Ghost Writer(10)

“I like to think he got his adventure. I hope it was worthwhile. I don't want to find out something mundane and stupid killed him.”

Niles Golanger was the only child of Betty and Bert. When first contacted by Reuben and Lil, they were convinced that their son was still alive. Both had since passed away.

Golanger's photo showed a man, evidently in his mid-twenties, who could have passed for a recruit. His boyish face was smooth, his eyes wide and curious, his mouth curled in a smile of mischievous good humour. He brought to mind what my son might look like in a decade.

I shivered and closed my eyes.

Seamus was eleven years old. Next year he planned to join Air Cadets. In six years, if he so chose and I gave permission, he could join the Reserves. In seven he could join the Canadian Armed Forces. We had talked about it. He didn't like the idea of going to war, but he did want to help people in emergency or disaster situations. Since he also liked aircraft, he thought he'd like to pilot a search and rescue helicopter. Air Force training was one path to that goal. I respected his ambitions but, as a mother, I hoped this was just a phase and he’d settle on a safer career.

A warm blanket was dropped around my shoulders. I looked for the source and found Gravell.

He wasn't smiling. “You're going to catch pneumonia. You're probably soaked to the bone now.”

I supposed I was. I hadn't noticed. As my son would be the first to point out, when I get caught up in a project, or even my own thoughts, I am oblivious.

“You can't catch pneumonia in the rain, it takes a virus or bacteria,” I pointed out, pulling the blanket around me regardless because I was feeling chilled.

“How much Gravol are you taking?”

I told him.

“Double it.”

“I'll fall asleep.”

“Then sleep. You won't be the only one in your party who's taking this squall lying down.”

“But I like it up here. It's cold and wet, but with the air moving I feel okay. Down below, I feel dizzy and nauseous, and I feel like I can't breathe properly.” I was whining so I suppose I deserved his impatience.

“I can't babysit you right now.”

I flushed with embarrassment and anger. I wanted to argue. Then I remembered. He wasn't just a nice man who had been looking out for me, he was the First Mate.

Suck it up, Kirby, I told myself. “Aye-aye, Chief. I will do my best to cope with my deficiencies without endangering my health or disrupting your duties.”

Okay, there was a slight edge to my voice. No one likes to find out they are being too much trouble.

“My other duties,” he said, correcting me.

Once he ushered me inside, he stopped, took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him.

“One of my duties is to make sure our passengers are taken care of. In your case, it isn't an onerous duty. It just can't be my priority right now.”

I sighed. “Understood.”

He gave my shoulders a squeeze, turned me around again and nudged me off towards my cabin. I was cold and wet and suddenly very tired. Maybe a hot shower and a day in bed might just be the sensible choice. I even popped another anti-nausea pill. Soon I was warm, reasonably comfortable, and asleep.



I am on a bunk, but it isn't the cabin I share with Dora. This is a larger room with four sets of bunks and lockers.

I get up and look around. There are family photos and cheesy pinups on the walls. One bunk has a tea cloth-sized crazy-quilt on it. Another has a tiny teddy bear on the pillow. I try to look at the photos, but I can't quite focus. That's when I realize I am dreaming.

This is the common sleeping area for the station. I know it from the plans. Arctic Station Alpha was the core of what was supposed to become a large underwater base. Like the astronauts that were making history at the time, the submariners shared common living quarters, regardless of rank or position. Eventually there would be cabins and maybe laboratories for visiting scientists, but for now it is a bare-bones military outpost.

One bunk seems devoid of human touches. The bed is made with military precision. I bet I could bounce a quarter on it. But there are no pictures on the adjoining wall. No personal touch on the bed.

Whose bunk is it? Perhaps I could work it out by process of elimination. I started to look around again. There is blood everywhere. Someone is retching.



I woke.

Dora was throwing up in the waste basket. Thank heaven it was lined.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I shouldn't have had that verdammt dessert.”

“Don't tell me about it! My stomach is having enough problems as it is.”

It was seven o'clock. I had slept through lunch and dinner. Now I dosed Dora up with Gravol and tucked her into bed. I tied up the bag and left her with a fresh-lined can, just in case. As quietly as I could, I brushed my teeth, dressed, and gathered up my tablet and shoulder bag. The garbage had to go, and I didn't want to return until the fan had cycled the last of the acrid smell.

The sea was much calmer and it had stopped raining. After taking care of my disposal problem, I decided I was hungry and went to try my luck in the galley. Some of the crew were still dining and made me welcome. I got to practice my French while enjoying the meal despite myself.

Later, I stood at the rail looking out to sea for the pleasure of it. We were far enough north now that night was just a short period of twilight between sunset and sunrise. After the storm, the sky seemed to hang like a sheer drapes across an evening window. Through the mist I saw the ghostly shape of a ship.