Midway Read online

  Or one giant one.

  Slosh, slosh, slosh…

  Crunch…

  I took this sound to be mocking laughter and punched out at the surface of water. My efforts amounted to a wasted flail, as I did nothing to bruise this insurmountable giant that had swallowed most of my world already. It wasn’t even a battle. Goliath had David pinned down with one hand and flicked his pitiful stones away with the other, his giant, hungry mouth gaping ever closer to create an alternative ending. The ocean was a lapping tongue before the dark throat of the guttural below.

  Lick, lick, lick…

  From the breadth of darkness, a horn blew in answer to my frustrations. The Odetta Blue had come back for me. Someone had reported us missing, and the cargo ship, being the closest vessel, had turned round and now searched for me. This was the end. I was saved. Maybe they’d already found the others. Maybe…

  Think of the reunion! High fives and smiles, what a story this will be, eh?

  I braced myself for a searchlight to blaze through the darkness and bring blinding illumination to my isolation.

  I froze, squinting in the pitch in effort to focus on even the dim glow of a distant firefly. It was useless. There was nothing. I started kicking again in gentle, swooping arcs, as I tried to dull any motion made by me. The sound of the horn continued, prickling the wet hairs on my neck. Metallic and mournful. My first hope of it being the foghorn of a passing ship was dashed when it oscillated down in pitch. The warning blare of a foghorn is a constant parp of annoyance that demanded everything from the ears. This was animalistic and mechanical at the same time. It sounded like the vocalisation of a whale, but more industrial, as if Captain Nemo had constructed a steam powered brass beast and now it circled me, goading me, and inciting fear at the command of its master.

  The sound increased in volume, the layers building until a thousand concrete pipe organs chimed, shot blast rocketed through rusted tubas and screamed against red hot wires. Dying robots screamed their last binary banshee wails as the stomach of a volcano gurgled in a wanton anticipation of circuits and steel.

  Turbines at full revs, the blades white hot, ready to spin from their fixings.

  Aeons of pressure escaping from melting rocks, hissing forth moisture older than some stars.

  Shrieking feedback from the megaphone of an angry God; an unholy, trembling murmur from a deity that could paralyse a city dumb at the first utterance as the sound pierced eardrums and bled the brain.

  It whirred, it grinded, it hollered, it howled like a sleeping mountain waking up from an age of slumber. This visage assembled to form a gigantic beast, with manhole sized, milky eyes, scales slashed through with oozing battle scars, and a trembling maw emitting a seeping dead fish stink. Its teeth the colour of a dead tree devoid of bark, chipped from a millennia of meals and fights to the death for skin and bone, smiled at me from below the waterline, they parted in a godless old god smile. Retractable talons awaken from fleshy cuticles and smoothly push out like curved splinters. A reptilian claw reaches out for me, a scaly palm, massive and capable of crushing a car in its grasp, cups me beneath the water. The digits close in, and are always poised to sink into me, in the tick of the next heart booming second.

  It was all there, hidden by the darkness. That was what I could hear. I was sure of it. In my mind, if the sky was lit in the next instant, that was what I would see. All this happening at once as if I’d snuck a look behind the curtain of reality and what really went on behind the scenes of our world. Monsters cobbled from our Hollywood nightmares, and childhood fears made real by some dream factory in caves dark and impossibly deep, hidden from curious cameras and probing science of humankind.

  This is how people disappear. On land, strange men would take the blame. Maybe monsters whisper to those on the edge to own up and suffer the fall.

  Dinosaurs were once real, and the legend of dragons had to come from somewhere. Maybe braver ancestors had brought upon the demise of the old monsters, turning them into stone and myth. Maybe gods are monsters that have yet to be destroyed. I shuddered internally at the thought of tribes worshipping the thing that stalked me. My mind went momentarily wild with mud smeared tribesmen tossing appeasing virgins off a windswept cliff top, or strapping them to worn post by the shoreline as the hungry lips of the tides tickled their toes, fighting back with nothing but protesting howls at their uneasy fate.

  The charm of chaos brought a nervous giddiness over me, as if I’d been let in on a secret that would kill me if ever I uttered it out loud. I was in the know, but I wasn’t to tell.

