Titanic 2020: Cannibal City

14 The Minister

Claire lay frozen as the minister bore down on her. She could not scream, she could not even make a sound. The shock was total. The man who had shot her, who had quite possibly killed Jimmy, was here on the Titanic, here in front of her, here almost right on top of her. . .

. . . and then he passed by. If he even noticed her, he gave no indication; there was just that humming, the slow solid footsteps on the deck, his eyes staring straight ahead under that wide-brimmed hat. Claire hardly dared breathe. Her eyes followed him as he continued along the deck towards the doors at the far end. She put her hand to her chest, trying to still her racing heart.

What if he turns back?

He can't fail to see me, the second time.

But he stepped inside, was visible for a few moments through the glass, then disappeared from view.

Claire counted to thirty. Then sixty. She got up from the sun bed and cautiously approached the doors. She peered into the area in front of the elevators, and along the corridors leading away. No sign of him. She pushed the elevator button.

What if they open and he's standing there?

I haven't the strength to fight him off.

She glanced behind her. There was a small, red, glass box attached to the wall — fire alarm. If she smashed that then everyone would come running and he wouldn't have the chance to . . . she stepped back as the elevator doors opened.

Empty.

Claire jumped in, pushed the button, and prayed that he wouldn't suddenly appear and trap her inside before the doors closed. She went down one level then hurried along to the bridge. When she peered through the door she saw Captain Smith and First Engineer Jonas Jones bent over a computer screen, looking tense. She scanned the rest of the room for First Officer Jeffers. He was easier to talk to, he would understand, he would do something. But there was no sign of him. She asked one of the passing crewmen where he was, her voice high, quivering — part fear, part adrenaline.

'He's off duty, love,' said the crewman.

Claire nodded. 'Don't call me love,' she said.

'All right, darling,' said the crewman. Ordinarily she would have laughed it off — or reported him, depending on her mood — but she just stared at him. 'You all right, love? You look a bit pale?'

'Fine.' She turned away. Jeffers' quarters were six levels below.

Keep calm. The minister is one man. This is your ship. She started walking. A cold sweat plastered her blouse to her back. Her arm ached more than it had since she'd returned to the ship. When she reached the elevators her heart skipped again as the door opened and a man stepped out, but it wasn't him, it was one of the chefs going off shift. The Titanic was huge and she knew that the chances of running into him again so quickly were slim, but still she jumped at every movement around her, every sound. She made sure to stay in the interior of the ship. She knew if she ventured out on to deck he might simply step out of the shadows, pick her up and throw her overboard.

When she eventually reached Jeffers' quarters she knocked lightly on his door. She would have hammered on it, but what if that drew the attention of the minister and he came thundering down the corridor and killed her before Jeffers could answer?

She knocked again. After what seemed like an eternity Jeffers opened the door, his eyes bleary and his hair sticking up at a mad angle. He tutted the moment he saw who it was.

'Claire, what the—?'

Claire threw herself forward, pushing the door fully open and thrusting past him right into his cabin.

Jeffers' mouth dropped open in surprise. But he recovered quickly 'Claire! I'm tired, I haven't time for your . . .' He stopped. His eyes had cleared now, and he could see the horror etched on her face; her bottom lip was quivering, her eyes were wide with fear. 'Claire — what is it?'

'He's here!'

He moved towards her. 'Who is, Claire?' He put his hand on her shoulders and bent slightly so that she was looking straight into his face. She collapsed against him and burst into tears. Words came out in a torrent, but they were incoherent, jumbled half-sentences. 'Claire! Claire, shhhhh . . . just slow down — I can t . . .

He led her across the cabin and eased her on to the side of his bed. 'It's OK,' he said gently, 'you're safe now.'

'But . . . he's . . . out . . .' She squeezed her words out between snorts and wheezes and cries. 'What . . . if . . . he. . .

'Shhhhhh. Breathe. Deeper. That's it . . .'

Slowly, slowly, she regained control of herself. He got her a Coke from the mini bar. 'I'm sorry . . . sorry . . . it's just . . .'

'Tell me.'

