LAURA 19 March 2015
The sun inches slowly across the moon, stealing light as it goes. Kit is on a deserted mountainside, eyes glued skyward, Beth sneaking up on him under cover of the shadow. This isn’t over yet, she says again and again. There’s a jagged shard of glass clutched in her fist but it’s my palms that are bleeding. I’m screaming Kit’s name in warning but nothing’s coming out; Jamie Balcombe’s hand is tight over my mouth.
The nightmare wakes me but the vivid little film takes a full minute to dissipate. I cradle my belly and roll on to one side, eyes wide. A streetlamp throws grubby London light through the slats in the blinds and the bedside clock tells me it’s 3.59 a.m., about the same time I woke up yesterday. I heave onto all fours and reach for Kit’s pillow, focusing on the cool cotton under my palms. But the mental picture is burned into me, like a retina scarred from staring at the sun. I text him.
Are you awake?
What I mean is, are you alive?
I regret it as soon as I’ve done it. It’s one thing to be a nervous, controlling shrew (my words, not his – although he must think it) around the house, but to nag him across timezones is inexcusable. I’m losing my grip again. When he doesn’t answer within sixty seconds, my heartbeat becomes audible. One of the babies turns a somersault inside me, creating the horrible sensation of a rollercoaster’s plummet and, just like that, I’m in freefall. When anxiety wins, the mad part of me peels away from the rational one. My capable self is standing on a distant shore, watching in horror as I flail in rushing currents of my own making. That’s how it feels now, as I call Kit’s phone. It goes straight to voicemail three times in a row. A new image comes to me; Kit leaning over the ship’s railings, caught unawares as Beth first knocks his phone overboard and then flexes her hands to push . . .
Next thing I know, I’m shivering in my dressing gown and Uggs in my dark living room, my bump resting on my crossed legs. When I fire up the iPad my face is reflected in its surface for a second, a hollow-eyed ghoul with long white hair and concave cheeks. Night dissolves the day’s discipline and the double oo of the Google logo returns my unblinking stare.
Thought blurs into action. I’ll call the ship itself, ask the staff to check Kit’s cabin, or maybe, in case that seems mad (ha!), I could just ask whether everyone on board the Princess Celeste is accounted for. But the only number I can find is for the tour operator, and it turns out they’re not answering their phone at five minutes past four in the morning.
I look for faroes eclipse stabbed tourist crazed woman dies killed christopher mccall beth taylor princess celeste north sea on all the newswires: Press Assocation, Reuters, BBC, Sky News; surely, if something’s happened, they will have it covered between them. Momentary peace when my search draws a blank is immediately surpassed by the prospect that something terrible has happened, it just hasn’t been reported yet.
I run the same words through Google just in case. Stop it, says my rational mind. You’re making yourself ill. You’re flooding your babies with stress hormones. The dominant part of my brain sticks two fingers up in response, and I hit return. This time the internet sends me to YouTube and instinctively I watch through my fingers, like a child. I can tell even through the filter of my hands that none of this handful of clips is the video. The footage is amateur but it’s recent. One is from this afternoon, a ten-minute film of the sun setting over the North Sea. Tentatively, I click. There’s no music, just a little film someone’s made of the sinking sun. I watch the whole thing, focusing on nothing but the shimmering of bronze light on silver water. Wave by wave and breath by breath, I slowly return to calm. Repeatedly calling Kit’s phone now seems at best embarrassing, at worst dangerous. He’ll assume that there’s been a medical emergency. I pick my phone back up.
Sorry ignore me I’m fine just had a bad dream. Babies etc all good.
When the sunset video ends, the queue of videos in the sidebar shifts. I’m braced for a freezeframe from the video inching its way up the screen, but it seems I’m safe. These films are posted by scientists, not hedonists. Eclipse chasers who post online tend to divide into two tribes: the serious amateur astronomers Kit’s with now, and the new-age rave contingent. The former hugely outnumber the latter, so if you wanted to access the video you’d probably need to include the word festival in the search.
There’s only one more clip with Princess Celeste in the caption.
Eclipse-chasing cruise. Drunk guy rapping on the Princess Celeste HILARIOUS.
The clock in the corner of the screen tells me it’s twenty minutes past four. I can tell that sleep is hours away. I could do with a bit of light relief. I highlight the video and click play.
Chapter 23
LAURA