Synopsis: A short story about two people who meet aboard a cross-channel ferry. Even ships that pass in the night can be affected by the other's stern waves.

Author’s Note: This story is a little darker than my usual stories.

"You look as though you're about to jump overboard."

The voice took me completely by surprise - it wasn't so much that the words were spoken in such a hoarse, croaking voice that the speaker had probably had their voice box removed - it was simply that I hadn't expected anyone to be here at this time of night.

Whilst I'd been in the ferry terminal that evening, waiting to embark, I had scanned the ship looking for the most suitable part of the deck to suit my purpose. I had made a bee-line for it as soon as I'd got aboard, gaining valuable time as a foot passenger over those driving their cars onto the roll-on/roll-off ferry, so I had been able to commandeer the bench seat on the boat deck, immediately outside the rearmost door.

But then, there had been an endless procession of passengers, initially just milling around, but as the evening wore on, bringing drinks outside to stand against the rail in the balmy air, watching the sea go by, as the engines drove us relentlessly from France to England. At about 10.30, I'd got fed up of waiting for a lull, and gone inside to select a reclining seat where I could sleep for a few hours.

I had set my watch alarm to 4 am, but I had been awake just before that, so I had avoided disturbing the other sleeping passengers. I pulled my rather heavy rucksack onto my shoulders and made my way through the now deserted companionways, back to the door on the deck next to my selected spot.

And I hadn't checked the bench seat behind the door, which I'd occupied earlier!

I turned to face my accoster, but my planned words of complacent denial froze on my lips as her eyes stared into mine, and looked directly into my soul. We remained staring at each other for a few seconds before I shrugged, and looked away.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, the words rasping painfully, as though it hurt her to even speak.

It was the first decent offer I'd had all day, and I realised I very much did want to talk about it.

I moved towards her, and it was only then that I started to notice the face surrounding those eyes. It was mutilated beyond belief. Terrible pockmarks covered her skin, her upper lip and her left eye were pulled towards her left cheek, and most of her hair had disappeared.

"It's alright, I'm not contagious," she said. "You can sit next to me without catching anything."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to stare."

"I can cope with the staring," she said. "It's when little children run away screaming that they've seen a monster that it hurts."

I nodded. As someone who had wanted to have children ever since we had been married, but was now never likely to, I could sympathise with that.

"But you were going to tell me about your problems," she rasped. "Sit down, and start talking."

***

So I told her about how Fiona and I had been married for eight years, but that Fiona had always put her career before motherhood.

"I always accepted it was her choice," I said, "but I also felt that our marriage wasn't complete without children."

Being a dual-income, no kids couple, we had been comfortably off, and had even bought a villa in Brittany, where we'd gone as often as we could.

"I should have twigged something strange when Fiona said last week, that she didn't want to fly there," I said. "We only lived a short distance from Gatwick Airport, and our villa was just a taxi ride away from St Marriott Airport. It seemed madness when she said she wanted to travel by sea. It meant I had to drive her car all the way down to Seacombe, and then catch the night ferry over to St Marriott, at an absolutely extortionate price.

"I didn't even work it out when she was sick in our cabin as she woke up next morning," I added. "I simply thought she was sea-sick.

"But when she was sick again in our villa, this morning, it didn't take a mastermind to work out the cause. Obviously, I was over the moon - just on the point of dashing out and buying a bottle of champagne until Fiona said the baby was not mine, but Jacque's - the guy living next to our villa.

"She wanted a divorce, so she could marry the father of her child. And I realised my life was over."

"Is that it?" The woman had been silent whilst I spilled out my tale of woe. Now, with three hoarse words, she had demolished my twisted rationale.

"Well, I..."

"Millions of people have been through what has just happened to you. They may not feel full of glee, but they don't make up their minds to jump over the side of a ship with a rucksack full of rocks on their backs." Her eyes turned to my rucksack. "I assume it is full of rocks?"

I nodded, miserably. "I went onto the beach this afternoon and chose a few."

She eyed it sceptically. "To me, it really doesn't look heavy enough to pull you straight under water. That might lead to a lot of splashing on the surface, and a long, drawn-out death. Anyway, rather than thinking about suicide, you should think yourself lucky that you've got rid of a faithless partner without any hassle. You can go on to live another life - perhaps have children by someone else. But don't pin your whole success in life onto having children; there are plenty of other things to enjoy. I, for one, envy you that luxury."

The silence following her words lengthened as I considered their significance, and started thinking outside the box I'd walled myself into that morning. I sat back a little and stared at her more deeply than I had thought polite, just now. It was easy to see why children ran away screaming - her face really was like some creation from a horror movie.

"So perhaps you should tell me what you're doing here." I pointed down at her wrist. "And why you have a piece of string tied around your wrist."

It was her turn to pause for a little while, before nodding, and saying, "The string was to make certain that I couldn't let go of my suitcase." Then she took her small suitcase and laid it on its back, prior to opening. She unzipped it and threw back the lid, and I could see two large rocks inside.

"I think the term is 'Snap!' " she said.

