Out of the Light

Out of the Light

Neil Staley

Copyright © 2014 by Neil Staley

Smashwords Edition

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Contents

Prologue

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part III

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Prologue

It was by the latter stages of the twentieth century, when humanity was never more independent, alive and open-minded, that stories of our kind and the adventures of the undead were ever more popular. Rumours of truth in the old legends, written about so passionately by both mortal and immortal alike, were believed not only by those who merely wanted to believe, but by a growing number of historians and mythologists the world over. It was a dangerous time to be a vampire.

In these wondrous days of the microchip and laser technology, of satellite television and digital communication, there has never before been a greater threat of discovery or destruction to our kind.

I am called Raphael Santos and I was ‘made’ into what I am now in 1883, whilst travelling the East coast of America. I am English by birth, though my father was a native of Buenos Aires, hence my altogether un-English name. My father came to England with my mother as a textiles trader in 1853 and lived in London until I was born in ‘58. We moved to the countryside, settling in Cambridge in the east of England. I attended a private school and was finely educated. My father insisted that if I were to inherit the family business I must be able to hold my own in any conversation, with anyone at all, about almost anything. So, my schooling was not only of paramount importance to me, but more so to my father.

What friends I had were wholly disapproved of, with my father insisting that ‘common ruffians’ had no business being my colleagues. Yet these were the only friends I had. Besides, their appetite for excitement and adventure captivated me, made me feel alive, and it was in their world of cobbled streets and back-alleys that I began to find the real me; the adventurer within. When I graduated from university, my father told me that by way of a reward for exceeding his high expectations, I was to choose anywhere in the world where I wished to travel and he would fund the entire journey. I could not have wished for a better gift, or opportunity. After only a moment deliberating I chose to visit America, with all of its bustling, crowded cities, sprawling valleys and awe-inspiring mountain ranges. Most of all I was drawn to the South, with the pressing humidity of the warm sweet air, the excitement of the seemingly countless carnivals and celebrations and the pure eroticism of the beautiful and sensuous Creole women. Much to my parents’ disdain I took no company on my trip, choosing instead to explore solely on my own. Unusual, because at times I found loneliness to be almost unbearable, even if I found myself alone for only a few hours at a time. My friends were all spellbound by the descriptions of the places I would visit. Of course, I had never even set foot outside the country before and knew nothing of tropical climes and exotic scenery and had only read of these places in the published journals of other explorers and travellers. Their descriptions were so vivid and detailed; however, that I felt sure I had seen them with my own eyes, walked down the sweating, heaving streets myself and heard the music and laughter of the carnival with my own ears.

Part One - Waves of Red

One

Late March, 1883. I departed Liverpool on the magnificent steam liner The Valiant, bound for Boston. Almost seven hundred feet in length, it was a beautiful beast and its pure white upper decks reflected even the drab spring afternoon light magnificently. It was the fastest of the line’s new super steamers and my father stated proudly that it could carve through the waves at over twenty-five knots with barely a ripple in my wine glass. Before I left, he lectured me at great length on every conceivable danger of overseas travel and begged me to be overly cautious at all times and to choose my companions with the utmost care. I was to trust no one and write every week to let my whereabouts and state of well being be known. My mother was secretly an incessant worrier, and although she did not involve herself in my father’s day-to-day business affairs, she was far from the subdued housewife. She was an independent yet understated woman, whose strength of character was subtle yet of some renown and she would not stand the risk of any harm befalling me.

So it was her wish to my father that he instruct me to write so often. The only wilderness I was expecting was one of isolation, from people and surroundings with which I was completely familiar. To say that I was nervous would have been a major understatement and I boarded the blue and white behemoth with mixed feelings. As the ship left its berth I was expectant, anxious and wildly excited all at once. The rain teemed lazily in the chill English breeze and my father, standing beside my mother on the dockside, raised his hand in farewell only once before ushering my mother into the carriage and speeding away through the drizzle.

The ship was spacious enough and my quarters were nothing short of luxurious. My father’s doing, though not because he felt that I should travel in style, but more so that my family name should be associated with such status and distinction. When I had unpacked, stowing my clothes neatly in polished mahogany dressers and wardrobes, I decided to further explore my cabin and then the rest of the ship.