  Shush, said the Gods, and the world will be yours forever.

  I didn’t believe them. The gods lie.

  The noise increased again, pushing thick knuckles of dire fucking pain into my ear canals. I covered them with my palms, pressing airtight to protect what delicacies trembled inside. The noise continued inside my head, whistling a siren song that pierced my ears like the boiled call from an infernal kettle. The pain was dampened, but the containment did nothing to dull the intensity of the aural assault. It was coming from all around me. I could feel the vibrations hollow me out. My guts actually quaked like a bowl of jelly atop a spin dryer. The urge to go to the toilet unfurled my knotted insides, making me feeling like I was seven again, and in the back of my parents’ car on that sweltering summer afternoon. They knew I needed to go.

  Just a few more miles son… hold on to it.

  I didn’t have miles. I had seconds. I’ll always remember the laughter from my brothers after I made an uh oh sound and filled the car with a fetid stink. My parents grimaced and wound down their windows before pulling over; parental guilt spoiling their summer smiles as they cleaned me up on the hard shoulder of the A1.

  I clenched and swallowed it back inside with a stab to my gut. It felt as if something was trying to crawl out.

  The noise dulled in the night air, seeming to move under water momentarily, the vibrations massaging me as it made its descent. Then it stopped, and I hollowed out as I let myself relax an iota.

  Despite all my bracing, it was then, as it’s known in the industry of fear, that I shat myself. Soiling myself at that precise moment was the icing on the cake after all I’d endured.

  All-too pleasing warmth spread down my thighs and into the small of my back, seeping like an oil massage around the front. Despite the revolted moan from my mouth, I didn’t feel in the slightest bit disgusted. It was more a gasp of relief. I felt fear more than anything else. It wasn’t something I could run and hide from. I couldn’t lock myself in a deep bunker or stand behind an appropriately armed military force. The fear repeated again and again and again, endless waves that both paralysed me, and made me want to swim eastward. Anything to get closer to the sun and reveal whatever plagued me.

  I wanted to see what stalked me.

  I didn’t want to see what stalked me.

  To reveal itself would destroy me.

  Curiosity killed the Sam. Then chewed and chewed until there was nothing left but a bottle of Green Fucking Voodoo Tiger Fucking Piss floating in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  It was now that I realised my hands were empty, now I could grasp them shut in a naked and numb fist. No plastic bottle got in the way, no goggles hung from my fingers. Panicking, I felt out blindly into the water. I found my goggles straight away, I discovered them still hanging from my flailing wrist, but my bottle of Green Voodoo Tiger Sugar Piss was no longer in reach. I had taken it to be my life raft and only source of calorific value. With that bottle it gave me evidence that the world really existed out there, and I wasn’t truly alone on this planet. Other people had done other things, and I hadn’t imagined my previous life. It was more than a trinket; it was a mascot that stopped me from sinking into complete madness. It was my anchor back to the world I’d left behind. Though we had over three hundred bottles left on board before the Burringham sank, I doubted I’d ever see another nuclear leak lime green coloured bottle of that sulphuric poison. I co
uldn’t remember when I’d let go, but it had saved me from ever letting the fluid touch my lips. Health wise it was probably a good thing, who knows what that evil stuff does to your insides after each accumulated mouthful. Perhaps secretly I was glad, as death would visit me sooner. With the tiger piss, I was offered the chance of at least a few more hours, maybe half a day of life. Better to have complete realisation of your fate than a bottle of false hope.

  Being encased in darkness and having nothing else to do, I decided to free the mess I’d made following my sudden evacuation. I knew it wasn’t wise to release faecal matter into the ocean. Sharks being sharks would most likely sniff it back to me, and their interest would be heightened to say the least. But I’d shit myself whilst adrift alone in the Atlantic Ocean. Anything worse would seem like an improvement at this point. Besides, I had the Shark Shield to keep them at bay. If there was any point on my timeline to cleanse myself without the fear of being bitten in the arse by a Great White, now was opportune.

