It is 7.00 am and we are sailing at 18 knots through
rough seas off the coast of Africa. The ship's movement is not enough to knock
a cup of coffee or glass off a table but it does make the wardrobe doors swing
open releasing wheelie suitcases which roll out across the carpeted cabin floor
crashing into the wall opposite. We, myself and Margaret, exit our room and walked
along a seemingly endless corridor of doors. Doors that were followed more doors, only
differentiated by a single-digit yet united by the knowledge they were all even-numbered.
The odd numbers were on the other side of the ship. Onboard deck floor maps are posted on walls in
the open areas, near the stairs and lifts as it is very easy to get lost on
this gigantic vessel. Periodically as we walk, we pass openings on our right,
options to turn inward but we ignore them and press on. Our destination is the
self-service restaurant located in the very bow of the ship and up on Deck 12.
The Oriel is a 70,000-ton feat of German engineering. Manufactured in 2002 and
only refurbished last year it has two thousand passengers and eight hundred
crew on board for this particular cruise.
Occasionally, as we walk we have to adjust our centre
of balance as the floor tilts upwards to the right and then down to the left. Being up early this morning we are encountering
no one, not even the cabin stewards with their trolleys. It would appear that
the longer the cruise goes on the later passengers rise. As today is the third
last day of this cruise I can understand the passengers' desires to squeeze
every last luxurious moment out of the remaining days. The cruise itself had gone very well and I
felt that finally I could understand and relate to the cruise lines catchphrase
“This is the life.”
These words in the television advert were spoken by an
actor in his mid-forties whilst resting on his elbows, leaning over the ship’s
rail, wearing a white dressing gown and clutching a glass of freshly squeezed
orange juice. Beyond him lay miles of sparkling blue sea and to his right, the
ship’s bow was cutting a crisp clean path through the calm waters. Who wouldn’t want to enjoy a life like that? The image portrayed to me was one of luxury,
elegance, and total relaxation. I concluded that he probably wouldn’t have
looked quite so smug if they had filmed that advertisement today and on this
ship.
Within a
few minutes, we reached the final opening and turned into a large carpeted foyer.
To my left, an open glass floor to ceiling window showed the ship cutting
through the rippling snarling white-tipped waves while to my right three sets
of lifts stood waiting with their double doors closed. Beyond the lifts, a
carpeted staircase lay available for use by the more energetic of passengers.
Above each lift were digital displays indicating the floor upon which, each
lift currently stood. I hit the red button on the nearest lift to our deck,
Deck 8 and seconds later with Margaret I stepped into the empty lift. Once in
the doors shut solidly behind us. We’d ridden these lifts many times over the
past fortnight, several times a day and I was thinking more of what I’d eat for
breakfast than anything else when I pressed the control panel button for Deck
12.
Unusually though, instead of illuminating our destination
button, the whole panel just died. I
tried to press it again but the panel just appeared as if it had switched off.
Nothing I did now mattered a jot. We looked at each other and shrugged. “That’s
odd,” said Margaret and she smiled a tad nervously. I smiled back and looked
around for instructions on what to do next if your panel dies.
Suddenly with a jolt, the lift began to rise. I
relaxed, the panel was still dead but the
lift had obviously remembered my request and we’d be heaping steaming hot
sausages, rashers, tomatoes, toast and scrambled egg onto our plates in minutes.
Up the lift rose past deck 9, past deck 10 and past deck 11 until it came to a
halt on deck 12. We both moved towards the doors in anticipation of exiting but
they remained closed. Margaret pressed and pressed the door buttons but got no
joy. We looked around to see what else we could do. Then with another jolt, the
lift took off again. Gathering pace it rose to deck 13 and then deck 14. I began
to panic as I knew there was no deck 15 so I was bloody pleased when came to a
juddering halt at Deck 14.
Then, without any instruction from us, the lift set
off at pace downwards and gathering speed as it went. It hurtled down past the
floors, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 and was heading for 5. I suspected 5 was
the lowest it could go, and it duly reached it with a shudder and we suddenly came
to a terrifying death defying stop. We were both sent sprawling across the
floor. Margaret cried out “Luke you have to do something!”
Before I could stand up, the lift had set off again.
This time we travelled upwards which relieved me as the opposite direction
would have lead to the sinking of the ship and our certain death. For the next
few minute’s we sailed up and then down the lift shaft, passing floors without
stopping and then reversing the journey time and again. All the while the ship
was rocking and heaving from side to side. I was terrified but I knew I had to
do something. Once I’d calmed myself down and had time to assess what was
happening, I flipped open the metal cover in the lift wall and pressed the
alarm button hidden inside. I could hear a shrill bell going off outside the
lift but nothing else occurred and our terror ride continued.
Then in desperation, I remembered the small amount of
morse code my merchant navy officer and sea experienced father had taught me. I tapped out small patterns of morse
code—dit, dit, dit, pause, dit, dit, dit, pause dit dit dit, on the alarm
button. This is morse code for SOS – emergency help wanted – ship in distress but
no one reacted. No call came from a control centre in the bowel of the ship or upon
the ship's bridge where officers were on duty twenty-four seven. The
loudspeaker within the lift remained stubbornly silent.
As the minutes passed and the violent lift movements
up and down past the floors continued, our anxiety grew. I increased the
frequency of the alarm button pressing until finally my finger was permanently
on the button. Margaret was in a panic. With
eyes wide open, mouth poised in a silent scream, she stood ramrod straight,
upright and jammed into the farthest corner of the lift. She felt around the
smooth silver metallic wall for a handrail or something to grip onto but found
nothing. Eventually, the lift of its own
volition stopped moving but we were still trapped inside it. I heard a voice
from above shouting something to us but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
The lift remained static at deck level 5. A short while later, that seemed to
us an age, a technician opened the lift doors and we stepped out shaken but
okay.
"All out?" asked a voice from somewhere
above us.
“Yes. It’s just the two of us” I answered. With that,
a technician in overalls jumped down from the lift ceiling and joined us in the
lobby. He smiled at both of us and said,
"I was walking past the lift when I heard your alarm bell. I've been chasing this lift up and down the
floors for the past five minutes or more."
It didn't inspire confidence. What if he hadn't been
passing? What then? I thought.
"There are loads of safety features on this
lift," he informed us. "You would never have fallen to the foot of
the shaft." I wasn’t so sure. We walked up the stairs to deck 12 and sat
in the restaurant not talking just looking at the sea rushing past our window.
Neither of us felt like eating so we settled for two cups of steaming hot tea.
Upon leaving half an hour later we walked past the lift and I didn't see any,
Out of Order signs. Not only that, the lift appeared to be continuously in use.
I went directly to reception and made a formal report of the incident, verbally
to an officer who typed as I spoke.
"Yes, we had reports from passengers of a lift
sailing past floors without stopping," he confirmed.
“I would have
been reassured if, upon my pressing of the alarm button, someone in the ship’s
crew had made contact with me via the PA system or from outside the lift as we
have just spent a considerable period of time yo-yo’ing between ten decks
unaware that anyone knew we were trapped in a lift with a mind of its own.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I can do no more than
register your comments, sir.”
“Well don’t say I didn’t try to warn you – that lift is a death trap!” I said loudly turning on my heels. With hindsight, given what happened next, I probably should have taken the matter further.
Above is an extract from Murder On Board – available now on Amazon – click here for link
