Jimmy and Claire fought and bickered and swore and hurled insults, names and anything that wasn't tied down at each other on the way to Scoop's office. They went on and on and on and . . . eventually Scoop's wheelchair screeched to a halt. He spun around and yelled: 'ENOUGH!'
Jimmy let go of Claire's hair.
Claire released Jimmy's foot.
'There's no need to shout,' said Jimmy.
'I'm not deaf,' said Claire.
'Well then just . . . stop it. Please.' He opened the door and led them in. 'You'll be working together whether you like each other or not, so get used to it. But believe you me, it'll be an awful lot easier if you just learn to get on. All right?'
Jimmy shrugged. Claire looked at her nails.
'OK. Now, Jimmy, I want you to explain to Claire about the who, what, where, when, how . . .'
'The what?' Claire demanded.
'How to write a story,' said Jimmy.
Claire snorted. 'I know how to write a story.'
'This is different, Claire,' said Scoop. 'It's journalism.'
'Not fairytales about your little ponies,' said Jimmy.
'Shut your trap!'
'Kids, please!'
'I was editor of the school newspaper,' said Claire.
'I was editor of the school newspaper,' mimicked Jimmy. 'What was it, the Pony Express?'
They continued with the bickering until gradually they became aware that Scoop was just sitting there, watching, not bothering to tell them off. After a few more exchanges, they fell silent.
'All right,' Scoop said quietly, 'we're clearly not going to get anywhere with this tonight. And I've had enough of it. I want you to go to your rooms, and I want you both to have a long think. Captain Smith has spelled out to each of you what will happen if you don't work with me on this. So either come in bright and fresh and friendly in the morning, or don't come in at all and deal with the consequences.'
Jimmy shrugged. Claire examined her nails again.
'Right. Off with you then.'
They walked out together. They moved up the corridor side by side, in silence. When they came to the elevators at the end, they both stepped in. Claire pressed for the fourteenth floor. Jimmy pressed for the ninth. They travelled upwards without speaking or looking at each other.
When the doors opened Jimmy stepped out.
'Brain dead,' said Claire.
The doors began to close.
'Fat arse,' said Jimmy.
***
As they lay sleeping that night, lost in their own dreams and nightmares, the virus was spreading rapidly through the city of San Diego. TV news programmes were calling it 'The Plague' or 'The Red Death'. In St Mary's Hospital, where the two dying boys had been brought, the doctors were utterly unable to identify the cause of their illness, and weren't even aware that they themselves had been infected. By the time a well-practised quarantine procedure was finally introduced it was far too late. The virus was too strong. Thousands were falling ill. First there was a high fever, then came huge pulsating sores. Finally lungs filled with yellow poison, drowning the victims.
The city was dying — the state, the country, and the entire world was under a death sentence.
***
'We can use this, can't we?' Jimmy asked the next morning, nodding at a news story he'd pulled up on his computer screen. Scoop rolled up alongside and studied it. The Governor of California had declared a state of emergency in San Diego, and was being urged to do the same in Los Angeles. All flights to and from those cities had been grounded, and the roads closed. Scientists were battling to identify the source of the outbreak and to produce a cure. High doses of antibiotics were being administered to patients but with little success. The President said his prayers were with the people of California. The first case was reported in Washington DC shortly after the President issued his statement.
Well,' said Scoop, 'in this case we have several options. As a journalist, of course you want to use it; it's a huge story, it has everything you want — drama, tragedy, death . . . but you have to remember you're on a cruise ship, and you don't want to cause panic amongst your passengers. And if half of California is in quarantine then the passengers we were expecting from San Diego or Los Angeles probably aren't going to make it to the ship in time, so we don't have to write for them. What we do is practise responsible journalism — report the news in a calm, matter-of-fact way, don't sensationalize.'
Jimmy said: 'Damn. I was going to write the headline, We're All Going to Die!
Scoop laughed. 'This is California we're talking about — Hollywood. They exaggerate everything. In a few days we'll find out that it's nothing more than bad flu.'
'What about — Californians Should Stop Whining and Go Back to Work?'
'No.'
Half an hour later the door opened and Claire appeared, yawning.
Scoop looked at his watch. 'Jimmy's been here since eight-thirty. It is now ten-fifteen.'
'I had a swim. Then I had to get my nails done.'
'We start at eight-thirty.'
'Relax, would you? It's not like it's a real job.'
Scoop took this as a direct attack on his profession. 'If you're late tomorrow you will be sacked,' he snapped. 'Then your father will take the appropriate action.'
Claire rolled her eyes. 'All right, all right, keep your hair on. I'm here now, aren't I?' She took a seat beside Jimmy. He hadn't looked at her, or said a word. He continued to study the screen. 'Good morning, James.'
'It's Jimmy.'
'Isn't that short for James? I much prefer James. Kings were called James. Jimmy is someone who comes round and fixes your drains.'
'It's Jimmy.'
'Please yourself.' She looked at Scoop. 'Well? What do you want me to do?'
***
Jimmy couldn't believe it. His first proper assignment was to go down to the kitchens and interview Pedroza, the chef. Claire was to go with him to take photographs.
He had protested immediately. 'But you told me he was as mad as a bag of spiders.'
'That's what you want in an interview, someone with a bit of personality.'
'But what if he goes mental on me?'
'Even better.'
Jimmy looked at Claire. 'What are you smirking at?'
'Nothing, James.'
***
They found Pedroza sitting over a coffee and reading an old newspaper at a table on a small section of the deck outside the kitchens reserved for catering staff. The floor was littered with cigarette butts.
Jimmy hesitantly approached. Scoop had told him that Pedroza was expecting him, but he certainly didn't look like he was. His black eyes burned into Jimmy. 'Ah . . . hello . . . I'm . . . from . . . the newspaper . . .' Jimmy began, pointing down at the paper. 'I'm here . . . to . . . interview . . . you . . .'
