The noise kept me awake all night long. I lay in my sister and I’s cabin, she having somehow succumbed to blissful sleep several hours ago, and stared at the ceiling. The storm had overwhelmed us within the hour, quickly passing overhead and sweeping behind us. Before long the orange light of sunset had been devoured by the clouds and the sky had been plunged into darkness, unending, consuming. Not long after that the lightning had started, exploding directly overhead, sending shock waves throughout the ship, the mighty booms rattling everything in every room. The rain, which seemed to pummel the metal with such force that I was surprised it had not begun to cave inwards, set a backdrop of constant drumming, creating a constant crescendo as the sounds and motions of the storm continued on through the night and into the small hours of the morning. The vast majority of the passengers had sought shelter within their cabins, the restaurant and bar having closed early due to the violent movements as the liner was tossed from one wave to the next, the storm above and the sea below collaborating to form a formidable wall of energy that exerted all of it’s power to stop our voyage in it’s tracks. Every time there was a crack of thunder, or the ship was thrown by a powerful wave, the little tinkle of glass shattering or the loud boom of a heavy object plummeting to the floor could be heard from the rooms to either side of us, followed closely by a loud exclamation from the passengers. Already my sister’s glasses and my own pocket watch had met the same fate as the other inhabitants own objects, smashing on the rug after being thrown with incredible force from the dresser table. The room was now almost completely dark, the flame on the candle that had lit it previously having completely burned through the wax. The dying embers flickered with the last echoes of life, creating shadows that danced across the walls, creating large dark blots that looked almost like waves themselves, rising up before crashing down again or collapsing under their own weight. I turned over in my bed and saw my sister at the other end of the room. She was two years older than I. Her blond hair fell over her face and hung like ivy over a wall, in irregular and knotted patterns, obscuring one of her eyes. Her rose pink skin was entirely unblemished, her small features fitting perfectly onto her face. She rose and fell with the breath of someone totally at ease and content, a singular island of calm in the ferocious seas around her. I rolled back over and closed my eyes, attempting to concentrate on anything other than the howl of the tempest outside, a tune, an amusing thought, anything that would help to calm my mind and allow me to drift off easier- but the second that I found an image or sound to concentrate on it was instantly interrupted by a sudden lurching of the ship, a deafening boom of thunder or a terrible flash of lightning so bright that it illuminated the darkness behind my eyes. I sat up in bed in complete anger at my situation but with nothing that I could realistically do about it. I couldn’t light another candle to read or turn on the small gramophone in the corner to listen to music for fear of waking my sister. Neither could I play my violin for the same reason. I threw off the sheets, swung my legs out of bed, and paced quietly up and down the room for several minutes, focusing on the placement of my feet on the floor to stop myself being thrown sideways every time the ship lurched. Eventually, I decided to go for a walk to clear my head. I threw on an old navy blue shirt that I used to sleep in, a pair of grey trousers and a pair of slippers I had found just before leaving for the voyage. Green, bits of fabric tearing from them, slightly past their best but comfortable. I turned one last time to watch my sister sleep peacefully in her cot, pining for the same slumber myself, before opening the door of our cabin as quietly as I could and stepping out.

