Blood Cruise

by Mats Strandberg, Agnes Broome

Genres: General Fiction; Horror; General Fiction; Horror; Mystery; Thrillers; Romance; Young Adult

Synopsis

'Terrifying and terrifyingly real, a must-read for fans of Stephen King and John Ajvide Lindqvist' - Elizabeth Hand, author of Hard Light Welcome aboard the Baltic Charisma. Tonight, twelve hundred expectant passengers have joined the booze-cruise between Sweden and Finland. The creaking old ship travels this same route, back and forth, every day of the year. But this trip is going to be different. In the middle of the night the ferry is cut off from the outside world. There is nowhere to escape. There is no way to contact the mainland. And no one knows who to trust . . . On the Baltic Sea, no one can hear you scream. 'I will never set foot on a cruise ship again!' - Åsa Larsson, bestselling author of The Second Deadly Sin and Until thy Wrath Be Past

Release date: May 1, 2018

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 454

Sample

Almost an hour to go before the ship departs. She can still change her mind. She can still grab her bag and leave, pull it through the terminal building and back up the pier, head down into the underground, go to Stockholm Central Station, travel all the way back home to Enköping. She can try to forget this utterly foolish idea. Maybe at some point she will even be able to have a good chuckle about last night, when she was sitting in her kitchen, where the voices from the radio were unable to fully drown out the ticking of the clock on the wall. After knocking back one too many glasses of Rioja, she decided enough was enough. She downed one more glass and decided to do something about it. Seize the day. Seize adventure.

Sure, at some point she might be able to laugh about it. But Marianne doubts it. It is very hard to laugh at yourself when there is no one to laugh along with you.

What was this whim in aid of anyway? She had seen the advertisement on TV earlier that evening – people in evening wear who looked just like regular people, only a bit happier – but that is hardly sufficient explanation. This isn’t like her.

She quickly booked the ticket before she could change her mind. She was so excited she could barely fall asleep, even after all that wine. And the feeling had lingered all morning while she dyed her hair, all afternoon while she packed, all the way here. As though an adventure was already unfolding. As though she could actually escape herself by escaping her everyday life. But now her reflection is staring back at her and her head is pounding and regret has caught up with her, like a hangover on top of her hangover.

Marianne leans forward and rubs at some wayward mascara. In the blueish fluorescent light of the terminal building’s ladies’ room, the bags under her eyes look grotesque. She backs up. Runs her fingers through her sensible bob haircut. She can still detect a faint whiff of hair dye. She digs a lipstick out of her purse and tops up her makeup with the smooth movements of habit, smacking her lips at her reflection. Pushes down the dark cloud that wants to swell up inside her, swallow her whole.

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind her and the door unlocks. Marianne straightens up, smoothing her blouse down. Get a grip, she has to get a grip. A dark-haired young woman in a sleeveless hot-pink blouse emerges from the stall and walks to the sink next to Marianne’s. Marianne furtively studies the smooth skin of her arms, the muscles that can be sensed underneath as she washes her hands and reaches for a towel. She is too skinny. Her features are so angular they look virtually mannish. Still, Marianne assumes a lot of people would call her beautiful. Sexy, at least. A tiny diamond twinkles on one of her front teeth. Pink rhinestones on the back pockets of her jeans. Marianne catches herself staring and quickly turns away. But the girl disappears out into the terminal without giving her so much as a glance.

She is invisible. And she wonders if it can really be true that she was ever that young.

It was so long ago. A different time, a different city. She was married then, to a man who loved her as best he could. The children were little and still believed she was some sort of demi-god. She had a job that gave her validation every day. And her neighbours had always been happy to have her over for a cup of coffee when she could spare the time.

Imagine: there had been days when Marianne had dreamed of being alone. A couple of hours in her own company, so she could hear her own thoughts properly, seemed like the height of luxury.

If that was the case, she is swimming in luxury these days. In fact, luxury is all she has left.

Marianne checks her teeth for lipstick. Looks down at the trolley bag next to her, a gift from the book club she is a member of.

She folds her down coat over her arm, resolutely grabs her bag and leaves the bathroom.

