly the atmosphere of the Queen’s Room, its buzzy vibe with the live band and the ballroom dancers, plus a rather good glass of Malbec helped.  She hadn’t expected to be hit with such emotions, not after all this time.  To be honest she didn’t know what to expect so sipped her wine and let her mind drift to the people spinning and dipping on the dancefloor.

            “Hi, we meet again!”

            Constance looked up to see the two men who spoke to her at dinner were grabbing chairs at her table, accompanied by a younger guy she thought she recognised wearing an ill-fitting blazer and creased shirt.

            “Sorry to disturb you, mind if we just take these chairs, it’s rammed in here?”  Jack looked suitably apologetic as he forcefully turned Tom to face the dancing and not Constance.

            “Not a problem,” she smiled, looking the younger man up and down.

            Jack noticed Constance’s inquisitive look so prodded their son to offer an introduction, “This is our eldest boy, Joshua.”

            Constance held out her hand and Josh gently shook it, “Hi Joshua, you enjoying your time onboard?”

            Josh sat down awkwardly, his feet banging against the table, nearly spilling her wine, “Yes, er, sure, I’m actually really nervous.”

            “Nervous,” Constance smiled at his candour, “why?”

            “I’m delivering the Northern Lights talk tomorrow and I’m bricking it.”

            Ah, thought Constance, now I know where I’ve seen him, “You’re the young astrophysicist am I right?”

            Tom and Jack beamed at each other with pride, their first born all grown up and getting recognised by American travellers.

            Josh launched into his spiel about his research into the Aurora Borealis for his doctorate and why this trip could be people’s best chances to see the phenomena, “Save the science for the talk,” said Jack, “Top up?” he asked Constance who hadn’t yet drifted off.  She smiled and nodded.  

The drinks arrived and Tom turned round, bored with the floor show, more interested in the captive woman, “So, Constance, why wait so long to return to the Queen Catharine?”

            She took a big gulp from her refreshed glass, “I’ve been away.  Twenty seven years.  I killed my husband.”

#

            “That’s one way to kill a conversation,” Jack sat up in bed drinking chamomile tea, reading tomorrow’s entertainment update, trying to see what he’d enjoy missing.  

            Tom was brushing his teeth, animated by sharing a table with a killer, “I wonder what he’d done?  Persistently unfaithful?  Violent temper?  Gambling debts?”

            “Maybe she was sick of his constant talking?” Jack said quietly, turning off his bedside lamp.

            “I’m going to the library after breakfast to do some research,” Tom announced.

            Jack rolled onto his side and sighed, “We’ve got to show moral support for Joshua.  Don’t even think about being late.”

            Tom sounded wounded, “I’ll be there, I just want to find out about our murderer!”

#

            Constance lay in the dark wondering why on earth she’d told that family, strangers of all things, she’d murdered Donald.  She’d spent twenty seven years in federal prison for it, but no-one on this ship needed to know that, or about her, so why did she say it?  

            Rolling over she looked at her phone, it was 2.30am; drinking red wine gave her a headache and always made her restless, so she turned on the light and sipped water.  She could have sworn she’d turned the TV off in her stateroom when she went out earlier but it was on when she returned and what was on it intrigued her.  She’d fumbled with the remote control and pressed off, the screen flattening into a line before turning black.  In the instant between the collapsing image and the line there’d been something on the screen, a fleeting outline of a hand.  Shaking her head Constance knew anyone would think she was insane, not that anyone, not even her son or sister, had anything to do with her now.

            She headed to the bathroom, yawning.  In the small mirror on the wall was a handprint.  The same print she’d seen on her TV.  The same print she saw out on deck earlier that evening.  The same print left behind thirty years ago when she’d placed her hand over Hodur’s hand before he fell from the Queen Catharine.

#

            Constance paid a visit to the library, a smallish area over two floors linked by a spiral staircase.  She wanted to see if they still did the daily crossword and pleased to see they did, took one, finding a quiet corner.  Engrossed and stifling a yawn, she spotted Tom speaking to the librarian and watched, sliding down in her seat, the printed sheet covering her face, as he was shown to one of the onboard computer terminals.  

