A sliver of darkness, p.1
A Sliver of Darkness, page 1
A Sliver of Darkness is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by C. J. Tudor
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Ballantine is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Originally published in the United Kingdom by Michael Joseph, Penguin Group UK, a Penguin Random House company.
“The Lion at the Gate” was first published in the Tesco special edition of The Other People by C. J. Tudor (January 2020).
“Final Course” was first published in Tales of Dark Fantasy 3 by Subterranean Press (July 2020).
“Butterfly Island” was first published in After Sundown by Flame Tree Press (October 2020).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tudor, C. J., author.
Title: A sliver of darkness / C. J. Tudor.
Description: First edition. | New York : Ballantine Books, [2022]
Identifiers: LCCN 2022020848 (print) | LCCN 2022020849 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593500163 (hardback ; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593500170 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Short stories.
Classification: LCC PR6120.U36 S55 2022 (print) | LCC PR6120.U36 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23/eng/20220428
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022020848
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022020849
Ebook ISBN 9780593500170
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Victoria Wong, adapted for ebook
Cover illustration: Joe McLaren
Cover design: Rachel Ake Kuech
ep_prh_6.0_141688264_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Copyright
Introduction
End of the Liner
The Block
Runaway Blues
The Completion
The Lion at the Gate
Gloria
I’m Not Ted
Final Course
The Copy Shop
Dust
Butterfly Island
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By C. J. Tudor
About the Author
Introduction
In January 2021, my dad passed away.
He had been in a nursing home for two years, but his death was still a shock. Due to the pandemic, we’d only been able to visit him for thirty minutes every two weeks and had to talk to him through Perspex.
The first time I hugged my dad in over a year was on the day he died.
2020 had already been a tough one (like it was for everyone): the pandemic, lockdown and home schooling all took their toll. Plus, I had spent October through December attempting to relocate my parents from Wiltshire to Sussex so I could help out more.
Mum was still living in the family home so the logistics of finding Dad another nursing home, selling the house and buying Mum a separate retirement apartment were complicated, to say the least.
Throughout all of this, I was trying to write a book.
I’m not someone who likes to admit they can’t cope, so even though I was finding the writing process much harder than usual—to the point where I would wake with a hard knot of anxiety in my stomach every morning—I told myself that I just had to plow on. Every book was difficult at times. I would fix it all in the edits.
After Dad’s death, things got even harder. I hated sitting at my laptop. Every word felt like an effort. The characters’ voices, usually so real to me, felt forced and unnatural. Still, I persevered, telling myself it was just my frame of mind. It would get better.
But in my gut, I knew.
This book wasn’t working.
Somehow, I managed to finish the manuscript, and I sent it off to my editors, hoping that I might be wrong.
When I got my notes back, I knew it wasn’t just me. Normally, I take a big edit in my stride. This time I knew, whatever I did, I couldn’t fix this book. I hated this book. It had come to represent everything horrible and painful that had happened in the last year, and I couldn’t go back to it. If I tried, I thought I might break.
So, after a good cry and a very long chat with my lovely agent, Maddy, I approached my editors and confessed. I asked if I could scrap the book, skip a publication year and use the time to work on another idea—a passion project that I had put on the back burner, waiting for the right moment to write. This felt like the right moment.
However, I still felt bad about letting my readers (and my publishers) down and not putting a new book out in 2022, so to fill the gap, I suggested a short-story collection. I love writing short stories and it seemed the perfect opportunity.
Thankfully, because I have wonderful, supportive editors, they agreed.
A weight was instantly lifted.
The passion project—The Drift—will be published in January 2023, and you’re reading the other fruit of my labors right now!
The book that I scrapped will probably never see the light of day, and that’s okay. Sometimes, you need to take a couple of steps back to go forward. But I always believe that nothing in life, or writing, is ever wasted: I ended up taking a section of that failed book and reworking it as a short story in this collection. (I’ll let you work out which one.)
My dad was a man of few words, not prone to praise or big displays of emotion. But I know he was proud of my writing. I’m glad he saw me achieve my dream and become an author. I’m sad he won’t be able to read any more of my stories.
I guess we all have to mark the page and close the book one day.
This one is for you, Dad. They all are, really.
End of the Liner
Introduction
In 2021 my family and I went on a cruise for the very first time.
This was during the pandemic, so it was a “staycation cruise.” It only lasted four days, and the ship never left British waters. But it was fun and very family friendly. It was bound to be. It was organized by the major operator in the family entertainment market. (Think mouse).
One day, while Betty was in the pool and Neil and I were on deck, sipping iced cocktails, conversation turned to the pandemic, space programs and the apocalypse (as it does). We stared out over the expanse of water, and I remember Neil saying: “If a virus really obliterated the world, you wouldn’t need to send people into space. Just stick them all on giant cruise ships.”
