فصل 20

20

The boredom of weeks at sea has to be experienced to be fully understood and the frustrations of such an existence were to many, in the long run, infinitely more damaging to the mind than the potential hazards of being blown up by the enemy . . . when we were not fighting the enemy, we were fighting amongst ourselves.

L. Troman, Wine, Women and War

Two days to Plymouth

In the absence of horses and a track, or of trainee pilots who could be guaranteed to end up in the soup occasionally, it should perhaps have been of little surprise that such fierce betting lay on the immaculately coiffed heads of the Queen of the Victoria contestants. It was possible that Mrs Ivy Tuttle and Mrs Jeanette Latham might have been a little demoralised to know that they were joint forty to one against or, indeed, that knowing she was five to two on might have put a swagger into Irene Carters already undulating step. But for days now it had been common knowledge that the real favourite, with a good proportion of the ships company putting a shilling or more on her blonde tresses, was Avice Radley.

Foster says theres some fairsized punts on her, yelled Plummer, the junior stoker.

Theres some fairsized somethings, roared the departing watch.

He reckons if she comes in first hes going to have to pay out half the money he won on the geegees at Bombay.

Within hours they would have entered the cool, choppy waters of the Bay of Biscay, but more than a hundred feet below the flight deck, down in the engine pit, the temperatures were still at a shirtdrenching hundred or so degrees. Tims, naked to the waist, swung the polished wheels that sent the steam into the engines turbines while Plummer, who had been oiling the main engine, felt round the bearings for overheating, occasionally swearing as his skin met scalding metal.

Between them, the bridge telegraph dial relayed the orders from above to put the engines over to make smoke or full speed in an effort to get through the rough as soon as possible, and around them, above the incessant grinding and roaring of the engine, the tired old ship creaked and groaned in protest. Steam persisted in escaping through valves in little belches of effort the rags that tried to quell them were damp and sodden with scalding water. In these emissions, the Victoria insisted on showing her age her many dials and gauges looked out at them with the blank insouciance of a bloodyminded old woman.

Plummer finished tightening a bolt, secured his spanner in its wallmounting, then turned to Tims. You not had a few bob on one of them, then?

What? Tims glowered.

He was a meanlooking man in a bad mood, but Plummer, who was used to him, rattled on The contest tonight. The noise of the engine was such that he used gesture to convey added meaning to his words. Theres a lot of money riding on it.

Load of rubbish, said Tims, dismissively.

Like to see them all lined up in their little swimsuits, though, eh? He drew curves in the air, and pulled a lascivious face. It sat almost comically on his adolescent features. Get you in the mood for the missus.

This seemed to make Tims more badtempered. He wiped his shining forehead with a filthy rag, then reached down for a wrench. The choppier waters sent tools thumping and clanging across the floor, a hazard to shins and toes. Dont know what youre getting so excited about, he growled. Youre on duty all night.

Two pounds Ive got on that Radley girl, Plummer said. Two pounds! I got my bet on when she was still three to one against so if she wins Im bloody quids in. If not, Im in the drink. I promised my old ma Id pay for us all to go to Scarborough. But Im an optimist by nature, see? I reckon I cant lose.

He was lost in appreciation of some imagined scene upstairs. Looked bloody fantastic in her swimsuit for the Miss Lovely Legs, that girl. Great pair of pins on her. Dyou think its something they give them in Australia? Ive heard half the girls back home have got rickets.

Tims, apparently oblivious, was staring at his watch.

Plummer rambled on All the officers get to see it, you know. Hows that fair, eh? Two more nights on board, and all the officers get to see the girls in their swimsuits and were stuck down here in bloody centre engine. You know the marines are switching shifts at nine so even theyll catch some of it. One rule for one lot, another rule for us. Hardly fair, is it? Now the wars over, they should take a look at all the injustices of the bloody Navy.

Plummer checked a dial, swore, then glanced at Tims, who was staring at the wall. Here, you all right, Tims? Something got on your wick, has it?

Cover me for half an hour, Tims said, turning towards the exit hatch. Something I need to do.

Had he been able to see the opening stages of the Queen of the Victoria contest, young Plummer might have felt less confident about his trip to Scarborough. For Avice Radley, despite being widely considered a shooin for winner, was looking curiously lacklustre. Or in racing terms, as one of the seamen put it, not dissimilar to a threelegged donkey.

