Word Count: 750

Peter's Story

"YOU'RE GOING TO WHAT?" Peter cried, horrified at the words that had just left his boss' lips.

"Peter, keep your voice down," Mr Ismay's voice hissed, narrowing his eyes at the chief ship builder for White Star Line. "Someone might hear you."

"But, Sir, hundreds will die," Peter whispered. "How can you live with yourself knowing this?"

"It will most likely be thousands, Mr Pettigrew," Mr Ismay answered, his facial expression unconcerned as he walked around to the side of his desk, "but, The Californian will be forewarned about our accident and be on standby to minimise the loss of life."

"Sir, you are talking about insurance fraud," Peter whispered, shocked that his usually straight down the line employer was even considering this. "What if you get caught?"

Peter noticed how Mr Ismay gripped the edge of his desk tightly, his knuckles whitening.

"There will be no possibility of that," Mr Ismay answered dismissively. "Inform your crew that they will have the day off tomorrow whilst we have a few trusted people remove The Titanic and replace it with The Olympic. No one, and I repeat, no one will know the difference."

"But, Sir—" Peter started.

"Enough, Mr Pettigrew," Mr Ismay snapped. "Do as I say or I will find someone more willing and have you thrown in prison."

"Of course, Sir," Peter answered. "I am more than up for the challenge."

"You're a good man, Pettigrew," Mr Ismay said after a few minutes silence. "If everything goes to plan, you can expect a significant off the books bonus in April."

"Thank you, Mr Ismay," Peter said, reaching out and shaking the older man's hand. "I won't let you down, Sir."

"You'd better not," Mr Ismay answered. "Now, go and give your crew the 'good news.'"

~o~o~o~

April 15, 1912

Peter sat listening to the radio announcing the The Titanic had sunk. He had expected some part of him to feel some amount of remorse and upset over the major loss of life, but to his surprise, he found that he felt nothing. All he cared about was when his 'payment' for his silence would be arriving.

A knock at his front door drew him from his minor concerns about his lack of feelings for the people who had lost their lives.

He stood up from his armchair and turned the sound down on his radio before heading towards his front door and opening it.

"Mr Peter Pettigrew," the suited man asked.

"Yes," Peter said, his eyes falling on the briefcase that he was carrying. "Can I help you?"

Peter fought to keep a smile from appearing on his face as he considered the possibility that this man was about to hand him a briefcase full of money.

"This is from Mr Ismay," the man said, passing the briefcase over to him. "He said that you would be expecting it."

"Yes, absolutely," Peter answered, taking the briefcase from him. "Thank you."

"Mr Ismay sends his best regards," the man stating, giving him a low bow before departing from his doorstep.

Peter watched the man hurry along down the street and turn the corner before he closed behind him. He carried the briefcase to his living room and opened it. The small smile that had crossed his lips since bidding the man farewell spread into a huge grin.

Mr Ismay had been most generous to him, and the bonus he had provided him exceeded all his expectations. Peter had been anticipating twenty or thirty pounds in the briefcase, but what he was looking at appeared to be hundreds. It was more than enough for him to be able to quit his job and set up a new life far away from here, never having to worry about money for the rest of his days on this earth. Plus, if he invested it wisely, it could be enough to support his family for several generations.

Peter picked up a bundle of notes from the briefcase and smelled it. Even though the money was right in front of him, he couldn't believe that he was, for all intents and purposes, middle class. Gone were the days of scraping around for every last penny. He would finally be able to make himself a good match and marry a woman of means whose father would no doubt provide him with a decent dowry.

Everything was finally falling into place for Peter Pettigrew, and if 1500 lives was the price to pay then so be it.