SAM 9 JUNE
SAM
Sam lay in bed, willing his brain to switch off so he could finally get some sleep.
It was gone two in the morning; he’d been tossing and turning for more than two hours, and now he’d missed the soporific, alcohol-fuelled point in time where he could pass out in a haze.
To make matters worse, he’d actually started sobering up; he was vaguely nauseous, his tongue coated with fur despite two rounds of mouthwash, his heart juddering erratically in his chest. The cut on his foot was throbbing again too; it had felt better the previous morning, but he’d clearly overdone it during the day.
Sam winced as he brushed his injured foot against the mattress.
It wasn’t just the pain, though: his confusion about the evening was spinning around his brain, wiring him up.
It had all ended so strangely tonight – Mark kicking off like that, Lucy having to drag him away, Rory so bewildered by it all.
They were on a superyacht exploring some of the most beautiful places on earth – what did Mark have to get so pissed off about?
He’d only known him a couple of days, sure, but that behaviour seemed out of place.
Mark didn’t give off the vibe of someone who’d turn aggressive when drunk; he’d seemed sensible, quiet, a little awkward – a bit of a geek, honestly.
He’d have been that boy at school who sat at the front, arm straight up with the answers before the teacher had finished speaking, covering his exam papers with his hands.
The opposite of Sam, who spent his days messing about, sticking chewed-up bubblegum under his desk, scrapping with kids in the year above – popular; excellent at sports, but not much else.
Sam had his suspicions about what could have given Mark the rage, though. It was to do with Lucy – it had to be. Mark had caught Lucy snooping in Rory’s room so maybe he thought there was something going on between them.
And maybe there is. Whether it was romantic – Sam was grossed out by the idea, but wouldn’t rule it out; that was Rory’s style, after all – or something else altogether, some kind of secret agreement between them might explain what she was doing here.
It just didn’t add up otherwise. Lucy wasn’t Rory’s usual pick for a bonus trip; it was basically unheard of, bringing along an analyst, for fuck’s sake.
Then rifling through his stuff, alone in his cabin, clearly up to something.
Looking for something. Did Lucy have any idea what she might be getting herself into?
His brain felt scattered. Giving up on sleep now after so long trying, Sam decided he needed some fresh air.
He swung his legs out of bed and got up, chucked on a T-shirt and shorts over his boxers, grabbed his key card and phone – smiling as he noted the new text from his little sister, Anna: How’s the superyacht, bro?
– then opened his cabin door, as quietly as he could.
The corridor outside was dark and silent – except for the sound of some guttural snores coming from the master stateroom, next to his cabin. He crinkled his nose in mild disgust – of course Rory was a horrendous snorer. He’d expect nothing less.
As he stepped into the passageway, the sensor picked him up and the lights blazed on, blinding him for a few seconds. Squinting, he stumbled, hopping on his good foot towards the staircase.
When he reached the top, he felt something squelch as he placed his injured foot briefly on the ground.
Peering down, he saw with horror that blood was seeping through the dressing – he must have opened the cut again somehow.
Shit. He needed a new bandage, and for someone to clean up the smears of blood that had no doubt trailed behind him from his cabin.
It was too late for any of the crew to still be up, wasn’t it?
He didn’t want to wake anyone. Perhaps he could just clean it up himself.
Stepping gingerly towards the galley, he was about to walk inside and start rooting around for a bandage and a cloth, when he heard soft voices inside. He peered through the window: two people were standing at the other end of the galley.
The stewardesses. They’re up late. He went to knock on the door, but something about their body language told him not to interrupt. He paused – not meaning to eavesdrop exactly, just … waiting for a good moment to announce his presence.
‘I can’t believe he came to the crew cabins – twice,’ Johanna said.
‘How did he even get in this afternoon – and again tonight? And … you don’t think he was being serious?
’ Johanna’s arms wrapped around her body.
Her tone was urgent; nervous. The crew were always so calm and collected.
It was unsettling, hearing them like this.
‘I don’t know – he must have got hold of a key card somehow – didn’t Noah say he’d lost his? And no, maybe he wasn’t being serious. But just … the way he said it, you know?’ Michaela’s voice was worried too, but tinged with anger.
‘What are you going to do? Have you told the captain about him getting in our quarters?’ Johanna asked.
Sam shifted on the spot, careful to stay out of sight behind the galley door. He knew he shouldn’t be listening, but he felt trapped. If he walked into the galley now, they might realize he’d overheard them. Best to wait until they’d finished talking before he moved.
‘Yeah, I’ve spoken to her again – she said I don’t have to go back on guest duties for now. I’m sorry, Jo, it’s not fair on you. But nothing this bad has ever happened to me on a charter before – a bit of drunken banter, yes, but coming to find me below deck …’
Johanna’s response came more softly this time; Sam strained to pick up her words: ‘Listen, maybe he was just messing around. And honestly, Mic, no one would actually do anything on a yacht full of people. He’d have to be crazy to even try.’
