Revenge of the Tide (15 page)

I
’d almost forgotten that Carling said he was going to call me until the phone rang on the table in the cabin.

I’d been trying to ring Dylan again, but his phone had been switched off once more. There was no option to leave a message. It was easy to become obsessive about it, to ring every few minutes in the hope that he would have turned the phone on by pure chance since I’d last called.

My phone rang at just gone nine. I was washing up at the sink in the galley, wondering if it was too early to go to bed and whether I would be able to sleep if I did.

‘Hello?’

‘Genevieve? It’s Jim Carling.’

I should really programme his number into the phone so I would know it was him, instead of answering it with such trepidation.

‘Hi, Jim,’ I said, my face colouring even though nobody was here to see it. Last night he’d kissed me and pushed his body against mine. He’d lain next to me on my bed and held my hand until I slept, and yet this morning once again the only person I could think about was Dylan.

‘I’m sorry it’s so late,’ he said. ‘I meant to ring you earlier but it got busy. This is the first chance I’ve had.’

‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘Thanks again for coming over last night,’ as though he’d come over to fix a leaking tap or put up a picture, ‘it was really kind of you.’

‘How did you get on with Malcolm and Josie?’ he asked.

‘They were very upset,’ I said. ‘I think Malcolm’s buried the cat somewhere.’

‘Did you tell them what had happened?’

‘I didn’t say much to Josie, she was devastated. Malcolm’s no fool.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I got that impression when I spoke to him the other day.’ There was a little pause.

‘Are you still at work?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Going to be late finishing tonight.’

‘You poor thing, you must be shattered.’

He laughed. ‘I am a bit. Funny, that. Anyway, I was just calling to check you’re okay. You know where I am if you need me, right? Or you can always ring the main number. They’ll send someone out quickly.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. Was that it?

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

I put the phone back on the table, feeling put out. He might at least have offered to check up on me on his way home.

I finished the pots and got ready for bed, cleaning my teeth in the bathroom. I left all the lights on in the cabin and I’d left the radio on since the afternoon, too, the noise from it blocking out the silence. It was the quiet moments that were worst, I’d decided, once the marina had gone to sleep, darkness had fallen over the Medway and the only sounds were the wind and the water lapping at the sides of the hull as the tide rose and floated the
Revenge of the Tide
away from the muddy riverbed. I never wanted to hear that bumping noise again. If I had to leave the radio on every night, I would do it.

I turned off all the lights and crawled into bed. I left the radio on the timer socket, with it set to turn off at one in the morning. There was no way I would still be awake by then, I thought. I would drift off to sleep to the peaceful sounds of Classic FM and I would wake up to bright daylight. Nothing to worry about. No stupid gulls marching up and down the roof of the cabin above my head. No footsteps outside on the pontoon. Nothing bumping against the side of the hull.

I slept, and I think I was dreaming about Dylan. He was there, in any case, on my boat the way he’d never been in real life. He was saying, ‘You did a good job with all that money, Genevieve.’ I thought then that maybe he wasn’t paid as much as me by Fitz. It was a sudden realisation that the time he’d driven me home from Fitz’s private party he was probably pissed off because of all the money I’d earned for not doing very much at all. Whereas he’d done so much that evening, minding me and ferrying me around, and stopping me from going upstairs and seeing all the other things that were going on at the party without me having a clue – and he’d likely earned less than a tenth of what I’d taken home in cash.

It was dirty money, I realised that now. But it was all just cash, to me. It was beautiful cash that I could put towards my boat. And I’d been wrong about Dylan, of course. I’d been wrong about just about everything, back then.

The Sunday morning after my appearance at Fitz’s private party, I slept late.

When I woke up, it was to a banging on the door. Half-asleep, I answered it – a delivery of a hand-tied bouquet of roses and lilies, so big that I could hardly see the delivery person behind them.