Perched on the makeshift stage alongside her fellow contestants, faced by the heaving tables that made up the womens last formal supper, she looked pale and preoccupied, despite the glowing scarlet of the silk dress she wore, and the glossy wheat sheen of her blonde hair. As the other girls giggled and clutched each other, trying to keep their balance in high heels as the ship dipped under them, she stood alone and aside, smile fading, eyes shadowed with some distant concern.

Twice Dr Duxbury, the host for the evenings proceedings, had taken her hand, tried to get her to elaborate on her plans for her new life, to recall her favourite moments of the voyage. She had seemed not to notice him, even when he broke into his third rendition of Waltzing Matilda.

Thatll be the morning sickness kicking in, at least one bride had observed. All motherstobe looked rotten for the first few months. It was only a matter of time. A few, less generous types suggested that perhaps without foundation garments and cosmetics Avice Radley had never been the beauty everyone had taken her for. And when you compared her to the glowing Irene Carter, resplendent in pale peach and blue, apparently heedless of the heaving waters, it was hard to disagree.

Dr Duxbury tailed off to polite, scattered applause. There were only so many times one could applaud the same song, and it was possible the surgeon was too well lubricated to be aware of his audience anyway.

At last he registered the frantically signalling lieutenant commander at the end of the stage and, after several attempts, pointed theatrically at the captain, raising his palms as if to suggest that no one had told him.

Ladies, said Highfield, standing quickly, perhaps before Duxbury could start singing again. He waited as the hangar gradually fell silent. Ladies . . . As you know, this is our last nights entertainment on Victoria. Tomorrow night we will dock at Plymouth, and you will spend the evening organising your belongings and double checking with the womens service officers that you have someone to meet you and somewhere to go. Tomorrow morning I will discuss the arrangements more fully on the flight deck, but for now I just wanted to say a few words.

The women, many of whom were fizzing with nervous anticipation, watched, nudging and whispering to each other. Around the edges, the men stood, their arms behind them, backs to the walls. Ratings, officers, marines, engineers all in dress uniform in honour of the occasion. For some, Highfield realised, it would be the last time they wore it. He glanced down at his own, knowing it would not be long before he would say the same.

I cant – I cant pretend this has been the easiest cargo I have ever had to transport, he said. I cant pretend I even relished the prospect of it – although I know some of the men did. But I can tell you this, as a lifer, as some of us naval folk are known, it has been the most . . . educational.

Now I wont bore you with a lengthy speech about the difficulties of the course you have chosen. Im sure youve had quite enough of that. He nodded towards the welfare officer and heard a polite ripple of laughter. But I will say that you, like all of us, will probably find the next twelve months the most challenging – and hopefully rewarding – of your lives. So what I wanted to tell you is this you are not alone.

He looked around at the hushed, expectant faces. Under the harsh lights of the hangar deck the gilt buttons of his uniform shone.

Those of us who have always served are going to have to find new ways of living. Those of us who have found ourselves profoundly changed by the experience of war will have to find new ways of dealing with those around us. Those who have suffered are going to have to find ways of forgiving. We are returning to a country that is likely to be unfamiliar to us. We, too, may find ourselves strangers in that land. So yes, brides, you face a great challenge. But I want to tell you that it has been both a pleasure and a privilege to be part of your journey. We are proud to claim you as our own. And I hope that when you look back, in happiness, to the early years of your time in Britain, you think of this as not simply the journey to your new life but the start of it.

Few would have noticed that during some of this speech he seemed to be speaking to one woman in particular, that when he had said, You are not alone, his gaze might have rested on her a little longer than on anyone else. But it was irrelevant. There was a brief silence, and then the women clapped, a few calling out until gradually the applause and cheering had ignited the entire room.

Captain Highfield took his seat, having nodded gratefully at the blur of faces. It had not come solely from the women below him, he observed, trying not to smile as much as he wanted. It had come from the men. What did you think? he murmured to the woman beside him, his chest still puffed with pride.

Very nice, Captain.

Not a great one for speeches, generally, he said, but in this case I thought it appropriate.

I dont think anyone here would disagree. Your words were . . . beautifully chosen.

Have the girls stopped staring at you yet? He spoke without looking at her, so that from the other tables it might appear that he was simply thanking the steward for his plate of food.

No, said Frances, taking a forkful of fish. But its quite all right, Captain. She didnt need to add Im used to it.

