Blood Cruise Page 4

  Albin puts his cutlery down. ‘Not for maths. Loads of people are better than me at maths.’

  ‘I hated maths in school,’ Linda says. ‘That’s probably why I’ve forgotten it all. I can barely help Lo with her homework any more.’

  ‘Abbe just has to learn how to study,’ his dad says. ‘He’s never had to put any effort in before.’

  ‘What’s your favourite subject?’ Linda asks.

  Albin looks at Linda. Braces himself. His aunt is nice. But she is the kind of grown-up who always asks the same boring questions, just for the sake of asking something.

  ‘English and Swedish, I think,’ he says.

  ‘I see,’ Linda says. ‘Well, you did always like reading and making up stories. Lo was the same, but now it’s all about makeup and boys.’

  The cement in his stomach gets even heavier.

  ‘Have you decided what you want to be when you grow up?’ Linda continues, just like Albin knew she would.

  He can feel his dad watching him expectantly, but he stubbornly keeps his mouth shut.

  ‘He’s going to be a programmer. That’s the future,’ his dad says. ‘He’s at least as creative as those guys who came up with Spotify and Minecraft. Right, Abbe?’

  Albin hates him. That is his dad’s idea, but he has managed to persuade himself it is what Albin wants. Albin has no idea what he wants, except that he can’t wait to change schools after this year.

  ‘That’s exciting,’ Linda says. ‘Just don’t forget us when you’re a multi-millionaire.’

  Albin tries to smile.

  ‘And what about Lo?’ his mum asks.

  ‘She’s got it in her head she wants to be an actress,’ Linda says with a laugh. ‘And, granted, she’s definitely a drama queen. I can’t deny that.’

  It sounds rehearsed; Albin senses it is not the first time Linda has used that line. It’s mean to Lo, but his mum just nods and smiles.

  ‘I’m surprised you let her walk around dressed like that,’ his dad says.

  ‘Dressed how exactly?’

  ‘She looks pretty grown-up now, with the makeup and everything. I don’t know if that sends the right signals.’

  His mum eyes him nervously. ‘I think Lo looks lovely,’ she says. ‘I suppose that’s how they dress now.’

  ‘Aren’t you concerned about Lo growing up too fast?’ his dad says, his eyes fixed on Linda. ‘She doesn’t have a male role model at home.’

  The table goes dead silent. All the unspoken things weigh so heavily on Albin he can barely keep upright on his chair. He glances out of the windows again. The gloom is already several shades darker.

  ‘All I’m saying is that there are a lot of nutters out there,’ his dad says.

  ‘Thanks,’ Linda retorts. ‘I’m aware of that.’

  His mum clears her throat. ‘She’s started talking funny,’ she says. ‘Is that something they do in Eskilstuna, or …?’

  ‘No,’ Linda says, almost looking like Lo when she rolls her eyes, ‘that’s just Lo and her friends. It drives me up the wall.’

  His dad gets up and Albin watches him. He tops his wine glass up to the brim from one of the taps by the buffet tables.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Linda says.

  ‘Just fine,’ his mum replies, glancing at Albin as if it is important to keep certain things from him. As if he doesn’t already know.

  Linda sighs and checks her watch when his dad returns to the table.

  ‘No, you know what, I’m calling Lo,’ she says. ‘She has to get here soon if she wants to have time to eat.’

  ‘I suppose she learned timekeeping from her mother,’ his dad replies. He has that look on his face he always has when he pretends to be kidding but actually means it.

  ‘I’ll go and get her,’ Albin says, and gets up before anyone has time to object.

  He needs to get out of here.

  Dan

  He jogs down the white-painted staff stairwell to the seventh floor. Cuts through the general manager’s depressing, windowless office. Posters of old sea maps on the walls, row after row of binders on the shelves. The general manager himself, Andreas, doesn’t seem much livelier. He barely looks up when Dan walks past him and opens the door to the public areas. The din and music hit him like a wall. He stares down at the maroon carpet, trying to look stressed and busy while he walks the few feet to the information desk. Do not disturb.

  Someone tugs at his elbow.