  With the horrific wailing still plaguing my thoughts, I shook myself from my reverie and undid my zip, pulling my right arm through the Fast Skin and up into the naked night air. Reaching around I pushed my hand into the back of my Speedos and scooped the hot mess free, flicking the sticky remnants of my last meal (porridge with raisins my best guess judging from the grain between my fingers) into the cool brine of the Atlantic. I did this death defying act whilst imitating a floating squat in the pitch dark and kicking my legs with a fitful, sporadic scurry, the real fear of inhaling my own shit plaguing my thoughts. But it needed to be done. I felt no shame in the slightest, only a need to be cleansed, and make myself feel as human as possible. I spread my hand flat and wiped in between my cheeks to remove as much as I could, every so often smearing my hand on the outside of my leg.

  Once satisfied, I pushed my arm back through my Fast Skin, and zipped myself back up. At least I wouldn’t die with my pants full of shit. I had that much to be thankful for.

  ***

  Alone in this morbid shade of the turning Earth, as far as anyone from the glowing warmth of the nutritious vitamin D feeding sun, I contemplated my life after I’d gone. What beating butterfly effects in far ponds would I ripple? The newspapers would assume we all went down together as a result of mechanical failure or even as a consequence of Hurricane Wendy. My parents would outlive me; my older, druggie brother would become the favourite living son and probably insist on first dibs of my London flat (though it was doubtful he could afford the rent). My dolt of a younger brother would go after my T-shirt and trainer collection, and probably my music collection and guitars (he wasn’t that thick then). After a memorial and a few weeks of exposure in the media, we’d all become part of conspiracy theories involving mysterious disappearances like we’d cruised into an equatorial Bermuda triangle, swallowed whole by a Time Warp/Sea Monster/UFO never to be seen again. Whatever they settled on, they’d never know the real truth. Whatever the hell that was.

  They’d write books about us and by the end an unrevealing Forteanesque Channel Five documentary. The Lord Burringham Mystery; What Really Happened?

  Maybe they’d do a drama about all of our lives before we set off on our voyage? Who would play me? Some washed up soap actor probably. Sorry, Channing Tatum can’t do a Yorkshire accent very well, so you’ll have settle for this guy who played a second cousin to the Dingles on Emmerdale.

  Unless I found my way back to shore, the truth would never be out, and the world would remain in pondering for the rest of time. I imagined a dishevelled detective in a future world, pawing over files and printouts late into the night as he revisited our disappearance. He’d beat himself up as he consulted old charts and weather reports with a tumbler brimming with cheap bourbon. We’d be the bane of his night time thoughts as he fought with theories that would make sense only if he had a shred of evidence. He’d die not knowing. Only the dead know the truth.

  Hell, I was the only known survivor of The Lord Burringham, and I still didn’t know what was going on. I was Lord Lucan. I was Amelia Earhart. I was Ambrose Bierce. Only the missing truly knows where they are.

  My dad once told me about a local family near me whose young son vanished from their back garden. A manhunt proved fruitless as there wasn’t a shred of evidence to go on. Local sex offenders were interviewed, but he still wasn’t found. Years passed and the boy or his body were never found. That wasn’t the kicker for me, though. The part of the story that got me was that his family kept the living room light on every night, in case he should come home unannounced.

  The tragedy came to a head on the night of what should have been his eighteenth birthday. Presents were laid out on the table. The candles on the cake remained unlit as they’d done years before, with and without tears. Heading to bed, his parents turned off the living room light. Giving up was easy, when all hope is gone. It’s important to keep that spark alive, be it a candle, a light bulb, or a flame in your heart.

  I guessed the others were dead. Celeste was gone. I figured it would be healthy to accept that she was dead. I wasn’t about to start searching for her until I myself was saved. Whatever remained of her physically was more than likely in the depths below. I had no proof of this, but I took it to be an unverifiable fact. As soon as I was back on dry land, I’d drum up efforts to search for what remained of my boat and crew. I, more than anybody, wanted this mystery solved. As if the fates had been different, it might have been me on the Lord Burringham and one of the others out here.