Captain Highfield glanced at Dobson, two seats down, who was evidently not yet used to it. Having squinted at sea for almost forty years, Highfields sight was not as good as it had been. But even he could discern the words emanating from the XOs downturned mouth, the expression of disapproval on his face. Making a mockery of the ship, he is, he was muttering furiously into his damask napkin. Its as if hes set out to turn us all into a laughingstock.

The lieutenant beside him noticed Highfield staring at them, and coloured.

Highfield felt the ship lift under him as it broke another wave.

Glass of cordial, Sister Mackenzie? You sure you wouldnt like anything stronger? He waited until it had ridden out, then lifted his glass in salute.

It would only be for twenty minutes. The engine was running much better, or at least as well as she was ever going to. It was two whole pounds. And Davy Plummer was buggered if he was going to sit down there by himself in the engine room while every matelot from here to the Radio Direction Finder office watched girls parade in their swimsuits.

Besides, he was leaving the Navy once they got back to Blighty. What were they going to make him do if they found him off duty for once? Make him swim home?

Davy Plummer checked the temperature gauges that needed to be checked, ran a cloth over the more problematic pipes, stubbed out his cigarette underfoot and, with a swift glance behind him, ran two at a time up the steps on to the gangway and towards the exit hatch.

The votes were in and Avice Radley had lost. The judging panel, which comprised Dr Duxbury, two of the womens service officers and the chaplain, all agreed that they had wanted to give the prize to Mrs Radley Dr Duxbury had been particularly impressed by her rendition a week earlier of Shenandoah but felt that, given her extremely lacklustre performance on the final night, her marked disinclination to smile and her frankly perplexing answer to the question, What do you most want to do when you finally get to England? Irene Carter, Make the acquaintance of my motherinlaw Ivy Tuttle, Raise money for the war orphans Avice Radley, I dont know and her immediate disappearance after it, there was only one choice for overall winner.

Irene Carter wore her handsewn sash with the cooing, tearful delight of a new mother. It had been, she announced, the finest trip she had ever undertaken. She felt, frankly, as if she had made at least six hundred new friends. And she hoped they would all find the happiness in England she was sure they deserved. She couldnt begin to thank the crew enough for their kindness, their efficiency. She was sure the whole room would agree that the captains words had been a real inspiration. It was when she started thanking her former neighbours in Sydney by name that Captain Highfield intervened and announced that if the officers and men would like to clear the tables to the sides of the room, the Royal Marines Band would provide music for a little dancing. Dancing! chirruped Dr Duxbury, and several women moved swiftly away from him.

Davy Plummer, standing near the back of the bandstand, glanced in disgust at the handwritten betting slip Foster had given him not two days earlier, screwed it up and thrust it deep into the pocket of his overall. Bloody women. For all those fancy odds, that one couldnt have looked any worse with a paper bag over her head. He was about to return to the engine room when he saw two brides standing in the corner. They whispered something behind their hands.

Never seen a working man before? he said, holding out the sides of his overalls.

We were wondering if you were going to dance, said the smaller, blonder girl, but whether you could do it without getting us all oily.

Ladies, you have no idea what a stoker can do with his hands. Davy Plummer stepped forward, his betting slip forgotten.

He was, after all, an optimist by nature.

The crowning ceremony was due at a quarter to ten. That gave Frances almost fifteen minutes to nip along the passageway and pick up the photographs of the Australian General Hospital that Captain Highfield had asked to view. Her photograph album was in her trunk down in the hold but she always kept a few of her favourite snaps – the first ward tent, the dance in Port Moresby, Alfred, in a book by her bed. She ran lightly along the corridor that led from the hangar to the dormitories, occasionally touching the wall to keep her balance.

Then she stopped.

He was standing outside the dormitory, removing a cigarette from a soft packet. He put it into his mouth, glanced sideways at her. The way in which he did this told her that her appearance was no surprise to him.

She had not seen him since he had arrived on the gun turret with Tims. She had had to fight the suspicion that he had avoided her since then, had several times considered asking the younger marine why he had taken over the night watch.

She had pictured him so many times, had taken one side in so many silent conversations, that to see him in the flesh was overwhelming. Even as her feet took her towards him she felt her own reticence return and brushed vaguely at her skirt.

She paused at the door, unsure whether to step inside. He was in his dress uniform, and she was overcome by a flash memory of the night they had danced, in which she had been held against that dark cloth. Want one? he said, holding the packet towards her.