I managed to get them through the door and into the kitchen, and read the card. It said, simply:

Thanks

You were great

I smiled as I found enough vases to accommodate all the blooms and set about arranging them. I’d enjoyed myself, money or no money, even the last dance for Kenny. Nakedness was just a state of mind, after all. And the clumsy fingers, the grabbing hands? Nothing that a nice hot shower wouldn’t put right. He wasn’t that bad; in fact if he hadn’t been quite so drunk I might even have found him attractive.

I wondered if Fitz liked me. Was that why he’d asked me to do the party? No, of course not – he was entertaining his guests, and I was the best dancer he had – he’d told me that often enough, and Dylan had said something similar earlier on in the evening, hadn’t he?

One thing was for certain: Dylan definitely didn’t like me. In fact, he’d barely been able to look at me on the drive home this morning. The thought of the tension in his shoulders, the way he’d looked steadily ahead as though I weren’t even there, made me feel sad. I wanted him to look. I wanted him to smile when he saw me dance, and I had no idea why. It wasn’t even as if he was my type. He was taciturn, monosyllabic… a moody shit, in other words.

Fitz was much more like it. Maybe if I played my cards right, I thought, I could get my escape money together sooner than expected.

When I got up it was a beautiful day. It reminded me of the summer, a huge blue sky overhead, so bright that it hurt my eyes to look at it, scored with vapour trails and the occasional wisp of cloud. It was still, the river sparkling. The cabin was warm even though the woodburner had gone out, the ashes cold.

The door to the wheelhouse was sticking. The damp weather was warping the wood. That would be my job for today, something to take my mind off it all. It was cold outside, but the air so fresh and clear I took deep breaths of it for several moments.

The marina was at peace, all the boats quiet. The car park was still; Joanna and Liam’s Transit was there, and Maureen and Pat’s Fiesta. Another I didn’t recognise. The door to the office was open. Everything looked as it should. I’d been half-expecting something else to happen in the night, some new horror to deal with, but this morning was so normal and right that I almost felt silly for my apprehension.

I went back into the cabin to get a jumper, and while I was there I put the kettle on the stove to make coffee. The cool air flooded the saloon from the open door and the steam from the kettle rose in clouds.

I sanded the edge of the wheelhouse door, watching the dust dancing and whirling in the sunshine, as the marina came to life around me. Maureen emerged first, shopping bags in hand. She called to me across the decks of the boats.

‘Need anything?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Market!’

‘No, thanks! Have fun.’

She waved at me and headed off to the car park.

The door was better, but still sticking. I debated getting my workbench out and planing the surface. It wasn’t that bad, not yet. I went back to sanding and lost track of time. My shoulder was starting to ache.

The door to Joanna’s cabin opened with a bang. Music drifted out. I recognised it straight away, faint as it was – the Velvet Underground, ‘Venus in Furs’. I used to dance to this, a lifetime ago.

I could smell bacon cooking, too. I wondered if it was Joanna’s. I stopped sanding for a moment to stretch my arms over my head, then I drank my coffee. It was cold, flecks of sawdust floating on the surface.

I’d finished working on the wheelhouse, and the cabin was full of dust. I couldn’t be bothered with that now. I left things as they were, went over to the
Painted Lady
just as Joanna came up on deck with a steaming mug and a plate.

She saw me and waved.

‘You want some? Liam’s making.’

I shook my head. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Help yourself to a coffee, then.’

I went down the steps into their cabin. Liam was standing in the galley, dressed in a pair of jeans. He was shaking a frying pan that was sizzling furiously, filmy smoke in the air. I was pleased to see that their cabin was in a state of even more riotous abandon than mine.

‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully. He looked as though he’d not slept.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

‘Not bad. Bit of a night on the sauce. It was Manda’s birthday.’

‘Oh, okay.’ I helped myself to the last remaining clean mug and poured myself a coffee from the pot. I left it black and took it upstairs on to the deck. Joanna was sitting with her face to the sun, hamster cheeks full of bacon sandwich.

‘I hear you had a good night. Who’s Manda?’

‘Sister,’ she mumbled, through a mouthful.

‘Oh. You made it up, then?’

‘Different sister.’

Her bruise was fading to yellow already, a smear under her eye that might have been mistaken for tiredness. The sound of an engine out on the river trundled and rattled closer and then faded again as it passed. The sun was warm on our faces.

