Song of the Dead

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

There’s a flat calm on the North Sea. A disconcerting, silent calm. Even the dull throbbing of the ferry’s engines seems subdued. Swallowed up by the sea and the dank air and the poor visibility. Still water beyond the wash of the ferry.

How can the sea, so tumultuous at times, ever be this lifeless? As though it’s been decreed: today the sea will not move. There will be no waves. There will be nothing. The mist restricts the view to little more than a few hundred yards. There could be land over there and you’d never know, although the map on the television in the cabin shows that we’re in the middle of the sea, edging slowly towards Sweden.

Standing on deck with the smokers. Coat on, freezing November chill in the air, looking out at the grey nothing, impossible to tell, a short distance away, where the sea becomes the sky. There is no sky. I could imagine, as I did last night on the ferry, that I would spend much of the daylight hours on deck, looking out at the sea. Standing out here now, however, I’m cold and dissatisfied. Slightly bored, even. How can you be bored looking at this?

I position myself as best I can to escape the cigarette smoke, as though the removal of that annoyance might help.

But the disaffection remains, and soon enough I decide to go back inside.

I stand still for a few moments. There’s a slight bustle around, the constant movement of passengers, from one activity to the next. Café, restaurant, cinema, floorshow, amusements, shopping, a parade up and down, possibly everyone as dissatisfied as me.

In the café I sit so that I can look out upon the grey early afternoon. A cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun, another short while in the grey day, and then back to the cabin to read the rest of the file. “We could be anywhere.” I turn. There’s a waitress standing beside the table, her fingers resting on the saucer of my empty cup, following my gaze out the window.

“There’s a timelessness about it. Like we’re trapped.” She’s not looking at me as she speaks. Almost as though she’s addressing the room, or maybe just herself. I follow her gaze back out over the sea. A ghost ship, looming out of the fog, would not be out of place. “There’s something unsatisfying,” I say. “You’re right.”