I was amazed at the gadgetry, even in that age, which was abundant all around. There were small compartments for spare towels, face cloths, soap and anything else I might have the desire to store conveniently from view and I determined to fill them all. I bathed and changed, then, dressed in my most casual wool suit, left my cabin and headed for the upper decks. I intended to work my way down through the entire ship, ending up in the very boiler room itself if I could get that far. Climbing some stairs I found a door leading outside. It swung open smoothly on freshly greased hinges and I stepped out, breathing deeply the crisp, salty air.

Two hours after leaving Liverpool the horizon could not be seen through the persistent rain now falling quite heavily all around. A sensation of disorientation suddenly filled me at being surrounded by so much water and I began to feel encased, claustrophobic in the downpour. I felt a fleeting urge to return to my cabin and remain there until we reached Boston. Clearing the thoughts away with a shake of my head I looked out to sea, concentrating on the swelling, heaving grey mass of water and wondering how such a mammoth, iron-clad vessel such as this could stay afloat at all. A feeble attempt to divert my attention away from the stirrings of panic I was feeling, standing there in the wind and rain. I still felt uncomfortable, but was it just the weather and the roll of the ocean, or something else? This all suddenly brought a smile and I slapped the rain-splashed handrail and moved away. I walked along the starboard deck until I came to a row of grey tinted windows. I peered in, cupping my hands around my face, to see what looked like a restaurant. There were tables of all shapes and sizes, plush leather chairs, glistening chandeliers and waiters bustling to and fro. There was also a bar set against the far wall.

Brushing my mussed, damp hair from my eyes I entered the restaurant near to the end of the long mahogany bar. The place was spacious with lush, deep-piled burgundy carpeting, those black leather chairs and the tables of thick cherry oak. The polished brass chandeliers swung gently in unison from the ceiling as the ship listed slowly, steadily carving its way through the icy Atlantic. There were only a handful of people in the entire restaurant and no one at the bar itself, so I walked over and sat on one of the tall stools there. A tidy young bar steward strolled toward me behind the bar, his rehearsed smile broadening almost mechanically as he approached.

May I help you sir? he asked, with practised ease.

A tonic water if you please, I answered, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. I must’ve looked a sight with my wet hair and rain-soaked clothing, but he merely skipped away to fetch my drink, his stiff smile unwavering. A glass and napkin appeared from beneath the bar and he poured the tonic water as if he had been rehearsing this single action all his life. This fascinated me and I was on the verge of asking him to do it again, when I felt eyes upon me. I looked around sharply; scanning the people in the restaurant, but could see no one whose attention was directed at me. Anyway, the feeling had passed so I put it down to the swelling of the ocean beneath me. Was this seasickness? I had heard stories of people who had gone slowly out of their minds from travelling on the ocean, becoming paranoid, nervous and agitated, then finally physically ill before hurling themselves overboard to an icy death in the grip of the waves below. I turned to my drink to see that the young steward was already further along the bar, serving another gentleman and his lady. Looking forward, I caught my reflection in one of the ornate mirrors that lined the wall behind the bar. To say I looked a mess would’ve been an understatement. To say I looked dishevelled would’ve been polite. I smiled. I had a strange smile; often commented on. My mother always told me that I had my grandfather’s eyes, my grandmother’s nose, and the pet wolfhound’s smile. My mop of thick blonde hair, usually tied back with a black ribbon, was coming loose. Strands hung down the sides of my face, showing the true length of my locks as they spilled over and down my shoulders. This, I was told, was not the style in which young men of the day wore their hair. I apparently should’ve had it cut short and neatly clipped over my ears, above the collar line, and parted either in the centre or to the side with hair grease or oil. I liked my hair just the way it was and although I sometimes drew the odd sideways glance with my appearance, I didn’t let it bother me in the slightest. My cobalt blue eyes are my most striking feature and the subject of many a conversation amongst relatives when my mother was bragging of me. My face is not too square, with a strong jaw line and my nose is a bit too big for my liking, although that’s probably because I didn’t really like my grandmother very much.