She took one. He held the flame towards her so that she didnt have to bend to him as it lit. She found, as she ducked, that she could not take her eyes off his hands.

I saw you at the captains table, he said eventually.

I didnt see you. She had looked. Several times.

Wasnt meant to be there.

His voice sounded strange. She drew on her cigarette, conscious that however she stood she felt awkward.

Quite unusual for him to invite one of the women to join him.

The temperature of her blood dropped a couple of degrees. I wouldnt know, she said carefully.

I dont believe hes done it once this trip.

Is there something you want to say?

He looked blank.

She forgot her previous awkwardness. Surely what youre asking is why I, of all people, was seated at the captains table?

He set his jaw. For the briefest moment, she could see how he might have looked as a child. I was just . . . curious. I came to see you the other afternoon. And then I saw you . . . outside the captains—

Ah. Now I see. You werent asking, just implying.

I didnt mean—

So youve come to question me over the standard of my conduct?

No, I—

Oh, what will you do, Marine? Report the captain? Or just the whore?

The word silenced them both. She chewed her lip. He stood alongside her, his shoulders still squared as if he were on duty.

Why are you talking like this? he asked quietly.

Because Im tired, Marine. Im tired of having every single one of my actions judged by ignorant people who then find me wanting.

I didnt judge you.

The hell you didnt. She was suddenly furious. I cant be bothered to explain myself any more. I cant be bothered to try to improve anyones opinion of me if they cant be bothered to see—

Frances—

Youre as bad as the rest of them. I thought you were different. I thought you understood something about me, understood what I was made of. God knows why! God knows why I chose to invest you with feelings you were never capable of—

Frances—

What?

Im sorry about what I said. I just saw you . . . and . . . Im sorry. Really. Things have happened that have made me . . . He tailed off. Look, I came to see you because I wanted you to know something. I did things in the war . . . that Im not proud of. I havent always behaved in a way that people – people who dont know the full circumstances – might consider to be admirable. Theres none of us – not even your husband probably – who can say they did.

She stared at him.

Thats all I wanted to tell you, he said.

Her head hurt. She put out a hand to the wall, feeling the floor rise and fall under her feet. I think youd better go, she said quietly. She could not look at him. But she could feel his eyes on her. Goodnight, Marine, she said, emphatically.

She waited until she heard his footsteps walking smartly back towards the hangar area. The rocking of the ships floor made no difference to their rhythm and she listened to them, metronomic, until the sound of a hatch door closing told her he had gone.

Then she closed her eyes, very tightly.

In the centre engine room, somewhere below the hangar deck, the numbertwo oil spray, the highpressure feed pump that transferred fuel to the boiler, succumbed to what might have been age, stress, or perhaps the bloodymindedness of a ship that knows she is about to be decommissioned and, split. A tiny fault line, perhaps less than two centimetres long, which allowed the pressurised fuel to bubble out, dark and seething, like spittle in the corner of a drunks mouth. And then to atomise.

It is impossible to see the hot spots in a ships engine, the places where small areas of metal, weakened by fractures or the strain on its joints, reach terrible internal temperatures. If they cannot be detected by the many gauges around the engine room, or by the treacherous act of feeling for them through rags, one discovers them by chance – conclusively when fuel leaks on to them.

Unseen and unheard by the humans who relied upon it, the Victorias centre engine hammered energetically forward, unseen, too red, too hot. The fuel hung briefly in the air in tiny, unseen droplets. Then the exhaust duct, inches from the cracked fuel pipe, glinted, like malice in a devilish eye, ignited and, with a sudden whumph! took its chance.

Fool. Bloody fool. Nicol slowed outside the oilskin store. One more night until she left for good, one more in which he could have told her a little of what she meant to him, and instead he had acted like a pompous fool. A jealous adolescent. And in doing so he had shown himself to be no better than any of the other judgemental fools on this leaking old ship. He could have said a thousand things to her, smiled at her, shown her a little understanding. She would have known then. If nothing else, she would have known. As bad as the rest of them, she had told him. The worst of what he had always suspected of himself.

Blast it, he said, and slammed his fist into the wall.

Something bothering you, Marine?

Tims was blocking the passageway, overalls thick with oil and grease, something more inflammatory illuminating his expression. Whats the matter? he said softly. Run out of people to discipline?

