Never Really Gone

His back is bent and aches from exhaustion. Tiny beads of perspiration trickle down along his spine as he stretches his large frame to stand erect. Counting down slowly backwards from 30, pacing his breathing, quieting his mind, his eyes drift close as he pushes out a deep quivering breath. His nostrils are filled with the pungent smell of salt and copper; he can feel the droplets cascade down his face as his tongue pushes from behind his cracked lips.

The bitter taste of blood and sweat rushes over his lips and spreads throughout his mouth causing his heart to beat just a little faster, making his ears tingle, and his body quake with finality. This is the rush he craves, forcing another human’s soul into his body by the very essence of their blood.

He is not prepared for the words he hears next.

“Where is my mother?” the soft voice startles him from his ecstasy. He stiffens and the momentary pleasure rushes to his toes and turns to ice.

He knows the small voice is far enough away in the darkened room to not be able to see the carnage that he has wrought, but he cannot move out of fear. How ironic. This man, feared among the Thames River community, is suddenly struck with fear.

“Mister? Can you hear me?” the soft voice calls again.

The man can only grunt.

“Do you know where she is?”

He lifts his forearm to his face and furiously swipes away any evidence of what he has just done before turning to deal with the soft voiced child. Turning slowly on his dark, wet, booted heel, he turns to face her.

She is a small framed child, clutching a dirty, hand-made rag doll. Her eyes are still swollen from sleep as she rubs them. Her dirty blonde hair is matted from whatever bed roll she scrambled out of but it is her face that stops his heart.

Perfectly round, as if she is a cherub from heaven with tiny freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose, her eyes like the forest giants sparkling in the faint moonbeam seeping through the cracked rooftop of the grimy shack. She stares at him with a curious smile as she motions to come towards him.

“No child, don’t step closer,” his gruff voice startles the young girl and she halts, her eyes suddenly filled with fear. “Your mother has sent me to come collect you as she’s had to go on a holiday. You will stay with me for a few days,” his voice is suddenly gentle, unlike the actions he just displayed moments before.

“On holiday? Without me?” her voice cracks and he can see the large tears begin to well up in her beautiful green eyes.

“She had to go quickly, I’m sorry, love. But you won’t be alone,” he steps towards her, pulling his hat down low and quickly removing his soiled gloves. “Take my hand.”

For a brief moment she hesitates. The man forces a tiny smile to his lips, reaches into his pocket for a bunch of grapes and offers them to her. “Have you had a grape before?” he asks.

She shakes her head no and her stomach rumbles loudly, making both the large man and the small child chuckle. She reaches out her puny fingers, plucks the bundle from his giant hand, and holds them with tender care.

“Come,” he tells her, “you’re going to stay with me for a little while. Will you take my hand?”

She nods, her blonde hair bouncing into her face and framing a sweet smile. Lifting the hand that still clutches the dirty rag doll, she takes the offered hand and follows him away from the abject horror he has left behind.

As they clear the front door, down the steps and into the blackness of the night, she looks up at him.

“I am Clara.”

“Hello, Clara. I am Thomas.”

“Do you have any more grapes?”

*****

23 years later

Thomas and Clara stood before the massive ship, their eyes barely capable of focusing on the expanse from bow to stern. The smell surrounding the ship was an amalgamation of stagnant sea water, frosty cold wind in the air, and pure excitement.

Every moving body was either trying to board the ship or load luggage and supplies for the 137 hour trip. The air was pierced with sailors and crew hollering to one another from deck to pier, mothers comforting whining babies, and fathers rushing families to the gangplank.

Clara breathed a deep and nervous breath, filling her lungs with the last bit of England atmosphere she would ever taste. She reached out and took her adoptive father’s arm and he squeezed her hand.

“Excited?” he asked her.

“Perhaps. Trepidation is probably a better word Papa,” she replied.

“Well don’t be. This is a new life for us. America is a land of a million possibilities and I’ve been told people there don’t live directly on top of each other. There’s forest and hearty earth as far as the eye can see. We can do anything we want there.”

“Anything we want, I like that,” she mused. “So let us board then, get our new lives started.”

They smiled at each other and made their way through the crowd and into the boarding line.

A handsome young porter helped to carry their trunks to their small, but beautiful, state room. The two twin beds were on opposite sides of the compartment with a hand carved wooden table in between.

The porter stood by the entry door after setting down their luggage and smiled, his hand extended in a subtle request for a tip. Clara smiled over to Thomas and gestured to the expectant man.

“Thomas, I do believe this fine, young man deserves a little coin or two,” she said sweetly.