After half an hour swaying on my stool staring at the bar, the mirror and the bar again, I decided that I would find the ballroom, where most of the passengers would normally spend their evenings while aboard. Leaving the restaurant I made my way aft. I found a magnificent, wrought iron spiral staircase, fixed in the centre of the deck, leading both up and down. The actual steps were easily twelve feet across and it was quite difficult to walk down the centre of the staircase as it was impossible to reach either handrail and I found myself smiling broadly as I descended step after swaying step, trying in vain to keep some semblance of balance. The ship was listing a little harder now as we headed farther out into the Atlantic, the ocean floor dropping farther and farther away beneath all forty thousand tons of the Valiant’s keel.

I stepped off the staircase and looked around. People wandered here and there though it was mainly quiet. On this trip the number of passengers barely reached a third of the ship’s capacity. Walking toward a set of large doors with frosted glass windows, I felt again a strong sensation that I was being watched; studied. Again I turned quickly around, only to find an empty corridor and the staircase behind me. Frustrated, I ran back up the stairs, searching for anyone who would even glance at me momentarily. I found no one. Closing my eyes, I pressed my hands to my face as I sighed. No matter, I would either eventually see someone, if there was anyone to be seen, or there was no one there at all, so there was no use in becoming agitated. Still, I felt not only that someone had been watching me but that I was being scrutinised and studied in some way, and it unnerved me to the core. I moved away with a last look over my shoulder before heading aft down the wide main corridor.

On my best nerve’s advice I decided to cut short my little expedition to the ballroom and set off for my cabin, occasionally glancing over my shoulder as if expecting to see some sinister figure bearing down on me as I walked the narrow, twisting corridors. As I drew nearer to my cabin I found myself almost breaking into a run and the hairs on the back of my neck were suddenly standing to full attention. The feeling of being chased was undoubtedly my own paranoia, yet I could almost feel someone ghastly figure’s long, cold fingers reaching for my neck as I made my way swiftly to my cabin door. I fumbled with the key in the lock for a few seconds, the heavy feeling of dread growing again; sweat beading on my forehead and my breath coming in ever shorter, grating gasps. When I finally made it inside, I shut the door solidly behind me with a reassuring thud. Engaging the lock, I backed away from the white rectangle of the door and sat on the bed, staring intently at the highly polished doorknob, waiting for it to turn; turned as if tried from the outside. I lost track of the amount of time I sat there staring at the door and was startled suddenly as I realised that it was almost completely dark in my cabin. I could hardly see the doorknob at all, let alone tell if it was turning or not. I sighed deeply with frustration at my own fear and paranoia, walked to the lamp and turned it on.

Warm light filled the cabin and I looked around nervously, searching every shadowed corner and crevice with tired eyes, every squeak and rattle with my already ringing ears. I was completely alone. Pulling my necktie and collar free, I walked to the bathroom and filled the bath with steaming hot water, added scented bath salts, threw my discarded clothes onto the floor and climbed in. All the stress and apprehension of the last hour seemed to drift away with the steam slowly rising from the hot water, gathering like a soothing mist in the air around me. The water was so hot, the steam so dense, that I could hardly see the end of the bathtub in which I lay. So soothing was the heat and the sweet scent of the water that I lay dozing for almost an hour. The doorway to the bedroom was an ethereal rectangle of hazy light in the steam. Finally, I lifted myself reluctantly from of the water and stepped onto the lush grey bath mat beside the tub. The towel was heavy and thick enough to shield me from the inevitable chill that would assault my skin upon leaving my hot sanctuary. I stepped into the bedroom, glancing at my tweed suit, carefully folded at the foot of the bed, my collar and necktie lying neatly on top. I removed the black ribbon from the nape of my neck and shook loose my mane of blonde hair, droplets of water spotting the plush carpet. Looking in the large oval mirror on top of the dressing table I sighed again. I had no one to talk to, no one to laugh and joke with and no one to comfort me in my increasing loneliness. The rogue in me was completely subdued and slumbered somewhere deep within, more soundly than any sleep I could hope to fall into and I feared then that I might never again awaken him. Mischief was something I often got up to and the resulting blame equally adept at getting out of. I was, after all, an example to my family name and could ill afford the slightest blemish on my character. Although I was despairing in my solitude, I made up my mind to pursue this adventure with vigour. It was an adventure after all and I was on my way, with no way of turning back or running away. So onward then, with relentless abandon and that vigour I was talking about. I smiled at my reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, my reflection smiled back that same, wolf-like smile. I could almost see the wolf’s sharp teeth and powerful jaws, subtly hidden within my features, as if I could snarl and howl at the very moon itself.

