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I fight off my panic. “How long will it take?”
“They told the Yank on the last cruise three weeks or longer.”
“Three weeks?”
“Or longer.” She shakes her head. “Can’t say this doesn’t happen all the time. That’s why we place warnings on all the paperwork and in big, bold letters to keep yer identification secure. On this side of the ocean, everything’s not so loosey-goosey” as ye Americans say. But if it eases yer mind, you can disembark back in Derry without a passport. We recently added a preclearance clause to the paperwork for all ye forgetful Yanks.”
“What am I going to do now?” It’s a rhetorical question, one I ask myself and which doesn’t require an answer.
“You’ll have a grand time onboard. Considering yer circumstances, yer in luck because this ship has all the amenities ...” She continues on, describing all the ways I can enjoy myself onboard.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Trapped on this vessel.
God, he played me like an Irish fiddle. Blindfolded then blindsided me. But the question foremost on my mind is why?
Why would he do this to me?
Did he think it was too dangerous? Was he trying to protect me?
Damn it. He planned this, so there must be a reason why he’d screw me over like this. Whatever that reason is, it doesn’t matter.
My story won’t have an ending.
“Look on the bright side. Food and drink are included. And I’ve a feeling you could use a stiff drink. Bar’s just inside, dearie. Nothing a shot of whiskey can’t fix.”
I grit my teeth and stalk off, my mind racing for a way off this ship.
