Remember Why You Fear Me (60 page)

There was such a listlessness to it all that Roger felt he could have carried out his little ceremony right there and then and no one would have noticed. But he felt self-conscious, this was a private thing of his own, he wanted neither witnesses nor as backdrop music a karaoke version of the Macarena. He went back to doze in his stateroom, and was woken by a knock on the door.

“I’m sorry, sorry,” grinned Jesus. “I’ll come back later.”

“That’s all right,” said Roger.

“Are you not going to dinner, sir? The formal dinner. All very nice. Lots of pictures taken, lots of fun.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Are you enjoying your holiday, sir?” asked Jesus. “You got the newsletter I left you? Lots of activities, lots of fun.”

“Oh yes,” said Roger. “I am having fun.”

Jesus didn’t look convinced. “Don’t you worry, sir. Jesus make sure you have fun. You leave to me.” And he closed the door.

Roger opened the safe, took out what he needed, and left the room. He tried to fit it in his jacket pocket, but it caused such a peculiar bulge that he took it out again. It wasn’t as if anybody would look at him anyway—a plain man in slacks carrying a small urn. The deck was dark and deserted; they’d been crowding round the sides the day before, but the passengers had already got bored with the fact they were ploughing through the sea at twenty knots, and were indoors trying to forget it with casinos and dancing and variety entertainment. There was no roll, no sensation of movement, and against the black horizon you couldn’t tell the ship wasn’t standing still. It was only when he peered over the edge of the rails, and looked straight down—far down, a good ten metres—and saw the water being churned around and sucked under and spat out, that he could appreciate how fast they were travelling.

“Do not throw any objects over the edge,” a sign said. “We are committed to protecting the environment. Put rubbish in the litter bins provided.” And more. “Do not throw your cigarette butts or ashes over the side, as wind could blow them on to a lower deck.” Roger had always treated authority with the greatest of respect. Deborah had not, and had made him anxious whenever she broke the speeding limit, or joined the express checkout at the supermarket with more than five items in her trolley. It was in the spirit of Deborah, then, that he decided to flout regulations on her behalf. He stole a look up and down the deck, then took the lid off the urn, and climbed up on the first rung of the protective railing.

“Hello,” he heard. “Roger? It is Roger, isn’t it?”

And he climbed back down again. He didn’t recognize the old woman at first. She was now dressed for the formal dinner. Her hair was up, and she wore a ball gown which sort of twinkled when it caught the light—Roger supposed it must have had little sequins on it or something. She was fully made up, too, and her mouth was now a gash of thin scarlet. She held a cigarette. “You looked as if you were going to jump off,” she said, but amiably enough, without apparent alarm.

“What? Oh good God, no. No.”

“It’s a long way down,” she said.

“It is,” he agreed.

She looked at him hard, and one eye squinted as if to avoid the sunlight. Since it was dark, he wasn’t quite sure why she did that. “Loneliness can be hell,” she said. “Believe me. I know.”

“I’m sure,” he said. “No, really, it’s all right. I was just . . . ” And he vaguely gestured with the urn.

She tapped her cigarette ash over the side. “I don’t really smoke,” she said. “But, you know, it sort of suits the dress.” She tapped again. “My husband smoked. He actually knew how to smoke. I just copied him when I had to.” It was true, she wasn’t even smoking now, not really. Never inhaled, just tapped tapped away. “What is it you do?”

He told her, and she didn’t pretend to be impressed. He liked her for that. Caught in the moonlight, with only the flash of the deck seven disco behind her, she didn’t look nearly so old. “What do you do?” he asked.

“I go on cruises,” she smiled. And she did that squint again. “Do you mind me asking how old you are?”

“Forty-three,” said Roger.

“That’s awfully young,” she said. “Was it recent?” And she didn’t wait for a reply. “So young, I’m so sorry. And there’s been no one since, has there, of course not.” She reached out for the urn, nothing forced, nothing demanding, just a little gesture really. And he didn’t know why, but he gave it to her. She weighed it in her hand, smiled just a little, then gave it back. It didn’t feel quite so important to Roger somehow, seemed lighter in his hands.

They both stood at the railing for a while, watched the night sky and the sea, tracing where one ended and the other began. Not looking at each other, but not uncomfortably, she tapping ash, he clutching his. He felt her hand reach for his hand, and took it, but still didn’t look at her, knew that looking would be wrong, would break something. “It can be hell,” she said at last, and only then did he feel he could face her, and there she was, all scarlet gash and twinkling gown, and he thought her eyes were twinkling too. Tears, maybe? Or something else? She held his gaze for a long time. “What’s your cabin?”

“Um. A636.”

“Yours is closer.” She threw away her cigarette without even a final puff.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” he said.

She shrugged.

They didn’t say a word in the lift. “Aloha!” chirped the elevator at last. Roger ushered her into his room, and carefully shut the door behind them. There was a ‘do not disturb’ sign, but he thought hanging it might look a little crass. He put the urn down on the desk. “It’s not a big room,” he said. “Is yours a big room?”

“Mine’s got a porthole,” she said.

“That’s nice.” He looked around the cabin, as if this were all as new to him as it was to her. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Do you have one?”

He opened the minibar. “No,” he said.

She kissed him on the mouth. That little thin gash of red against his lips, and her tongue poking its way past them. Just as Roger thought he might begin to enjoy it, she stopped. “Thank you,” he said, and then he thought, I’m going to make love to a total stranger, not making love, it won’t be love at all. And he was about to clear all the leaflets off the bed, all the details about the cruise excursions, all the discount vouchers for the jewellery shop. But she didn’t seem to want a bed. Without a word she got on to her knees, and pulled at his trousers.

