La Sola Muerte

The window rocks from side to side, the horizon changing its angle. The light on the port side comes into view every few seconds, up and down, up and down. I white knuckle the cabin bed to stop myself from falling out. A huge wave hits the side of the vessel, my battery lamp, drinks decanter and cutlery fall to the floor. The room is turned on its side, and my stomach follows.

With my insides whirling like a washing machine, a lump begins to rise in my throat. Instinctively I cough to encourage the emotion back down into my stomach, and my eyes water. My breathing quickens as the room moves around me. With wide eyes I try to focus on something.

Am I dizzy, or are the conditions this bad?

Despite how tight my grip is, I am sent flying from the bed bunk. Hitting the solid wood flooring, my head is first to connect. Instantly, heat courses through my veins and straight to my face.

I am regretting this decision. I think I prefer being out of work.

The production company, when purchasing the boat, didn’t do so with comfort in mind. There wasn’t far for me to fall in this twelve by twelve feet cabin. On first appearance, most of the furniture seems to be repurposed shipping timber and carries the smell of previous voyages with them. The shoddy room barely holds the single cabin bed, pushed up against the wall. It’s clearly fused to it. At the end, a metal trunk is wedged, presumably for me to hold my possessions. On the opposite side, where I now lay, the fold down table takes up most of the remaining space.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen...

It was a few months ago my agent, who had deserted me previously, called me with the offer. A production company with a gutsy new executive wanted to make a show. A travel show he originally called it; the details soon changed though. Before I had a chance to question it, I was on this godforsaken boat. For someone who was once hot property in the film industry, this is what I would have called a “sell out”. Now, I am unable to pick my roles. Not in a position to negotiate, the roles now come to me. My self-worth is clearly as choppy as this boat.

Still lying on the floor following the fall, I’ve managed to roll under the flip up table. Part of me wants to move, part of me can’t be bothered. I didn’t want this damn job anyway, but what do they say, beggars can’t be choosers?

It wouldn’t be the worst thing if I went down with this ship.

A knock on my cabin door bounces of the wooden walls forcing me to drag myself from the floor. Rolling onto my front, I take in a deep breath. My ribs scream out in pain, and I hug them in response. Pushing onto my knees, my whole-body aches. Another knock pounds on the door..., sounds like a bloody woodpecker.

I gradually got to my feet, stumbling to the door I turn the handle. The motion of the boat allows the door to swing wide open, crashing against the flimsy wooden frame.

“Mr Forbes, the director would like a word.” A frail, timid female voice creeps through from the other side of my door.

It must be Lucy, the director’s assistant.

“Okay, Lucy, no problem. I’ll be there shortly.” I respond not wanting to give away that I am not ready.

Lucy doesn’t respond but the clanking from her heels on the wooden floor reverberates under the door frame. Grabbing the deodorant from the end of my bunk, I shower myself in the fragrant mist. Stuffing my feet into my brown suede boots, I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and head out.

Tracing my hands along the wall either side of me, my legs tremble as I stumble down the corridor. Although not as aggressive, the leeway given by the waves was hard to control. I am bouncing off the walls on my descent down the corridor. It is as dark and dank as my cabin, decorated entirely in wood panels.

There hasn’t been much word from the production team since we embarked on this journey. Jenny, the director, has her office down the other end of the long narrow hallway. When I say office, I mean a single bunk room. She has commandeered it by sticking a makeshift desk opposite the bed, with just enough room to swing a small cat.

Arriving at the door, I grab onto the frame on either side of it to hold myself still. Slowly I bring my hand up and attempt to knock. Before I cock my arm back, a strong voice is heard through the cabin door.

“Come in, Mr. Forbes,” I hear, and grab the door handle. I notice the layer of sweat on my palm as I enter the room.

“I have asked you to call me Carmine, Jenny,” I say in a familiar jibe.

The smile spreads across her face as she beams from ear to ear. It almost consumes her narrow features. Her big, blue eyes sparkle in the reflection from the mirror on the wall. The light pierces the window in her cabin and her short blonde hair illuminates and frames her face perfectly. She stands up, holding out her hand in a welcoming gesture. Compared to my giant, broad frame, I make her look rather petite, although she would never let me admit it. We shake hands and she gestures for me to sit.

Pulling the turned over box towards me, I perch myself on it. My height is considerably more obvious even if I am sitting down.

“Thanks for seeing me, Carmine. I wanted to have a word about what is happening,” she assures.

I thought we were set on what was happening, so this will be interesting. In anticipation, I sit up straight and instinctively cross my arms.

“So, our scout Pierre Villeneuve has looked at the data we’ve gathered and we’re not able to settle on the islands edge.” Her lips purse into a hard line and she furrows her eyebrows.

I’m not sure how to take that. I mean, I couldn’t care less where we end up. As long as my tent is pitched and food ready for when I arrive, it makes no odds to me. This job is simply a way of getting back into the film business. I’ll do my bit and smile for the camera. What more do these people want?

“OK, so what does that mean for our camp then?” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat to relieve the panic.

