White Water Black Death: The terrifying new cruise ship thriller Read online

  And thank god.

  Rachel had insisted on him joining her group tonight, he hoped it would be the only time. He wasn’t sure why she’d insisted on him coming on this cruise. If she wanted to reconnect, wanted them to spend quality time together, it was thus far failing. He’d barely seen her since they left Southampton. When they did spend time together, she’d encourage him to mingle and ‘have fun’ in an insistent way that made having fun sound like work.

  “I join the ship regularly for ‘CEO’s Cruises’ to get direct feedback from our passengers and answers any questions they might have,” Rachel added with a delighted smile. “But this particular voyage is our fifteenth anniversary celebratory cruise.”

  “I was wondering if you’re planning on returning to the Brazilian market anytime soon?” a woman asked. Geneva. She’d introduced herself as Geneva Jones, ‘editor extraordinaire’ of CruiseCritique.com. The enemy, according to Rachel.

  It was because of Geneva that Aaron had been invited to tonight’s dinner.

  “I need your support, she’s out to get me, she twists things, like all journalists,” Rachel had said. He wasn’t sure why Rachel had invited Geneva aboard to do a review if she disliked her so much.

  “No.” She answered Geneva’s question now without looking at her.

  “Maybe next year?”

  “Brazil is a closed chapter for us,” said Rachel. “As you know.”

  Geneva seemed unconcerned by the change in her tone and simply raised her eyebrows as she set her menu down and, summoning a waiter, leant back in her seat slightly. The thin material of her top fell more closely against her chest. Turning back to the table, she glanced across at Aaron, holding his gaze for a second.

  Sarah had also stopped to watch Geneva, but Aaron wasn’t sure what he could see in her eyes. It couldn’t be jealousy. Geneva was old enough to be Sarah’s mom, if she’d had her very young. Fifteen, like Aaron’s real mother.

  “Are you adopted Aaron?” Sarah asked into the silence, looking at him like she’d read his mind.

  She was looking directly at him, along with everyone else at the table. Feeling trapped and breathless, Aaron was also vaguely surprised Rachel hadn’t been the first to bring it up.

  “Yes.” It took Aaron three elevated heartbeats longer than it should have to form the word. Having got it out easier than anticipated, he decided to elaborate. “From Uganda.”

  “When were you adopted?” Sarah followed up, her subtly green eyes not leaving his. Perhaps she hadn’t given up on him after all.

  “W-w-w….”

  And there it was. Always the fucking W.

  Aaron considered switching into a British accent. He sometimes did during transactional conversations. He never stammered in an accent.

  “When I was ten,” he managed.

  “That’s unusual,” said Geneva. “I mean, to be adopted so late. Usually they want the young ones.”

  “They?” Rachel asked.

  “People that adopt, they generally want babies don’t they?” Geneva said. “Not kids. Why did you adopt Aaron?”

  “That’s a conversation for a different night,” said Rachel, smiling. The smile of someone having their picture taken by someone who can’t work the camera.

  Rachel liked talking about the fact that he was adopted, just not the specifics of how it happened.

  “Aaron has been my son from the day he was born,” she said, filling the awkward silence.

  Aaron made brief eye contact with Sarah and flinched at her knowing expression, studying the menu closely instead. A rare advantage to being black was the ability to hide a blush.

  “Are you not married, duck?” Anne, an older woman, asked Geneva, leaning toward her conspiratorially, a slight smirk on her wizened face. She’d spent much of the meal thus far chewing determinedly. Listening and studying her surroundings as though surprised to be there.

  “No, I got let out early on good behavior,” Geneva said, her hands carelessly running down the spine of her glass, free, like her laugh.

  Aaron thought he saw a transitory sadness in Anne’s expression. Although considerably older than anyone else at the table, she had an easy elegance to her and a loud Northern English accent that demanded attention. Already with a deep tan, she’d declared her desire to get a better one in the Caribbean.