Thomas grunted but dove his hand into his pocket to rummage for some change, begrudgingly retrieving a shilling and pressing it into the porter’s hand.

“Now go help someone else and quit smiling at my daughter,” Thomas said gruffly.

The smile on the porter’s face slipped off immediately and he lowered his gaze before turning quickly on his heel and slipping down the hallway.

“Thomas, that wasn’t necessary,” Clara scolded.

“Yes it was, we’re not on this trip for you to get stared at. We’re heading to a new world so you can have a better life, and that porter isn’t it.”

“He was just being friendly,” she sheepishly replied.

Thomas grunted again and held up his hand, indicating that the conversation was over.

Clara turned to unpack her trunk and the pair fell into a comfortable silence, preparing their things and excitedly perusing the room that would be their home for the next five days. Their inspection was cut short by an enormously loud and prolonged horn blast that made the both of them jump nervously. It was followed by another loud blast and a tiny lurch forward, the signal that their journey is underway.

Thomas and Clara rushed towards the door and stepped out into the hallway to follow the other crowd as they made their ways to the main deck to watch the massive ship pull away from the dock. There was a mixture of silence and awe as the massive stacks belched more dark clouds and began cutting the ship through the deep blue waters.

“Why did they name it the Titanic?” Clara asked Thomas.

“Because it’s so strong and unsinkable,” he replied, “and a damn fine thing too because I cannot swim.”

“Nor I!” Clara responded and they both laughed into the whipping sea air.

The next couple of days passed pleasantly for Clara. She managed to bump into the handsome porter more often than Thomas would have cared for, and each interaction was met with a smile and a kind hello. He would find ways to walk by her and hand her a tray of sweets, cookies mostly, sometimes warm as if he had stolen them directly from the oven. He would hold the plate out for her to take and his fingertips would brush hers as he let it go. She could feel herself blushing, but he never saw it. He would turn quickly and step away, out of fear that her father would be lurking around the corner.

Just as her days were full of happy moments, Thomas’ days were the exact opposite. For every day she spent on the main deck staring at the expanse of the ocean and drinking in the lively activities, Thomas spent curled up in bed, clutching his heaving stomach and regretting almost every decision he’d ever made in life; especially the decision to procure two tickets on this damnable vessel.

Clara checked on him frequently, bringing him soups and crackers from the dining area in the hopes that he would be able to keep them down but nothing worked. She tested his forehead to make sure he wasn’t feverish and he would promptly swat her hand away and tell her to leave him be to die.

“You’re not going to die Thomas, you’re just seasick. We’re two days from landing in New York, you’ll be fine.”

“I most certainly will not live to see New York if this ship doesn’t stop rolling me around. My body is rejecting…” Thomas couldn’t finish the sentence before the bile being tossed around in his stomach bubbled to the surface, making him gag and run to the bathroom.

“Oh, Thomas, I’m so sorry, is there anything…” Clara started to say.

Thomas slammed the door and she could hear the terrible retching as he tried to control his body.

“Just go find yourself something to do, have dinner, play cards. For my peace of mind, just leave me be,” he meekly hollered to her from his kneeling position over the commode.

“Okay, I’ll only be gone a few hours, I’ll return before bedtime,” she said as she slowly backed away and left the cabin.

She began to wander the ship, having already spent enough time on the main decks, sunbathing her ankles and sipping delicious drinks in the parlor. Her curiosity led her to go deeper into the body of the massive boat, and she desperately wanted to see what made this enormous steel plated machine work.

Slipping down darkened passageways and through doors marked for maintenance only, Clara drew her long skirt up to her knees so she could walk without stumbling. Pushing her way through a heavy steel door, she stumbled into a room that was packed to the ceiling with luggage and crates.

Intrigued, she slipped the leather straps off of an ornate trunk and lifted the heavy lid with a loud and cantankerous squeak. The clothing inside was immaculate. She ran her fingers over the impeccably stitched lace, the decorations had to be true pearls for they glimmered even in the darkened underdeck. There was a tag on the handle that read: Miss Margaret Thompson.

“Can I help you find something, miss?”

The deep voice startled Clara and she dropped the lid with a resounding thunk and spun around.

“Bloody hell!” she exclaimed and the sweet face of her porter broke with a jovial smile and deep chuckle.

Her hand against her chest, Clara could feel her heart racing as the laughter bubbled up into her throat. Covering her mouth, she snickered and shook her head at being caught.

“Well at least it’s you!” she said between breaths.

“Well at least it’s me,” he agreed, his smile still deep as his brown eyes twinkled with mirth.

