He straightened and felt an almost obsessive need to wash his hands. Leaning over the basin with the beautiful ornate mirror positioned above it, he yanked on the hot tap and grasped the soap. Running the water over his hands, he massaged the Pears bar, dug his nails into the orange cube and wrung his hands with the foam and the oily soap. Then he threw water over his face, letting the hot liquid sting his eyes. He dried his hands and face, and then stared at himself in the mirror.
‘You have killed,’ he muttered, watching his lips move. A cold shiver passed down his spine. He took a deep breath, pulled an overcoat from his wardrobe and marched out of the room.
The first thing he noticed was that the ship was listing to starboard. He hadn’t realized it in his room, but here in the corridor it was obvious. That could mean only one thing. Whatever the man with the pipe had claimed up on deck, the ship was taking in water, and a lot of it. He glanced at his fob watch. It was almost one o’clock. He had no clear idea why he was heading to B-Deck, except for some vague notion that Frieda might have returned there. She must have the boxes from the safe.
He heard another scream, a loud crack from close by. Reaching the reception area on C-Deck, he saw there were dozens of passengers clustered around the Grand Staircase. Another jarring sound like the snap of a whip resonated around the open area.
‘Ladies and gentlemen… It is all right,’ came a man’s voice. Fortescue looked over and saw one of the senior officers. He had got up onto a chair and held a megaphone in his right hand.
‘Please… ladies and gentlemen… there’s nothing to fear. That was just a distress flare.’
‘If there’s nothing to fear, why fire a distress flare?’ a man shouted. He was just a few yards to his right, a stocky man with white whiskers. Fortescue recognized him but didn’t know his name. A couple went past Egbert headed towards the exit doors. He turned and squeezed a way through the crowd to reach the foot of the Grand Staircase.
Up one level, he reached B-Deck. Here, a similar crowd of First Class passengers had gathered. Two more crewmen were trying to answer their questions. A woman was crying; another sobbed into the shoulder of an older man holding her tightly. Fortescue slipped around the edge of the throng, and into the corridor leading to Frieda’s cabin.
He reached the door. It was closed.
‘Frieda? Frieda? Are you in there?’
No reply.
He banged on the wood. ‘Frieda.’
He stepped away and charged at the door, then fell back, a dreadful pain rushing down his left side. He looked around and saw a fibre extinguisher attached to a wall bracket. He dashed over, tried to yank it from the support but found it was held fast. Crouching down, he studied the mechanism, pulled on a clip and the metal extinguisher slipped free. He lifted it, one hand on the base, the other around the top. It was heavy but just about manageable. Staggering back to Frieda’s cabin, Fortescue raised the extinguisher to chest height and swung it round, smashing it into the door. The wood splintered, but the panel held. Swinging the extinguisher a second time, it ploughed through the wood, punching out a hole a foot wide.
He paused for a moment to draw breath. Lifting the extinguisher a third time, he landed another, harder blow that smashed the lock. One swift kick to the handle and the door flew inwards.
A man rushed past him in the corridor. He was wearing a life jacket and had another clasped in both hands. He barely noticed Fortescue and completely ignored the shattered door.
Stepping inside, Fortescue surveyed the room. It was just how he had left it. The bedding was a mess. Frieda’s underwear lay scattered across the floor. Searching the cupboards offered nothing. Under the bed, just air. He retreated back to the corridor.
Think, he said to himself, mouthing the words silently. OK, so Marcus — Charles Grantham — stole the boxes while I was asleep in here. Frieda left me… God only knows when. Then Grantham came to kill me. Frieda would have expected him to complete the task, then what? Meet her. Yes, but where? Think, Egbert, think. Then he had it. Of course… the storeroom where Billy had seen them. Oh God, Billy…
He dashed back to the reception area, down the Grand Staircase, dodging the growing hoards of panicking passengers. As he approached the turn in the stairs there came another loud crack, another flash… another flare… The situation was clearly deteriorating
He stood in the reception of C-Deck buffeted by the other passengers clustered around the exit onto the promenade; one of the crew was giving directions.
A young officer lifted a megaphone to his mouth. A lifeboat has been lowered,’ he announced. ‘If you could make an orderly…’
People close to Fortescue surged forward and suddenly everyone was rushing for the doors. He was shoved to one side, his head colliding with a painting of the Titanic’s sister ship RMS Olympic. The picture slipped from its hook and crashed to the floor sending glass shards across the carpet. Fortescue pulled himself to his feet and looked around angrily.
‘Please. Ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted the young officer with the megaphone.
‘Billy had been in a room off one of the corridors leading away from this reception area,’ Fortescue said aloud and rubbed a hand across his forehead. His fingers came up wet with sweat. He paused for a beat feeling nauseous, leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and took several deep breaths. This was so surreal. Focus, he thought. Focus. I have to focus. I have to retrieve the isotope and the notes. Then after that worry about what the hell is happening to this damn ship.
He remembered how Billy had crashed across reception, colliding with the steward. He retraced the boy’s steps, found the corridor and swung into it. Two men ran towards him; they were chefs from the First Class kitchen, their white jackets and striped trousers smeared with grease, faces streaked black. Fortescue stood to one side as they rushed past him.
Moving slowly along the corridor, he drew parallel with the kitchens and swung a pair of doors inwards. He could see no one. Then he spotted fames, a line of fire across the back of the room, an upturned barrel, a smudge of oil on the metal floor. A ball of fire roared towards him and he jumped aside, landing heavily against the door to the cold room, his back smashing into the foot-long handle. He cried out in agony and slid to the floor, scrambling away as a spray of flaming oil smashed into the door and across the wall.
Out in the corridor, he had the presence of mind to slam shut the heavy steel door into the kitchen. Gasping for air, he tried to push aside the pain as he checked left and right. No one around. He went to move and another thunderous explosion shook the vessel.