There is an excited din in the terminal building. A few people are already queuing by the barriers, waiting to be let on. She glances around, realising that her pink blouse and knee-length skirt are much too formal. Most of the other women in their sixties are either dressed like teenagers, in jeans and hoodies, or have gone the opposite way, hiding under shapeless tunics and tent-like dresses. Marianne doesn’t fit in with either group. She looks like an uptight, retired medical secretary. Which is exactly what she is, of course. She tries to force herself to acknowledge that many of them are older than her, uglier than her. She has a right to be here too.

Marianne sets her course for the bar at the other end of the terminal. The wheels of her trolley bag make it sound like she is pulling a steamroller across the stone floor.

Once she reaches the counter she scans the gleaming bottles and beer taps. Prices are listed in chalk on blackboards. Marianne orders a coffee with Baileys and hopes drinks are cheaper on board. Are the bars tax-free too? She should have checked. Why didn’t she check? Her drink is served in a highball Duralex glass by a girl with gleaming scraps of metal in her lips and eyebrows. She doesn’t look at Marianne, which eases her conscience about not leaving a tip.

There is a free table at the far end of the glassed-in seating area. Marianne carefully picks her way between the tables with her noisy bag and the coat that seems as big as a duvet. The glass is burning her fingers. Her purse strap slides off her shoulder, landing in the crook of her arm. But at long last she reaches the table. Puts the glass down. Pulls the strap back up and miraculously squeezes through the narrow gap between the tables, coat and all, without knocking down a single thing. When she collapses onto the chair she feels completely drained. She gingerly takes a sip; the beverage is not nearly as warm as the glass so she drinks more greedily. Feels alcohol, sugar and caffeine slowly spread through her body.

Marianne looks up at the mirrored ceiling. Straightens up a little. From the bird’s-eye perspective, you can’t see the wrinkles on her neck, and the tightness of the skin around her jaw makes it look chiselled. Perhaps it is because the glass is tinted, but her eyes are alert in a face that could almost pass for tanned. She runs her fingers along her jawline until she realises she’s preening in public. She deflates in her chair, takes another sip. Wonders how far she is from becoming a bona fide eccentric. One time she made it all the way to the bus stop before noticing she was still wearing pyjama bottoms.

The black cloud threatens to well up again. Marianne closes her eyes, hearing laughter and talking all around her. There is a loud slurping noise. When she turns that way she sees a small Asian boy examining a glass with nothing but ice cubes left in it. His red-faced father has his phone glued to his ear; he appears to hate the whole world.

Marianne wishes she still smoked, that she could step out onto the pier and have a cigarette, just to have something to do. But at least she is here now. Surrounded by sound. And she makes her mind up. No, this isn’t her. But she is so sick of being herself.

She can’t go back home. She spent the whole summer cooped up in her flat, listening to laughter and voices and music from the other flats in the building, from the balconies, from the street outside her kitchen. The sounds of life happening everywhere. Back home, that damn kitchen clock is ticking away right now, and the calendar with pictures of grandchildren she has barely met is counting down the days until Christmas. If she were to go home now, she would be trapped in solitude for ever. She would never attempt anything like this again.

Marianne suddenly notices one of the men at the next table smiling warmly at her, trying to catch her eye. She pretends to look for something in her purse. The man’s eyes are large in his gaunt, drawn face. His hair is much too long for her taste. She should have brought a book. For lack of a better option, she pulls out her boarding pass and possibly makes too big a show of carefully scrutinising it. The shipping company’s logo in the top right corner: a nondescript white bird with a pipe and a captain’s hat.

‘Hey, love. You here all alone?’

Sheer reflex makes Marianne glance up. The man’s eyes meet hers. She forces herself not to look away.

Yes, he’s a bit worse for wear. And his light-blue denim waistcoat is filthy. But he must have been gorgeous at some point. She can see it, underneath the face he wears now. Just like she hopes someone will see the same underneath hers.

‘Yes,’ she says, and clears her throat. ‘I was supposed to be going with a friend, but she was confused about the dates; I just found out. She thought it was next Thursday and I . . . I thought that since I had the ticket anyway, I might as well . . .’

She breaks off and concludes with a shrug she hopes comes off as nonchalant. Her voice sounds creaky, as though her vocal cords have dried up. She hasn’t used them in several days. And the lie, which she prepared so meticulously the night before, in case of exactly this kind of situation, suddenly sounds laughably transparent. But the man just smiles at her.

‘Then squeeze in with us – you need someone to toast with!’ he says.