            Work, she presumed and attacked the puzzle.  She’d had plenty of time to do crosswords in prison, even gaining a second degree in psychology, not that she could use it given her track record; after all, she’d already wasted her law degree.

            Donald had been a boorish scheming scumbag.  They’d met at his place of work, where his father ran a number of businesses; property development, hotels, golf courses.  He’d been charming in a blunt, self-confident way and to her, unattractive; a fleshy man with small hands and thinning hair; she a smart, attractive, ambitious woman managing their legal team.  They hit on a light hearted combative rapport and were at best pleasant colleagues.  Then, after a drinks party where she’d become unusually woozy he’d taken her back to one of his father’s offices and raped her.  The events in the months that followed became fraught as she filed claims against Donald and the firm, found herself pregnant and pulled the trump card of a paternity suit leading to threats of violence, instructions to seek an abortion then out of the blue a desperate marriage proposal when she made it clear she would keep the child and seek restitution including Donald’s prosecution.

            She laughed now, wondering why she agreed to marry him in the first place.  Delusionally she held crazy hopes the marriage would help her career and at worst be a cordial relationship in which to raise their child.  Far from it; he was hostile, erratic, belittling and worse an egotistical infant  who went crying to daddy whenever he couldn’t get his way.  Constance had forgotten the number of times she’d walked out, only to be pursued by the hired goons feeding fake news to the press, and worse still lawyers threatening financial ruin should she walk.  

            When his father died shortly after, Donald wasted no time in serving divorce papers and Constance had taken their son, Ronald, to their Florida estate whilst he plotted in New York.  Then, out of the blue, she met Hodur.

            Hodur worked for a US-Norwegian building contractor Donald used.  On a project at the Florida encampment they’d struck up a casual friendship, walking Ronald in his stroller around the grounds.  Hodur was tall, fair, freckled and quiet.  Speaking together she spotted a streak of shyness she found attractive after the blustering aggression of Donald.  Their ‘accidental’ meetings became more frequent; he’d point out star constellations and the movement of satellites in the night sky.  It didn’t take long before she became besotted with him, his gentleness and calm, his Norse sagas and evident interest in her. Hodur promised to show Constance the Aurora Borealis, describing it romantically, magically, sharing the experience would bind them forever. They decided to travel together, a winter cruise on the Queen Catherine sailing from England, taking in the Norwegian fjords with tantalising promises of seeing the Northern Lights.

            Embracing on deck one evening, looking at the stars, hoping to share that glimpse of the Aurora, a figure brushed past them and Hodur sharply pulled away from Constance, grimacing in pain, gripping his side.  As he placed his hand on a pillar Constance realised it was covered in blood, and screaming she tried to hold onto her lover as, disorientated, he stumbled and fell from the deck into the inky Norwegian Sea. 

            The following days were a blur of police, journalists, personal security teams and flights back to the US.  Donald was triumphant whilst Constance was grief stricken and broken.  Then she got mad.  One night she walked into Donald’s office and accused him of murdering Hodur.

            “You can’t pin that on me you crazy bitch,” he’d mocked, gleefully savouring every second of his distraught wife’s accusations.  “You’ll never prove I hired someone to get rid of a loser dumb enough to screw around with you.”

            Constance had had enough, felt she had nothing to lose, pulled out a small handgun and blew Donald’s brains out.

            Her legal team managed to negotiate a plea deal to save her from a capital murder charge.  She served twenty seven of a forty years sentence, never hearing from her son, the businesses eventually collapsing through a legacy of Donald’s bad decisions and his bickering relatives.

            She left the crossword unfinished, and as she passed Jack on the computer she glanced over his shoulder as he scrolled through pages of articles about the infamous Constance White.

#

            The theatre was half full.  Joshua was doing a better job with the lecture than Jack had expected.  He nervously stumbled over a few words at the beginning, but as the audience began to sit up and take notice, his confidence grew.  Jack had kept a seat spare for Tom who, as expected, had got distracted.  Fuming, Jack sent a What’s App message

            “Josh had to start without you.  Hurry up!!!!”

            In the dimmed auditorium Tom crept in and found Jack, seething.

            “I really can’t believe you sometimes,” Jack said in a hissed whisper.