Smiling again, I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the dresser, my cheeks in my hands. Staring into the dresser mirror I could see most of the room behind me; the four brass-ringed portholes along the far wall, the night pressing against the glass like black ink, the huge walk-in closet in the corner, half-open and crammed full of my clothes, the large inviting bed a few feet behind me with its deep blue satin sheets and immense, fluffed pillows.

I stared at the bed. My thoughts raced for what seemed endless seconds and then the realisation sank into me just as slowly and surely as I had sunk down into the steaming water of the bathtub. I began to cringe within myself as a wave of cold fear swept through me to my very core. My hackles raised and the breath caught in my throat. My clothes were on the bed. My clothes were on the bed! I sat staring, transfixed by the neat pile of folded shirt, pants, waistcoat, not moving and barely breathing. I tried to recall folding them myself yet I knew where they were supposed to be. Turning very slowly, not wanting to look, as if it was only the reflection which held the image of my folded clothes, I held my breath. When I turned around, the bed would be empty, save for the pillows that adorned the headboard, and the gently folded layers of satin. They were still there, as I knew they had to be. I raced into the bathroom, fumbling for a moment in the gloom. I stood in the doorway, staring at the floor. Empty, except for the grey bath mat, with two darkened, damp imprints of my feet.

My mind was reeling as I tried to make some kind of sense out of what had occurred; yet I could not. I slumped down to the floor, my thoughts and mind spinning and tumbling. I felt dizzy beyond words and thought I might faint at any moment. I had to clear my head. I lifted my eyes and stared directly at the chandelier in the centre of the ceiling. The light hurt my eyes and I squinted, scrunching up my face into a twisted grimace as my eyes watered; tears streaming down my cheeks. Slowly I rose up, using the doorframe to pull myself to my feet. The towel had slipped free, leaving me feeling not only physically naked but cold terribly vulnerable and I stepped slowly towards the wardrobe. For all I knew it could be hiding who, or whatever was responsible for this trickery, but the wardrobe was empty of anything but my clothes and I dressed hurriedly in a loose-fitting navy suit and sturdy leather boots, tying them too messily with shaking hands and fumbling fingers. I had to get out of my cabin. It felt more like a jail cell suddenly. My sudden need to be near other people was overpowering and I determined to return to the restaurant to find solace in the evening melee. Snatching up my key and wallet, I made for the door.

Two

The restaurant and bar were considerably busier than they had been on my earlier visit. I glanced up at the large brass wall clock at the far end of the room. It read; seven thirty. There were several tall bar stools vacant at various points along the length of the bar and I took to one nearby to where I had sat earlier. The room was pleasantly warm and the atmosphere buzzed with light-hearted conversation and the occasional burst of aristocratic laughter and hand clapping. Tobacco smoke hung lazily in the air and I could see many pipes grasped between puffing lips and fat cigars clasped between fat fingers. The sounds of clinking glass and cutlery could be heard coming from the tabled area at the far end of the room where people were sitting down to dine. The bar was, by comparison, virtually devoid of people, and in some way seemed segregated from the restaurant by some sort of invisible partition, which managed somehow to mute much of the noise and commotion coming from that end of the room. After a few minutes a steward appeared, different from the young man who had served me earlier though he wore the same, heavily starched white shirt with burgundy waistcoat and bow tie and spoke in exactly the same practised, polite manner. I ordered gin with my tonic water this time. I thought my nerves could use it. I began to think back to other times when I had felt this unnerving sensation of being watched or studied, and could recall only two other occasions before I had stepped on board.

The most recent was only a few days previously, shortly before we had left Cambridge on the journey to Liverpool. I was walking with my mother through the busy Market Square in Cambridge, shopping for fresh vegetables that she could take home to Abigail to cook for dinner. Abigail was our housekeeper and had been with our family for twenty years. She had even uprooted and moved from London with us shortly after I was born, and was completely trusted by my parents. This was not a typical Santos family trait, but Abigail had earned it, and more.