  “Not like those bloody sun beds in t’salon,” she’d said during the entrees, croaking as she stifled a laugh, her eyes a bright mix of green and blue, like malachite. “I been going t’salon and coming out like a caffe latte!”

  It was a great accent. Aaron wondered if he could get away with using it.

  “Why doesn’t Richard join you for these dinners?” Geneva asked.

  “He might join us in the lounge afterwards.”

  Aaron wondered if Geneva also noticed she hadn’t answered the question.

  “I suppose he must be preoccupied with the day-to-day running of the company.” Geneva’s eyes didn’t leave Rachel. “Especially after Southampton.”

  “W-what happened in…” Aaron began to ask, but Rachel cut him off abruptly.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” she said. It seemed to Aaron she was looking for a way to change the subject.

  Geneva seized on the brief silence.

  “There are rumors of an altercation with a member of the crew when we left port…”

  “You can’t believe everything you hear, Geneva.” Rachel’s smile clashed horribly with her tone. “I’ll look into it, we can follow up in the coming days.”

  “You said something similar after Sao Paulo,” Geneva smiled back.

  “And as I said then, disgruntled former employees rarely have anything nice to say. You can’t take words at face value, actions are what matter. Sarah, you must try the truffle infused brownie…”

  09.47pm

  The ship’s motion had changed perceptibly by the time they finished dinner. No longer plunging regularly, it was also rolling steadily from side to side in a way that made Aaron feel disoriented. Every now and then it leant over for what seemed an unnaturally long time before coming upright again, glasses clinking and plates rattling dully on tablecloths dampened to prevent everything sliding off.

  “Drinks are on the house, if you’d like to join us in the Melody Lounge,” Rachel declared as they rose from the table, eliciting immediate acquiescence from Anne and Geneva. Sarah, checking her phone, asked if ‘after dinner snacks’ were served in the Melody Lounge.

  A faux wooden staircase led from the doors of the restaurant up four decks to the lounge. Aaron’s mother kept up a constant stream of chatter as they climbed, gripping the handsome creaking balustrade. The smell of perfume was so strong it made Aaron’s nose burn.

  Located at the very front of the ship, overlooking what Rachel called the bow, the Melody Lounge was a beautiful room during the day with rectangular portrait windows in a long line across the front and sides of it. At night it was even more impressive, cream blinds covered every window and gentle lighting created shadows and dark corners in which cocktail tables and cup-like leather chairs were strategically placed for privacy.

  To the right of the lounge, on what Rachel called the starboard side of the ship, was a small marble stage in an island of oaken dance floor beyond the wave-patterned carpet.

  “There’s no real wood in any of the ship’s interior because it’s against SOLAS 2010,” Rachel was telling Sarah. “Cost us a fortune to refit her…”

  Sarah was nodding along, but her eyes were once more on her phone.

  A tall man with silver-streaked hair slid out of a dark corner of the lounge.

  “Rachel, we need to talk.”

  “I’m just having after dinner drinks with some guests, Richard,” she said, glancing quickly at Geneva. “Why don’t you join us?”

  They were seated at a table with a view of the stage.

  “Richard, a real pleasure,” he said to each of the women in turn, in exactly the same tone each time. He handed a business card to Geneva.

  “I already have one, we met twice last week,” she said.

  “Richard is my right-hand-man,” Rachel added, downing what was left of her wine.

  “Chief operating officer,” Geneva said, leaning toward Anne.

  Rachel summoned a waitress. “Another for me, please, and a whiskey for Mr. Wagner. Is everyone else good for drinks?”

  “How are you enjoying the cruise?” Richard asked, adjusting his position to better face Geneva.

  “Interesting,” she said, her eyes came up from the cocktail menu to meet his. “Especially the Azores.”

  “Well at least one of our passengers enjoyed the delay.” Richard fingered a gold cuff on his Armani suit.

  “Richard, can you tell us what this Sao Paulo business is all about?” Anne asked into the silence.

  Either Anne couldn’t sense tone or she was playing good cop bad cop.

