My eyes adjust. What is that?
In the top right of the photo there’s a vertical black line. I tweak the contrast. Most of the photo is white, overexposed, butthe black line has spread to reveal the top of a dark column. A chimney.
I gasp as the lost memory comes rushing back. It wasn’t a dream. I saw this chimney billowing smoke. It was on a boat. A boat that was built in Belfast over one hundred years ago. The most famous ship in the world – one that now rests at the bottom of the Atlantic.
And yet, somehow, I have a photograph of it.
I drop my camera.
‘Oh fuck,’ I breathe.
Well, there we go. I’ve lost it.
Either I’ve seen and taken a photo of the – I don’t even know – theghostof theTitanic, or else I think I have. To be honest, I don’t know which is the better option.
This is insane!
OK, yes. Objectively and rationally, this is insane. I hate that word. I don’t want to be that word. But what’s the alternative?
Stress?
Yes, I’m stressed. I didn’t eat properly so I fainted and then my dramatic brain created a story to make things more interesting. It’s probably linked to some entrenched emotional trauma I’m not ready to deal with. So instead I’m conjuring up ghost ships then trying to find proof in a whited-out photo. That black line – it could be anything. A hair on the lens, a railing, a cloud…
I did not see the ghost of theTitanic.
I burst out laughing at the thought. It’s insane that I even need to convince myself. Of course I didn’t see the bloodyTitanic. As far as I’m aware, there were no mermaids welcoming me to Ireland with a quirky Christmas-ad-style cover of ‘Galway Girl’ either.
That would’ve been cute.
I’m adjusting, that’s all. I check the time on my phone. It’s 6 a.m. Ireallyneed to sleep.
My head is throbbing and my stomach begs me not to touch the fried breakfast that Sheila is plating up for us. We didn’t get back too late last night and I only had a few drinks, but that’s enough for my body to be pissed at me.
Plus, I saw theTitanicyesterday.
Stop.
‘So, you had a good night?’ Mum asks in her ‘casual parent’ voice, crunching on the organic granola she brought with her.
I shrug. ‘Was all right.’
Fiona sets down her orange juice. ‘Did you smooch any hotties?’
‘Fiona!’ Sheila snaps from the kitchen.
Cormac smirks.
‘No,’ I say, cheeks burning. ‘Met some nice people though.’
Fiona yawns dramatically. ‘Are you sixteen or sixty?’
Cormac pats me on the shoulder. ‘She has a point.’
I shrug his hand away with a laugh.
Mum checks her phone. ‘I told your Nanny Bet we’d call up this morning.’
I want to hide in a blanket cocoon and escape into a book, but I need to see her.
