CHAPTER TWO

Murdoch, Wilde and Lightoller were assembled at the bridge forty minutes later alongside Smith and Thomas Andews, the master shipbuilder. The five of them were locked in a discussion about the mysterious scratch on Moody's cheek, not to mention his increasingly erratic behaviour and the various cuts and bruises on his body. Although, had Boxhall not walked in on him as he climbed out the bath then these cuts wouldn't have been discovered.

"This is very serious," Andrews reminded them while folding his arms and looking deeply concerned. "We have passengers boarding today. I would hate to think that something disturbing is happening to one of our officers."

Lightoller nodded and remarked, "He's been very strange this past week, always breaking into cold sweats and running from the room."

"Really?" Wilde asked in surprise. "You actually noticed that? Something other than your paintings?"

Murdoch sniggered at his deadpan remark which was rewarded with a dirty look from both Lightoller and Smith who warned, "Enough of this nonsense." Pointing at his senior officers he explained, "Mister Moody is on duty in Third Class, accepting passengers. I'm hopeful that it won't cause any issues. Better have him down there than in the First Class." With a slight smirk he added, "You know how they talk."

Wilde nodded and with a slight chuckle he told him, "I know very well."

Murdoch swayed on the spot, his eyes darting around the bridge before falling to the floor with a large smack and shouted, "Shite!" He ignored Lightoller's attempts to help him up, instead he swayed for a further few seconds then fell backwards and sprawled across the wooden floor.

Lightoller looked to Wilde, then to Smith, and finally to Andrews who were all staring at the passed out first officer. Shrugging, he walked away to eagerly finish his painting before he had to go out and accept passengers on board.

"Are you kidding me?" Wilde groaned hoping for an answer that wasn't going to confirm his worst fears. He stormed off down the officer's promenade while trying to discreetly hoist up his stockings that were falling down quicker than Murdoch hitting the deck.

"These officers," Andrews started to ask, afraid of what the answer would be. "Are you sure that they're up to the job?"

Smith thought for a moment before replying, "They are fine officers. I can assure you of that Mister Andrews. I have a feeling it may just be nerves. It is such an important occasion for us all, with the eyes of the world watching us. You'll see, they'll be all right in no time."

"What about Mister Murdoch?"

"Hmmm ... Better let him sleep the alcohol off," Smith replied as he edged towards the officer. "I know that I get grumpy if I get woken up deliberately, especially after a few brandies. Also, I'd rather not have a drunk man at the bridge otherwise we'll end up in the Netherlands or even up in Scotland."

Eyeing Murdoch and glaring, Andrews turned away and said, "I trust you to get these men under control otherwise I will go straight to Bruce Ismay. My god, what if a passenger were to see him in this state?"

Smith nodded as he watched him make a swift exit before calling over to two crewmen who were hanging around. After instructing them to carry him back to his room, he walked towards the front of the bridge and looked out at the morning sky.


An hour later, Moody was accepting steerage passengers onto Titanic. He went about his job professionally, with a smile that masked his fear that Porky would torment him once again. When he finally finished, after letting two men on at the very last second, he excused himself and fled to his room. Slamming the door shut behind him he then slumped to the floor and repeated, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"HE MUST BE STOPPED."

It was the same deep, sinister voice he always heard inside his head. He knew the voice was trouble but he was afraid to tell anyone, mainly because they wouldn't believe him. He also didn't want to admit to hamster murder.

A single tear fell from Moody's eye as he looked up at the door, which at that precise moment it swung open. There stood Lightoller, with his completed painting and declaring, "Finished!" He held up the painting unaware that his colleague was deeply upset, "Well?"

Moody nodded and managed a weak smile, "Uh, it's very nice Lights ..."

"Very nice," He frowned, inspecting the painting before casting it aside in the room. He left abruptly much to Moody's surprise.

"NO MORE PAINTINGS."