  ‘Aren’t you Dan Appelgren?’

  He plasters a big smile on his face and turns to face a short-haired woman. Blue-and-white-striped top. He wonders if all the old hags in blue-and-white-striped jumpers wear them all the time or just when they are on a cruise. Do they imagine they have something of a maritime air about them?

  ‘Guilty,’ he says with a winning chuckle.

  ‘I knew it!’ the woman says, as if she deserves a standing ovation.

  She is probably his age, but she has really let herself go. Smoking wrinkles line her top lip. There are grey roots in her hair. Her top is tight enough to reveal the rolls of fat above her bra strap.

  ‘My husband and I fell in love to “Like Fever in My Heart”,’ she says.

  ‘That’s nice to hear,’ Dan replies.

  ‘Yes, well, he’s my ex-husband now. But I still like the song.’

  He laughs politely. Reckons the ex-husband hasn’t regretted ditching her for one second.

  ‘It should have gone through to the Eurovision finale,’ she presses on. ‘But I suppose people tell you that all the time.’

  ‘I never tire of hearing it,’ Dan says, and winks at her.

  No, he thinks to himself, I never tire of being reminded of my failure. Of the fact that even when I was a winner, I was a loser.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you that,’ the woman says.

  But she doesn’t walk away. She is clearly expecting something.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dan says. ‘That means a lot.’

  She finally nods and starts walking towards the tax-free shop. Dan goes to the information desk and Mika wordlessly hands him the microphone. He looks long-suffering, as ever. He is the only one who seems to hate the Charisma as much as Dan does.

  Dan clears his throat and pushes the ON button.

  ‘Dear passengers! This is Dan Appelgren and I am hoping to see as many of you as possible in the karaoke bar tonight!’

  A few passengers stop to watch curiously. A small Asian boy holds up his phone; Dan fires off a smile, holding it until he hears the shutter click.

  He turns back to the microphone, mustering all his energy to get through the usual litany and putting exclamation points at the end of every single sentence. ‘We have everything from golden oldies to the hottest hits of the day! There is something for everyone, and remember: everyone is a singer! And, of course, we have special offers on beer, wine and cocktails! The party starts at nine in the karaoke bar, which is located at the bow end of deck seven! See you there!’

  The Baltic Charisma

  The ship glides through the archipelago at the leisurely pace of fifteen knots. The light from her lanterns and myriad windows sparkles in the dark water.

  Up on the bridge, all is calm. Captain Berggren has gone to bed in his quarters. The lookout is scanning the waves for small vessels the radar might have missed, and the on-duty officer makes sure they stay within the speed limit.

  *

  In the galley on deck eight, these are the most stressful hours of the day. Cooks and servers call out to each other. There is sizzling and steaming from the ranges and deep fryers, clattering and rattling from the big crates of dirty dishes that are pushed through the wheezing dishwashers; the sound of rapid-fire knives against cutting boards is like a drumming of woodpeckers.

  *

  In the spa, a middle-aged couple are soaking in the hot tub. They are holding hands under the surface, gazing out through the large, arched windows. Below them is the bow deck, where people have gathered to look at the last band of
islets and skerries before the ship reaches the open sea. The sun has set, but the sky is not yet completely dark.

  *

  Pia and Filip have just set out an ice bucket with champagne on the upper floor of the split-level suite; now they are putting up a large banner together above the bed.

  *

  General Manager Andreas is at his desk; he watches Dan Appelgren walk past again. He opens a binder. Despair overwhelms him when he thinks about all the bills that have to be paid, about the owners who want him to make staff cuts.

  *

  The boy called Albin is standing at the foot of the stairs on deck six, studying a deck plan. He finds the red dot telling him where he is and searches the long rows of tiny, numbered squares. There are so many of them. And there are blind spots here and there that remind him of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. Albin wonders what might be hiding in those white areas. He finds numbers 6512 and 6510 all the way at the other end of the ship. He runs down the portside hallway. The plan made it look long. In reality, it seems endless. A couple of older ladies watch him fondly as he dashes past.