It had been a long day and my mother always had a way of making it seem longer. If we didn’t get what we wanted soon, we would be lucky to make it for tomorrow’s dinner, let alone tonight’s. She had wandered ahead and was chatting cheerfully with a woman at a stall selling many different, intricately woven rugs and blankets. I dawdled along, paying only slight attention to the hustle and bustle around me, when I felt suddenly very cold. After a few seconds I decided it was the chill in the early evening air. The sunset had not exactly been a memorable one because of the thick grey clouds that dominated the sky, obscuring the sun during the day and now hiding the twilight stars completely from view. The mere look of the heavy, low lying clouds made it feel cold and depressing and the fact that it was early March in England didn’t help matters much. Still, I could not shift this sense of coldness, which seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of my bones, yet it felt as though it was emanating from within my own body. Not necessarily a physical coldness, but more an emotional or spiritual chill, as if a seed had been planted within the depths of my soul, taken deep root and was now relentlessly blooming. Icy tendrils spread throughout every fibre of my being and I began to breathe steadily faster, in shorter and shorter gasps. Then, like a shock over my whole body, the feeling of being watched hit me so hard that I almost physically lost my balance. This, together with the coldness spreading and swelling through me, was the most disturbing feeling I had ever experienced and I shall remember it till my dying day, whenever that may be.

I realised I was hunched over, and when I opened my eyes I saw the tops of my knees and people’s legs and feet behind me, as if everyone had suddenly taken to walking on the ceiling. I raised my head slowly and, straightening up, noticed that I had managed to draw a few curious glances and stares from a number of the bustling crowd that ebbed past me in every direction. The feeling was now much less acute, but definitely still there, and I started to slowly scan the crowd for anyone who might catch my eye, or draw my attention, but I could find no one. I closed my eyes and could, for only a second, determine a direction to this feeling. It seemed to be coming from directly to my left. I turned my head sharply, opening my eyes wide, and stared right into the mingling crowd for any sign of, well, anything. My mother was almost directly in front of me, still talking jovially to the rug woman, completely oblivious to me, or my discomfort. Then I saw it. A flash of the palest, flawless flesh, and eyes that, even though they stared into mine for only a fraction of a second, burned into the very depths of my soul. The deepest blue of the ocean or the clearest blue of the sky could not match their striking clarity and colour, and the potential menace and danger there was unmistakable. The unnaturally thick and lustrous golden hair, framing that palest of portrait faces. An old woman pushed past me suddenly, walking right across my field of vision. She was on her way in an instant, but whatever it had been, it had gone.

My mother looked around suddenly and smiled. She was tugging my sleeve, pulling me towards her and chatting excitedly to the woman on the stall. I was still staring here and there into the throng of people, trying to catch a second glimpse of this strange being. I felt that, whatever it was, it had shown itself to me on purpose, and could easily have remained undetected if it so wished. I also knew that no matter how hard I looked, I would be searching in vain, until, at least, this thing decided to show itself to me again.

The next morning I could barely remember the events of the previous evening. The recollection was blurred, vague. As I tried to separate individual details, it seemed that the harder I tried to recall what had taken place the more muddled and incoherent it all became. I had all but forgotten the whole incident by dinnertime that same evening. Until now.

The first time I could recall was many years ago, when I was in my final year at school and looking forward to attending university after the summer. The school had organised a trip to The London Museum as part of a final year science project and everyone around me was babbling excitedly about it. I was quietly ecstatic, yet had no real friends with which to share it and my friends out of school were not interested in science, history and trips to London, so I felt a little isolated. It did not bother me too much though. I had grown used to it over the years and saw that it simply as the way it was. I had chosen my friends, I was born with this attitude, this sense of being, and that was as inescapable as it was acceptable. I could have made closer friends in school if I wanted. I merely chose not to. This is not to say that I did not get along with my school colleagues. On the contrary, I could talk about school matters, homework and projects quite happily for hours, and very civilised it was too, but I could not talk to them about how I felt, or what I thought privately about life, dreams; my expectations. No, my real friends were out there, past the boundary of the high, stone wall that surrounded the school grounds. They played in the streets and parks, the fields and rivers. They had no interest in botanical gardens, aviaries, or museums. They just wanted to live, to have fun and be young. The energy that emanated from each and every one of them never ceased to amaze me and I found out quickly that I too felt this same energy to live and thrive and be.

