Саймон Бествик - The Devil and the Deep - Horror Stories of the Sea

Two days ago, he’d spent seven minutes under, and it went like nothing. There had to be meaning in that. Superhumans were popping up everywhere, remember. Something in the air, something in the water. A beautiful time to be alive.

He rolled off the log and made the plunge.

He would find Gail again, or he wouldn’t.

He, too, was ready for another way of life, or he wasn’t.

The ocean would accept him. Or it wouldn’t.

He could still be a part of it either way.

Iwas pretty drunk or maybe I’d’ve figured out what was happening a lot sooner. It’d been a hell of a day getting to Long Beach from the east coast, though, kicking off with a bleary-eyed hour in an Uber driven by a guy who ranted about politics the entire way, then two flights separated by a hefty layover, because Shannon, my PA, is obsessed with saving every penny on travel despite—or because of—the fact she’s not going to be the one spending hours wandering an anonymous concourse in the middle of the country, trying and ultimately failing to resist the temptation to kill the time in a bar. Once I’d had a couple/three there it seemed only sensible to keep the buzz going with complementary liquor on the second flight, and so by the time the cab from LAX finally deposited me on the quay beside the boat I was already sailing more than a few sheets close to the wind.

When I say “boat” I mean “ship.” The company conference this year was on the Queen Mary , historic Art Deco gem of British ocean liners and once host to everyone from Winston Churchill to Liberace, now several decades tethered to the dock in Long Beach and refitted as a hotel. I stood staring up at the epic size of the thing while I snatched a cigarette, and then figured out where the stairs were to get up to the metal walkway that took you aboard. I hadn’t even finished check-in before a guy I know a little from the London office strode up and said everyone was in the bar and it was happy hour for God’s sake so what the hell was I waiting for?

I hurried my bag to my room and brushed my teeth and changed my shirt, taking a second to remind myself of the name of the British guy (Peter something-or-other, I evidently hadn’t noted his surname) so I could hail him when I rocked up in the bar. See? Totally professional.

The bar turned out to be at the pointy end of the ship, and—wonder of wonders—featured an outside area which not only had a great view over the bay but you were allowed to smoke there while drinking , which meant there was basically no good reason for me to leave it, ever, or at least for the duration of the conference. The bar wasn’t even super-crowded, because the conference didn’t start in earnest until the next day: I’d only arrived Thursday because Shannon had been able to shave a few bucks off the flights that way. Of course it meant paying for an extra night on the boat but she assured me that was actually a good thing because of some unfeasibly complex points system she’s got me locked into—and began explaining it in detail and cross-referencing it with her own plans for the weekend—but after a while I stopped listening.

Most of the guys and girls present were from outposts in Europe, arrived early to make a head-start on recovering from jetlag, which many seemed to believe involved the consumption of alcohol at a rate some might consider injudiciously brisk. I knew most of them only by sight but when you work for the same multinational tech giant and have access to strong, relaxing beverages—and are all a little hyper as a result of being away from home and out of the normal grind—it’s not hard to get along. Peter-from-London insisted on taking me on a tour of the boat to point out the curved metal and worn wooden paneling and general faded grandeur of the whole deal (out of Brit pride, I suspect, and also to temporarily remove himself from the sight line of a freakishly tall woman from the Helsinki office whom he’d evidently slept with at the previous year’s event, and who was drinking hard and fast with her colleagues and staring at Peter like she either wanted to bash his head in or else renew their acquaintance right away).

Aside from that I stuck to the bar—itself no slouch when it came to looking like the set from some glamorous black-and-white movie where people spoke in bon mots and drank cocktails and broke into dance every ten minutes. I was all too aware I had to give a gnarly and unpopular presentation explaining why the update to our flagship virtual networking module had been delayed yet again , but that wasn’t until Saturday and hey, it isn’t every evening you got to drink heavily on a damned great boat.

I drank. I chatted. I went out front to smoke and watch the sky darken and the lights from the city across the bay come on—and then gradually start to dwindle and fade, as a fog came in. I stuck to beer in the hope this might help the hangover remain dreadful rather than crushing, and after a while this started to catch up with my bladder. Luckily my earlier exploration of the boat with Peter (the Finnish woman was now hanging with our group, and it was becoming clear that the only vigorous acts on her mind were the kind that would have a bedstead banging against a cabin wall into the small hours) had included locating the nearest john. It was down a narrow and windowless corridor that led down the middle of the boat and seemed to have escaped the attention of most of the guys, who instead marched off down one of the much wider walkways on the outer edges, to the main restroom mid-ship that—while significantly larger and nicer—was much further away. The closer one looked like it had been converted out of a far more lavish single toilet (there was still a lock on the outer door to the corridor, and the sink, two urinals, and stall retrofitted into the space were seriously cramped) but never let it be said that I can’t make do with what’s available, especially when I really do need to take a piss.

Coming from the sophisticated Old World as some of these people did, the proportion of tobacco users was higher than with an all-American crowd, and by nine o’clock over half of us were in permanent position out on the smokers’ deck. Peter and the Finnish chick were nowhere to be seen, suggesting that a two-person tour of some low-lit and discrete corner of the boat might be under way. A few of the others had staggered away toward other regions of the boat, looking a little green around the gills, though promising to come back once they’d had some air. The view had also disappeared, blotted out by a thick, chewy fog that was getting thicker and thicker and smelled very strongly of the ocean.

I headed indoors—accepting in passing the offer of yet another pint of the strong local IPA from some suave dude from the Madrid office—and wobbled off down the corridor. Two collisions with the wall en route made me realize I ought to slow the drinking down a little, and I promised my tomorrow-morning self to at least consider the idea.

When I got inside the gents’ I saw the stall door was closed and felt the customary beat of gratitude for the fact that my digestive system, decided long ago that one comprehensive defecation per day (early morning, in the comfort of my own home, right after my first coffee and cigarette) is all it needs. As I stood swaying in front of the urinal furthest from the stall (still almost within arm’s reach) I glimpsed a pair of shoes planted on the floor within, dark slacks pooled on top, a couple inches of pale, hairy calves. I coughed as I began meeting my own needs, as is my practice, to let the guy in there know he was temporarily not alone.

Nonetheless, a moment later, there was a quiet but clear straining sound. I winced—it’s bad enough knowing there’s some dude nearby voiding ex-food out of his ass, without getting auditory updates—and tried to hurry my business.