“Forgive me, I became bored. When I get bored, I get nosy and this is where my inquisitive little mind brought me.”

“No explanation needed, I’m glad I’m on duty down here for awhile. You can keep me company,” he said. “Or, I can escort you to the brig. Choice is yours.”

Clara smiled and dropped her hand from her face. “I think I’d like to keep you company. Only one exception.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“You must tell me your name, handsome sir.”

She could see the delightful flicker of her kind words dance across his handsome face.

“My name is Robert, and yours?”

“Clara.”

“Your father isn’t being nosy close by, is he?” Robert asked as he frowned and looked around nervously.

“No, he’s in our room, I’m afraid he has no legs for a long ocean journey,” she reassured him.

She watched as his broad shoulders relaxed and the light smile returned to his face.

“And besides, he’s my adoptive father, and I’m 27 years old. Old enough to be nosy and get into plenty of trouble on my own.”

“That’s wonderful news. Well then, let’s see what else we can find in these trunks,” Robert said as he kicked a nearby valise and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Shall we?”

Robert bowed and swept his arm across the massive collection of treasures to discover.

What felt like moments turned into hours as Robert and Clara delicately ransacked (and replaced) every item of clothing from the storage area. They laughed and they posed as they tried on hats and jackets and a strange pair of pants that Robert swears must have come from India.

Having exhausted themselves from the mock thievery, Clara sat her weary frame down and sighed with happiness.

“What are you going to do in New York?” Robert asked.

“Not sure yet, probably just travel around a bit with Thomas until we find a place we love. What about you?”

Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. I never thought of doing anything past serving on this ship. I suppose your adventure is better than mine.”

“We all need adventure,” she explained.

“Is that why you’re so nosy and have to poke around in other people’s things?”

“Exactly! Adventure!”

“Thank you for sharing your adventurous nature with me…one that could get you arrested in the future,” Robert gently scolded.

With a feigned huff, Clara pretended to be mildly shocked.

“My good sir! I am not a thief, I’m a borrower!”

Robert nodded in agreement as he crossed his arms over his chest with a stern look.

“You have no right to look at me in such a way. You, good sir, are just as guilty as I, you are a borrower as well.”

“That is fair. We, the famous borrowers, never caught, never guilty.”

They stared at each other for several seconds before bursting into loud and happy laughter. As it died down, Robert looked at Clara.

“I know you’re not going to be here much longer, but I’d like to kiss you,” he asked her.

The smile that spread across Clara’s face was too broad to hide. She stood up, walked over to Robert, pulled his arms away from his chest and said, “I would also like to kiss you.”

Her hand came up to his cheek, she could feel the tender stubble gently grating against her palm. His lips came apart as a hitched breath passed through them. He blinked several times, swallowed, and bent down to press his lips to hers. Their eyes fluttered closed as they sank into each other.

The sensation wasn’t what either expected. The kiss was soft, their breaths were stuttered from laughter, but they could both feel the warmth of the other. Clara stepped closer, her other hand touching Robert’s chest, feeling the quickened beating of his heart. His hands came to rest on her tiny hips, his fingers curled against the graceful fabric.

Robert pressed his tongue against her lips, lightly as to not startle her. She hesitated only a second before opening her mouth with a sigh and welcomed his tongue. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her back and he could feel her breasts molding themselves to him.

Clara moaned into his mouth. She could feel her legs getting weaker as one of his hands brushed the supple part of her neck, his fingers dancing across the skin and making her body tingle with pleasure.

She pulled him closer, felt the heat of his body through his uniform and the strength of his arms as he held her.

With a violent whoosh, Robert was gone, a loud, violent roar was heard and Clara opened her eyes to a seething and horrific vision of Thomas.

“WHORE!” he shrieked, his eyes wild and vicious.

“What? Thomas, no!” Clara cried out and reached towards him.

He shoved her away with such force that she stumbled backwards and fell against the trunk. Thomas spun on his heel and stomped over to where the stunned and terrified Robert sat.

Robert put his hands up. “Sir, please, forgive me, I shouldn’t have…” but his pleas were cut short by a cruel right hook to his face.

“Thomas!!” Clara shrieked.

But he wouldn’t hear her. Thomas kept pummeling Robert with his fists until Robert no longer had the strength to hold up his arms to defend himself.

In the dingy light of the storage hold, Clara saw the flash of a piece of steel in Thomas’ hand. Where the knife came from, she did not know, but it was suddenly there. He plunged it into Robert’s neck over and over again, the blood spewed everywhere, drenching both Thomas’ face and Robert’s face, even going so far as to fling the pungent red liquid onto Clara’s clothing.