Nicol glanced at his bleeding knuckles. Get on with your work, Tims. Bile rose in him.

Get on with your work? Who dyou think you are? Commander?

Nicol glanced behind him at the empty corridor. No one was visible on G Deck those not on duty were all in the hangar area, enjoying the dance. He wondered, briefly, how long Tims had been standing there.

Your ladyfriend bothering you, is she? Not giving it up, like you thought?

Nicol took a deep breath. He lit a cigarette, extinguished the match between finger and thumb and thrust it into his pocket.

Got an itch you cant scratch?

You might think youre a big man on this ship, Tims, but in a couple of days time youll just be another unemployed matelot like the rest of them. A nothing. He tried to keep his voice calm, but he could still hear in it the vibration of barely suppressed rage.

Tims stood back on his heels, crossed his huge forearms across his chest. Perhaps youre not her type. He lifted his chin, as if a thought had occurred to him. Oh, sorry, I forgot. Everyones her type, provided theyve got two bob . . .

The first punch Tims seemed to expect and ducked away. The second was blocked by the stokers own blinding upper cut. It caught Nicol unawares, exploding under his chin so that he crashed backwards into the wall.

Think your little whore will still find you pretty now, Marine? The words came at him like another blow, cutting through the sound of the engines, the distant hum of the band, the disconsolate clank of the lashings swinging against the side. The blood in his ears. Perhaps she just didnt think you were man enough for her, with your prissy uniforms, always following orders.

He felt the stokers breath on his skin, could smell the oil on him. Did she tell you how she likes it, did she? Did she tell you she liked to feel my hands on them titties, liked to—

With a roar, Nicol threw himself at Tims and brought them both crashing down. He pummelled blindly at the flesh before him, not even sure what his fists were connecting with. He felt the man wrench his body underneath him, saw the great fist come round as it caught him again. But he could not stop now, even if he felt himself in danger. He hardly felt the blows that rained down upon him. A blood mist had descended, and all the anger of the past six weeks, of the past six years, forced their way out of him through his fists and his strength, and curses flew through his clenched teeth. Something similar – perhaps his humiliation in front of a woman, perhaps the inequities of twenty years service – seemed to provide the motor for Timss own assault, so that in their welter of blood and blows and punches neither man registered the siren, despite the proximity of the Tannoy above their heads.

Fire! Fire! Fire! came the urgent, piped instruction. Standing Sea Emergency Party, close up at Section Base Two. All marines to the boat deck.

The Queen of the Victoria contestants were being led from the stage, their polished smiles vanished from their faces, Irene Carter clutching her winners sash round her like a lifejacket. Margaret glimpsed them briefly as, wedged in the sea of bodies, she found herself moving towards the door. Behind them, the tables stood abandoned, apple charlotte and fruit salad on the plates, glasses half empty. Around her, the womens voices had risen in nervous excitement, swelling to a little crescendo of fear with every new piped instruction. She held one hand protectively across her belly and made her way towards the starboard side exit. It was like fighting against a particularly strong current.

A voice shouted from somewhere ahead, Quickly, ladies, please. Those with surnames N to Z gather at Muster Station B, all others to Muster Station A. Just keep moving now.

Margaret had made her way to the edge of the crowd when the womens service officer caught her arm.

This way, madam. She held out her arms, pointing forward, a physical barrier to the starboard exit.

I have to pop downstairs. Margaret cursed under her breath as someone elbowed her in the back.

Nobody is allowed downstairs. Muster stations only.

Margaret felt the crush of bodies pushing past her, smelt the mingling of several hundred brands of scent and setting lotion. Look, its very important. I have to fetch something.

The woman looked at her as if she was a fool. There is a fire on board, she said. There is absolutely no going downstairs. Captains orders.

Margarets voice rose, a mixture of anxiety and frustration. You dont understand! I have to go there! I have to make sure – I have to look after my – my—

Perhaps the WSO was more anxious than she wanted to let on. Her temper flared right back. She blew her whistle, trying to steer someone to the right, then pulled it from her pursed lips and hissed, Dont you think everyone has something they want to keep by them? Can you imagine the chaos if we let everyone start digging around for photograph albums or pieces of jewellery? Its a fire. For all we know it could have started in the womens cabins. Now, please move on or Ill have to get someone to move you.

Two marines were already locking the exit hatch. Margaret gazed around her, trying to locate another way down, and then, her chest tight, moved forwards in the crush.