The train journey into London was mostly uneventful, apart from one of my classmates, Edward Brandon, being suddenly, and quite violently ill all over Mr Johanssen, our science tutor. It seemed he did not take to travelling too well and spent the remainder of the train journey banished to the corridor near to an open window. I could see him through the carriage door, his brown hair being blown about his ashen face as the train thundered along. Safely into London, we arrived at our destination early in the afternoon. I stood outside, staring up past the long stone steps to the immense wooden doors at the front of the magnificent old building. The inside was splendid in every way. High, vaulted ceilings and round stone pillars which seemed to reach up to and out of the very roof, higher and higher, to hold up the sky above our heads. The floors were covered in solid oak, which also adorned every door and window frame, stained dark and polished to a glossy, wet-looking finish. The huge glass display cases seemed too big, and trying to contemplate how they might have been constructed and assembled simply made me give up with a puff of breath and a shake of the head. I was, quite simply, mesmerised.

We were herded around the whole of the museum, and every corner I turned made me gasp with awe. Every corridor seemed endless, every exhibit alive. It was truly an astounding place and I was sorry when we were told it was time to go. Outside, the street lamps were alight and the carriages and noisy new motor vehicles had their own tiny lamps upon them. It was January and bitterly cold, and the breath streamed from my lips like the steam from a boiling kettle. As we all started down the steps to begin the half-mile trek to the station, I heard someone whisper my name, quite near to me. I turned around, smiling, expecting to see one of my colleagues, or a tutor, yet saw no one. Ah, a trick of the surrounding noise, I thought, and continued on down the steps.

"Raphael."

Again I turned to see only strangers passing me on the cold stone steps. I felt suddenly that same cold feeling I have already described and the strong sensation that somewhere nearby someone was watching me. I turned around in a full circle, looking carefully at the people around me. Nothing. From the bottom of the steps one of the tutors was calling for me to hurry, fearful that I should fall behind. As I turned to walk down the remaining steps I heard again this smooth sounding whisper inside my head. "Raphael, son of Ramos." I was bursting with fear and ran headlong down the steps, only to be scolded when I reached the others for being too hasty and careless. Accusations of recklessness as I looked around me, wide-eyed and afraid, taking no notice of the harsh words of warning and reprimand.

During the entire journey home, I kept trying to remember what the voice had sounded like but the only conclusion I could reach was that it sounded vaguely familiar in some way, almost like your own voice when you are reading silently to yourself from the pages of a book. Anyway, as I have also described before, by the following week I had returned to my normal, freethinking, happy self and had all but dismissed the incident as some self-induced hysteria after being exposed to such intense and constant stimulation inside the museum. I spoke of these events to no one, sure that I would be ridiculed reprimanded for making up stories. My father, although I loved and admired him immensely, would have been the last person on earth I would have told. Not because he was some kind of unfeeling and dismissive dictator, but because he was the most stringently rational man I had ever known. I had overheard him debating the most baffling subjects with his colleagues over evening cognacs in the study and coming up with what seemed the only rational explanation, time and time again. Yet he always managed to establish his view as being the only possibly correct one without sounding condescending or patronising in the least. His colleagues would leave, chortling and swaying to their carriages, with gifted answers to their troublesome questions or the rationalisation of an exceptionally perplexing riddle, without so much of a hint of enforced personal opinions or manipulative personal views. He really was quite a magnificent thinker and that is what really inhibited my talking with him for any great length of time at all.

So, I chose to keep these events to myself. Besides, as time wore on, they grew dimmer and dimmer in my mind and I attached less and less importance to them. During my years at university I was exposed to many experiences, but none were remotely similar to those that had befallen me on the steps of the museum or that evening in the Market Square in Cambridge.

