Contents

Title

A Note To Readers

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Epilogue

Author's Note

Also By The Author

Copyright

Harry Dayle

Note To Readers:

This book is as British as its author. Readers used to American English may find some spellings and phrases differ slightly from those they are more familiar with.

Prologue

THE PALATIAL CABIN felt unusually oppressive. A pair of thick curtains remained tightly drawn across the windows. There wasn’t anything to see outside anyway; they hadn’t moved in two weeks. The bleak Norwegian sea looked much like any other. Only its name reminded Maryse of just how close to home she was.

The lights were off, too. Despite the recent announcement that normal power was now restored throughout the ship, she couldn’t help herself. Energy had to be saved. Resources were limited. Maryse remembered only too well how her mother had made her and her sisters conserve precious coal, and even more precious food during the war. She remembered how her neighbours, on hearing that Hitler had finally been defeated, forgot all about rationing. Life became a party, and Maryse had looked on enviously as they feasted and gorged themselves on everything they had stored up during those long, hard years. And she would never forget the howling and begging as they banged on every door in the street looking for scraps of food once the party was over and the cupboards were bare. Maryse’s mother had been wise. She knew the rationing would continue long after the occupying forces had left and the fighting had stopped. The girls lived frugally, but they lived.

Now that wisdom lived on in cabin 845. But not for much longer.

Maryse couldn’t feel the mattress against her back any more. It was as if the nerves had been removed, or simply switched off. Strangely, her feet remained sensitive. She wished they weren’t; the pain was becoming intolerable. The initial discomfort had been inconvenient, but she had put that down to her advancing years. At 81, body parts went wrong with alarming frequency. Doctor Lister had got to know her quite well over the duration of the cruise, as she presented a selection of minor ailments. But then the world had ended, and Doctor Lister had more than enough to deal with, without worrying about the frailties of an elderly Norwegian woman.

Which was why, when the paralysis had started in her feet, she hadn’t wanted to bother the friendly doctor. Nor had she made any attempt to see him when her legs came to a grinding halt. The phone beside the bed was within reach, and she knew that a single call would bring help, but at what cost? The medical facilities were limited to the doctor and his two nurses. If one of them was to come to her cabin, who would suffer? Someone on this ship needed attention more than she did, Maryse was certain of that. So she remained in her bed, and slowly lost the use of more and more of her body.

Her back had gone numb, her left hand became lifeless, and soon after, the whole arm. The right wasn’t far behind, rendering any desire she might have to telephone for help, completely impossible. Crying out was an option she had considered for an entire afternoon as she lay there unable to move, the pain spreading. The cabin walls were thin. Too thin really, given the money she had paid for the room. The couple in one neighbouring stateroom spent hour after hour arguing, shouting at each other, throwing accusations backwards and forwards. The making up afterwards was even louder. The other neighbour was much quieter, at least during the day. The night hours were a different matter, with a chorus of snoring that sounded like a herd of demented pigs snuffling for food.

Yet by the time the pain became too much, and Maryse finally tried calling for help, she discovered that her voice had deserted her. Barely a croak escaped her cracked, dry lips. Just a hoarse whisper, hardly audible even if someone had been in the room with her. Not that any such person would have required her to speak in order to know that something was very wrong. Any onlooker would immediately have seen the huge red blotches on the elderly woman’s face. They would have surely noticed that clumps of her hair had fallen from her scalp and lay scattered on the pillow. They would perhaps have glimpsed the deep red spots of blood that trickled from her ears. And they would most certainly have detected the foul stench of decaying flesh, flesh that Maryse herself could no longer feel. Not because of the paralysis, but because it was slowly rotting.

With nobody around to help, her immediate destiny was clear to her. She accepted it without fuss. She had lived eighty-one full and happy years. Even those throughout the war had been special in their own way. She had also, miraculously, been granted two weeks more life than most of the rest of the human race. Difficult weeks, for sure, but weeks that she considered a gift. The girls had brightened those days no end. She had read them stories, played their games, and enjoyed make-believe tea parties.

Now that time was at an end. Death was close by, and Maryse Wernström was ready.

One

“CAPTAIN NOAH? THEY’RE ready to try the turn.”

“Thank you, Officer Levin. Officer Masters, I’ll take the helm. It wouldn’t be fair of me to put the responsibility of this manoeuvre on the shoulders of a trainee, no matter how gifted you may be.”

“Sir, understood, sir.”

Captain Jake Noah placed his hands on the small controls that commanded the vast cruise liner. Such power in the delicate movements of one man’s fingers. One nudge of a dial was all that was required. One nudge to send an order to a computer, which in turn would relay the message to electric motors that would move the huge slab of a rudder, sending the Spirit of Arcadia on a new heading.

He looked through the windows, over the fire-scarred but brilliantly clean decks, and out to the horizon. It was freeing to be on the move again, to feel the ship pushing its way through the thick green ocean. Sailing in such silence was going to take some getting used to. Jake’s whole career had been spent aboard ships powered by noisy, dirty diesel motors. This one had been no different, with three huge oil guzzlers a source of constant vibration, felt through the feet wherever you went. The motors didn’t drive the propellers directly, instead they generated electricity which turned motors which spun the prop shafts. It was more efficient that way, though he couldn’t remember why. Martin had explained it to him years ago, when he was still a trainee mechanic, before joining the ranks of the bridge officers. Now the huge diesel generators lay silent and still, comatose in the hall of the engine room.

The Spirit of Arcadia had a new source of power; a source that made the motors look like a throwback to the steam age.