So they were talking about a man on board. Someone had said something that had frightened Michaela – threatened her, or made her uncomfortable, at least.
And Sam would bet his annual salary that he could guess who.
Another pause, then Johanna added: ‘Try not to worry. I’ve got your back.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught something move in the shadows of the salon behind him. He turned around to look; it was dark, though, and he couldn’t make anything out. Probably just the sea breeze shifting the awning.
He turned back and felt a flash of guilt.
What am I doing? This wasn’t right; he should stop listening in.
Whatever was going on, he wasn’t going to get to the bottom of it like this, lurking in the shadows.
He swayed slightly, the pain radiating from the sole of his right foot now making him wobble.
He had an idea: he’d walk back a bit, then pretend he’d just come up to the galley – he’d make it look like he hadn’t been waiting there, listening to a conversation he knew was private.
He took a couple of painful paces backwards, then stepped towards the galley door and pushed it open.
‘Oh! Hello, you two. You’re up late! All good?
’ His voice came out too bright, forced.
Michaela startled and took a step back from Johanna, who turned and flashed Sam a smooth smile.
‘Is everything okay, Sam?’ she said, with no trace of the worry in her voice that Sam had heard a moment ago.
She sounded like the same Johanna that had been offering them drinks since they’d arrived back on board. ‘Do you need anything?’
Sam swallowed; he glanced at Michaela, who had fixed a smile on her face too, but wasn’t meeting Sam’s eye.
‘Ah, actually, I do,’ he said, trying his best at nonchalance.
He pointed to his bloody foot. ‘This has started bleeding again, and I’ve managed to get a few smears on the stairs – I’m really sorry.
Is there any chance you could find me a new bandage and clean it up? ’
‘Oh, goodness. Poor you. Of course.’
Johanna walked to a cupboard near the galley door, opened it and rifled through. She pulled out a fresh dressing and some antibiotic cream and handed it to Sam.
‘Will you be okay dressing it yourself? We were both about to clock off, and I’ll need to clean the floor before I go down …’
Sam frowned. Do it himself? Weren’t these stewardesses supposed to be there to cater for their every whim, twenty-four seven? Then he caught himself: Jesus, what’s wrong with me? I sound like Rory. His condescending attitude is rubbing off on me.
‘Ah, sure, thanks,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry.’
As the two women walked past him and out of the galley, Michaela met Sam’s gaze briefly, then looked away – but not before he caught a flicker of something in her eyes that made him turn cold.
He’d seen that flicker before – more than once. It was uncomfortably familiar. He’d seen it in his fifteen-year-old sister Anna’s face, that morning she’d told him what happened with her sixth-form boyfriend the night before.
Sam had made the mistake of not acting fast enough on his sister’s behalf, and the failure cost him dearly. He should have been watching more closely; he should have stepped in sooner.
When Anna had started seeing that boyfriend, Sam was ill at ease – and not just in an overprotective, big brother kind of way.
The lad had been in the year below him, and despite Sam having left college to start his estate agency apprenticeship, he remembered him well.
Jamie, his name was: good-looking, popular and charismatic – and with a reputation as a womanizing arsehole.
Sam told Anna he didn’t like the idea of her going out with him; that she could do better.
Anna had responded by telling him, in no uncertain terms, to stay the fuck out of her business.
Sam did as she’d asked. He didn’t push it.
He could only watch from a distance as Jamie reeled Anna in, made her think she was in love, plying her with Bacardi Breezers at house parties with men in their twenties.
He hadn’t intervened. He hadn’t protected her.
And then he’d had to listen to his mam weeping that Sunday over her breakfast after Jamie had got Anna hammered at a party the night before and his sister had woken up in nothing but her bra, bleeding.
He assaulted her, Sam. She was so drunk, she couldn’t have said yes.
She’s fifteen years old … my precious girl.
He vowed he’d never get it so wrong again.
So when he’d seen the same expression again in his workmates’ faces, years later, when they’d opened up after a few glasses of wine, he knew he’d have to do something.
The first night it happened, he’d sat there, one hand gripping his pint, the other fiddling with a beer mat as he listened in open-mouthed shock.
He remembered the way his colleague had been twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, her mask dropping as she shared things that she’d never have revealed if she hadn’t been three glasses in.
This is why it’s so important to keep an eye on things.
To stay close to the women around him, listen to their words, watch what their body language gave away without them meaning to.
Because it didn’t matter how strong they thought they were, how independent.
There were times they needed someone else to step in.
So yes, he knew Michaela’s expression well.
It was a look they all tried to hide, but Sam saw it just the same.