***
Jimmy was a bit concerned about the design end of things, but Scoop quickly reassured him:
'Don't worry, Jimmy — there's software for that. A monkey could do it!'
'Are you calling me a monkey?'
Scoop gave him a long look. And then: 'There's some very bright monkeys around, you know.'
***
In the late afternoon Scoop said: 'I'm just going to stretch my legs, as it were.'
When he'd gone Jimmy returned to surfing the Internet for the latest news, and it was while doing this that his thoughts returned to home. His parents would be tearing their hair out (and his dad didn't have much to spare). He had the opportunity now to send them an e-mail — if only they had an e-mail address, access to the Internet, or, indeed, a computer. Well, they could just wait a few days. Maybe it would teach them to appreciate him a little more. There was nothing to stop him sending a message to them via his school, of course. It had a website.
School — he was actually missing it, a tiny little bit. Not the work, obviously, but his friends. Messing around. If he could have changed anything about the past few days it would have been to bring Gary Higgins with him on this adventure. They would have had a cracking time together.
Thinking about Gary reminded him of his expulsion. What choice had his headmaster had? None at all. He'd been reckless and disruptive and had almost destroyed a school bus. He should e-mail Mr McCartney and apologize for his actions.
Jimmy logged on to the school website, and clicked on Mr McCartney's e-mail address. He wrote, Dear Mr McCartney. Then he hesitated. He knew what he should write. He knew what he ought to write. But he was Jimmy Armstrong, and there was really very little doubt about what he would write.
Dear Mr McCartney. How're you doing you scabby-faced baldy-headed vulture? Do you know that your secretary looks like a hamster? Does she keep nuts in her cheeks? Does she have an exercise wheel? Are you having an affair with her? If you are your children will be scabby-faced baldy-headed vultures too, but with the added attraction of big teeth and cheeks for nuts. Yours sincerely, Jimmy Armstrong.
Jimmy's finger hesitated over the 'send' button — but only for a couple of seconds. He was finished with school. He was on the high seas now, he had a job and he was getting paid for it. So stuff you, McCartney!
He sent it.
***
Jimmy was a journalist now. He typed a headline: Small Earthquake in San Diego — Not Many Dead.
It was true, there weren't many dead. But what he couldn't know, not yet anyway, was that the earthquake would set off a chain of events that would lead to the end of civilization as we know it.
Really.
7
San Diego
It is a universal truth that teenage boys, given the choice of either throwing a bottle they have recently found high into the air and watching it smash or setting it gently out of harm's way, will almost certainly choose to throw it.
Given the opportunity to throw two bottles, they are unlikely to compromise by smashing one and saving the other.
The boys in question were called Cameron Rodriguez and Patrick Hernandez, a fact which we are only aware of because just a few days after throwing the bottles they were both dead.
They lived in a housing project in San Diego, California. It was a rough area, and dangerous. Often, when they wished to play undisturbed by the local gangs the boys wandered out of the project and squeezed under a high wire fence on to a stretch of lush grass surrounding a laboratory owned by a company called Boris Bio Tech. On the morning of the San Diego earthquake the lab's entire staff were taking part in a softball tournament several miles away.
They felt the earthquake, but didn't for one moment think that it might affect their laboratory or indeed, lead to the end of civilization as we know it. Why would they? They were enjoying beer and hotdogs, while back at the lab the vibrations caused a faulty latch on a cupboard to give way. As a result approximately thirty bottles fell from their shelves. Of these, all but two landed harmlessly on the carpeted floor. The two that didn't bounced off a desk and through an open window. It was a ground-floor lab, so they didn't have a great distance to travel before landing, perfectly intact, on the soft lawn outside.
They might have remained there until staff discovered them the next day, and the world would not have been ruined, but for the inquisitiveness of Cameron Rodriguez and Patrick Hernandez. They were just having fun. They could not know that Boris Bio Tech's main work was top secret or that it developed poison gases for use in chemical warfare. Not to attack other countries, you understand, but to defend against other countries that might attack using their own poison gases. One bottle contained a very, very deadly poison gas. The other also contained a very, very deadly poison gas, although slightly different. But what Cameron and Patrick achieved by throwing these bottles into the air and smashing them was something the scientists at Boris Bio Tech had never even dared attempt. They mixed the contents of the two bottles.
***
Back on the Titanic, meanwhile, the earthquake remained just a small item in a newspaper almost entirely compiled by Jimmy Armstrong. When Scoop finally returned, later that afternoon, he wasn't looking well at all. His eyes were red, his skin blotchy and his brow damp. Jimmy had surprised himself by how much he'd enjoyed rewriting the stories and then slotting them into the newspaper, and he was anxious to show the nearly finished product to Scoop, but Scoop was too miserable to even look. He said, 'I'm sure it's fine . . . I'll look at it later . . . have to lie down.'
The suite where the paper was produced had a small bedroom at the rear, and it was into this that Scoop rolled.
'What . . . what do you want me to do?' Jimmy asked from the doorway.
'Whatever you like . . .'
'Do you want me to get a doctor?'
'No . . . sleep . . .' Scoop hauled himself out of the chair and on to the bed. 'Tired . . . Oh, they found your uniform . . . so be . . . careful. Captain gave me this . . . thought there might be a story in it . . .' Scoop pulled something small out of his shirt pocket and tossed it towards him. 'Catch . . .'Jimmy caught it. His lucky penny. 'You can . . . tell me . . . all about it. Later . . .'
Scoop's head fell to one side and he immediately began to snore. Jimmy turned the coin over in his hand. He'd forgotten all about it and its stupid history. Well — with Scoop sleeping and his work on the paper finished, now was as good a time as any to get rid of it. He would go to the tallest point on the ship — the climbing wall on the top deck — and chuck it into the sea from there. Jimmy didn't believe for one moment that it was unlucky or cursed, but he would do it for his granda, who clearly did.
As he turned to leave the room he was surprised to see two prosthetic legs standing in the corner behind him. He smiled to himself. Maybe these were the legs Scoop had intended stretching earlier. He wondered why the old man preferred to use a wheelchair. Still — none of my business. He gently closed the door.
***
His intention was to get rid of the coin, but there were, of course, distractions along the way. On the twelfth floor he discovered an amusement arcade which he hadn't noticed on the floor plans. He spent an hour playing pinball. He played a one-sided game of air hockey. There was a vintage Star Wars game which involved an attack on the Death Star. He played that nine times in a row, slapping the machine in frustration each time he was burned to a crisp. When he climbed out of the machine, Claire Stanford was standing there, with her arms folded.