A rusty medical box, the embossed cross still visible on the front, sits atop the superstructure, now filled with a mismatched collection of bottles. We drop over the side and descend past the peeling layers of rust until we spot the inviting darkness of an open doorway.
Gently cruising into the gloom, our torchlight catches on a rectangular frame. On closer inspection, we realise we’ve found the sick bay. An autoclave full of silt rests in the corner and a precariously perched drawer contains glass syringes, now yellowed, broken and dusty. The operating table, topped with a neatly stacked pile of bones serves as a disturbing reminder of those that died when this ship went down. More disconcerting perhaps is the knowledge that the deaths occurred in another part of the ship...