“Stop Thomas! What are you doing?!”

“Doing what I’ve always done with whores like you.”

“What? Thomas, what are you saying?”

He heaved a huge breath and lowered his shoulders.

Clara had a stunning realization. As she sat there, dazed and terrified, she had seen this image before. 23 years ago. This man stood in her damp and disgusting home just this way, she remembered the same smell, the coppery smell that dripped and lingered on his clothing. Her sharp intake of breath wasn’t silent enough to escape Thomas’ ears.

“Now you get it, don’t you?” Thomas turned to her, tiny rivers of blood trickled down his face and fell like droplets to the deck.

“Your mother was a whore, selling herself for any coin,” he started to tell her.

“No, you’re lying.”

“Shut your mouth!” he screamed at her.

Clara bit her lips together and tried to still the shaking that had taken over her entire body.

“Your mother whored herself, spreading diseases, destroying families. They all were whores. And I had to teach them a lesson,” Thomas’ voice dropped to an octave Clara had never heard before.

“I would promise them coin, take them to a secluded place and then take them from this world. Had to get messy sometimes, take apart the bodies before tossing them in the Thames. Bobbies never could figure out who they were or who did it, but I was doing their job for them. Letting that filth roam free, spreading their sinful legs for any man to plunge themselves into. Just like your whore mother.”

Thomas took a deep breath before finishing. “But you interrupted me, I had to let your mother’s body stay there, unrecognized as my handiwork. I thought you were different Clara. I thought you wouldn’t be a whore like your mother.”

Clara raised her hand to still Thomas’ words. “I’m not like my mother, you raised me to be your daughter. I am your child too Thomas,” she said with love and kindness in her eyes.

But the light didn’t reach him. All she could see in his face was hatred, savage and foul disgust for what he witnessed.

He took a step towards her and her eyes widened.

“Now you’ll know the fear they all felt,” he said as he whipped the blood off his knife and squared his shoulders for the next attack.

She shook her head, mouthing the words no, no, no over and over again as she felt all the color drain from her face and the icy despair take over every nerve ending in her body.

As he took another step towards her, his face was twisted with sickness, his smile was pure horror, but he wouldn’t make it any closer.

The ship pitched violently to the port side as a loud and eerie screech permeated the bulkhead. Metal scraped against something massive as bolts began to fire across the room and frozen ocean water began seeping in.

Clara slapped her hands to her ears as she watched Thomas turn in the direction of the sound, suddenly jarred from his fixation on killing her. They could hear the horrifying noise, like nails on a chalkboard, as the side of the ship squealed and groaned. Small fissures began opening in the bulkhead, water started collecting at their feet and Clara lifted her toes to perch precariously on the trunk.

Thomas turned back to her, his eyes still tense and hateful, but she could sense nervousness in him as he raised the knife to bring it down on her.

She closed her eyes as she heard the violent popping of metal and a sharp whooshing sound that landed with a meaty thud. The knife clinked to the ground and Thomas gurgled. Clara opened her eyes to see the man in front of her, inches from her body, spewing blood from his mouth and impaled through the torso with a jagged piece of metal.

He looked at her in shock, his hand reached out, and she swatted it away. A hole was wrenched open on the side of the ship, just large enough for a man, and the vacuum of the ocean began pulling debris towards it. The ship rocked slightly and Thomas tipped, sliding across the floor and became lodged in the crevice, the only thing keeping him inside was the spike speared through his body.

“Clara…” he murmured, the blood now coming out in pink foam and coasted down his chin.

He watched as Clara stood, bent over and picked up the knife, and walked towards him.

“Help me…” he begged.

There were no words she could use, nothing she could say that would release him from the atrocities he just admitted to.

“I’ll help you Thomas,” she muttered softly, her voice low but cold as she thrust the knife deep into his torso, directly into his heart and shoved him out into the dark, black ocean.

*****

They found her hours later, clinging to a worn trunk, her body covered in a porter’s jacket, her legs bare and shivering. They hoisted her up, her hands refusing to let go of the suitcase that saved her life.

The medical officer threw a scratchy woolen blanket over her and shook her shoulder. “Miss, miss…can you tell me your name?” he asked.

“Margaret. Margaret Thompson,” she replied, her eyes glossed over as she recalled the last few hours, and all the frozen bodies that floated past her.

“You’re safe now Miss Margaret. You’re safe,” the man said.

Clara looked up at him with a glassy expression, nodded, and then laid her head back down on the trunk.

“Can we get you anything?”

Clara smiled, her mind slowly cracked and splintered from within.

“Do you have any grapes?” she asked in a tiny voice.