He already seems a bit tipsy. And one quick glance around his table is enough to confirm that his friends are in even worse shape. There was a time when Marianne would never have considered an offer from the likes of this man.

If I say yes, I’ll turn into one of them, she thinks to herself. But I can hardly afford to be picky any more, can I? And besides, isn’t ‘pickiness’ just cowardice by any other name?

It is only twenty-four hours, she reminds herself. Then the ship will be back in Stockholm. If this turns out to be a mistake, she can bury the memory of it where she has buried so many other things, like the opposite of a treasure chest.

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Yes. Thank you. That would be nice.’

Her chair scrapes loudly against the floor when she moves over to their table.

‘Name’s Göran,’ he offers.

‘Marianne.’

‘Marianne,’ he says, and smacks his lips a little. ‘Yes, that actually suits you. You’re as sweet as the Marianne mints.’

Luckily, there is no need for her to respond to that. He starts introducing her to the others. She nods at them, one after the other, forgetting their names as soon as she hears them. They are strangely similar-looking. The same guts bulging under the same chequered shirts. She wonders if they have known each other since they were young. If Göran was always the handsome one, the one who lured girls into the group.

Her coffee is cold and stale by now, but before she has time to gulp it down regardless, one of Göran’s friends returns with beer for everyone, her included. Marianne doesn’t say much, but no one seems to mind. They drink, and she stops thinking so damn much, starts feeling a tingling of anticipation again. It builds and builds, until she has to stop herself from abruptly laughing out loud like some kind of village idiot. When one of Göran’s friends tells a lame joke, she seizes the opportunity. Her laugh is riotous and too loud.

It is sad, really, how much she has missed something as simple as sitting around a table with people. Belonging. Being invited, and not out of obligation.

Göran leans in closer.

‘That thing with your friend is unlucky for you, but pretty darn lucky for me,’ he says, and his breath his hot and moist in her ear.

Albin is sitting with his head in his hands, chewing his straw. He sucks melted ice water from the bottom of his glass with a loud slurping sound. There is only the faintest trace of Coke flavour left. Like drinking cold saliva from someone who had a Coke fifteen minutes ago. He giggles. Lo would like that joke. But Lo isn’t here yet.

He stares through the glass partition at all the strangers moving around the terminal. One guy is wearing old-lady clothes and has lipstick smeared across half his face. A cardboard sign around his neck reads KISSES FOR SALE. 5 KRONOR. His friends film him with their phones, but you can tell from the way they’re laughing they’re not really having fun. Albin slurps on his straw again.

‘Abbe,’ his mum says. ‘Please don’t.’

She gives him that look that means Dad is already annoyed enough. Don’t make it worse. Albin leans back in his chair. Tries to sit still.

He hears a laugh that sounds almost like a dog barking. Looks over that way and spots a couple of overweight girls a few tables away. The one who is laughing is wearing pigtails and something pink around her neck. She tilts her head back and crams a handful of peanuts in her mouth. A few land between her breasts, which are bigger than any he has ever seen in real life. And her skirt is so short he can’t even see it when she is sitting down.

‘Why does she even have a mobile when it’s always switched off?’ his dad exclaims and puts his own phone down on the table with a bang. ‘Classic fucking Linda.’

‘Calm down, Mårten,’ his mum soothes. ‘We don’t even know why they’re late.’

‘And that’s what I’m saying. You would have thought my sister could have called so we didn’t have to sit here wondering where the hell they’ve got to. It’s so fucking disrespectful.’ His dad turns to him. ‘Are you sure you don’t have Lo’s number?’

‘Yes, I told you already.’

It hurts having to admit it again. Lo hasn’t been in touch to give him her new number. They haven’t spoken in almost a year. They have barely written to each other since she moved to Eskilstuna. He is worried Lo might be angry with him for some reason, a reason that must be a misunderstanding, but his mum keeps telling him Lo is probably just very busy with school because studying doesn’t come as easily to her as it does to him, and now that they are in sixth grade, things just keep getting more difficult. When Mum says that, she sounds like when she tries to persuade Albin that the kids bullying him at school are just jealous.

Albin knows better. There is no reason for anyone to be jealous of him. He might have been cute when he was little, but not any more. He is the shortest person in his class, his voice is still high and squeaky and he is not good at sports or anything boys need to be good at to be popular. That is a fact. Just like it is a fact that Lo wouldn’t have stopped talking to him unless something had happened.