“Oh,” he said, and his hand moved to help her. A little impatiently she brushed it aside, this was clearly something she wanted to do herself. And she had his fly down, and then his pants, and it was only as she took his penis in her hand it occurred to him what long nails she had, more like talons really, varnished as scarlet as her lipstick (probably the same brand). Ever so sharp, one false move and she could slice his penis open, like a sausage, and all the sausage meat would spill out—he really must take care, he decided, not to make any false moves. And then, to his alarm, that’s exactly what the penis did, it woke up with a lurch, it stiffened and stood to attention so suddenly and Roger felt an absurd urge to tell it to watch out, be careful of those red razors, you could cut yourself! But she was careful, she plucked it gently as if picking out a piece of fruit, and popped it into her mouth.

My God, thought Roger.

Deborah hadn’t ever liked that sort of thing. They’d had sex, of course, lots of times, and she’d even kissed him down as far as his navel, but she’d never ventured south of the equator. “You don’t mind, do you, darling?” she’d asked early on. “But the thought of it, it makes me want to throw up.” His nameless new friend had no such qualms, she was smacking her lips all round it, and he really felt he ought to do something to help, he looked down at her grey hair bobbing away on the end of his dick as if it had just
grown
this elderly woman somehow. He wanted to give something back, even just a show of affection. He ran his hand over her hair, and he saw it wasn’t so much grey as silver streaked, and it felt starchy to the touch. It felt a bit awkward doing that, and since the mouth and tongue were still so busy licking and sucking and nibbling, the rest of the head barely seemed to register it was being patted like a cocker spaniel. He wasn’t sure what to do with the hand now, though, so he gripped the edge of the desk, and his fingers brushed the urn. He didn’t want to think of the urn. Or what was inside it. Or
who
was inside it. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the matter in hand, he thought the best way he could help the old woman now was to come as quickly as possible, he imagined she’d be down there til she suffocated otherwise, slobbering away until her breath gave out, and then there’d be two dead ladies to deal with, that didn’t sit well with him at
all.
So he put all his effort into getting excited, he really tried. The Poseidon Adventure, he thought, that’s what the film was called.

Eventually, of course, she had to give up. As she pulled away, he pretended he’d reached orgasm. “Mmm,” he said, “thank you.” His penis splashed wet but flaccid at his thigh, the erection hadn’t lasted long. “Thank you,” he said again, and gently helped her to her feet. “That was really nice.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Oh yes.” And he smiled at her. The scarlet lipstick hadn’t even smudged for all that effort. He did hope she wouldn’t want to be kissed on the mouth now, considering where it had been. But she didn’t appear to, and accepted the little peck on the forehead as if expecting him to aim nowhere more tender.

“Well now,” he said. “Well. What can I do for you? I mean, I could do the same in return. If you like.”

“Can I have some toothpaste?” she asked. He tried to work out exactly what she wanted him to do to her with it, and then realized. “Of course,” he said, she nodded, and went into the bathroom. She left the door open, and he saw her squeeze some paste on to her finger and use it as a brush. He blushed, and looked away. For some reason this seemed something too intimate, he was embarrassed. But turning around, he found himself looking at the urn, and that was pretty embarrassing too; he could at least lock that away in the safe, and so took the opportunity to do so.

She stepped back into the bedroom, smiled him a minty smile. “That’s better,” she said.

“I’d still like to give you something,” he said.

“You have.” And she kissed him on the cheek, like an aunt, just a little peck—and her mouth was so small it was hard to believe it could have opened so wide. “Late night bingo in the Pirate Lounge,” she explained, and left him.

The first port of call was Vigo. Roger had never heard of Vigo before, but didn’t hold that against it—after all, there were lots of places he hadn’t heard of, it didn’t mean they were rubbish. However, Vigo
was
rubbish. He watched it from the coach, as a tour guide told them of its history: “Our principal export is granite,” she said. “We are very proud of our granite. Out of the window you will see houses, made from Vigo granite.” The way she pronounced ‘granite’ made it seem rich and exotic, and you could almost believe it was, until you looked at the houses in question. In his lap Roger held a Spanish phrasebook, which he wouldn’t need, and the urn, which he wouldn’t need either. He had wondered whether Vigo might be a good resting place for Deborah, but really, she deserved rather better.

At one rest stop the tour coach parked by three enormous anchors mounted on a plinth. Roger supposed they must have some historical significance, but the guide was only interested in pointing out where the nearest toilets were. Deborah would have known, she’d have studied all the travel books before they’d set out, she’d have told him—and for a moment he felt a yearning for her so strong that it almost left him winded. And he knew, with some guilt, that he wouldn’t have much
wanted
her to explain the history of the anchors, or of Vigo, or of Spain in general, that he’d probably have snapped at her, and she’d have sulked—but at least it would have been some human contact. And then they’d have got back on the coach, and Deborah would have perked up at some new sight she could talk about—a lump of granite, maybe—and all would have been well. He looked around him. Some of his fellow passengers were taking photographs of the anchors; some others, photos of the toilets. He’d rather hoped that his new friend might be here, but there were many tour coaches, she must have caught another.

As the rest stop drew to a close, and Roger took his seat once more, he saw another tour coach pull up. Another guide opened the doors, another set of passengers got off—and there she was amongst them all. He got to his feet, squeezed his way to the exit past those still getting on. “We’re ready to leave, sir,” said the guide. But there was no greater urgency in her voice than when she’d been discussing the mercantile strength of Spain, so he ignored her.

He hurried up to the old woman. Although she didn’t look
old
as such, that wasn’t fair. She looked
mature
, that was it. Her face was rather elegantly framed by a wide sun hat. “Hello!” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

“How are you?” he asked stupidly. “How was the bingo?” he asked, even more stupidly. The coach honked its horn. “I like your hat.”