Avice. Frances stood in the doorway of the silent dormitory, staring at the motionless form on the bunk in front of her. Avice? Can you hear me?

There was no response. For a minute, Frances had thought this was because Avice, like most of the brides, now declined to speak to her. She would not normally have persisted. But something, perhaps in the pale set of the other womans face, the dazed look in her eyes, made her ask again.

Just go away, came the reply. It sounded reduced, at odds with the aggression of the words.

Then the siren had started. Outside, in the gangway, a fire alarm rang, shrill and insistent, followed by the sound of rapid footfalls outside the door.

Attack party close up at fire in centre engine. Location centre engine. All passengers to the muster stations.

Frances glanced behind her, all else forgotten. Avice, thats the alarm. Weve got to go. At first she thought perhaps Avice had not understood what the siren meant. Avice, she said irritably, that means theres a fire on board. Weve got to go.

No.

What?

Im not going.

You cant stay here. I dont think its a drill this time. The sound of the alarm sent adrenaline coursing through Frances. She realised she was waiting for the sound of an explosion. The wars over, she told herself, and forced herself to breathe deeply. Its over. But that didnt explain the panicked sounds outside. What was it? A stray mine? There had been no thump of ammunition, no jarring vibration in the air that told of a direct hit. Avice, weve got to—

No.

Frances stood in the middle of the dormitory, unable to make sense of the girls behaviour. Avice had never been in battle her body would not thrill with fear at the mere sound of a siren. But she must understand. Will you go with Margaret, for Petes sake? Perhaps it was because it was Frances asking her to leave.

Avice lifted her head. It was as if she hadnt heard a thing. Youre okay, she said, her voice hard. Youve got your husband, in spite of everything. Once you get off this ship youre free, youre respectable. Ive got nothing but disgrace and humiliation ahead of me.

The alarm had been joined by a distant Tannoy. Fire! Fire! Fire! Frances was having trouble keeping her thoughts straight.

Avice, I—

Look! Avice was holding out a letter. It was as if she were deaf to the anxious voices, feet running outside. Look at it!

Fear meant that initially Frances could not make sense of the words on the paper in front of her. It had sucked the moisture from her mouth, sent her thoughts tumbling against each other. Every cell was screaming at her to move towards the door, to safety. With Avices eyes on her, she ran her gaze distractedly over the letter again, this time picking out sorry and grasped that she might be in the presence of some personal catastrophe. Sort it out later, she said, gesturing towards the door. Come on, Avice, lets get to the muster station. Think of the baby.

Baby? The baby? Avice stared at Frances as if she were an imbecile, then sank down on her pillow in weary resignation.

Oh, just go, she said. She buried her face in her pillow, leaving Frances to stand dumbly by the door.

It took Nicol several seconds to realise that the arms hauling at him were not Timss. He had been flailing around, fists flying, head moving dully backwards and forwards with each impact, but he was dimly conscious that the last time they had landed on flesh the wail of protest had not been the stokers. He reeled back, eyes stinging as he tried to focus, and gradually, became aware of Tims several feet away, two seamen bent over him.

Emmett was pulling at his jacket with one hand, while the other rubbed his temple. What the hell are you doing, Nicol? Youve got to get upstairs, he was saying. To the muster stations. Got to get the brides into the boats. Jesus Christ, man! Look at the state of you.

It was then that he became aware of the alarm, and was surprised he had not noticed it before. Perhaps the ringing in his ears had drowned it.

Its centre engine, Tims, the young stoker was shouting. Shit, were in trouble.

The fight was forgotten.

What happened? Tims was on his feet now, leaning over the younger man. A long cut ran down his cheek. Nicol, struggling to his feet, wondered whether he had bestowed it.

I dont know.

What have you done? Timss huge, bloodied hand shot out and gripped the boys shoulder.

I – I dont know. I took five minutes to go and see the girls. Then I went back down and the whole bloody passage was filled with smoke.

Did you shut it off? Did you close the hatch?

I dont know – there was too much smoke. I couldnt even get past the bomb room.

Shit! Tims looked at Nicol. Ill head down there.

Anyone else in centre engine?

Tims shook his head, wincing. No. The Artificer had gone off. It was just the damn fool boy. The first wisp of smoke found its way into the mens nostrils, prompting a short, loaded silence.

Its the captain, said Tims. Hes jinxed, that Highfield. Hell do for us all.