The Last Passenger: The nerve-shredding new thriller from the master of tension, for fans of Lisa Jewell and Gillian McAllister by Will Dean

Author:Will Dean [Dean, Will]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781529382846
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2023-05-10T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 52

Two hours later we’re all tired and half-drunk. Except Smith. He’s staggering around smoking Cuban cigars he scavenged from a humidor, one in each hand, both lit, drinking dirty martinis as if they’re glasses of water.

We’re wrapped in blankets. We’ve moved the chairs around so we have two each: one to sit in and one as a foot-rest. Frannie’s drifting in and out of sleep, her feet clad in two layers of wool socks. There’s a sense of relief in the air: survival, but backdropped by increasingly extreme hunger. I honestly thought they’d give us food today. Biscuits or emergency rations. Ten minutes’ access to the stores, perhaps. The baiting of us with olives and lemons feels extra-manipulative. As though they want us to drink and make fools of ourselves for the public.

‘You think we have a fish in my net?’ asks Smith, slurring, ash falling from his cigar. ‘A shoal of them? Yellowfin tuna, maybe? I don’t even like fish but I’d eat a dozen right now if we had them.’

‘I checked half an hour ago,’ says Daniel. ‘The drop from the stern might be too high. The ship’s travelling too fast, maybe, or the engines are too noisy, I don’t know. I think we might catch something eventually but it’s going to take a while.’

Daniel’s chair is pushed next to mine. We’re close. His thigh is by my calf and I am appreciative of the heat. I feel better with him so near.

‘Why did you go to prison?’ I ask. ‘You don’t have to say.’

Daniel turns to me and sighs. Vodka in the air. ‘I hit a guy outside a bar. I was much younger. He insulted my ex, hounded her, made a nuisance of himself. I lashed out and hurt him pretty bad. I still regret it.’

The mood in the room cools.

‘Honestly, I was disappointed with the prizes,’ says Smith, trying and failing to pull up his new socks. He has them inside out with the label still attached but I’m not going to tell him that. ‘At least we can light the next fire with my useless paperwork. What kind of reward is papers? Jesus, it’s cold in here.’

It’s so cold there’s ice forming on the insides of the windows. Crystalline mosaics spreading inward from the frames. There’s wind and squally rain outside so a fire would be unwise. It’d be unwise if we were sober, but in the state we’re in it could be suicidal. We’re all accustomed to having security, uniformed officers, people in authority around on a vessel like this. And then when they’re all gone you realise how quickly things can spin out of control.

The disembarkation photographs were reassuring for a while. Pete must be one of those distant, grainy faces. He’ll have walked off the gangplank on to Irish land. To safety. He’ll have been worried sick even though he’s outwardly always composed. Reserved, even. I know he can suffer with anxiety. He’s told me there have been bleak times

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