She told him. She tried to remember Scoop's journalistic training. She kept it as simple and succinct as she could. When she was finished she apologised again for getting into such a state.

'It's fine.' He stood up. He rubbed at his jaw. 'I know who you're talking about,' he said. 'He came on board at Cooper's Creek, the last stop. In fact, I interviewed him. His name's . . . his name's Calvin something . . . Cleaver, I think. Some kind of Presbyterian minister. Said he got stuck at a church convention in New Orleans when the plague broke out, been trying to make his way back to his congregation in New York ever since.'

'He's a murderer.'

'Claire — are you absolutely sure?'

'One hundred per cent.'

'Because that type of minister, they all wear those outfits, the big hats, you could easily have mistaken him for someone—'

'It's him. He's not a minister, he couldn't be.'

'And according to what you've told me, you only ever saw him at a distance.'

'It's him! You have to arrest him!'

Jeffers shook his head. 'No, Claire. At least, not yet. I'm going to have a little chat with him.'

'But—'

'Claire, you're perfectly safe. He didn't approach you up top because he didn't recognise you. If it was him in the woods then the chances are he didn't get a proper look at you. And besides he would have no reason to suspect either that you're alive, or alive and onboard this ship.'

Claire shook her head incredulously. 'But he could find out! He could talk to someone! He'll come looking for me! You need to lock him up, you need to . . . you need . . . !'

There was no convincing him. And, deep down, Claire knew he was right. There were ways to do things. She would be perfectly safe. Or reasonably so.

Now that she had a job with the Times and felt pretty grown up, Claire had stopped living in her parents' suite — with their approval, because she drove them to distraction. So they were quite surprised when she arrived back at their cabins in the company of First Officer Jeffers and informed them that she was going to spend the night.

Mr Stanford, who was wearing a scarlet dressing gown and smoking a cigar, immediately jumped to the usual conclusion. 'What has she done now, Mr Jeffers?'

Claire sat quietly while the first officer explained. Mrs Stanford, listening from the bedroom, emerged towards the end and gently put a comforting arm around her daughter. Claire would normally have shrugged it off — but this time she allowed it to stay in place. It was actually quite comforting.

'Why don't I make you a nice cup of hot chocolate?' her mother asked.

Claire managed a smile. 'Mother, you've never made hot chocolate in your life.'

'Well, I can order one from room service. It's the same thing, isn't it?'

Her father stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray and turned back to Jeffers. 'You've done the right thing, Mr Jeffers. But if there's the slightest proof that this might be the man who shot my daughter, then by God we'll put him overboard, won't we?'

'Yes, sir. Absolutely.'

Claire lay in her room, but insisted that the door was left open. Hot chocolate was duly brought and consumed. She tried to sleep, but couldn't. When, after an hour, she heard Jeffers' voice at the main door she sprang from her bed and hurried into the lounge. He was just removing his cap and accepting a tumbler of whisky from her father.

'Well?' Claire immediately demanded. 'Is he behind bars?'

Jeffers took a sip of his drink before answering. 'No, Claire, he's not.'

She exploded. 'You believe HIM before you believe ME?'

Jeffers raised his hands. 'Listen to me, Claire. Please.' Claire took a deep breath. 'OK. So, I found him in the restaurant. Reverend Cleaver. He seems like a perfectly nice man—'

'He's—'

'Quiet, Claire!' Her father waved an admonishing finger. 'Let Mr Jeffers speak.'

Claire bit down on her lip. Her cheeks were burning.

Jeffers nodded at Mr Stanford before continuing. 'As I was saying, he seems very nice and quiet. But he was truly shocked by what I told him. And he sends his apologies for shooting you.'

'Good God!' This time it was Mr Stanford who exploded. 'He actually admitted—'

'Shhhh, dear.' Mrs Stanford put a calming hand on her husband's arm. 'Let Mr Jeffers speak.'

