Ghost Writer(42)

There was a pause and then a whispered, “I love you too, Mum.”

I gave the handset back to Sloan.

Sloan dug into a pocket and handed me a tissue. “Don't worry, it's clean.”





Chapter Twenty-One ~ Descent



I didn't feel like being social at dinner, so when the captain sent his compliments, I sent my regrets. Instead, Briseau brought me soup and toast. She sat with me while I ate, fussed over me a little, then let me rest.

I pulled out Minton's journal. His downward spiral made my problems seem tame.

I'm afraid for my life. Boreman has tried threatening, cajoling, even bribing me. I stand firm, but he scares me. I wish I could hide my feelings like Mitch does. He took my report and Boreman's letter very calmly. He agreed that there was no place for Boreman's kind in the Navy, then reminded me that our mission was secret and we would have to live with Boreman until our relief arrives. I find myself counting down the days.

“Did Boreman kill you?”

Minton's ghost shook his head.

“Did he attack you?”

He shook his head again.

“Someone else was the killer.”

He nodded.

Boreman avoids me. That is fine with me. I am worried for Golanger's sake. The young man seems to look at Boreman with something like hero-worship. I know that it is the womanizing, stock-car driving image that Golanger admires, but what if Boreman is seducing him? I must be vigilant.

Okay, so Boreman was gay. Golanger probably would have had a fit if he'd known his macho hero preferred men over women or maybe he knew and was good with it. In either case, Minton must have worried them both with his spying.

I have been watching them play poker. It gives me a sick headache to be around the smell of smoke and alcohol. I think that is when Boreman is most likely to try his tricks on Golanger. They always sit together. Though I cannot see, I believe their knees touch.

“Geez, Minton, you were turning into a class-A pervert. Didn't you see that your behaviour must have seemed threatening?”

The ghost's eyes narrowed and he floated purposefully towards me. He oriented himself to my body and drifted into me, like a cold fog in the early morning.

The room shifted. Everything was out of focus. There was a foul stench in the air. It was me. My own body odour was making me nauseous. The metallic smell of the bulkheads made my meagre soup dinner rise up in my throat. I felt the room close in around me. No voice to cry out. Knees folded.

Blindly, I reached for the phone Gravell gave me. I fumbled and caught it on the way down. My thumb found a button. I hoped it was the right one.



The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was me. My sweat. My vomit. I retched.

Someone held my head and a cool cloth wiped my face. I was in the recovery position. It felt like I was still on the deck, but I was still too out of it to be sure.

“I've got most of the vomit collected. That should help.” That was Briseau's voice.

If she was collecting it, not just cleaning it up, she must suspect food poisoning. Little did she know I had just been assaulted by a ghost. If I had my way, she'd never know.

The cool cloth stroked my forehead, paused over my temple, and smoothed away the sticky heat on my cheeks. There was a pause then, refreshed, the cloth returned to cool the back of my neck.

“The doctor is here, Chief.”

I opened my eyes.

“Bonjour, Chief Gravell,” I whispered.

“Bonjour, Madame Kirby. Do you think you can get up?”

I heard the now familiar sound of Doc grumping. “I'll tell her when she can get up.” He knelt beside me. “Can you get up?”

With help from Gravell and Doc I sat. When it was clear I could handle that position, they helped me stand.

“I really need a shower,” I said. “I don't think I can stand to smell myself any longer.”

“You're no bed of roses, that's for sure. First I'm going to check your blood pressure and temperature.”

He checked blood pressure, O2 saturation, temperature, blood glucose level, and he took a vial of blood to check who knows what else. Finally he let Briseau take me to the shower. When I got out, Gravell was gone and Doc was all for sending me to bed.

“I'd really like to go out on deck. I know the way. I won't wander. Besides, I think it was claustrophobia, not food poisoning that got to me.”

Doc hesitated, then nodded. “Go ahead. Gravell said you'd want to go. He's probably waiting for you.” He nodded towards the hooks on the wall. “Put a jacket on.”

I did as I was told. I tucked Minton's journal into a pocket and gave my thanks to Doc and Briseau on the way out.

Gravell wasn't waiting outside sick bay. I had mixed feelings about that. For what I had to do next, it was probably just as well. I was still angry about the phone calls, but I also felt safer knowing he was there. Besides, I was still feeling a bit weak. A strong arm to lean on would have helped. Maybe the gangway wouldn't seem so long, the steps so steep.

The bulkheads were closing in on me again. The metallic smell was assaulting my nostrils. Reaching the stairs was a great relief. I had something to hold onto, and I had a goal. No step was too steep, no wall too close, to keep me from my destination.

Finally I reached the side. The air around me was cold and still as the grave. It smelled stale, damp, and metallic, like the galley. I could taste salt and blood in the air. Holding tightly to a post with one hand, I reached into my pocket with the other and pulled out the journal. I held it over the sea, poised.