  Richard seemed to be at a loss for a moment, glancing at Rachel for guidance, before quickly rallying. “It was a gross over-reaction by Brazilian authorities to what amounted to a series of misunderstandings,” he said, repeating what sounded like a rehearsed PR deflection.

  Judging by the smirk on Geneva’s face, that’s just what it was.

  “That’s a platitude, you’ve used many words to say nothing,” she said.

  Aaron wanted to know what the misunderstanding had been, but when he tried to ask, no sound came. For what felt like five seconds, but was probably only two, his face froze, all four of the muscles used to control his jawbone and all eight controlling his tongue rebelling.

  Richard watched, his thin legs crossed and one hand resting against his thigh like an unclenched claw, an indulgent smile on his face.

  “Slow down, ju
st relax,” he said with an infuriating emphasis. “Your speech has improved remarkably, Aaron,” he added into the silence. “It’s just as well you sent him for those speech classes all those years ago, Rachel. Are you still taking them?” he turned back to Aaron.

  “Nothing wrong with ‘is speech,” said Anne. “Our John ‘ad a stutter, hardly noticed it.”

  “I do love this room,” said Rachel. “It’s my favourite on-board.”

  “Yes, also the most expensive public room aboard,” said Richard. “That lamp alone,” he gestured to one of several of the strategically located light fittings. “Cost four hundred dollars. U.S.”

  He added the ‘U.S’ with a knowing nod as though it meant something, lest anyone should think he meant the Zimbabwean Dollar.

  “Beautiful people must have beautiful surroundings,” said Rachel.

  “Rachel, how I do love you,” he sighed. “Only Rachel would spend more on interior decorations than the cost of the ship itself. It was purchased at scrap metal value.”

  “And thoroughly refitted,” Rachel added, speaking to Geneva. “Another whiskey for Mr. Wagner,” she told a passing waitress.

  “Except her engines,” said Geneva.

  Rachel laughed loudly.

  “Oh, she’s one hundred percent seaworthy and safe,” she insisted. “What happened in the Azores was a one off, I assure you. We’ve never had engine trouble before.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Richard slowly checked the time on a silver watch, leaning back in his chair as the ship lunged into a trough. “Last week was the first time in fifteen years we’ve had any engine trouble.”

  “We run a tight fleet of ships…” said Rachel.

  “So much so in fact, that we’ve had strong interest in a buy-out from a much larger cruise line,” Richard cut in.

  “Oh?” Geneva’s head titled back to Richard, her body leaning closer and her eyes fixed on his. “Would you be prepared to say whom?”

  “No, but we have reason to believe someone is trying to prevent it.”

  “The engine trouble in the Azores, you mean?”

  “This has been lovely, my darlings,” Rachel said, standing quickly. “Richard, I’m going to my suite.”

  Aaron had seen Rachel’s suite once since Southampton. It was more of an office, with nothing to suggest she slept there, apart from a bed covered in carefully arranged documents.

  Her tone made it clear he should follow, but as Richard rose, simpering, it seemed this was the outcome he’d wanted. Aaron watched them cross the lounge, their path intercepted by a waitress with a yellow post it note.

  “Where’s Chantal?” he heard Richard ask the waitress.

  “Was that a spark I saw between you and the COO?” Anne winked at Geneva, who recoiled.

  “I’d rather get a nipple pierced, Anne. I just wanted the scoop.”

  Rachel glanced at the note and hurried back to their table.

  “Geneva, would you like to join me on the bridge?” she asked. “I may have a story for you.”

  Only the slightest movement of Geneva’s eyebrows betrayed any sign of interest or excitement as she stood. Rachel had said she needed Aaron tonight because Geneva was ‘out to get her’, and yet here she was taking her up to the nerve centre of the ship.

  “So why are you on the cruise?” Sarah asked Aaron, forcing his eyes up from the table.

  He gestured in the general direction in which Rachel and Geneva had strode importantly away. “To reconnect…” he tried to say, but got stuck on the W again.