The first officer nodded gratefully. 'He didn't deny it at all,' he continued. 'He told me he was passing through the woods east of Tucker's Hole when he stumbled across a young man lying on the track who seemed to be injured — except when he went to help him the man pulled a gun and tried to rob him. There was a struggle, the gun went off and unfortunately the young man was shot. Revered Cleaver was absolutely distraught at this, and also terrified — he tried to save the robber's life — kiss of life, heart massage — but it was no use . . . Then when he heard what he now knows must have been you and Jimmy in the bushes, he was convinced you were part of this man's gang and that you'd take revenge — so he grabbed the gun again and fired blindly into the trees before running off. He had no idea that he had shot anyone, he was just trying to frighten you off. He was so scared that he bypassed Tucker's Hole completely, just kept going until he managed to pick up a lift on the far side of the woods. It took him as far as Cooper's Creek. And that's how he got to us. He was very upset, Claire. He wants to know if he can come and see you to apologise personally.'

All eyes turned on Claire.

'That's. . . not how it was . . .'

'Are you absolutely sure, Claire?' her father asked. 'He's a minister, for goodness' sake, why would he want to shoot you?'

'Yes, of course I'm sure . . .'

But the truth was that there was a slight hint of a doubt creeping in. Since she'd become a journalist she'd learned that you could look at a story you thought was one hundred per cent true from a different angle and suddenly it didn't make any sense at all. And it was complicated by the fact that her memory of the events in the forest was somewhat hazy — she had been shot after all, she'd lost a lot of blood. She rubbed at her brow.

'It was him . . . He's a murderer . . .'

She wasn't even convincing herself now. She desperately tried to remind herself of the detail of it. Hearing the gunshot in the woods with Jimmy, sneaking up, seeing the minister going through the man's pockets . . . Jimmy accidentally making the noise . . . the minister looking spooked . . . raising his gun . . . coming towards them . . . they'd started running . . . She sighed. He could be telling the truth. They had, quite naturally, run before he had the chance to shoot them — but the minister might just as easily have been the victim of an attempted robbery. He might not have been going through the dead man's pockets, he might actually have been trying to save him and, yes, if you'd just killed someone by accident, of course you'd be nervous, of course you'd fire at the first noise you heard. And he must have run off instead of pursuing them, otherwise he would surely have found her and killed her?

Claire sat down heavily on a leather sofa. 'Oh, I don't know any more!' she wailed.

Her mother raised her eyebrows at her husband. 'Presbyterian ministers,' she observed, rather haughtily, 'are not known for their shooting ability. Perhaps we should have him for dinner.'

Mr Stanford rubbed his stomach. 'You keep me so well fed, darling, I'm not sure if I could actually eat a Presbyterian minister!'

Both of them exploded into laughter. Claire stared at them, aghast. Thankfully, Jeffers didn't laugh either. Sensing that she was about to scream something at them he neatly stepped in with, 'Claire, Reverend Cleaver is waiting outside. He really does want to apologise to you.'

Claire shook her head violently. 'No. Please. Tell him I'm asleep. Too tired. I just couldn't, Mr Jeffers. What if he really did shoot me? What if he really did kill Jimmy? I just don't know. But I don't want to meet him, I don't want to shake his hand, I don't want him to apologise. Just tell him to go away, please?'

Mr Jeffers nodded. 'It's done,' he said. 'Get some rest.'

Jeffers turned to the door. Claire slipped into her room without a further glance at her parents. Partly because she was mad at them, but mostly because she didn't want the minister to be standing there when Jeffers opened the door.

She tossed and turned for ages. She kept replaying the events in the woods. After a while her mother came into the room with another hot chocolate and apologised for being insensitive earlier — she had just been so relieved that the minister had turned out to be innocent and her beautiful daughter was safe.

Claire sipped her drink, and said nothing. When her mother got up to go, Claire again insisted that she leave the bedroom door open, and the light on in the lounge.

'Of course, darling,' said her mother, and kissed her brow.

Some time after midnight she finally drifted off to sleep. She was dreaming about her ponies when something disturbed her. She opened her eyes. Her room was dark, save for little moonlight coming in through the porthole. But the lounge was also dark — although she had demanded that the light be left on.

Movement.

There was something in the doorway.

Someone!

And then, drifting towards her, a very soft, melodic humming.

'Give me oil in my lamp . . .'

Louder, closer, a black figure moving . . .

Claire screamed and screamed and screamed and . . .