The corridors of the liner were decorated exactly as lavishly as any hotel I had visited before; chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the light exuding from that wondrous invention of the upper-classes, electric bulbs; both the carpet and the wallpaper were coloured a deep red hue, a dazzling ruby that drew the viewer so much one expected to fall directly into it and be swallowed; the doors had polished and buffed brass door knobs and number plates, the wood itself treated to the highest quality. However this floating hotel had a strangeness, an ethereal quality that made it like no other place I had ever stayed in. The ebb and flow of the sea, grown more fierce because of the storm, created a sense of movement that was both magical and disorientating, as if the passageway in which I stood elongated and contracted with each motion. The visual illusion made it hard to walk in a straight line, and it took all of my concentration simply to reach the end of our corridor. From their I took a right turn, a left, another right, following a random pattern until eventually I had become disorientated as to my exact location within the ship. Climbing a set of stairs, clinging tightly to the bannister so as not to plunge back the way I came, I arrived on the top deck. My palms, damp with sweat brought on by a lingering nervousness of the storm’s ferocity and through the exertion I had to exert to stay upright, had left a smudge on the bronze sheen, almost a perfect imprint of my fingerprints. The stairway I had scaled opened out onto a large entrance hall at the highest point of the ship, designed to hold several hundred people at the one time, from which three great double doors led from. The top deck of the ship was where the various entertainments for the guests enduring the long ocean crossing were housed. A restaurant, bar and casino were all interconnected to one another. There was a room were ladies could receive massages and beauty treatments, and a small room for Very Important Persons only, where the captain of the ship and his personal guests dined and drank. The amusements had all been closed due to the danger that the storm imposed to loose objects, and thereby the people struck by said objects, so it was to my great surprise that I found the door to the bar ajar and light, music and laughter flowing from the gap into the hallway. I crept towards it, and kneeling so as not to be easily visible, peered into the cavernous room. Chairs had hastily been stacked at angles in the corners of the room to prevent them from toppling over and shattering on the floor. Tables had been fastened to the floor using pieces of rope and nails. The alcohol that normally would have lined the glass cabinets behind the bar were nowhere to be seen, presumably stored in a secure place as well. Intermittently, a flash of lightning would illuminate the darkened corners of the room that the lamplight did not reach, and a crack of thunder would drown out the music. Stood around the lamp that was fixed on to the end of the bar were two people, a man and a woman. The man wore a white shirt that was open at the collar, a bow tie draped undone around it. The logo of the ocean liner company was emblazoned on the pocket of his shirt. He stood on the opposite side of the bar, holding on to a half-empty bottle of liquid, clearly alcohol of some description. The woman had now sat on one of the bar stools that were fixed to the floor and so impervious to the storms fury, her left hand holding on to the bar to steady herself and her right clutching a small glass. A small gramophone attached to the bar surface behind them played “When The Saints Go Marching In”, a song I had heard from an American visitor to my parent’s town house. I tried to listen in to the conversation the pair where having, straining my hearing to its limits, but their utterances were obscured by the music and the background noise of the storm raging outside. The only thing I could tell where that they, too, were American. I shuffled forward on the balls of my feet, opening the door very slowly, quietly, to allow that extra volume to float out of the crack, so curious was I as to the identities of these two passengers. I continued to open the door by degrees for several minutes, straining to hear the conversation, until my entire head was almost through the opening and into the bar. The two must have consumed a fair amount of alcohol for even then they did not notice me lurking. Suddenly, violently, the ship lurched forward: we must have been struck by the largest wave of the storm yet. The lights flickered for a few seconds, temporarily plunging the ship into darkness. The woman screeched, there was the crash of glass shattering on the counter and the man swore loudly. I could hear the ship straining under the weight of the assault, the crunching, groaning sound of metal struggling to maintain itself deafening, and the force of the blow sent me sprawling through the doorway and onto the floor of the bar room. I lay face down on the floor as the lights came back on. The carpet was rough, grainy to the touch, and burned my skin where it had been dragged across it. My sense of smell was assaulted by the years of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol that had soaked the fabric. I brought my hand up to rub my left temple where it had collided with the floor in the fall. It pulsated with a dull pain, a low hum in my ears that was already beginning to subside, nothing too serious. Blinking several times to re-align my vision I lifted my head up and took a look around me. Now the pair could see me. They both stared right at me, like one would an animal in the zoo, a curious oddity that had never been seen before. I lifted myself off the ground quickly, conscious of the fact that it was now painfully clear I had been brazenly snooping on the pair. They continued to stare, silently, perfectly still, as if the jolt hadn’t bothered them at all. They were both exactly where they had been while I had watched them, the only difference being the ladies now empty glass, the smashed liquor bottle on the counter and the alcohol, dangerously foul-smelling spirit flowing across the bar and cascading over the side onto the floor. I smiled sheepishly, feeling my face redden in an instant, and ran my hand through my hair nervously. The woman finally moved, breaking the statue façade to reach into her cleavage and produce a cigarette and a box of matches. She lit one, the match crackling as she lit the end of the paper, the burnt orange hue brightening her face, creating small shadows along her lines that danced as the flame wobbled one way then the other, betraying her real age that the ruby red lipstick, bleached permed hair and youthful black cocktail dress attempted to hide. She took a long drag, a deep inhale, then blew it in a ring out of her mouth.

