by J. S. Monroe
Charlotte stood on the quayside, keeping a respectful distance as I forced the cabin door open, splitting the wood on the sliding roof hatch. Inside it was cold and airless and smelt faintly of sandalwood. I looked at her bus pass photo on the table, and heard emotions echoing distantly. Then, from further inside, I heard something else, a weak cry, barely more than a scratch in a throat. Nervously I went through into the bathroom, knowing what I would find.
Emaciated and wobbling, Lamorna tried to stand when I stroked her, but she fell over. She was on the floor, below the sink. I leant down and picked her up, worried I might squeeze the last breath of life out of her tiny lungs. I put the plug in the sink and managed to pump out a few dark drops of water, then lowered her gently into it. She drank slowly, her tongue feebly flicking the surface.
I looked around. On the tiny chrome-fenced shelf below the mirror, there was a mascara stick, Annalese’s toothbrush, a pair of earrings, some lipstick. Evidence she had lived. I picked up the toothbrush, smelt it, then rubbed it slowly on my gums. I could hear Charlotte stepping on board. I caught myself in the mirror, still wearing my ridiculous Italian tie and striped shirt.
“It’s charming, Dutchie,” Charlotte was saying next door. I walked through into the bedroom. Unlike me she had to bend her head, and she was stooping awkwardly.
“Did she make this?” she asked, rolling a beaded necklace through her fingers. It was still snaked across the rim of the mirror, where I had replaced it.
“Yeah.”
“It’s beautiful. Where are the stones from?”
“Cornwall. Treen beach.”
I felt strange, ill at ease. She was looking at the newspaper photo of Annalese.
“Do you want coffee? Black?” I asked.
“Thanks. We should have brought some food.”
I went to the sink, then remembered there was not enough water. The last drops were being lapped up next door. I didn’t want Charlotte to discover Lamorna. It would be too emotional, represent too many other things. We shouldn’t have come back. The barge was better left how it was, undisturbed, a tomb.
“We’re out of water,” I said. “Did anyone follow us here, you reckon?”
“I don’t think so.” She paused for a moment, rubbing the tops of her arms for warmth. “Are you frightened, Dutchie?”
I lit the camping stove, leant down and touched a cigarette to the flame.
“Have you done that before? On the motorway?” I asked, ignoring her question.
“No.”
“You just assumed they would veer right, because the hard shoulder was coned off…”
“… please.”
“They were only coppers. No one else looked hurt. Not badly anyway. You pulled a great stunt.”
I knew my tone would upset her, remind us of our differences. I needed to remind myself.
“I’ll get some food,” she said. “Any preferences?”
I let her leave in silence. A few seconds later I stuck my head out of the forward hatch.
“Cat food,” I called after her. She turned and looked at me, dropped her head and walked on.
*
Yes, I was frightened, sitting on the edge of the bed with Lamorna. Not counting my time with Annalese, I had spent most of my adult life tilting against the conspiracy between politicians, police, the Security Services, the establishment. Never once had I thought it could circle me completely. There would always be gaps, pockets of foolish decency, politicians who had opposed the poll tax, for example, liberals like Walter. But I had chosen to ignore them. The system taken as a whole was geared against the have-nots, that’s what mattered.
Now there weren’t even any woolly do-gooders left. Walter was dead. It was finally me against the state and I was scared, shit scared. Charlotte was my only ally, but she was really one of them. They would only shoot her. What would they do to me?
Annalese would never have let me be sucked into this showdown. She knew you couldn’t win. I was just beginning to see it her way when she died. If you can’t beat the system, live outside it. But it was too late for that now. They would keep looking until they found me. I had to fight. It was what I was best at.
*
“How long had she been shut in?” Charlotte asked, cradling Lamorna in her arms. “Poor little lamb.”
“A couple of weeks.”
“She’s so small.”
I was cooking a version of soy bean masala, standing at the small hob in my old clothes, and drinking my way through a four-pack. Charlotte had bought it, an obvious gesture. We were both making an effort, trying to be friendly, warm even.
“How did Walter move the barge, anyway?” I asked.
“He’s got friends.” She was sitting at the table, emptying a bottle of Rioja.
“He once worked for the CIA, right?”
“A long time ago. When the Americans wanted to know what MI5 was up to. Just like the government today. That’s why they employed him. He was used to spying on spies.”
“As a child I was never allowed to ask him what he did.”
“Was he a good godfather?”
“Crap. Used to give me children’s books from the 1920s. When We were Five for my fourteenth birthday. Can you believe it? I told him I preferred cash. He stopped giving me presents after that.”
“He always wanted children, he told me once.”
“He told me his wife was run over by a lorry.”
She went quiet. The story seemed even more pathetic now.
“I was thinking,” she said. “We’re exposed here and I’m sure it’s illegal. Walter must have bribed someone. Perhaps we should head back up river, where you used to be.”