Until now, sitting here watching the ice cubes melt in my gin and tonic, I had never even thought to link the two incidents, and yet now they seemed unequivocally entwined. I felt as though a switch had been thrown, restoring my memory and allowing me to make the connection at last. However, I could not escape from the fact that something more than just out of the ordinary had happened in my cabin and until I could find a sufficient explanation, it would bother me like a thorn in my side. In a way I felt victimised. I had always been able to stand up for myself in times of physical or verbal conflict, but now I felt completely defenceless and I knew that I had had no real power over what had happened, or might happen to me still. The noise and commotion of the restaurant seemed to die away suddenly, as if all the talking people were being drawn away down a long corridor, the sound becoming quieter, yet retaining its clarity and content, like turning down the volume on a television set. I felt isolated from everyone else in the room then, and, as the hairs raised up on the nape of my neck and my skin became covered in goose bumps, I realised I was once again being watched and that the watcher was in this very room! I was certain that if I so much as glanced up into the mirrored wall panels in front of me I would see this being in the reflection, standing some feet away behind me. In fact, I felt sure that in some way, I was being instructed to do exactly that. No words were forming in my head, as I had long ago heard, but more so an idea which quickly became an almost urgent impulse. Yet I sat stock-still. I did not raise my head, I did not look around and I did not make a sound. Still, I felt this presence behind me and even in my alarmed state I began to analyse this extraordinary feeling. Similar to how you feel when you are alone in a room and someone you know creeps stealthily up behind you. You realise, at the last instant, that someone is there and turn around just as they pounce – startling you out of your skin. What I was experiencing now was as strong as if I actually had a pair of eyes in the back of my head and was looking directly at whatever was behind me. I felt that I could almost describe the appearance of this being, and suddenly I was touched by the same vague feeling of familiarity I had felt before, so long ago. Something else struck me while I sat there, glaring wide-eyed into my drink. All those dull, fuzzy memories that I had so much trouble recalling before were now as clear as if what had happened had occurred only a few hours ago. Was I being shown this? It seemed that the recollection was being placed into my mind and shown to me like a movie reel, frame after crystal clear frame, as if someone wanted me to remember, wanted me to see.

My thoughts drifted back to when I was alone in my bathroom, that is to say; when I thought I had been alone in my bathroom. Too many things just didn’t make sense. The door; firmly closed and locked. The silence in my quarters had been unbroken and complete, save for the almost inaudible hum of the powerful engines, pushing this great hulk of iron and steel further and further out into the oceanic wilderness. I had sensed nothing out of the ordinary, yet I forced myself to accept the fact that, somehow, my clothes had been moved from the floor, inches from where I lay in the bath, to be neatly folded and placed carefully on the bed, only a matter of a few feet from the open bathroom door. I was about to convince myself that I had somehow managed to climb out of the bath and move the clothes myself, but a number of facts immediately put paid to that explanation. Firstly, I would not simply forget dragging myself out of that steaming hot bath and into the far cooler bedroom. Secondly, there had been only two almost perfect footprints on the bath mat and not a trail of water leading in and out of the bathroom. And thirdly, I had never before undressed in the bedroom in order to take a bath in the bathroom. This was infuriating! I was being toyed with, that much was obvious. I wished, for a moment, that my father was behind all of this nonsense, but he was a practical man, not a practical joker. I was certain of one thing though. I knew that if he were here, he would have one explanation or another for what was happening to me.

My thoughts were brought suddenly back to the present. Someone was talking to me, jumbled, distant words, slowly becoming more defined, clearer, closer.

Another drink sir?

I looked up to find myself face to face with the young, black-haired steward, still smiling broadly, his small, frail-looking hands placed on the edge of the bar in front of him.

Excuse me? I replied, my voice no more than a whisper.

A drink sir. Would you care for another? Compliments of the house.

He stepped back and flicked the bar towel over his right shoulder, appearing to relax into his real self, the smile becoming more lifelike and natural. I looked down at my still half-full glass.

All watered down by now sir, the young man pointed out. You’ve been staring into space for the last half-hour. I was beginning to think you were becoming part of the furniture, you were so still.

A lot on my mind, I said, too sourly, and the thought occurred to me to apologise, but it was gone as fast as it had appeared. I looked up at the steward, the apology obviously in my eyes.

That’s all right sir, he grinned. No need. I get a lot worse than that at times. It’s probably enough for you to talk at all.

This was not some pre-programmed mechanical man I was looking at here. There was a human being in front