***

I was about to tell her not to be so stupid, that her face really wasn't as bad as all that, and that I could see by her eyes what a lovely person she was inside. But, perhaps I had learned from the way that she had treated me - it was better to listen before passing judgment.

"I think it's probably your turn to tell me all about it," I said.

She nodded. "Fair's fair. I really asked for this, didn't I? Perhaps I should simply have let you leap overboard." But her lips twisted in a way I thought was probably a smile, to take the heat out of her statement.

"Like I said," she said, "you were fortunate that your marriage split up so easily. My husband tried to kill me."

"What?" I wondered whether she was mad. Those kinds of things didn't happen to people in real life.

"He's in prison now. For attempted murder, grievous bodily harm, and a few other miscellaneous offences. He put poison into a curry he left out for me. The stupid fool! He paid ten thousand pounds to a man in a pub who told him he could get hold of an undetectable poison that would cause what appeared to be a simple heart attack.

"It turned out to be a blend of five different types of rat poison! Fortunately, I was able to call an ambulance before I passed out, and they had the good sense to bring the bowl of curry back with them to the hospital, thinking it a simple case of food poisoning. Of course, when it was analysed, the police were called in. As soon as they interviewed Peter, he simply collapsed and confessed everything.

"But that was three years ago. Since then, my life has been hell. Practically every organ in my body is damaged. I've been in hospital almost as much as he's been in prison, and he'll be out of jail on parole in four years time. It was me who received the death sentence. The doctors have now given me a maximum of six months to live. And a very uncomfortable six months, too, judging from what they don't say."

There wasn't much I could say to any of that, except a rather limp, "God! How dreadful for you."

"It was made much worse because he contested the divorce from his prison cell at every opportunity he could. I think he was hoping that I would die before it was finalised. In the end, I had to accept a miniscule lump sum payment, in return for very high monthly maintenance payments; otherwise, it would have to be dragged out in court. If I die soon, he'll have paid me hardly anything. So, I discharged myself from hospital. And here I am."

"Because," I said, as the thought clicked into place in my mind, "if instead of dying in hospital, you were to mysteriously disappear, it might take years to realise you were missing, and even longer to have you declared officially dead. And all that time, he'd be paying alimony."

"Precisely. Officially, I'm trying alternative remedies, but I've never placed any faith in those. They say you can't take it with you, but I'm having a pretty good try."

"It may be poetic justice," I said, "but it doesn't make your position any better. Now you're out of hospital, the kids run away from you screaming. That must be terrible."

She gave me another lop-sided, twisted smile. "Actually, that hasn't been too bad recently. I've been wearing a mask." She pointed down into her suitcase, where I could see a dark-brown wig. She reached out and picked it up. Attached to the wig was something flesh-coloured, but which appeared far bigger than simply a face mask. She manipulated it in her hands, thrusting her right hand inside the mask and covering the lower part of it with her left arm. A face appeared with gaping eye sockets and mouth, with a fringe of dark-brown hair.

"The really neat thing about this mask," she said, "is that it's got false boobs built in." She moved her left arm so the lower part of the item was revealed.

I whistled in appreciation. Attached beneath the chin was a neck, and a skimpy, flesh-coloured, vest-like top with a wonderfully large, rounded pair of breasts protruding from it!

"You can fill them with water to inflate them to any size you choose," she said. "I decided I'd got nothing really to lose, so I bought a 38D bra, and inflated my breasts to fill the bra. What do you think?"

"Fantastic. I bet you get lots of admiring looks."

"It's certainly done my ego a lot of good," she admitted, "and I've even pulled one or two blokes with it, for a last fling on my part."

Those words were said with a finality that hung uncomfortably between us. Had I been a Christian, I guess I'd have tried to convince her not to end her life. But I hate to see an injured animal suffer unnecessarily; far less a human who was going to suffer unbelievable pain and indignity. So I kept quiet with my thoughts.

"I think the mask would fit you," she said, trying to lighten the sombre mood.

And why not, I wondered. If she was going to end her life before the ship reached England, far better to go out with a little joviality.

I grinned at her, eyeing the mask. "I don't think so," I said, "but I'm game if you want to give it a try."

She grinned back. "Great! Hang on. I've got some gel in my suitcase that will help it slide over your head. It also stops the perspiration, and I can tell you, without it, it gets pretty damp inside, pretty fast."

She rummaged in her suitcase, and brought out a large, round, plastic tub, and a pack of tissues. She opened the tub and used a tissue to scoop out a dollop of a red gel.

"It looks very messy."

She shook her head. "It's not really. It spreads very thinly so it's hardly noticeable before you put on the mask."

What the hell, this was simply a bit of a lark before this woman ended her own life. Who was I to complain about a bit of goo over my face and hair? I slipped off my anorak and put it on the seat beside me, then unbuttoned my shirt almost down to my waist, so I could pull it clear of my neck and shoulders.

I gave her a rather sheepish smile - after all, I was going to look incredibly foolish when she got this mask on me - if it went on at all. "OK, do you damnedest!"