  *

  Pre-parties are under way in several cabins, aided by purchases from the tax-free shop. Anticipation is building in lockstep with the temperature and volume. There is a stag do in one of the cabins on deck five. The groom is wearing a white veil. They are singing a drinking song.

  *

  The dark-haired woman with the heavy makeup can hear them. She is standing in front of a mirror in a cabin just a few feet away. Applying yet another thick layer of powder. Her breasts dangle like empty skin flaps on her chest; she is wearing a dark cardigan over her black dress. She buttons it all the way up, imagining the day when she will look like this permanently: when she will be one of the Old Ones. The thought fills her with horror, but the alternative, not living long enough, is just as frightening. She looks out of the window, rubbing her hands together as if for warmth. Her flesh moves strangely under her skin, as if it is too loosely attached to her bones and sinews. Two fingers are missing from her right hand, severed above the first knuckle.

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ she says, turning to the boy who is tucked into the double bed. He doesn’t meet her eye. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she adds and brushes lilac-scented oil on her neck. Her unharmed right index finger traces the chain of her necklace, stops at the locket. She attempts a smile. Her teeth are yellow. The enamel of some of them is chipped. The boy makes no answer; the woman’s smile fades.

  She bows her head and steps out into the corridor, shoves her hands into her cardigan pockets, glances anxiously at the strong lights and quickens her pace. Her shoes murmur against the maroon carpet as she passes door after door after door, all identical. Voices seep out from behind some of them. A group of lads bellowing something that might be a football chant. A woman laughing. Loud music. The woman is nervous. She is thinking that it is too risky to do this on board, but she won’t make it further into Finland if she doesn’t. Exhaustion has turned every bone in her body to stone. It saturates her flesh, boring all the way into her soul. If I still have one.

  A door is thrown open in front of her and a handful of young men in their twenties tumble out; she quickly turns towards the nearest door, pretending to search her pockets for a key card. Once they have moved off, she carries on down the corridor, discreetly sniffing the air. The smell of them is overpowering in the narrow hallway: cheap aftershave, warm skin fresh from the shower, wet hair. Beer, tar-flavoured lozenges, brushed teeth. But the strongest smells of all emanate from their bodies: their anticipation and blissful intoxication. The feelings make their blood pump faster, closer to the surface. The smells are so strong she can almost taste them. She fights to maintain her self-control.

  She reaches a side passage leading towards the main stairs. There are more people here. She keeps her eyes fixed on the carpet as she lets the flow of people carry her upwards, trying to focus, to fend off the hundreds of synthetic smells assaulting her nostrils. Underneath there is sweat, blood, hormones, urine. The sharp metallic hint of dried semen on someone’s skin. Scalp grease. Her hunger is growing ever more ravenous. It crowds out her doubts.

  The woman’s son leaves the bed and peers out of the cabin door. He squints at the corridor. Light falls on him, revealing a face that is dry and wrinkly like paper. He wonders how much time he has before she is back.

  Albin

  He jumps when a door opens with a bang behind him and turns around. A couple about the same age as his mum and dad practically fall out of their cabin. The woman leans against the man while he locks the door, and Albin notices a line of sweat running down his shirt, between his shoulder blades.

  ‘That buffet is going to be so fricking good,’ the man exclaims, too loudly, as though the woman were far away rather than right next to him. ‘I’ve been dreaming about it for, like, a bloody week now, you know?’

  The woman nods. Her eyelids are heavy. She reminds Albin of a doll Lo had. It was supposed to close its eyes when you laid it on its back, but the eyelids were stuck in an in-between position, neither awake nor asleep.

  Neither one of them notices Albin as they walk off in the direction he came from. He continues down the corridor, unsuccessfully trying to figure out where the unmarked areas on the plan might be. A door opens in one of the side corridors as he passes and two gaunt women in sparkly dresses step out. Both have long, narrow faces and dark-red lipstick on their extremely thin lips, which makes it look like someone slashed their faces open.

  ‘Tonight’s going to be amazing, Mum,’ one of them says. ‘So fucking amazing!’

  ‘Watch out, boys, here we come!’

  Their raucous laughter echoes down the hallway behind him.

