They were locked into a dressing room somewhere in the bowels of the New Amsterdam Theatre. The music and singing and dancing thundered on for another hour above them. The tunes were familiar, but poisoned for ever. They sat disconsolately on hard wooden chairs or dressing tables stained by years of make-up. After a while a steaming pot of food was brought in to them by men in wolf masks, together with bowls and spoons and cans of warm beer. The food smelled wonderful. But nobody wanted to be the first to try it.
'It's some kind of stew,' said Ty, sniffing at the open pot. He had a big appetite normally. 'It's someone, isn't it?'
Dr Hill fished out a piece of meat. He held it up to his nose. He let it drop on to a dresser before pushing and prodding it with a spoon. 'Impossible to tell,' he pronounced. He nodded around the passengers. 'I'm sure it's safe to eat.'
'And you will all be damned to hell.'
It was Cleaver, his eyes blazing, his skin as pale as Claire had ever seen it.
Mr Rodriguez, who clearly despised the minister, took this as a challenge. He lifted a spoon and stepped up to the pot. 'We have to eat,' he said. 'As long as we don't know for sure, I think we can eat this with a clear conscience . . .' He looked round the little group for support. It was not forthcoming. 'Please yourselves,' he said and dipped his spoon in, briefly examined what he brought out, then closed his eyes and put it in his mouth.
'Perhaps it's your wife,' said Cleaver.
Rodriguez immediately gagged, ran into the corner and spat it out. Then he was sick. He collapsed and began to cry, repeating his wife's name, Mary, over and over again.
Ty shook his head sadly and turned away. 'I wish I'd had more fun,' he said wistfully.
'What?' asked Claire.
'Mom and Pop wanted me to be a lawyer, so ever since I was a little kid I was always studying. It didn't come easy to me. All the time I should have been out there being a kid I was working.'
'I thought you spent all that time with your dad. Central Station, the park . . . ?'
'Yeah. Well. Once a year, maybe.' He sighed. 'All that work, just to end up in a stew.'
Claire patted his arm gently 'Maybe you won't end up in a stew,' she said. 'Maybe you'll end up in a pie.'
'That makes me feel better.'
They turned as the door behind them opened and one of the Wolf Men entered. 'Slash wants to see you,' he barked at Jeffers.
The first officer studied him for a moment, then pushed himself off the dresser he'd been perched on. He fixed his cap. He nodded across the room. 'Claire, with me.'
Claire looked at him in surprise.
'Just you,' Wolf Man snapped at Jeffers.
Jeffers shook his head. 'She's our official historian, she comes too.'
Wolf Man's head moved stiffly towards her. Then he turned back to Jeffers, gave a short nod and indicated for him to follow. Jeffers looked at Claire and together they approached the door. Claire gave Ty a what on earth is happening? look as she jumped up to follow.
Wolf Man led them along a corridor and up a set of stairs into the backstage area. Although the show was over it was still busy with actors and technicians. The prisoners continued on through this, and then began to mount several flights of steps.
'I don't understand,' Claire said to Jeffers. 'Usually you never want me along.'
'This is different.'
'How?'
'Because they want to negotiate.'
' What? How do—'
'Shhhhh.'
There was a door at the top of the steps with two armed guards stationed outside. One of them opened it and they followed Wolf Man into a large, mostly empty space, with mirrors along one wall. As a child Claire had attended ballet lessons in a room similar to this. A throne like the one she'd earlier seen pushed on to the stage sat at the back of the room. It was empty, but men wearing cheetah heads stood on either side of it. Each of them gripped what appeared to be samurai swords. They stared straight ahead and didn't acknowledge either of the prisoners as they approached the throne. A tap could be heard running from a smaller room off to one side. Then it was turned off, and a moment later King Slash appeared, his lion head in place, wearing a flowing white gown with some kind of ceremonial dagger in a jewel-encrusted belt looped around his waist. He was wiping his hands on a paper towel, which he rolled up and threw to one side. He nodded at Wolf Man, who turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Slash mounted two steps to his throne and sat. 'Have you met the Royal Butchers?' he asked.
Claire shuddered as the two swordsmen stepped forward, in perfect time, until one was behind her, the other behind Jeffers. Then they performed an about turn, so that they were facing their king again.
'They will carve the meat from you while you still breathe.'
Claire swallowed.
'They will suck the marrow from your bones and—'
'Enough.' Jeffers' voice was quiet but steady.
Silence.
Claire wanted to scream at him, Be quiet! Don't make them angry! They're going to slice me up alive!
Slash rose slowly from his throne. He stepped down to their level. He stood in front of Claire. He moved his impassive lion face right into hers. Slash sniffed at her. Sweat dripped down her back.
'Please . . .' she whispered.
Pure dread.
He moved on to Jeffers. Two sets of eyes bore into him — the unmoving lion eyes and the brown human eyes, narrow, piercing. Jeffers stared straight ahead.
'What do you want?' Jeffers asked.
Slash began to laugh, but it sounded odd, hollow, through the mask. Suddenly, and with considerable speed, he whipped the dagger from its sheath and held it to Jeffers' neck just below the ear. Claire let out an involuntary cry.
'What do I want?' Slash hissed. 'I want Titanic.'