  I wondered what the others would have done, knowing in the first instant that Tamara would’ve gotten angry. Celeste might have cried. Tom might have cried as well, not through fear, but because deep down he was a big softie and as soon as the realisation that his friends were gone, he would have mourned us. Charles would have carried on swimming; he had that bull-headedness about him that makes me think that he would have struggled to accept that the boat had sunk at all. His first thought would’ve been that he’d been overtaken and he’d have to catch up. Russell would have taken it to be a joke for far too long, before the crushing realisation came down on him that he was utterly alone in the ocean. If I could have picked any of us to have died first after been left behind, I would have picked Russell. Not because of any weak-mindedness or suicidal tendencies, but because of the fact he wouldn’t enjoy being alone. I would’ve given him a few hours before he stopped kicking and slipped beneath the waves as a scared child would beneath the bulletproof comfort of a blanket. I reckoned it wouldn’t take long to drive a man to complete and utter despair. The self could do that. Being stuck in a situation like this made you realise how easy giving up really was.

  My parents were probably still oblivious to my fate. I dreaded the look on their faces when some official (probably some executive from Klear K plc) breaks the news that their son is lost at sea. I can see my father’s face crumbling and turning that shade of beetroot red when he gets emotional. My mother would turn pale, almost grey with fright. Children shouldn’t go before their parents. It wasn’t natural, as it reversed over the expected order of life creating life, creating life, and forever onwards. There wasn’t even a word to describe the breadth of how truly devastating it could be. Not that it was likely I’d ever have to suffer such mental trauma. This would be a burden for my parents to bear.

  What are you doing to find him? Where’s the boat? Where’s his team? One of them would ask, probably my father after the first bout of tears had drained him, before vain hope filled him right back up again.

  What about Lindsey Harris?

  What the fuck about Lindsey Harris?

  She’d miss me. I knew that much. Despite the terms we left on, I’m sure she’d grieve and attend my fake funeral and empty box filled with flowers and trinkets and photos and letters I’d never read. What would Lindsey have put in that box? I could have guessed a thousand things, but my mind settled on one thing. At what temperature would silver turn to smoke? It would be the engagement ring. I wouldn’t
blame her. Not now. I’d proposed a week before I was offered a place with team GB on the Lord Burringham. We‘d agreed to start planning the wedding as soon as I was back on dry land. Now looking at the dry land from this distance from the shore, I’d want her to move on. She was still young and didn’t owe me a dammed thing.

  Besides, she never knew about Celeste and me. Maybe it was for the best that it ended like this, for poor, innocent Lindsey’s sake at least. I’d been let off the hook at having to face breaking her heart in the most brutal way possible.

  With that, as the thought became lost with the rest, the wind picked up, chilling my salt burned face. Strong gusts bursting from behind me pushed me back the way I came. No doubt it was the tail end of Hurricane Wendy whipping out at anyone stupid enough to be caught in her influence; such as moi.

  At least it let me know I was still alive. This outside influence, this touch from the beyond, lit my soul. It proved I wasn’t dead, or at least I had the capacity to imagine I wasn’t dead yet.

  With the wind came precipitation. I smiled in surprise as a light rain peppered my face. I opened my lips wide, cracking the corners, and wagged my tongue towards the sky, willing the minute droplets towards my mouth. I held my hands out, shook off the seawater, and cupped my hands skywards. I brought my hands to my face and licked my palms, recoiling at the bitterness that remained. I didn’t care. I needed moisture. I lapped up what I could; spending ten minutes blindly licking what the sky offered me and cursing all the wasted droplets that drizzled into the great undrinkable.

  Checking my goggles were still wrapped around my wrist, I decided to swim for a while, just to do anything to take my mind off floundering off to nowhere, these fits and starts continued through the night. I’d swim for a while, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour, until I stopped. I’d cry helplessly at the fact that I’d never see the sunrise, kiss a beautiful woman, or even eat a bacon butty smothered with ketchup ever again. I realised the only way I’d get myself out of this dank, dark mess and experience any kind of joy again, would be of my own accord and determination. I started swimming again. I really wanted a hot and crispy bacon butty; any effort on my part would be worth the chance of tasty one again.