“Well what do we have here now?” Her “what” was pronounced “wut”, her accent the drawl of an American from the south. I stood, mouth clamped shut, rooted to the spot. I tried to answer, but was unable to say a word.

“I think we’ve got ourselves a mute little spy Clarissa.” The man answered for me, his perfectly straight, brilliantly white teeth visible in his smile even from this distance. His oiled black hair was styled into a fringe that almost hit his mouth itself. He was younger than the woman, with almost perfect features, the only mark on his face the dimple on his left cheek. He put his hand down on the counter into a puddle of liquid, gave a surprised tut as if he had only suddenly remembered that his bottle had smashed open, then grabbed a black towel and began to mop up the alcohol puddled on the table. The glass he just swept onto the floor behind the bar.

“Jimmy right, little man? You a spy, come to discover what us reprobates are doin’ guzzling all the booze?” I could see the amusement in her eyes. They were laughing at me. This knowledge seemed to finally unfreeze my tongue.

“N-no miss. I was just… well, I was just curious. I mean I couldn’t sleep so came for a walk, because of the storm you see, and when I saw the lights on in the bar when I knew they were supposed to be out I came for a look. I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation, that was all, so I watched for a while, I didn’t mean-”

“All right, all right kid!” Jimmy yelled over my explanation, which had become more rapid and incomprehensible as it went on. “Jeez, looks like our little mute can speak as much as he wants after all. Guessing we won’t be able to shut him- Ow, god damn it!”

Whilst clearing the last of the glass from the counter top Jimmy ran his hand over a jagged piece of glass- his finger sliced open with a wet squelch. Dark red blood, almost plum coloured, oozed from his index fingertip, slinking its way down the shaft and breaking upon the palm, fanning out in every direction like ink in water.

“Jim, you stupid little faggot.” Clarissa grabbed his hand and stared into the cut, squeezing the top of the finger so more blood spurted out, causing Jimmy to squeal in pain. She giggled, wrapped his cut in a tissue that she produced from her other breast and gave him a sympathetic look. “You really should be more careful darling, that looks like a deep one. Maybe you should consider going to see that doctor on the fifth deck. I hear tell he’s quite the accomplished practitioner, or so says the gals who were in here last night. Handsome fella too, don’t ya reckon?”

Jimmy huffed, pressing the wounded finger into the centre of his palm and making a fist. He produced another bottle of spirit from beneath the counter, this one half full and a brown liquid that reminded me very much of the colour in the Thames water that pooled on the banks in the summer. Most of the inscription on the bottle was in Spanish but I managed to discern the word ‘Rum’.

“He’s another mute that one too. Was in here an hour and a half three days ago, a god damn hour and a half, never said one word to anyone. Nothin’! Three girls tried to talk to him. Even gave him the ol’ wink and nod myself, no one was gettin’ any off the bastard. Most he did was look up for a few seconds then went back to scribblin’ away in that notebook of his. Little black thing, most of the pages were full, tried to get a glimpse of what he was writin’ as I served drinks either side but he was a careful guy, always hid it. He’d probably do the same if I went to him with this, just the same.” He brandished his bloodied tissue at Clarissa’s face, the woman yelping in mock terror and slapping at his arm to deflect it. “Nah, the spirit’s better for that sorta thing.”

The bartender filled both of the glasses with a large quantity of rum, the liquid glug-glug-glugging as it escaped the bottle. They both raised their glasses simultaneously and chinked them together, smiling at each other, their arm movements as they drew the cups to their mouths somewhat erratic. I looked from one of them to the other, watching as they both slurped down their drinks until both had almost finished. Clarissa swivelled back around in her seat to look at me, blinking several times as if to try and focus her eyes.