Lo isn’t just his cousin. She was his best friend while she still lived in Skultuna. Then all of a sudden Aunt Linda decided they had to move and Lo had no choice but to go.

Lo, who could make him laugh like no one else, laugh so hard he almost panicked because it felt like the laughing would never stop. Lo, who told him the truth about how Grandma died. They cried together because suicide is so sad, but the secret, shameful thing about it was that he liked crying with Lo; it felt good. Finally there was something obviously sad, something they could share, unlike the other stuff, which he can’t even talk to Lo about.

‘No, Stella,’ a man’s strained voice exclaims somewhere behind Albin. ‘Stop that. Do you want to go straight to bed when we get on board? Do you, Stella?’

His questions are met with furious howling.

‘Then stop that right now. It’s not funny, Stella. I said no! No, Stella, don’t do that. Please, Stella, come on.’

Stella lets out another shriek and a glass shatters. Albin can feel his dad getting more and more agitated and his mum getting more and more nervous about him causing a scene. Out of the corner of his eye, Albin notices that familiar movement. The jerk of his dad’s head as he empties his pint. His face is even redder now.

‘Maybe they’re stuck in traffic,’ his mum says. ‘It’s rush hour; lots of people trying to get home from work.’

Albin wonders why she bothers. When his dad is in this mood, there is no way to calm him down. He just gets more worked up when you try.

‘We should have picked them up on the way,’ he says. ‘But then Linda would probably have made sure none of us made it on time.’

He rolls his glass back and forth between his palms. His voice is already sort of fuzzy around the edges and seems to sit further back in his throat.

‘I’m sure she’ll be here,’ his mum says with a glance at her watch. ‘She wouldn’t want to disappoint Lo.’

His dad just snorts. His mum stops talking, but it is too late now. The silence between them makes the air thick and hard to breathe. If they had been at home, this is the point where Albin would have gone to his room. He is just about to say he needs to go to the bathroom when his dad pushes back his chair and stands up.

‘Abbe, another Coke?’

Albin shakes his head; his dad moves off in the direction of the bar.

His mum clears her throat as though she is about to say something. Maybe about last night. That his dad was just really tired. Work stuff. And that with her needing so much help, he never gets to rest. But Albin doesn’t want to hear it. Tired. He hates the word tired, their code word for the unspeakable. His dad is always like this, especially when they are going somewhere or doing something that should be fun. He ruins everything.

Albin pointedly pulls his history textbook out of his backpack, which is slung over the back of his chair, and finds the section they have a test on next week. Frowns. Tries to look properly absorbed by scorched-earth tactics, even though he already knows it practically by heart.

‘So fitting that you’re studying the Swedish Empire when we’re crossing the Baltic,’ his mum says.

But Albin doesn’t respond. He has made himself completely unapproachable to punish her, because he is even angrier at her.
Mum could get a divorce so they wouldn’t have to live with him. But she doesn’t want to. And he knows why. She thinks she needs Dad.

Sometimes he wishes they had never adopted him. He would have done better in the orphanage in Vietnam. Or he could have ended up anywhere in the world. With another family.

‘Look who I found,’ his dad says, and Albin turns around.

His dad is holding another beer; Albin can tell from the white foam climbing up the side of the glass he has already started in on it. Next to him is Linda, her blonde hair falling loose over her shoulders. Her jacket is fluffy and pink like spat-out gum. She bends down and hugs Albin. Her cold cheek presses against his.

But where is Lo?

Albin doesn’t spot her until Linda moves around the table to hug his mum. He hears his mum make the same old joke she always does – Apologies for not getting up – and Linda chuckle like she has never heard it before. But the world around Lo seems to fade until she is the only thing he can make out clearly.

It is Lo, but it is not Lo, not the Lo he knows, anyway. He can’t stop staring. She is wearing mascara, which makes her eyes look bigger and paler. Her hair has grown long and it is a bit darker, the colour of honey. Her legs look impossibly long in the tight jeans she is wearing, which end in a pair of leopard-print trainers. She removes her scarf and leather jacket. Underneath, she is wearing a grey jumper that has slipped off one of her shoulders, revealing a black bra strap.

Lo looks like those girls in his school who would never in a million years say hi to him.

This is much worse than a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding could have been rectified.