The comment and the idea stuck.
One of the reasons I love theme parks is because they tread a fine line between magical and creepy. Especially if they are abandoned or run-down. Anyone who has seen Donnie Darko will know that there’s something quite sinister about someone dressed up in a big furry animal costume. And while everything being shiny and magical is nice for a week or two, would you really want to live like that for the rest of your life? Wouldn’t it perhaps feel a tad authoritarian? Especially if you were in the middle of the ocean with no way to escape.
It was with those ideas in mind that I sat down to write “End of the Liner.”
I hope you enjoy the magic. All aboard now.
She often dreamed of drowning.
In the empty hours between midnight and dawn, she lay in her narrow bunk and imagined the waves taking her. It would be cold. And if she was lucky, the freezing temperatures would claim her before the dark water invaded her mouth and lungs. Or, if she was even luckier, perhaps a Sea God would be merciful.
She wondered if she could request a winter ceremony.
She wondered how it had been for the others.
And when it would be her turn.
Not today. Today she had a packed schedule of breakfast, followed by aqua aerobics on the main deck. Then, an hour or so in the shade, reading. Perhaps she might stroll around the ship before lunch. In the afternoon, the crew often tried to provide entertainment, although the theaters were looking a little tired these days; no amount of clever lighting could disguise the fact that the paint on the elaborate sets was peeling and the velvet upholstery on the seats was faded and patched. People tried not to notice, and for many, it had been that way for all their lives.
But she remembered. And occasionally she felt a yearning for the old days. For a time when this existence was a privileged luxury rather than a slow torture. She glanced at the photographs she kept on her tiny dresser. One of her and Nick when they boarded with her parents. She looked so young, with her new husband—and they were young, she supposed. She was twenty-five and Nick was only two years older. They had hardly lived, really. Barely built up a bank of experiences before they boarded the ship and their lives shrank to these decks and corridors.
The other picture she looked at less often, because even a short glance drew fresh pain. Sometimes, she wondered why she kept it at all. Certainly, it did her no favors with the Creators. Those who were “lost” were never spoken of, nor commemorated. Keeping mementos was frowned upon. But it was the one thing Leila couldn’t let go of.<
Her daughter, Addison.
This was the last photo ever taken of her little girl. On the verge of becoming a young woman. Celebrating her eighteenth birthday. Dark hair falling over her face, a wide grin, blue eyes glinting with mischief—and rebellion. Too much rebellion, perhaps.
Maybe Leila should have been sterner. Maybe she should have encouraged her willfulness less. When Nick had tried to cajole Addison into partaking in traditional female pursuits such as sewing and cookery, perhaps she should have backed him up rather than supporting Addison’s decision to enroll in maintenance and engineering.
Regrets. Mistakes. No life lived long is short of them.
Leila turned away from the photograph. She couldn’t be late for breakfast. The Creators liked routine, and any small aberration meant that questions might be asked. She faced herself in the mirror. Unlike many of the older passengers, whose skin had weathered like leather from the abrasive winds and unforgiving eye of the sun, Leila had always protected herself from the elements. Her skin remained pale and soft, criss-crossed with a myriad of fine lines. Her blue eyes were clear—no cataracts yet, although she needed glasses for reading—and her long, thick hair was pure white, secured into a sensible bun.
Leila smiled at herself in the mirror. Past her heyday, but still holding up. Much like the ship itself.
In two days, she would mark her seventy-fifth birthday, and fifty years on board.
* * *
—
Breakfast was in the Grand Suite today.
There were three main dining areas and passengers were rotated around them for breakfast, lunch and dinner, grouped by room number. Leila joined the queue to be seated. The queue was the usual mixture of older people like herself and younger families. Children scampered around the atrium playing tag, faces happy and eyes bright. They had never known anything but the ship. The fourteen decks and one thousand two hundred feet their whole universe. Of course, they had the pretense of space and freedom all around them. The skies above, the endless expanse of ocean. But sometimes, Leila thought, that only served to emphasize how small their world had become.
The queue shuffled forward. Leila nodded and smiled at familiar faces. Eventually, she reached the maître d’s desk.
“And how are you this morning, Mrs. Simmonds?”
The maître d’ was a small, coiffed man with tanned skin and sharp black eyes. His name was Julian. He had been the maître d’ here for ten years, ever since his father was retired. Leila didn’t like Julian so much; he had a reputation for snitching. Passengers had learned to be wary around him.
Leila smiled back. “Very well, thank you, Julian. And yourself?”