  “…with your mother?” Sarah finished for him and then flailed in embarrassment, her hand hitting his knee. “I’m so sorry, I know you’re not meant to do that. Apparently it’s rude to finish sentences like that with people that uh…”

  “Stammer. It’s okay,” Aaron grinned, managing to get the words out easily.

  “He was out of order,” Anne observed, nodding in the same direction. “Next time he talks to you like that, duck,” she raised her clenched fist.

  Aaron meant to reply, thank her, or at least smile, but his attention was caught by the lounge band coming back from their break. A woman looked shyly into the audience with a self-consciousness at odds with her voice and every waiter and waitress seemed to stop what they were doing and watch. As she began to sing, her voice deep and haunting, a murmur swept through the room. Her voice had a raspy edge to it on the high notes that Aaron found unexpectedly appealing. She was no Paloma Faith, but she was singing her song with a sadness that felt personal.

  Her pale dress shimmered in the intruding lights of the small stage as she moved, one hand gripping the microphone stand, the other against her heaving chest. Her dark hair, falling in ringlets against the nape of her mocha neck suggested a slight carelessness to the way she’d put her hair up, as though she’d been rushing.

  Half an hour later when she took her next break, Aaron found himself at the bar at the same time as her. He glanced sideways. She was like a younger Lea Salonga, but frowning, lost in thought. She seemed suddenly unapproachable.

  Aaron wondered where she was from.

  Incidentally, this was the first question he blurted out. Quickly. The fact that he said the whole sentence without tripping up once filled him with a sudden burst of effervescent confidence. It was a moment he’d remember.

  “I’m sorry?” she turned toward him, as surprised, apparently, as Aaron was.

  “You have a nice voice,” he said, not wanting to risk ruining it all now, although that was also a risk, Y was a close friend of W, but not as vindictive.

  The singer was genuinely delighted by the compliment. Aaron knew, because she smiled, not with the adept graciousness of one used to receiving such comments, but rather with a flash of her perfect teeth that transformed her face.

  “Thank you.”

  “Aaron,” he put out his hand.

  “Chantal,” she took it in hers. She spoke hesitantly, with the hint of an accent that hadn’t crept into her singing.

  “You sing w-with a British accent.” Aaron wondered if she was also into lingual globetrotting.

  “I’m from the Philippines,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Most of the crew are.”

  “But y-you’re part of the entertainment staff?” It seemed to Aaron that there was a clear demarcation in job roles on the ship, an unofficial Apartheid. Asians cleaned and served, Caucasians entertained and delegated.

  “I wish I was the singer on this ship!” That delighted laugh again. “I’m filling in for Natasha.”

  “W-w-w…”

  The word wouldn’t come, just a horrible sound like a drunken mumble.

  Chantal watched impassively, waiting for him to finish. Each second felt like a minute.

  “Your English is p-perfect,” he said instead, and then wondered if that was patronising. He had thought so whenever it had been said to him, but Chantal took it in her stride.

  “I practice a lot, I don’t want to be a waitress for my life. You have to appear as British or American to get further in this business,” she added, but without resentment, stating it at as a fact not a complaint. “I watch Downton Abbey.”

  “So do I!” said Aaron with more enthusiasm than he’d intended.

  “I don’t understand everything they say, but I like the way they say it,” said Chantal.

  “So w-what would you rather be?” Aaron asked, feeling foolish, like a child. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

  Chantal leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Cruise director,” she said, and then laughed self-consciously at the idea of it.

  “On this ship?” Aaron asked, slipping easily into a British accent. He hoped Chantal wouldn’t notice, it just made talking so much easier if he didn’t have to worry about getting past another block.

  Chantal shook her head. “Different cruise line,” she said quietly. “It’s just a dream anyway. Tomorrow I’ll be serving here again, and the day after that….”

  “There’s no reason you can’t be the cruise director on this ship, if that’s what you want to do,” said Aaron.

  He’d speak to Rachel, ask her to help, but Chantal nodded seriously, her earrings catching the light and brushing against her neck.