“Greenwich? They’ll be waiting.”
“We’ll be nearer the dealing room. No one knew you were there,” she said.
“Walter did.”
“I know. It was in your file.”
I looked up at her. “And he removed it?”
“They thought you were still in Cornwall.”
24
We slipped our moorings and passed through the beaten panels of the Barrier towards the North Greenwich peninsula. I was glad to have company. London no longer represented opportunities. The water was murkier than usual, rippling in the weak stern light. Strands of steam were rising off Canary Wharf, lit by its glowing pyramid. I could never seem to escape from the building. It looked indomitable, coiled, threatening to press higher into the sky if required. At night, we used to count the number of occupied floors. Like a church appeal, the rising layers of light charted the recovery of Docklands. We cheered whenever a floor was extinguished. On the other bank a flame from the refinery licked the darkness like a blow-torch. Annalese used to call it a candle.
The wharf was quiet when we arrived. Most of the boats were sealed up for the winter. I watched Charlotte standing on the bow, stretching ashore with a rope. She was practical, dextrous. Before MI5, she said, she had done a short service commission in the army. Her father had disapproved of her new job as an ombudsman. He was in the Navy, had a good war in the Gulf. In his book it was bad enough keeping an eye on the Security Services, even worse doing it on behalf of a Labour Government. I suppose she was like Walter, decent enough in her way, naturally misguided.
“I’m going to have a word with the foreman,” I said, jumping on to the jetty. We had tied up next to the dilapidated cruiser, on the other side from our original berth.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” she said.
I wasn’t going to be hard on him, I just wanted an explanation, for the record.
A light was on in the Portakabin at the back of the wharf, by the gate leading to the tow path. I cupped my hand against the glass and saw Victor inside, sitting back in his chair watching a small black and white TV.
“Dutchie, I didn’t recognise you,” he said, as I walked into the office. The man’s voice was almost unbroken, comically high. “The hair, it’s all gone.”
“My barge disappeared, too,�
�� I said, turning off the TV.
Victor might have been a confident man once, but something traumatic had happened, like an injection of oestrogen, or an industrial accident. He was physically huge, his body built like a lagged boiler, but he spoke nervously and had never harmed anyone. The wharf owners employed him as a visual deterrent, hoping that intruders would split before he had a chance to open his piccolo mouth. I had called his bluff once, never been troubled since.
“Honestly, Dutchie, I had no choice, the man, he was very pushy. He said it wouldn’t be harmed. I’m sorry, Dutchie, you know I am.”
“Did he pay you?”
“No. A small amount. He asked me to go away for the day. It was nothing. Twenty pounds. I’ve spent it, Dutchie. He said the boat would be safe.”
“It’s outside. We’re staying here a few days.”
“Good, good. A few days? You can’t stay overnight. They’ve been checking.”
I looked at him, then went to the window and peered out. The barge was out of sight, hidden from the tow path.
“Who’s been checking?”
“Port of London. You need a licence now. Too many people are sleeping on the river. It’s me who gets the trouble, Dutchie. They take it out on me.”
“Let me know if anyone comes asking questions.”
“Yes, of course. Anything you say. You don’t want the twenty pounds back then. Because I’ve spent it, you see. Took the wife out.”
“If anyone asks, I’m not here. Understand?”
I walked over to the door.
“Yes. Where will you be?”
I stopped without turning around and waited a few seconds.
“I’ve got you, Dutchie. It suits you, the shaved head. Shan’t say a word to no one.”
*
We drank some more before we slept, laughed about my first deal, the trip to the casino. Then we talked about Walter and fell silent. Our intimacy, however contrived, was unsettling. At least in Clapham there had been some space. Here we couldn’t eat apart, sleep apart. The barge was pressing us together, mentally, physically.
“It must be strange for you, being back on the boat again,” she said. The wine had given her neck a faint rash.
“Where are you going to sleep?” I asked.
“In the bed, I hope.”
I kept eating, not looking up at her.
“Unless you’re hiding a kingsize Habitat sofabed somewhere. Is it a problem?” She started to laugh. “We can sleep head to toe if you’d prefer. Providing you wash your feet.”
I remained quiet, pushing my food around.
“They might be more chatty,” she added.
“It’s where we slept together. The last time I held her, before she died.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice becoming serious. “Silly. I was forgetting.” She got up, sliding out of the narrow table. Standing with her back to the sink, she looked briefly either side of her.
“There’s not really anywhere else,” she said. “I think we should both stay on the barge.”
I finished my food in silence, then went out into the cockpit for a smoke.
*
I tried to imagine what Annalese would say if she could see me now, if she emerged out of the darkness and saw me alone. We would sit and talk. I would ask her how the market had been; she would extract from me gently what I hadn’t done during the day, suggest evening classes in pottery, ride my anger, run her fingers through my hair, knead the back of my neck, kiss my forehead, sing to me, hold my head against her breasts, love me. Then she would hear Charlotte moving around below and I would have to explain.