Pedroza looked at him blankly.
'You sound like you're talking to an old deaf person,' said Claire.
'Shut up,' snapped Jimmy. Turning back to Pedroza, lie continued, 'Do . . . you . . . speak . . . English? Have . . . you . . . worked . . . on . . . a . . . ship . . .' and he waved vaguely around him, '. . . like . . . this. . . before?'
Pedroza's brow furrowed, then he spat something short and sharp in a language Jimmy didn't recognize.
'Where . . . do . . . you . . . come . . . from?' Then he pointed out to sea. 'Far . . . away?'
Pedroza thought for a moment, then he brightened suddenly and pointed at the water. 'Fish,' he said.
'Nice one,' said Claire.
"Will you shut up?' Jimmy exploded. 'I'd like to see you do any better!'
Claire smiled sarcastically, then sat down in the chair opposite Pedroza and began to address him in fluent Portuguese. Jimmy's mouth dropped open. A few moments later a torrent of words issued from the chef, all accompanied by enthusiastic hand gestures. Claire turned to Jimmy. 'He's from Africa originally, but has settled in Lisbon in Portugal, he's married with six children, he's been a chef with White Star for fifteen years, he only gets back to see his family twice a year and he misses them very much. Are you going to write any of this down?'
Jimmy fumbled for his pen. 'Ye-yeah — hold on . . .' He began to write as quickly as he could. 'Lisbon . . . six children . . . only gets back . . .' Then he glanced up. 'Why didn't you say you spoke Portuguese?'
'You didn't ask.' Before Jimmy could respond Claire returned her attention to the chef, and began firing questions at him. As soon as Pedroza responded, she translated in the same animated fashion, and Jimmy quickly jotted down the details. One hundred and five thousand meals prepared every week . . . three hundred thousand desserts . . . one and a half thousand pounds of coffee . . . eight thousand gallons of ice cream . . . When he'd filled seven pages with facts and figures, and they all seemed a lot more relaxed, Jimmy said: 'Ask him how come he screams at anyone who drops food on the carpet, or tries to smuggle it out of the restaurant.'
Claire repeated the question. Pedroza got out of his chair and poked Jimmy in the chest. He barked something. Then he poked him again. Jimmy took a step backwards. Pedroza snarled something else. As Jimmy moved backwards Pedroza went with him. Claire translated in staccato fashion as she followed them across the deck.
'He says . . . messy people drive him mad . . . he slaves over food but because it is free people don't care if they drop it . . . they don't pick it up . . . they grind it into the carpet . . . they fill their plates . . . and only eat a little bit . . . and throw the rest out . . . then try something else . . . they are greedy and lazy . . . and the food they leave . . . would feed his village in Africa for many years.'
Pedroza had Jimmy backed right up against the railings now and was still jabbering away.
Jimmy looked to Claire for help. 'Claire, please — tell him to back off!'
Claire spoke rapidly in Portuguese.
'And,' Jimmy added, 'why don't you tell him he's mad as a bag of spiders, and if he spits in my face one more time I'll twist his ears off and stick them up his nose.'
'Why don't you tell me yourself?' Pedroza asked, this time in perfect English.
'I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .'
Pedroza laughed suddenly, prodded Jimmy once more in the chest, then turned away. He retook his seat and lifted his newspaper.
Claire stared down at him in disbelief. 'You can speak . . .'
Pedroza's eyes narrowed. 'Sometimes it is good to have secrets.' He glanced across at Jimmy without any attempt to conceal his contempt. 'And sometimes it is good to know when to keep your mouth shut.'
Jimmy felt a shiver run down his spine.
***
'Did you notice,' Jimmy asked on the way back to the newspaper office, 'that in every single photo you took of him he had some kind of knife in his hand?'
'He's a chef, of course he had.'
'He creeps me out.'
'ou creep me out.'
Jimmy made a face.
'These are really neat,' Claire said, clicking through the photos on the camera as they approached the office.
'Yeah, right,' said Jimmy.
When they re-entered the office they were surprised to find Scoop standing by the window, looking out. He rapped a fist on his legs, making a hollow, metallic sound. 'Thought I'd give them a spin,' he said, smiling. 'Land ahoy and all that. Never going to win an Olympic medal for sprinting, but they're not bad. Now then, how was our chef?'
'Mad as a . . .'Jimmy began, already sitting down at his desk and beginning to type.
'Fine . . .' said Claire at the same time.
Scoop looked from one to the other. 'OK, let's get a look at those pictures then.'
Claire began to push buttons on the back of her camera. 'If I can just hook it up to a monitor we can . . .' But then she stopped. She pushed some more buttons. Then she looked up, her face now rather pale. 'I've erased them.'
'What?' said Scoop.
'I was trying to get rid of the ones I didn't like, but I've erased them all.'
'Let me see.'
Scoop took hold of the camera. After a while he let out a long sigh. 'Did you by any chance read the instructions before you started pushing buttons?'
Claire examined her nails.
'Brain dead,' said Jimmy.
Claire's eyes snapped up. 'You—'
'Stop!' Scoop waved a warning finger at her. Claire held her tongue. 'All right, Claire, they're gone, it happens. It's not the end of the world. However, I want to put this paper together this afternoon, print up some copies, let the Captain take a look. But I can't run Jimmy's feature without a picture. If you race down to the kitchen now and smile nicely at him you might just persuade him to pose for you again.'
'All right. I'm really sorry.' Claire took her camera back and turned for the door. As she passed behind Jimmy she glanced at his screen. 'There's only one f in chef,' she hissed.
As she hurried through the door Jimmy shouted after her: 'And there's only one t in idiot!'