Surprisingly, it was extremely stretchy material, and the gel meant it slid with ease over my skin. It was a bit claustrophobic for the period when I couldn't see, or even breathe, but she quickly got that sorted. Then she was sliding my shirt right off my shoulders, and applying more gel to them, my chest and back, before getting me to slip my arms through the armholes, and sliding the vest part of the garment down my chest.

"There. What do you think?"

I looked down, and gasped.

"Bloody hell! They look real, but... what's my face like? It can't look anything like as realistic."

"Actually, it looks pretty good. You'd better go to the Ladies Toilet and look in the mirrors in there."

I made to get up, but she stopped me, laughing.

"Before you go in there, I think you ought to get properly dressed. You might shock anyone who's around, if they see you walking about with your boobs exposed like that."

"Hell you're right." I pulled my shirt into place, and went to button it.

"I don't think so." She placed a hand on mine, to stop me buttoning. "You need a proper bra first, otherwise with breasts that size, they'll wobble about so much under your shirt that you'll draw as much attention to yourself as if you were naked."

She selected a white bra from her suitcase, and after slipping my arms out of my shirt, I obligingly held them out so she could feed the bra over them, and then fasten it at the back.

"Not so fast," she said, as I again went to feed my arms into my shirt. "I have a nice pastel-blue sun top that will go nicely with those jeans you're wearing, and show off your figure at the same time."

Five minutes later, I was wearing the sun top, as well a pair of pale-blue trainers over a pair of matching socks, and we had exchanged my dark green anorak for her matching blue one. I clutched her blue handbag under my arm.

"So, go and have a good look at yourself," she said. "You'll find a hair brush in my bag, so you can give your hair a brush in the mirror. And if you're really feeling bold, have a little wander around the deck until someone sees you. Then you'll realise how realistic you appear."

I timidly went to the toilet, although I had secretly decided there was no way I was going to wander the decks inviting inspection from anyone who might be around.

***

"I got a wolf whistle from some teenagers," I said, as I came back out onto deck. "It felt so..." My voice died out as I realised she wasn't there.

Neither was my anorak or rucksack. Only her suitcase remained, now closed and tidily set in the corner between the seat and the bulkhead. Pushed under the handgrip was a folded sheet of notepaper.

"My dearest friend," the letter began.

"I feel closer to you than I have felt to anyone else in a long, long time, yet it wasn't until I found your passport in your anorak pocket that I even knew your first name.

"As I spoke to you, I realised the weakness of my plan for taking my own life whilst deceiving Peter into thinking I was still alive. That's often the case, isn't it? You work something out perfectly in your mind, but it's only when you tell someone else that you realise the problems.

"You see, although it may take months or even years for Peter to realise I'm missing, as soon as anyone investigates, they'll realise this boat journey was the last thing I was ever known to have done. There'll be a record of me getting on it, but nothing from then on. In fact, I'm not certain whether they keep records of people's passports as they enter the country. If so, they'd be able to tell I had never left the ship. So that would never do. Peter would deduce the truth, and no doubt make a plausible case in court, in order to reclaim from my estate all the money he had paid.

"So, I need you to continue wearing the mask for a little longer - or a lot longer, if you choose. I want you to use my passport, which you'll find in my handbag, to enter the country. As you will see, I had the photograph on it changed to show my false face, rather than my hideous, real one, as I simply couldn't bear the thought of having to strip off my mask when I went through passport control.

"Once you're in the country, I'd like you to make a few purchases with my credit card, and go back to the house I've rented in Seacombe and stay there for a while. I'm sure you will appreciate having somewhere to stay whilst you decide what to do about your own marriage.

"In fact, if you choose, feel free to use my identity for as long as you like, and spend as much of Peter's money as you want. My only condition is that, if the truth ever is discovered, and I see no reason why it should be, you will maximise the financial damage to him.

"Well, I can't force you to take on this role, except that you may find it difficult to enter the county without your own passport, especially as I didn't tell you the whole truth about the gel we used under the mask. I'm afraid it's a strong adhesive, which bonds itself to the skin in order to seal off the perspiration. This means that it is impossible to remove the mask, until in about a fortnight's time, when the skin sheds its outer layer.

"However, if you wish to continue longer than that, there's plenty of gel left in the tub, and you can get more from the supplier, whose details you will find at my house. Incidentally, they also manufacture devices to disguise men's twiddly-bits, and make them appear, for all the world, just like a woman.

"Good luck and best wishes, whichever decision you make about your future."

She had signed it simply with an X.

***

The passport controller must have thought it was his lucky day, as I wheeled my little suitcase up towards his desk. The suitcase felt so light without the rocks inside, which presumably were inside my rucksack at the bottom of the English Channel, complementing the weight of the ones I had selected from the beach.

He opened my passport and stared at my photograph, then at my face for a second, before his gaze drifted down to the gap at the front of my unzipped anorak. I could visibly see him gulp, as I turned my head, giving him a slightly improved view.

Guiltily, his eyes flicked back to meet mine, and he knew that I knew he'd been clocking me.

"Have a nice day, miss," he said.

I smiled at him, rather than speaking. I thought I had a lot of work to do on voice development before I risked doing that. Even imitating someone with their voice box removed would be difficult.

Still, I had plenty of time.