            “I got distracted, I found something amazing!”

            Jack made it clear he couldn’t care less and concentrated on their son’s predictions that in the coming nights, due to solar flares, it was likely the Aurora Borealis could deliver the best show people had witnessed in years, weather conditions permitting.

            Tom whistled supportively, attracting a number of tuts and heads turned in disgust.  He ignored them, giving Josh a thumbs up, putting him off his stroke and making him drop his notes.  Tom became aware of someone’s more fixed gaze.  He looked up to one of the boxes and saw Constance, watching him.

#

            “Tonight, as we depart Tromso, we begin the final leg of the regal Queen Catharine’s voyage back to Southampton.  Weather conditions are predicted to be clear, an excellent opportunity to see the elusive Northen Lights.  We’ll dim the lights on the upper decks if there are any sightings, making it easier for you to see and take photographs.”  The Captain’s message sounded a little sad, thought Constance.  

She’d walked around Tromso in the frigid cold, after taking a cab to place flowers on Hodur’s grave on the outskirts of the city.  Her first time in the Arctic circle, she sat in a coffee shop watching the day to day life of Norwegian’s, unable to shake off the thoughts of the life they’d missed out on.  A few people had stopped on the street and were pointing upwards, towards the mountains beyond the Arctic Cathedral and the cable car.  A thin grey curtain hung in the air, moving imperceptibly, its bottom edge illuminated with a greenish haze.  Stepping into the cold night she’d reached for her phone and held it up and through the screen she saw the beautiful draping cloud of the Aurora, its emerald and forest greens reaching upwards to the clearly visible stars.  This was a moment they should have shared.  It was time.

During dinner the bridge announced clear and impressive sightings of the lights.  Service was halted as the dining room emptied, leaving Constance to drink her wine in isolation.  She hadn’t spotted Jack or Tom so far, presuming they were now avoiding her.

When everyone reappeared, chatting and sharing their photographs with each other, a congenial community hum enlivened the room.  Constance was getting ready to leave as Tom, Jack and Josh all appeared, faces flushed.

“Finished already?” asked Tom as the waiter seated him, “You didn’t go on deck?”

“No, I took advantage of the quiet to order myself a dry martini.  I understand there’s been quite the show?”

Josh could barely contain himself, “Extraordinary; the colours were vivid; greens, reds and pinks and purples all around.  The best display in living memory some were saying.  I’ve got some brilliant pictures for my thesis, do you want to see them?”

Constance affably shook her head, “Maybe another time.  I’m going up there now myself, now it’s a bit calmer.”

“They’ve turned the lights back on,” said Tom.

“Don’t let that put you off,” Jack added, scowling at his husband.  “You go and enjoy them, it’s what we came all this way to see.”

Constance nodded, “Yes, one of the reasons.”  She gave a little wave and left.

Finding her spot on-deck she was pleased to note she had the place pretty much to herself.  A few diehard photographers had erected tripods and were absorbed with the display which was, she had to admit, extraordinary.  Even with her iPhone she could make out the vibrancy and slow drifting movement.  The sky was alive with colour and she took a deep breath of the Arctic air.  With her back to the tall pillar she smiled, ‘content’ wasn’t the right word, but it would do.  Turning she placed her hand where the faint palmprint of Hodur was still visible to her.  She felt his hand, its warmth, its reassurance.  Stepping back she watched it fade, finally, and eyes to the sky she placed her hand on her heart, climbed onto the barrier and dropped like a stone.

The ‘Man Overboard’ announcement rang across the ship as uniformed staff raced around the decks.  Jack looked over at Tom who was behaving oddly, distracted.

“Do you mind if I pop out for a breath of air?” Tom asked.  “Only I’ve got a funny feeling.”

“They might not let you,” Josh mumbled, mouth stuffed with bread, “if it’s not a drill they’ll shut the decks if someone’s gone over.  Keeps the ghouls at bay.”

Jack nearly spat out his soup as Tom looked wounded. “Stay here,” he smiled, “I think it’s too late to talk her around.”  They exchanged glances as Jack reached over and gripped Tom’s hand, “Not everyone wants to be saved.”  He then called over the sommelier and ordered a bottle of good Malbec.

END