Meg nudges me. ‘Well, it’s a good thing you have a magical power that allows you to see the past, right? And a genius friend to help you interpret what you see.’
‘Yeah, handy that.’
TheTitanicmuseum towers above us, its angular shape evoking the bow of a huge ship. Despite the drizzle, the area is packed with tourists. Cormac and Paul won’t be here for a bit, so we decide to look about outside while we wait, see if I get a vision.
‘What was it like before?’ I ask Meg as we skirt round a group of French teenagers.
‘No idea. Just some docks, I think.’
There’s a queue forming outside the entrance and guilt pokes at my side as I remember my promise to come here with Nanny Bet.
‘Is the museum good?’
Meg shrugs. ‘Yeah, it’s pretty decent. We’ve been with school a few times.’
‘And you’re happy to go again?’ I say.
‘I told you, I love history.’
‘Ah, so you’re an expert on theTitanic?’
She sniggers. ‘Yes, I’m quite the shipwright.’
‘Huh?’
‘Person who builds ships.’
‘Ah!’ I smirk. ‘Riveting.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘You should save that kind of material for your stand-up career.’ She looks around. ‘Right, where’s this ghost ship?’
I search for any difference in the light, but there’s nothing. ‘I mean, technically it’s not a ghost ship.’
‘Fine. Where’s this unexplainable temporal-phenomenon ship then?’
‘No idea.’
Meg grips my wrist. ‘Let’s check the dry dock.’ She pulls me towards a railing lined with tourists taking photos. The dry dock is about six metres deep and twice as wide, but I can’t even guess how long it is. It stretches far away from the museum. People drift along the bottom of it, like discarded toys in a bathtub.
‘Wow.’
Meg smiles. ‘I know.’
‘So, this is where it was built?’
She nods. ‘Pretty much. Well, it was finished here. They call it “theTitanic’s footprint”.’
I try to picture the space filled by the boat. Piecing it together from the film that I made my parents watch one movie night a few years ago. Dad rolled his eyes, but Mum and I shared a tear at the end. I’m a sucker for a sad ending.
‘It was huge,’ I whisper as a seagull screeches above.
The seagull cries again and my vision flashes white. Waves and wind rush in my ears and I see a scattering of images in my head.
A seagull caught mid-flight.
A black feather.
A towering ship.