“Oh, I am always good, Mrs. Simmonds—and all the better for seeing you.” He smiled, slick and unfelt. “Your companion is already at your table. Let me take you through.”
Leila frowned. “Am I late?”
“No, no. Your companion is a little early this morning.” His smile widened, but it looked strained at the edges. Something was wrong. “Please, come this way.”
Leila followed him between the rows of perfectly laid out tables. The Grand Suite was decorated in the style of a Victorian tearoom. Fake candelabras, walls patterned with floral paper and hung with pictures of the Creators’ famous animated characters in their Victorian finery. The servers were also dressed for the period—high-necked blouses and long, full skirts for the women, a suit and waistcoat for the men. Such pretenses, under the circumstances, might seem silly, but it was part of the Creators’ policy. The fourth wall must never be dropped. The passenger experience never compromised. At any cost.
The smell of cooking—bacon and waffles—filled the room. Synthetic, of course. They pumped it in via the air vents. No one had eaten real meat in a long time and the breakfast choice was mostly limited to cereals, toast and whatever fruit was in season on the huge floating farms, the Harvesters.
Voices rose and fell. The dining area was large and there had to be a hundred people seated already. But it wasn’t normally this noisy. Often, people ate their breakfast in complete silence, the only sound the scraping of cutlery on bone china. After all, what was there to discuss? No news or politics. No celebrity gossip or scandal. Just the same “blissful” routine, day after day, year after year. This morning, however, Leila could feel a heightened energy in the room.
“And here we are, Madam.”
Leila’s companion was seated at their usual table by one of the round porthole windows. Julian pulled out the chair opposite and Leila sat down.
“Thank you,” she said.
Julian bobbed like a bird. “I will fetch you some coffee, Madam.”
Leila turned to face the woman opposite. In contrast to Leila, who was tall and angular (and had always felt self-conscious about her height), Mirabelle was a tiny wisp of a woman, barely five foot tall, with wiry limbs, tanned a deep brown, and a massive mop of brittle, bleached hair. In all the time she had known her, Leila had never seen Mirabelle without a massive pair of sunglasses hiding her face, even indoors.
Before Leila even had a chance to pick up the menu—out of habit rather than curiosity, as she had eaten the same breakfast every day for the last five decades—Mirabelle leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“Have you heard?”
Mirabelle was posh. Very posh. Leila had always thought of herself as cultured, and her parents had certainly been comfortable; comfortable enough to pass the Creators’ assessment for boarding. But Mirabelle was “old money,” as they used to call it. One of her ex-husbands (now deceased) had been the ship’s original First Officer and her eldest son was a Deck Officer. Not to mention her daughter, who headed up Entertainment. Even here, where everyone should be equal, some were more equal than others.
While Leila had been obliged to give up her double cabin and move to a smaller single when Nick died (as per Creators’ policy), Mirabelle had kept her expansive suite after being widowed, although her predilection for marrying frequently and briefly might have also had something to do with it. In the time it would take to assign Mirabelle a new cabin, she would probably have assigned herself a new husband.
Leila slipped on her glasses and picked up the menu.
“Heard what?” she asked, as casually as she could, conscious that the Creators discouraged gossip.
One perfect eyebrow arched above the rim of Mirabelle’s designer sunglasses.
“One of the crew—” Mirabelle pulled a scarlet-tipped finger across her throat in a dramatic gesture.
Leila regarded her over the menu. “OB?”
Mirabelle smiled with a little too much relish. “Fished out of the children’s splash pool this morning.”
Leila continued to stare at her. “Mikey’s Mini Fun Pool?”
This was new. People, both crew and passengers, had jumped ship before. But to drown yourself in a swimming pool when all around lay vast miles of sea seemed odd.
“Suicide?” she queried.
“Well, that’s it,” Mirabelle whispered. “Rumor is, no. Murder.”
Leila’s eyes widened. “Murder?”
Mirabelle nodded enthusiastically. “Stabbed.”
Stabbed. No wonder the dining room was buzzing. A murder on board. In fifty years, there had only been one other murder, when a passenger had strangled his wife after an argument. Of course, that was the only one officially documented. There were rumors that there had been more. It wasn’t exactly difficult to dispose of a body on a ship. So, to leave one to be discovered in a swimming pool was strange.
For the first time in a long time, Leila felt the stirrings of curiosity.
“Do they have any idea who’s responsible?”
Mirabelle shook her head. “No. They’re trying to keep it hush hush.”
Obviously. Nothing must be allowed to spoil the facade. And they all played along, because to do otherwise would result in consequences. Although, from the buzz in the dining room, the crew didn’t seem to be doing a very good job of containing this particular piece of gossip.
