Gerald had no idea Ritchie had just been released from prison. Ritchie didn’t mention it when they met on the High Street, which meandered through the town down to the docks. Instead he just said, Gerry, mate! It’s you, isn’t it?
Gerald, turning from the bookshop window, squinted in the sunlight. He hadn’t seen Ritchie since they left university. They weren’t mates then, and he didn’t feel the love now. He pasted a quick smile on and said, Hi Ritchie, long time no see!. The son of a village pub owner, he had been trained in the art of faux bonhomie.
Twelve years. I hear you work on a cruise liner?
Gerald raised an eyebrows like a surprised question mark. Who told you that?
Someone, said Ritchie, forefinger tapping the side of his nose. You’re a croupier? Too many graduates with math degrees, I suppose.
My dad? Gerald asked, his eyes slits. He’s the ‘someone’?
Ritchie grinned. Yeah. Dropped in at his pub the other day.
So, what are you up to? You won’t have found it easy.
Ritchie’s face darkened. You mean being chucked out of uni? The stolen money? It was a misunderstanding. Listen, let’s have a drink and you can tell me about cruising.
Draining his fourth pint, Gerald thought Ritchie better company than expected: a bit of a lad but a laugh. Gerald enjoyed life working on a cruise ship, didn’t need coaxing to talk. He talked about the crew, the wealthy passengers, and the places he’d visited: Miami, the Bahamas, Rio, Buenos Aires, Cape Town —
Wow, Gerry! Me? I’ve only been to Magaluf and Benidorm, said Ritchie. You know this cruise ship of yours —
Snot mine, Gerald said slurring his words. Wish it wash.
Ritchie laughed. Yeah, right? They got any jobs? I’ve got experience in catering. In the Public Sector. Public Sector? Gerald repeated, not hearing the echo of Ritchie’s laugh descend deep into his chest. Government canteens, restaurants, explained Ritchie, skipping over it was in Wormwood Scrubs kitchens, where he had learned the tricks of the trade.
With Covid, they’re short of staff, said Gerald. I’ll introduce you to the Purser.
*
You bastard, Ritchie! Gerald shouted. You thieving bastard!
It was two weeks into the cruise and, approaching the next port of call, the Table Mountain was on the horizon. Or would have been if the bank of fog had not rolled in. Gerald had entered the cabin unannounced to see jewellery spilled from a bag, sparkling on the bedcover. Ritchie turned from examining a necklace, one Gerald had seen a punter wearing at the roulette table.
Come on Gerry. Rich people can afford to lose this stuff, said Ritchie his face contorted, not quite contrite. It’s all insured.
Its still theft! Gerald said. Snatching the bag, he scooped the loot into it, and thrust it under his jacket and stared into Richie’s eyes. I’m going to give this to the Purser. Slamming the door, he turned the key and sagged against the corridor wall, listening to the drum beat of fists on the door.
What happen next was a jumble in his mind: a tremendous clang like a bell; being thrown across the corridor; a wailing siren; the crew rushing to emergency stations like a tidal wave sweeping him along.
From the lifeboat Gerald stared at the container ship, its bow crumpled, ghostly in the retreating fog, and the cruise liner sinking into the grey sea. He knew some passengers from the casino: the retired teacher who enjoyed a modest punt; the footballer and his WAG, and the car dealer’s wife sat opposite. He felt the stab of her jewellery in his ribs. Maybe Ritchie was right. She could afford to lose what was worth a couple of years of his wages. As if conjured by this thought his mobile vibrated in his pocket.
What’s happening, mate? Ritchie said in his ear, his voice urgent. Please let me out… waters pissing in the porthole! Unlock the —
Dropping the phone over the side, Gerald beamed a reassuring smile at the car dealer’s wife..