‘Hey,’ he says, tentatively, hearing in that short syllable how childish his voice sounds.

‘Big shock to find you hovering over a book,’ she says.

She’s wearing a perfume that smells like caramel and vanilla, and when she speaks he catches intermittent puffs of sweet mint from the gum she is chewing. She gives him a quick hug and he can feel her breasts pressing against him. Albin is almost afraid to look at her when she straightens back up, but her new, adult face has already turned away. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Her nails are painted black.

‘Oh my, Lo, how you’ve grown,’ his mum says. ‘You look really pretty.’

‘Thanks, Aunt Cilla,’ Lo says, and gives her a hug as well, a much longer one than the one she gave Albin.

Mum reaches up to get her arms all the way around Lo’s back.

‘But you’re bloody skinny these days,’ his dad says.

‘Well, she’s growing,’ his mum replies.

‘I hope that’s the only reason,’ his dad says. ‘Boys like a little something to hold on to, you know.’

Albin just wants his dad to shut up, right now.

‘Thanks for the info,’ Lo says. ‘My number one goal in life is to make guys like me.’

The silence that follows lasts half a beat too long, then his dad laughs.

Linda launches into an interminable monologue about which route they took from Eskilstuna and exactly what the traffic was like every single inch of the way. Dad drinks his beer in silence, passive, while Mum tries her best to look fascinated by Linda’s narrative. Lo rolls her eyes deep into her skull and pulls out her phone; Albin seizes the opportunity to study her furtively. At length, Linda gets to how hard a time they had finding a parking spot near the terminal and then she is finally done.

‘Still, you made it; that’s what matters,’ his mum says with a glance at his dad.

‘Maybe we should go join the queue,’ he replies, and empties his glass.

Linda’s eyes follow the glass as he sets it down on the table. Albin gets up, puts his history textbook in his backpack and pulls it on.

The queue on the other side of the glass partition is growing and Albin notices that it has started moving forward. He checks the clock on the wall. Only fifteen minutes until departure. People sitting at the tables are getting their things together, finishing their drinks.

Mum checks over her shoulder and starts reversing in her wheelchair, apologising all the while. The people behind her have to push their table aside to let her to pass. She toggles the joystick on the armrest back and forth.

‘It’s like parallel parking, this,’ she says in that slightly too cheerful tone of voice that means she is stressed.

‘Are you all right?’ Lo says, and his mum replies, ‘Of course, sweetheart,’ in that same forced-cheery voice.

‘Are you looking forward to the cruise?’ Linda asks, ruffling Albin’s hair.

‘Yes,’ he replies automatically.

‘I’m glad somebody is,’ Linda says. ‘I thought I was going to have to chain Lo to the car to get her here.’

Lo turns to them and Albin tries not to show how hurt he is. She hasn’t looked forward to seeing him at all.

‘You didn’t want to come?’ he says.

‘Yeah right. Going on a cruise to Finland is my number one advice to the general public.’ She doesn’t even talk the same any more. There’s a new whiff of mint as she sighs. ‘Mum refuses to let me stay home alone.’

‘This isn’t the time for that discussion, Lo,’ Linda says, and stares at his mum and dad. ‘You should be happy boys hit puberty later. This is what you have to look forward to.’

Lo rolls her eyes again, but somehow also looks pleased.

‘Not necessarily,’ his dad says. ‘All children are different. And it depends on how much they feel a need to rebel.’

Linda doesn’t respond, but after he turns his back she shakes her head.

They start moving towards the exit. His mum goes first, and Albin hears her say beep-beep a few times when tables are too close together or suitcases block her way. He looks away. Through the glass partition at the ticket barriers two guards study the people passing through the gates.

‘Isn’t it heartbreaking that she thought she could pull off a miniskirt?’ Lo whispers far too loudly when they pass the girl with the pink feathers around her neck.

‘Lo,’ Aunt Linda admonishes.

‘Maybe if we’re lucky the boat’ll sink when those two waddle aboard. Then this nightmare would be over.’

The Baltic Charisma was built in 1989, in Split, Croatia. She is 560 feet long, 92 feet across and has a carrying capacity of more than 2,000 passengers. But it has been a long time since the Swedish-registered cruiseferry was fully booked. Today is Thursday, and only about twelve hundred passengers are pouring in through the doors. Very few of them are children. It is early November; the half-term break is over. In the summer, the sun deck is crammed with deck chairs, but now it is empty aside from some of the passengers who came on board this morning, in Finland. They gaze out across a cold Stockholm, chilly despite the last rays of the setting autumn sun. Some are waiting impatiently for the Charisma to leave port so the bars can reopen.

