'Only because I'm all woozy because of the drugs you gave me!'
'No, Claire, you're all woozy because of the blood you've lost. You will stay here for another twenty-four hours, minimum. And then you'll only be allowed out if I see positive signs of improvement, the kind which only come with lying still and doing nothing and letting the maggots do their work.'
Claire's head jerked to one side. 'The WHAT?'
Dr Hill nodded down at the bandage, which he had now peeled away and set on a small stand beside her bed. It was alive with little, white, twisty-turny creatures about a centimetre long. Claire looked horrified.
'Oh, yes,' said Dr Hill, gloating at her discomfort. 'Maggots, of the green blowfly variety. We're a bit short of antibiotics Claire, and to tell you the truth these little beauties work one heck of a lot better. We breed them here on board. They eat all the dead tissue away — stops you getting infected.'
'But... but . . . but . . .'
'They're saving your life, Claire.'
'But — they're . . . maggots . . .'
'Yup — and now we need a fresh batch.' Dr Hill turned and nodded at his nurse, who handed him the replacements already secured in a fresh bandage. He began to tape it into place. 'So Claire — rest, relax, and let them do their job.'
'But—'
'No buts.'
'Jimmy—'
'Rest.'
'I have to go ashore—'
'Relax.'
'I have to find out about the paper—'
'It can wait.'
'But what if the maggots get into my bloodstream, into my brain . . . ?'
'Claire, that hardly ever happens. It's been several days since anyone . . .'
Claire stared at him. Then she stared at the open bandage and the mass of maggots. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and then her head hit the pillow. She had fainted.
The nurse looked at Dr Hill. 'It. . . it doesn't really ever happen, does it. . . ?'
'No, of course not,' said Dr Hill. 'But she doesn't need to know that.'
He smiled briefly down at Claire before turning away. It was time to go ashore.
She slept for twelve hours. She didn't dream. There was no dramatic fever. When she opened her eyes and scanned the room her only hope was that Jimmy had somehow miraculously returned.
But there was only the sterile, empty room.
She did, at least, feel significantly better. The wooziness was gone. The IV had been removed while she slept and a small plaster covered where the needle had attached it to her good arm. Her wound boasted a new bandage, less bulky than the previous ones, which, she hoped, suggested that the maggots had satisfactorily completed their work. When the nurse came in with a cup of hot tea for her, Claire asked if she'd heard what had happened ashore, but she just shook her head. Twenty minutes later First Officer Jeffers appeared in the doorway. He smiled across and Claire allowed herself a brief moment of hope.
'Did you find . . . Jimmy?'
The smile faded. 'No, Claire, sorry. We searched, we talked to the locals, there was no sign of him. It was always a long shot.' He could see that Claire's lower lip was trembling. He sat on the edge of the bed. He thought for a moment about taking her hand, but decided against it. 'You didn't do anything wrong, Claire,' he said quietly. 'Remember that. And he's a survivor. He may not be with us, but he's probably still out there somewhere, causing trouble.'
That won half a smile from her.
'I know it's hard losing your boyfriend like that.'
Her eyes grew suddenly cool. 'He wasn't my boyfriend,' she snapped.
Dr Hill finally gave her the all-clear to leave the hospital — but only on condition that it was under the supervision of her parents. When she called her father to tell him the good news he said they would be down in five minutes. Claire waited for them for the next hour. She phoned them three times, and on each occasion was told they'd be another five minutes. She held her temper in check. She knew what the problem was — her mother refused to go anywhere without her war paint on. Even Claire had rarely seen her natural face; it was almost always covered in thick make-up.
The nurse rolled a wheelchair in.
'I'm not getting into that,' said Claire.
'Yes you are.'
'Yes I am,' said Claire.
She wasn't going to do or say anything else that might jeopardise her freedom. She settled into the wheelchair.
Her mother finally swept into the hospital, followed by her exasperated-looking husband.
'Claire, darling! We came as quickly as we could! My sweet girl is coming home!'
Behind her, Mr Stanford rolled his eyes.
'Just . . . get . . . me . . . out of here!' Claire hissed through gritted teeth.
Dr Hill warned her for the third time that she would have to rest. Claire nodded.
'Claire, I know that nod.' He gave her a hard look. 'I mean it.'
'I know you mean it,' said Claire.
Mrs Stanford wiped at a tear. 'My little girl — in a wheelchair!'
'Mother,' said Claire, 'I'm fine.'
'I know dear, I know. You will walk again, I know it.'
Claire sighed and looked at her father. 'Please get me out of here!'
Mr Stanford waited for an approving nod from Dr Hill, then took hold of the handles and began to roll her forward. Mrs Stanford followed behind, dabbing her damp cheeks with a handkerchief.
Claire was pushed out of the hospital, along the corridor and into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed she pushed herself up and out of the chair.
'Claire . . .' her father began.
'She can walk!' her mother exclaimed.
'Dad, I'm fine.' Her father had pushed the button for their penthouse cabin on the sixteenth floor. Claire pressed the button for the sixth. The elevator stopped almost immediately and the doors opened.
'Claire — what on earth do you think you're doing?' her father asked.
Claire raised calming hands towards her parents. 'I'm going to work.' She stepped out into the corridor. As the doors began to close her mother clasped her hands in front of her. 'It's a miracle,' she whispered.
***
Ten minutes after discovering the offices of the Titanic Times both empty and locked, Claire tracked Ty down to the restaurant on the twelfth floor. He was happily working his way through a plate of doughnuts.
She stood behind him. 'Enjoying those...?'
Ty started to nod — but then he recognised the voice and his latest doughnut's happy trajectory towards his mouth stopped halfway there. He turned slowly. She looked furious.
'Ccc-ccclaire . . . how are you . . . ?' His lips were coated with sugar. 'I came — I came to see you . . . but you were . . . asleep . . .'
'Why has the Titanic Times not appeared?'
'We didn't—'
'Why is the office locked?'
'We thought—'
There was a terrible cold fury about her. 'FIND EVERYONE. GET THEM TO THE OFFICE IN THE NEXT TEN MINUTES OR TONIGHT YOU WILL SLEEP WITH THE FISHES.'
Ty's heart was beating wildly. He knew Claire had a temper. They all knew she had one. But he had never experienced it so intensely before. She glared at him for a very long five seconds — during which not a single word of explanation or apology managed to make its way from his brain to his mouth.
Then she pointed. 'GO!'
Ty looked at his doughnuts. He looked at Claire. He pushed the plate away, stood up and ran.
It was actually about thirty minutes before the editorial team, the IT guy, the delivery boys and girls and the idiot who just wandered around looking helpless were all assembled. They had entered the office in ones and twos, all of them looking sheepish. Nobody wanted to be first to speak. Claire sat staring at a switched off screen, acknowledging no one.