The Company of the Dead Read Online Free Page A

on its side. An amber slick traced a pathway across the creased paper. At the table’s edge an empty bottle rolled precariously.
    He woke to an explosion of sound at the door. Muffled shouts came from without. Unsteadily he rose and eyed the clock on the mantle: three o’clock, and still dark outside.
    He leaned heavily against the door as he opened it. Crawford, his steward, framed the doorway. Behind him, Wells could see passengers in various states of undress moving hurriedly back and forth.
    “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you at this time, Mr Wells,” the steward said.
    Wells swayed at the cabin’s entrance, rubbing his eyes. “What’s happening?” he slurred.
    Crawford glanced nervously over his shoulder. “We are experiencing a small difficulty. No need for alarm, sir; however, Captain Smith has asked that all passengers make their way to the boat deck till matters are sorted out.”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “I’m afraid not, sir.” His smile was strained and unconvincing.
    Wells noticed the thin line of perspiration moistening the elderly man’s moustache. Slowly his back straightened, his mind cleared. Despite the noise of scurrying passengers, he realised that the ship’s engines had fallen silent.
    The air was pierced by a sudden shriek that filled their ears.
    “They’re venting the steam,” Wells said. “We’re not moving. Why have they stopped the ship?”
    “I’m not sure, sir,” Crawford replied hurriedly. “However, if you would please make your way topside, I’m certain we will be under way again in no time.”
    The ship was not moving. Wells had an unpleasant sensation of déjà vu . “Crawford, have we struck something?” His voice was almost lost in the din.
    A look of surprise flickered over the steward’s face. He lowered his eyes. “I believe we may have grazed an iceberg, Mr Wells.”
    “ Grazed? ”
    “That is my understanding.”
    “ Motherfucker ,” Wells hissed to himself.
    Crawford’s face registered shock. Only his unfamiliarity with the term seemed to hold him in place. Wells realised another slip like that would not be tolerated. “How long do we have?” he asked.
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Crawford’s curt reply spoke of more than just dismay. He departed quickly and silently.
    Wells stared for a moment at the open doorway. Turning back into the cabin, he glanced at the journal and swallowed a harsh laugh. He went to the cabinet and removed a fresh bottle. He righted the fallen tumbler, placed it on the table’s edge and poured himself a measure.
    Staring at the glass, he noticed a slight tilt in the fluid level.
    “I’ll be damned...”
    He folded the journal under his arm. Taking his scarf and coat from where they lay on the bed, he strode out into the vacant hallway.
    I have to assess the damage, he thought. Just keep calm. Yet it beggared belief. He’d stood on the boat deck at eleven-forty, and watched the iceberg slip past with hundreds of feet to spare. There’d been no collision. Surely they couldn’t have struck a different iceberg, later in the night? The possibility was outrageous.
    He had to speak to Andrews, Captain Smith, Officer Lightholler... someone. But first he had to deal with the journal. It was his only link to the world he’d known. The thought of losing it was unbearable. He had to place it where he could reclaim it later, when he had used his knowledge of the ship to save it.
    He entered the C deck stairwell to find a small queue forming outside the purser’s office: mainly servants and maids along with the occasional bewildered first-class passenger. Glancing at his watch he saw that it was ten past three.
    A woman’s voice, sharp and penetrating, issued from the office. Wells tapped his foot, muttering to himself, “No good, this is no good.” He shouldered past the crowd and moved towards the entrance, ignoring the disgruntled mutterings behind him.
    Within, a middle-aged woman in a