The Shipping Forecast

Plymouth, Part 1 the first

Cruise Ship Zeeland, late 1993

Midnight, Bay of Biscay

It was only when the screen-saver started that he realised he'd been staring motionless at the monitor for five minutes - fingers poised over the keyboard - not actually writing anything. He shook his head, closed his eyes and massaged his temples in an attempt to ease the dull ache that resided there. A glance at his watch told him he'd been awake now for over seventeen hours. If he ever got the chance to go to bed, the alarm would be going off soon anyway, waking him for another twelve hour stint. He swore, then glanced behind him to see if the radio operator had heard, but he found he was alone. Probably gone for a smoke, he thought, and immediately wished he hadn't, as his own longing for a lungful of nicotine rose unbidden from within. Six months, and the urge hasn't abated one bit. Damn it.

He could pinpoint exactly when his headache started. Well, not when, exactly, but definitely where. E deck, starboard side, outside cabin 54. Mrs Scribb's abode.

Like a mind reading lamprey, the wizened old bat had thrust open the cabin door just as he was going past and shot out an arm like the sticky tongue of some fly-eating lizard, the clawed appendage grasping his cuff and latching on with a superhuman grip. Only then had he seen his mistake. Too focused on his destination, he'd taken the direct route down the starboard side of E-deck, rather than the safer, but more circuitous port side. Not more than a hundred steps from the shipboard boudoir of Ms Chantelle Saffron-Lee, an American lady of independent means and vaguely disreputable reputation with whom he'd been enjoying a flirtation since before Lisbon. Silently cursing his luck, he'd turned to Mrs Scribb and arranged his face as far as was humanly possible into that of a politely attentive third officer of the Purple Star Line cruise ship Zeeland. "Can I help you, madam?"

Mrs Scribb began, like she had the first time she'd caught him, two nights out from Southampton at the beginning of the voyage, with a diatribe on the state of her cabin.

"Mr Kiln."

"Killin, madam."

"What?"

"My name is Killin, with two 'l's' and two 'i's"

"I know you have two eyes, I can see them there, on your face! Please use them to look at the awful mess that your steward has left." With a rapid tugging, he had been pulled into Mrs Scribb's cabin and, with a sweep of her free arm, invited him to inspect her quarters. Crisp, neat bedding, tidy bedside cabinets and dressing table, neatly folded towels and immaculately clean fittings and fixings had presented themselves to his view. It hardly looked like anyone had used the cabin at all, let alone been living in it for the last three weeks.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Scribb, but what exactly is amiss?"

"What's amiss? What's amiss! Look man! At the windows, they're filthy!"

Killin had stared with barely concealed incredulity at the cabin window, which had a crust of brine on the outside. The window glowed with the diffused light of a deck lamp. "Well, madam, the thing is, we're at sea..."

"Yes, I know that, idiot. I've paid to go on a cruise. Wouldn't be a very good one if the boat never left its garage."

"Berth, madam. The ship left its berth."

"What?"

"Nevermind. I was saying, madam, that we are at sea, and there is a storm rising, and so there is lots of spray from the waves." Killin emphasised each sentence with emphatic gestures. "Some of it sticks to the windows, you see."

"And why can't you clean them?"

Killin considered the futility of explaining how difficult and pointless it would be to put a crew member over the side in the dark and in a rising gale, with the ship rolling through twenty degrees, just to clean windows that would immediately get covered in salty spray once again. "I'll deal with it immediately, Mrs Scribb."

He'd hoped that would satisfy the old biddy and allow him to enjoy his evening, but it was not to be. Mrs Scribb went on to complain about the smell on board, the way the pipes hissed, the rattle that kept her awake at night, and the banging of cabin doors at all hours, "like it was some bawdy harlot's cavorting house!" the last issued in an increasingly loud shriek in the corridor outside cabin 54 where Killin had managed to maneuver himself to, still with Mrs Scribb clutching his sleeve, and in full sight of several passengers staring out of cabin doors and gathering in the companionway. The amused amazement of these numerous onlookers turned to surprised shock when, after issuing this final declaration, Mrs Scribb put her free hand to her head, closed her eyes, gave an almighty sigh, and died.

The computer awaited his input, the report as yet unfinished. "God's my life, what a day," he said to himself, and began hammering away at the keys like they had done him a personal injustice. That was when the 'S' key sprang off the keyboard and hit him square in the eye.