‘That policeman seems very nice,’ she said eventually.

I looked at her. She had a mischievous smile on her face.

‘You mean Jim Carling? He is nice. I like him. So where did you go last night?’

‘Oh, just in town. George Vaults, a few other places.’

‘What time did you get back?’

‘Not sure. Late. Why?’

‘I just wondered if you saw anything last night. Anyone. In the car park, I mean.’

She looked blank.

When I went back to the
Revenge
, Malcolm was sitting on the pontoon at the stern of the
Scarisbrick Jean
, doing something to the water pipe that connected the boat to the mains. He was bashing at the connection with a spanner, making a loud clanking noise that sounded dramatic, echoing off the walls of the office. His face was pink and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

When he saw me, he stopped.

‘That looks serious,’ I said.

‘I think there’s a blockage,’ he said. ‘Water pressure’s rubbish.’

I felt like saying that whacking the connection probably wasn’t going to improve things much, but he looked so depressed I held it back. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ I asked instead.

His face lit up. ‘Got any beer left?’

‘Sure. Might be a bit warm.’

We were on the sunny side of the deck where I’d sat with Ben nearly a week ago, drinking our beers.

‘How’s Josie?’

‘Alright, considering,’ he said. ‘She didn’t sleep much, so she’s having a lie-down.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I said.

‘What I don’t get,’ he said, ‘is why Oswald? And what were they doing in the middle of the night, killing cats? Don’t make sense.’

‘I know.’

‘Bastards.’

‘I heard someone running away.’

‘You didn’t see them?’

‘No.’

He shook his head, took a big gulp of beer and let out a long, soundless belch.

‘Why was he left next to your boat, though?’

I shrugged. If I could have thought of a different topic of conversation to turn to, I would have.

‘I reckon you must have pissed someone off back in London.’

‘Not me,’ I said, attempting a laugh.

‘You didn’t make off with the takings, or anything like that?’

‘Nah.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I reckon there’s a lot more to it. These London gangsters, they don’t mess about, you know. You’ve obviously done something to piss them off. Or you’ve got something they want.’

His voice trailed off and I looked out across the river, taking big gulps of beer and trying to swallow it without choking. I hadn’t even thought about it – Dylan’s stupid parcel. Of course that was it. Of course that was what all this was about.

‘You alright?’ He was looking at me with concern.

I didn’t answer for a moment. Malcolm was eyeing the beer bottle I was holding against my knee. I looked at it, wondering why it was dancing up and down, and then I realised it was my hand shaking.

I put the bottle down by my feet and spread my palms on my knees, rubbing them on the denim to try and keep them steady.

‘I’ve got something,’ I said, my voice unsteady.

‘What?’

I stood up and took a deep breath in, trying to stop the panic which was rising inside my throat. I put a hand over my mouth.

‘Gen? What is it?’

‘It’s – it’s just a parcel. Someone gave it to me to look after, when I left London.’

‘What’s in it? Drugs? A gun?’

Fuck – a gun? I hadn’t even thought about it being a gun. Surely it wasn’t that? It was drugs, surely, even though I’d done my best not to think about it, even though I’d just hidden it away and put it to the back of my mind, even though I’d pretended it didn’t even exist, not really. It wasn’t what was inside it that was important – it was just his parcel. It could have been anything.

‘I don’t know; I didn’t like to ask too many questions. I just promised I’d look after it, that’s all.’

‘Jesus. Well, that explains a lot, don’t it?’

‘It might not be that,’ I said, at the same time knowing for a fact that it was.

‘You need to get rid of it,’ he said.

‘Yeah, thanks for that! I’ve been trying to get hold of the person that gave it to me. No luck so far.’

‘You want me to – take care of it?’

‘What?’

‘Well, we could find somewhere else to hide it. We could bury it on the rec.’

‘No. It’s alright where it is. Thanks, though.’ It was still Dylan’s parcel, and I was supposed to be looking after it. What if he turned up to collect it, despite everything, and I’d got rid of it? He’d be furious.