Moody took in the command - Did Porky really expect him to bring the painting to a halt? He was afraid of what would happen to him if he refused, already suffering a scratch for not hiding Wilde's fishnet stockings in Murdoch's coat pocket. "Understood," He whispered aloud hoping the spirit would hear him. He got up from the floor and wandered along to the Mess Hall while trying to act as normal as possible. However the concept of normal quickly evaporated once he saw Pitman being comforted by Harold Bride, one of the wireless operators. "What happened?"

"A passenger's dog barked at him Mister Moody," Bride explained quietly. "I could hear screaming coming from outside, so I went to check it out. He was distracting Jack and myself. I saw Mister Pitman running down the deck outside bawling like a baby."

Moody looked at his colleague who was still wiping tears from his face, "Oh dear."

"I ... H-hate b-big dogs!" Pitman spluttered, trembling as he spoke.

"Will he be all right?" Bride asked, still quite worried. "The dog was on a lead, and seemed to be just as frightened," He added with half a smile on his face.

Moody rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "Define 'alright'." Shaking his head he insisted, "I'll take over from here Sparks."

"Thank you Mister Moody!"

Wilde walked into the hall as a visibly relieved Bride left. Immediately spotting the state that Pitman was in he turned on his heel and marched straight back out, muttering, "There is no way that I'm dealing with him again."

"Herb, it's almost time for your shift," Moody reminded him gently hoping to avoid causing any more despair for one day. "You should splash your face with cold water, and put a big smile on your face. You don't want to make it obvious that you've been crying."

"Unlike that obvious scratch on your face?" He asked somewhat pointedly as he dried his eyes with his sleeve. "It's right across your cheek," He observed, looking at it closely.

Panicked, Moody quickly lied on the spot, "I ... Fell off the toilet!"

"Onto what?" Pitman asked with a raised eyebrow not quite believing this excuse.

"Oh, uh ... Lights left one of those painting kits in there. I scratched myself against the corner of the box," He made up as he watched his colleague's reaction closely. For good measure he added, "Bloody idiot!"

"I see ..." Pitman trailed as he stood up and walked out of the room.

Moody sighed before scratching the back of his head and deciding to fix himself a sandwich. However he was still distracted by Porky's orders from earlier and without realising, put both jam and lettuce on his sandwich. He sat down and took a bite, immediately spitting it back out. "What the hell?! Oh, yuck!" He exclaimed in disgust as he opened the sandwich and examined it.

"Jam and lettuce, Jim? You do realise that everyone is worried about you," Wilde informed the junior officer, joining him at the table now that Pitman had left for his watch.

Moody paled slightly at his remark, "What do you mean by everyone?"

"Myself, the other officers, and Captain Smith of course," Wilde told him as he kicked his shoes off, airing his feet through the stockings. He glanced at Moody's cheek and observed, "That's a nasty scratch you've got there."

"I fell off the toilet onto a box and the corner grazed my cheek," Moody told him flatly. He tossed the sandwich over to the bin resulting in him missing it by a large margin. "Stuff it, I'll pick it up later," He groaned.

"No you didn't," Wilde insisted, grabbing the young man's chin so he could look closely at the scratch. "That's too deep to be a simply graze from a cardboard box. I want the truth this time Jim."

Not wanting to get caught out, Moody thought of the only thing that sprung to mind and threatened, "Leave me alone or I'll show everyone the contents of that trunk under your bed! I've heard the stories!"

Wilde glared at him for a brief moment, grunting as he released him from his grip, "I will find out."

Moody let out a breath of relief as Wilde pulled his shoes back on and left the room as he grumbled to himself. He watched as Lightoller bounded in, carrying a kit which appeared to be of a horse standing in a field.

"I only have fifteen minutes before I have to go back to my duties," He told Boxhall who was following behind him. "I hate that there's not enough time."

"Ach well, if ye cannae dae it in that time, I'll put it away fur ye," Boxhall offered thoughtfully as he sat down at the table with him. "Dinnae want anyone ruining it," He smiled as he watched his colleague set up on the table.