*

The woman called Marianne is among the last in the flood of people who slowly stream across the gangway high above the parking lot. The long-haired man has put his arm around her. On the other side of the glass, the sun hangs low in the sky. Its slanted, golden light softens their faces. The tunnel turns sharply left, and now Marianne sees the ship. She is stunned by its size. It is taller than the block of flats she lives in. Storey upon storey of white-and-yellow painted metal. It should not float. She notices the bow is open, an enormous, ravenous mouth feeding on rows of vehicles. She wonders if that is the bow visor and the floor suddenly sways under her feet, as if she is already at sea. She thinks about the cabin she booked. The cheapest one available, underneath the car deck. Below the waterline. No windows. The ship seems to grow with every step she takes. The name BALTIC CHARISMA is written on its side in curlicue, the letters several feet tall. The pipe-smoking bird gives her a gargantuan smile. She wants to turn around, run back into the terminal. But she can hear the sound of a kitchen clock ticking in an empty flat, so she keeps on walking. Tries to ignore the sudden notion that they are animals, passively trudging through the corral on their way to the abattoir.

*

Andreas, the general manager, is standing by the entrance, advertising the karaoke night and the offers available in the tax-free shop, smiling as warmly as he can. The cruise director should rightfully be doing this, but he called in sick this morning. It’s the second time since the end of the summer. Andreas is well aware the cruise director has developed a drinking problem since he started working here.

*

The Charisma’s commander, Captain Berggren, is on the bridge, ticking off the boxes on the departure checklist with his staff. Soon, they will pilot the ferry away from the pier with the aid of the navigating officer and the lookout. They are intimately familiar with all the thousands of rocks and skerries and shoals in the Stockholm and Åbo archipelagos. Once the Charisma is out of the harbour, she runs on autopilot, and the captain hands control to his staff captain.

*

There is feverish activity in the staff quarters. The employees whose ten-day shifts start tonight have collected their uniforms and changed. Waiters are scurrying from the galley – the Charisma’s enormous, steaming kitchen, which supplies food to all the on-board restaurants – with enormous platters destined for the serving tables at Charisma Buffet. Some of them are still hungover after a night of partying. They gossip about who was called to the infirmary to have their blood alcohol levels checked that morning, and who didn’t come out of that so well. In the tax-free shop, Antti is conducting a run-through with his staff. When they open back up, half an hour after departure, an impatient line of customers will be waiting outside.

*

The water is perfectly still in the spa’s big, round hot tub. The surface reflects the clouds and sky outside the panorama windows. The massage benches are unoccupied. The heater in the sauna is quietly creaking away.

*

Down in the engine room, the engines are given a last once-over. If the bridge is the Charisma’s brain, the engine room is her beating heart. Chief Engineer Wiklund has just put in a call to the bridge, informing them that refuelling is complete and the fuel line safely disconnected. He studies his engineers through the window of the control room. Finishes his coffee and puts his cup down, looks at the orange doors of the crew lift. As soon as the Charisma has made it safely out of harbour and is striking out on its familiar route towards Åbo the staff chief engineer will take over and Wiklund can leave. He doesn’t need to come back until they are approaching Åland; he is planning to take a big nap.

*

The Charisma has pretty much seen it all. In the no-man’s-land of the Baltic Sea, inhibitions are lowered, and not only by cheap booze. It is as though time and space warp, as though the usual rules cease to apply. And the whole thing is monitored by four security guards, who are busy preparing for nightfall, each in their own way. Four people, tasked with maintaining order in the utter chaos that can be wreaked by twelve hundred people, most of them drunk, crammed into an enclosed space they can’t leave.

Outside the engine room, on the car deck, members of staff are giving passengers instructions in Swedish, Finnish and English. They have guided lorries, cars, caravans and two coaches to their designated places. Everything is carefully calibrated to ensure the ship’s stability. The air down here, where the sun never shines, is cool and smells strongly of petrol and exhaust fumes. Tired lorry drivers and road-tripping families move towards the lifts and stairs. Soon the car deck will be sealed, not