He Said/She Said(45)

The nightmare wakes me but the vivid little film takes a full minute to dissipate. I cradle my belly and roll on to one side, eyes wide. A streetlamp throws grubby London light through the slats in the blinds and the bedside clock tells me it’s 3.59 a.m., about the same time I woke up yesterday. I heave onto all fours and reach for Kit’s pillow, focusing on the cool cotton under my palms. But the mental picture is burned into me, like a retina scarred from staring at the sun. I text him.



Are you awake?



What I mean is, are you alive?

I regret it as soon as I’ve done it. It’s one thing to be a nervous, controlling shrew (my words, not his – although he must think it) around the house, but to nag him across timezones is inexcusable. I’m losing my grip again. When he doesn’t answer within sixty seconds, my heartbeat becomes audible. One of the babies turns a somersault inside me, creating the horrible sensation of a rollercoaster’s plummet and, just like that, I’m in freefall. When anxiety wins, the mad part of me peels away from the rational one. My capable self is standing on a distant shore, watching in horror as I flail in rushing currents of my own making. That’s how it feels now, as I call Kit’s phone. It goes straight to voicemail three times in a row. A new image comes to me; Kit leaning over the ship’s railings, caught unawares as Beth first knocks his phone overboard and then flexes her hands to push . . .

Next thing I know, I’m shivering in my dressing gown and Uggs in my dark living room, my bump resting on my crossed legs. When I fire up the iPad my face is reflected in its surface for a second, a hollow-eyed ghoul with long white hair and concave cheeks. Night dissolves the day’s discipline and the double oo of the Google logo returns my unblinking stare.

Thought blurs into action. I’ll call the ship itself, ask the staff to check Kit’s cabin, or maybe, in case that seems mad (ha!), I could just ask whether everyone on board the Princess Celeste is accounted for. But the only number I can find is for the tour operator, and it turns out they’re not answering their phone at five minutes past four in the morning.

I look for faroes eclipse stabbed tourist crazed woman dies killed christopher mccall beth taylor princess celeste north sea on all the newswires: Press Assocation, Reuters, BBC, Sky News; surely, if something’s happened, they will have it covered between them. Momentary peace when my search draws a blank is immediately surpassed by the prospect that something terrible has happened, it just hasn’t been reported yet.

I run the same words through Google just in case. Stop it, says my rational mind. You’re making yourself ill. You’re flooding your babies with stress hormones. The dominant part of my brain sticks two fingers up in response, and I hit return. This time the internet sends me to YouTube and instinctively I watch through my fingers, like a child. I can tell even through the filter of my hands that none of this handful of clips is the video. The footage is amateur but it’s recent. One is from this afternoon, a ten-minute film of the sun setting over the North Sea. Tentatively, I click. There’s no music, just a little film someone’s made of the sinking sun. I watch the whole thing, focusing on nothing but the shimmering of bronze light on silver water. Wave by wave and breath by breath, I slowly return to calm. Repeatedly calling Kit’s phone now seems at best embarrassing, at worst dangerous. He’ll assume that there’s been a medical emergency. I pick my phone back up.



Sorry ignore me I’m fine just had a bad dream. Babies etc all good.



When the sunset video ends, the queue of videos in the sidebar shifts. I’m braced for a freezeframe from the video inching its way up the screen, but it seems I’m safe. These films are posted by scientists, not hedonists. Eclipse chasers who post online tend to divide into two tribes: the serious amateur astronomers Kit’s with now, and the new-age rave contingent. The former hugely outnumber the latter, so if you wanted to access the video you’d probably need to include the word festival in the search.

There’s only one more clip with Princess Celeste in the caption.



Eclipse-chasing cruise. Drunk guy rapping on the Princess Celeste HILARIOUS.



The clock in the corner of the screen tells me it’s twenty minutes past four. I can tell that sleep is hours away. I could do with a bit of light relief. I highlight the video and click play.





Chapter 23





LAURA

16 May 2000

Our walk-up on Clapham Common Southside was on the fourth storey, with a little balcony overlooking the green. In winter, bare branches left visible the mansions on the north side, but in summer the world beyond stopped at the nearest treetops. To get to our flat, we had to climb eighty-five stairs that zig-zagged tightly between windowless landings. The other three flats were accessed via the back alleyway, so once the street door was closed, we were home. There were no neighbours to tidy the stairs for; nothing to stop us nipping down to pick up the post with no clothes on. We used to joke about getting a fireman’s pole installed to shave seconds off the morning commute, a ritual we still spoke of with the self-conscious, self-important tones of the very young and newly professional. The wallpaper in the stairwell was ancient and peeling, here and there flaking back so that you could see a layer of vivid green paint that Kit said was probably Victorian, contaminated with arsenic. I thought he was joking until I threatened to lick it once and he pulled me back in panic.