Lightoller smiled and thanked him, "Excellent. Cheers Joe - I uh, I mean Jock." Glaring at Moody, he sniped, "Maybe Baby Face over there will appreciate this painting."

Boxhall glanced over at him, who shrugged at Lightoller's words before going back to watching the first brush strokes on the horse's body. "I have a question fur ye Lights," He began slowly, "Why is the horse pink?"

"Bastard!"


Several hours later Murdoch awoke on his bed with a pounding headache and a thirst for vodka. He noticed through squinted eyes that Lowe was standing over him and that the daylight was too bright for his liking. Raising an arm to cover his eyes, he reached for the nearest object to throw at the Welshman which turned out to be his alarm clock.

"What'd you do that for?!" Lowe screeched as he ducked out of the way with the clock hitting his thigh. "I always knew you were out to get me!"

"Bugger off Harry!" Murdoch ordered, trying to grab something else he could throw. With his eyes still covered, he pulled at an object he thought would be a good weapon. It was in fact the drawer from his bedside cabinet. With the weight of the contents he dropped it to the floor with a loud crash. He sprang upright as he heard the unpleasant sound of glass smashing against a wooden floor. He looked in sheer horror as one of his brandy bottles had smashed, leaving a large puddle and shards of glass in it's wake. Desperate not to lose his precious alcohol, he fell to the floor and started licking up the spilled brandy.

"Stop that Will!" Lowe pleaded, which went unheard as Murdoch feverishly licked it up. "Oh my God," He uttered, slowly backing out of the room into the corridor and signalling for help. "He's awake! And it's not pretty ..."

Quartermaster Robert Hichens appeared by Lowe's side, having been alerted to the racket coming from Murdoch's room. He peered into the room and burst into laughter as the officer ditched his attempts to lick up the alcohol and chose to suck it up like a vacuum. Making no attempt to hide his amusement, he cackled, "Wait 'til the captain sees this!"

"Will get up! Please!" Lowe begged, dropping to his knees. Ignoring the fading laughter of Hichens, he squealed, "I'm going to lose my job for this! Stop it!"

Murdoch looked up, brandy around his mouth and a cut on his upper lip from the broken glass. "Then go! Don't come back unless you replace the brandy you made me drop!"

"I'll be fired if I leave you! The captain doesn't want me on this ship!"

"Shut up and stop being paranoid!" Murdoch barked, throwing Lowe aside who landed on the broken bottle with a shout.

"Ow! I think I'm on broken glass!" He cried, leaning to one side and brushing away shards of glass from beneath him. "Will, you moron!"

"That is enough!" Came Smith's furious voice from the doorway, silencing the men and bringing Murdoch to a complete stop. "Mister Lowe, clean yourself up and report to the bridge before rounds," He ordered angrily. He rolled his eyes as Lowe shot Murdoch a dirty look, leaving without making any eye contact. He turned to Murdoch and warned, "Mister Murdoch, if you can't sober up and act like a senior officer, I will have to choice but to strip you of your position as First Officer. You will be removed from the Officer's Quarters and stuck in the crew passage down below. Do I make myself clear?"

Murdoch clumsily got to his feet and nodded half-heartedly, checking out the cuts to his lip and tongue in the mirror. "Yes sir," He said quietly, frowning as he tasted blood in his mouth.

"Good. Meet me in the wheelhouse in forty minutes, and be on time for once," Smith demanded, watching him for a minute before making a swift exit with the scent of brandy wafting into the corridor.

Murdoch chuckled to himself as he closed the door behind the captain. He pulled out a flask from under his pillow and swallowed the contents in one go, relishing the taste of vodka and ignoring the stinging to his tongue. "Sober up? Fuck off," He slurred, treading carefully to avoid the glass. He pulled a bottle of rum out from a case and cracked it open, inhaling it's scent. "This will do nicely."