“Well, unfortunately, this means we will have to go further inland.” She articulates firmly, as though she is stating the obvious.

I open my mouth to speak, but she cuts me off.

“It means we won’t have the safety of the outer edge.”

“Has your scout taken everything into account? Does he know what we’re dealing with?” Slight fear sets in my voice following Jenny’s admission.

The silence between us leads me to believe Jenny is thinking of an appropriate answer. I am sure it was only minutes, but as she stares at me with her pale face and wide unblinking eyes, those minutes turn into a lifetime.

A banging at the door breaks the silence.

“Ah yes, come in.” Jenny straightens herself and puffs out her flushed cheeks.

I turn in my chair and watch as it slowly opens as a man enters, hunching under the frame. He is a lurch of a man in cargo shorts and a short sleeve, green t-shirt. The bags under his eyes, and lines on his forehead, show his age. That or he has been doing this job for a very long time. Over the top of his t-shirt, he wears a Kevlar waist coat, which is holding camera lenses, maps and handheld torches.

Is this the location scout?

“Sorry I am late, Ms Masters,” he whispers in a deep, smooth French accent.

“No Problem, Pierre. I was bringing Mr Forbes, sorry, Carmine, up to speed on the issue we have.”

Taking a crate, he turns it upside down and places it next to me. The choppy ocean sends the box sliding beside me, and Pierre almost loses his balance. Rearranging some of the items in his waist coat he sits down next to me. I loudly exhale at the annoyance of being near these people. I blink as the constant motion makes me lightheaded. My mind feels like cotton wool for a few moments.

“Yes, ve have a little issue location-wise,” he confirms, looking down at his feet. The smooth tone of his accent almost makes it seem less vital.

My vocal cords shake. “Great! Well, I am glad that this wasn’t picked up any sooner,” I declare sarcastically. The fear carries in my voice.

Hopefully, neither of them noticed.

“Pardon Monsieur but ze data was a lot for one person to verify.” Pierre’s eyes narrow, and his cheeks flush a deep red. Some French words slip in. I assume unintentionally, as his English is pretty good. I guess he doesn’t like me for suggesting the job hasn’t been done right.

Maybe annoying the one guy who can navigate this island isn’t the best idea.

“Right, so what can be done at this point,” I attempt to diffuse the situation. A large lump moves down my throat as I swallow hard to shift it. Noticing my obvious faux pas, I don’t add more fuel to the flame.

“We must continue as planned, and Pierre will guide us to a suitable camping location,” Jenny takes in a deep breath and waves it off.

I’m not buying that. She’s scared about this.

I throw a look of uncertainty between them both. The plan doesn’t sound like a plan. It seems as though they are going to wing it at every opportunity. Being a recently out-of-work actor, I appreciate I am in no position to complain. But even to me, this sounds like a bad idea.

“Does anyone else know about these...developments?” I ask.

“No. The less they know at this stage, the better. It was difficult to convince them to do this anyway, this will only escalate the situation,” Jenny states firmly.

Hearing her speak forcefully seems out of character. Is she getting pressure from the production company?

There can’t be much riding on this from a risk perspective. The production company is using a young, career hungry exec to lead it. They have employed me, an out of work, dried up actor. Don’t even start me on the crew. I have never heard of any of the tech guys, and I have been in this game for a long time. If anything, the impression I am getting so far from this project is that we are all dispensable. This realisation is only coming to me now. Before I was just happy to receive a pay check.

Even if it only is half the agreed amount, better than nothing Carmine.

“OK great, so if you don’t need me anymore, can I go back to my room?” I asked. I had gotten no sleep at this point, and I could feel a headache throbbing behind my eyes.

I don’t receive a response from Jenny. Instead, all I get is a subtle nod of the head. Lifting off of the makeshift stool, I slowly retreat out of the small suffocating room. Pierre stays behind; I assume to discuss location options. I am worried about how we make it to the island but where I sleep on the island is not a concern, as long as someone can pitch my tent easily.

Exiting the room, I am back in the narrow, dank hallway. The lights flicker on and off creating shapes in the distance. With my eyes playing tricks on me, suspicious shadows move up ahead. Like strangers in the night they lurk in the shadows, filling every nook and cranny available. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and an icy chill moves down my spine. The only sound I hear is the faint crashing of the waves. The slight rocking from the turbulent ocean will make the trip back to my room tricky. Wide eyed, I grip onto the wall at either side of the corridor swallowing hard attempting to remove my emotions from spilling out.

I will not cry on this damn boat.

Stumbling forward I return to my quarters using the handrail on either side as a balance aid. The waters are still turbulent, and the corridor is moving with it. Imagine trying to navigate a kaleidoscope in intermittent darkness. Arriving at my cabin, I am greeted by the mess of my early encounter with the floor. Assuming the situation will worsen, I don’t bother to tidy up. Instead, I fall back onto my bunk to get some sleep.

Switching the light off that is beside my head, and close my eyes, a sharp scratching noise echoes in the corridor. I lift my head in the pitch darkness, blindly squinting around me.

What is that wretched sound?