Revenge of the Tide Page 14

  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.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, watching as a small motorboat chugged upstream. The woman sitting in the back of it was wearing a bikini top. Surely it wasn’t warm enough for that? I was starting to calm down a bit now. The breeze was fresh, blowing in gusts under the Medway bridge. The woman on the boat waved at us. Malcolm raised his bottle of beer in salute.

  ‘You worked at that club a long time?’ he asked then.

  ‘Six or seven months, altogether.’

  ‘You miss it?’

  ‘Sometimes. It was good fun.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I got enough money for the boat.’

  He looked at me and laughed. ‘That can’t be the only reason. Why not work there and do up a boat at the same time?’

  He was right, of course. There was a moment when it had all started to go horribly wrong, when things began to unravel. They’d unravelled at the Barclay at just about the same time that my night job collided with the day job, and it had all started the night I recognised my boss in the crowd of customers at the Barclay.

  Nineteen

  My boss was called Ian Dunkerley, a well-built man with small man syndrome. His way of working was to make you look like an idiot in front of your colleagues, so that you were left not trusting your friends, and despising him.

  He’d only taken over the line management for the sales team a few months before. At the time I was one of the top performers, but not the top, and that made me a target. Everyone who wasn’t actually top of the performance tables was a target. The idea, I suppose, was to encourage us all to be hungry for profit, or at least to make us want to be the favoured one who didn’t get picked on or abused, but in practice it pissed everyone off.

  Of all the people to see at the Barclay.

  I didn’t notice Dunkerley at first as I was concentrating on the moves, but during my usual moments when I was pausing in a particularly provocative pose, getting my breath back ready for the next gymnastic flip, I scanned the room as I always did looking for my regulars, new customers, people who looked reasonably well-oiled.

  And there he was.

  I was so shocked I nearly fell off the pole. I had to put in an extra spin which put me one beat off.

  He was sitting in one of the VIP booths with a number of other men – quite casually dressed, I noticed; I was surprised they’d been let in – laughing and joking with a couple of the girls and fortunately paying no attention whatsoever to what was going on on stage.

  When I’d finished the routine and run back to the dressing room, flushed, breathless, I contemplated crying off sick for the rest of the night. I’d not missed a single dance since Fitz took me on, but the thought of going out there and dancing in front of that odious man made me feel physically ill.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Kay asked me.

  Kay was new to the Barclay, a pole dance specialist like me. She had been sent over from one of Fitz’s other clubs because she put on a ‘challenging’ show, mainly due to her outfits, which had more than a hint of S&M about them. Her dance name was Mistress Bliss, but since that was a bit of a mouthful we were allowed to call her Kay, as long as it wasn’t in earshot of any of the customers.

  ‘Yes. Thanks – I just… I thought I saw someone I know.’

  ‘What? A punter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She laughed. ‘I get that all the time. I saw my old maths teacher when I was working at the Diamond.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. There he was, Mr O’Brien, in the front row, drooling. It was hilarious. Who’ve you seen out there, then?’

  I grimaced. ‘My boss.’

  ‘From the day job?’

  Not all of us had day jobs. We never mentioned them here, in any case. I had no idea what the other girls I worked with did. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ooh, shit. He doesn’t know about this, then?’

  ‘You must be kidding. What makes it worse is that he’s not even nice. He’s a complete, total arsewipe. What am I going to do, Kay?’

  She patted me on the upper arm. ‘Do you dress like this at work? What’s the chances he’s going to recognise you? Lord knows Mr O’Brien didn’t recognise me. Hope not, anyway.’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘Go home, then. Don’t ask Norland – go and see Helena. You’ll be alright.’

  ‘I’m not a quitter.’

  ‘Then you’re going to have to go out there and face him.’

  It crossed my mind to ask one of the other girls for help, to distract Dunkerley for me. But, other than Kay, none of the girls on tonight were particularly friendly. Caddy wasn’t here to ask. There were a bunch of Eastern European girls who stuck together; they worked the room hard and concentrated on the lap dances, putting in a half-hearted show on the pole and then doing their best to hustle in the club. If I asked them for help, they’d be less likely to oblige by providing a distraction and more likely to use it as an opportunity to get one over me by deliberately pointing me out to him.

  I sat miserably putting make-up on in the hope that it would work as a disguise, borrowing someone’s tongs to put a few loose curls into my normally straight hair. Kay was probably right. The chances of him recognising me, with my hair down, wearing these clothes, in the dark, in that context in fact… it was all a bit unlikely.

  And yet, he was a sharp little fucker. I wouldn’t put anything past him.

  My next dance was slower – Portishead’s ‘All Mine’. The lights in the club were low and I could almost hear the conversations
going on around me as I danced. I loved this song, it was easy to block him out, to take myself off to a private space where I was alone and dancing for myself.

  When I looked over to the table where he’d been sitting, near the end of the track, he was gone.

  Malcolm went back to the Scarisbrick Jean after two beers. Josie had popped her head up and seen us sitting together, feet up on the gunwale, laughing about something. I waved at her but she’d already gone in.

  ‘Better go,’ he said, downing the last of his beer. He slid the empty bottle into the crate outside the wheelhouse and hopped down the gangplank. When he got to the deck of the Jean he waved. ‘Cheers, Gen,’ he said.

  When I stood up, a little unsteadily, thinking that it was probably a bad idea to be drinking beer in the middle of the day, I caught sight of something down in the mud. I put both my hands on the gunwale and peered over the edge.

  The mud was disturbed, churned up, around the boat. When I looked properly I realised there were footprints, deep holes with trails between them as though someone had pulled their feet from one step to another, stumbling, leaving a muddy wake with each step. To my left the trail ended in a mess of mud, debris and river weed.

  The footprints led away from the boat to the grassy wasteland between the marina and the great concrete legs of the Medway bridge. I followed them with my eyes all the way to an old pontoon, half-submerged in the mud, that was made out of old pallets lashed together with bits of rope. There, more churned mud, and footprints on the wooden pallets leading up to the tussocky grass, the marshy land under the bridge.

  Someone had walked from there, down to my boat. They must have struggled in the deep mud, and, judging by the mess, they had probably lost their balance once or twice and fallen over. There was no sign of anyone – nothing moved in the marina, no cars in the car park. In the bushes under the bridge, the only movement was the leaves and branches stirring in the breeze.

  This morning I’d felt relief that the night had passed without incident. I’d chastised myself for being foolish, for expecting more horrors when I had no reason to expect any. But as it turned out, I’d been right – someone had been here. Someone who hadn’t wanted to be seen by anyone at the marina and so had approached my boat from the river, across the mud.