  When he finally reaches door 6510, almost at the very end of the hallway, he taps it gingerly. As he waits, he notices the vibrations in the floor, hears other doors opening and closing. He knocks again.

  ‘Stellar job of stressing me out!’ Lo shouts from inside, and then the door is thrown open.

  Lo has put her hair up and her face has been transformed yet again. Her skin looks like impenetrable plastic. Her lips glisten, her eyelids shimmer. She looks relieved to see it is him. She retreats back into the cabin; he hesitates for a moment before following her.

  ‘I saw Dan Appelgren,’ Albin says, and holds up his phone. ‘I took a picture.’

  ‘Super,’ Lo says without turning. ‘He is my number one entertainer in the world.’

  Albin doesn’t respond, wishing he hadn’t said anything. Lo gets down on all fours next to the double bed. The smell of her perfume is everywhere. A jumble of clothes and a pink toiletry bag are scattered across the bed. Makeup and jewellery litter the tiny desk. A big round hairbrush and a hairdryer have been discarded on the floor. The dryer is still plugged in. It’s like a tsunami of girlishness has swept through the cabin, leaving wreckage on every surface.

  ‘Are they totally bitter about me being late?’

  ‘You won’t have time to eat if you don’t hurry,’ Albin says, perching on the edge of the bed.

  ‘That’s heartbreaking,’ Lo says, and sits back up on her knees. ‘I always wanted to get food poisoning from that place.’

  She has pulled out a miniature vodka bottle, a brand he recognises. If it had been regular-sized, Lo would have been a giant. She unscrews the top, purses her glistening lips around the neck and drinks. She gags and her eyes tear up, but then she giggles and holds the bottle out to him.

  ‘Do you want some or what?’ Lo asks, and grins when he shakes his head. ‘There’s a couple more if you change your mind.’

  ‘But what if Linda finds them?’

  ‘Then I’ll tell her the cleaners must’ve missed them,’ she replies, and gets to her feet.

  ‘You told me you’d never start drinking.’

  Lo looks at him with something bordering on pity. ‘We were, like, ten,’ she says. ‘Kinda seems like you still are.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ He sounds
so childish. He should shut up. He doesn’t know how to talk to this Lo. He doesn’t even know who she is. ‘Where did you get the bottles?’ he says.

  ‘That’s why I’m late. The tax-free shop just opened.’

  ‘But children can’t buy alcohol.’ He gets it as soon as he says it. Lo shoplifted the vodka.

  She finishes off the bottle and rolls it under the bed. ‘Thanks for the info,’ she says, taking a piece of gum out of her jacket pocket and putting it in her mouth. ‘I guess we’d better head out, then.’

  Madde

  A warm, damp fog that smells sweet and fruity fills the tiny bathroom. She has washed her hair, lathered up her whole body, scrubbed her face. She is standing under the hot jet, letting it unknit her shoulders and back, rinse away the drab, the everyday, the so-called ‘reality’. She looks down at the drain at her feet, imagining the water disappearing down it and out into the Baltic Sea.

  Madde had the exact right number of drinks at the terminal. She is going to the buffet with her best friend, and she is going dancing and then, who knows? Anything can happen on a cruiseferry. And she can be whoever she wants. Or rather, she can be who she really is.

  She has taken tomorrow off work. When her colleagues are on the subway out to Kista, she and Zandra will be starting their day with a champagne breakfast.

  She is going to have a lot of fucking time off soon, probably for a long fucking time, but that is the last thing she is going to think about tonight. She is not going to think about her boss, who tilted his head and looked so sorry about it all. Like she doesn’t know he will likely get a fat bonus in return for the money he saves by getting rid of the admin assistants.

  She is glad she didn’t cancel this trip. It is exactly what she needs.

  ‘Are you dead in there, or what?’ Zandra calls from the other side of the door. ‘It’s like a greenhouse in here!’

  ‘Coming!’

  Madde reluctantly turns the shower off and pulls the white curtain aside. Wraps a towel around her head like a turban. Wipes the condensation from the mirror above the sink, but only catches a fleeting glimpse of her glowing red face before it fogs back up.