We had once talked about death, in the bathroom. I was having a shower and Annalese was cleaning her teeth.
“If I die before you,” she had said, “you’d better not sit around feeling sorry for yourself all day. You’ll find someone else, won’t you, get on with your life?”
“Would it matter if you knew them?” I had asked, knowing that we each prided ourselves on never being jealous. We had water in those days and I leant forward, feeling the jet beat against the back of my neck.
“Whoever you like, love.” There was a pause. “Was there anyone in particular?”
“No.” Another pause. “How would you feel if it was someone like Mia, or Katrina?”
I knew it was cruel. She didn’t say anything, then I heard Leafe running through the barge into the bathroom.
“Either one would look after you,” she continued. “I’d rather it was one of them than some dozy old tart from Hackney. Leafe wants to compare willies.”
*
Charlotte was already in bed when I went back inside. She was reading one of Annalese’s books about ley lines in Greenwich. She had repositioned the lamp on the small bedside shelf and was holding the book above her, casting moving shadows.
“That’s my side,” I said. She lowered the book, lighting up the room. “I always sleep by the window.”
“Okay,” she said. Looking at me, she crabbed awkwardly across the bed, then turned back to her book. It was harder now to read, and she moved it about, trying to find the best light, altering the dimensions of the room. It was so easy to re-establish the right tone with her, keep everything how it should be.
In the tiny bathroom I cleaned my teeth, noticing she had left her toothbrush on the side of the basin. I put my own back in the mug with Annalese’s. In a small cupboard on the shelf I found a round wicker jewellery box. Annalese had lots of boxes, but this one contained current favourites. I rummaged around, found a small gold stud and slid it through my left ear. I looked at it in the mirror and then I noticed Annalese’s mascara on the shelf. It had been moved.
“Have you used this?” I asked, standing in the doorway, holding the mascara up like court evidence.
“No, Dutchie. Why would I put mascara on before going to bed?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
I went back into the bathroom and wondered what to wear in bed. Usually I slept naked, even in winter. It looked like she was wearing a T-shirt. I settled on the same, and my boxer shorts. I rolled half an inch of toothpaste into my mouth, spread it behind my upper lip with my tongue and walked into the bedroom.
“Did you know that the old Bishop of Stepney tried to open a chapel at the top of Canary Wharf?” she asked.
I was concentrating on not touching her legs as I slid into bed. She didn’t look up, kept reading. The bedding was warm. I had lied about it being my side. It was where Annalese had slept. I was hoping her imprint might still offer some comfort.
“Here’s another thing,” she continued. “If you extend the south-west angle of the pyramid on top of Canary Wharf to the ground, it falls directly on the Greenwich ley line. Apparently the builders knew this and put a crystal from Cornwall up there, you know, actually in the pyramid, to pacify it.”
“Can I turn out the light?” I asked. I knew all about the crystal. Annalese had been incensed when she had first heard about it, vowing one day to return the stone to Cornwall.
Charlotte looked across at me. I had both arms down by my side.
“Dutchie, I’m not going to eat you. Relax. Get some sleep.”
She turned the handle on the kerosene lamp. The light lingered, shrunk, popped. I turned away from her, pulling the duvet. She pulled back.
“You know, I think I am going to start my own class war,” she said after we had settled down. “Try to make the middle classes less hung up about sex.”
Who was saying anything about sex? I kept quiet. Cocky bitch.
“The working class, if such a thing still exists, is so much more relaxed about sex. Don’t you think? They just get on with it. Bonk crazy, they are.”
We both heard a footfall on the jetty outside.
“What was that?” she whispered.
I didn’t know. “Probably Victor going home,” I lied.
“Bit late, isn’t it?”
We heard another sound, unmistakably someone trying to
walk slowly, undetected. I slid out of bed. Holding my breath, I moved the curtain a fraction and looked outside. Five feet away I saw someone’s legs. Whoever it was, he was standing with his back to the boat. I got a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. I let out some air, then breathed in again.
“Who is it?” Charlotte whispered impatiently.
I signalled calmly with my hand for her to be quiet. I felt anything but calm. The man started walking towards us. He was wearing Hush Puppies, jeans, tartan socks. I let go of the curtain, hardly moving it. The shadow of a man bent down, trying to look in. Suddenly there was a knuckle tap on the glass. I stayed motionless. We both waited, forgetting to breathe. The man was standing upright again, scratching, writing something. Then he moved around to the cockpit and seemed to step on to the boat. It rocked gently as he stepped off again and walked away.
I raised my shoulders, let out a long sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of my neck. I began to laugh a little with relief.
“Who was it?” Charlotte asked, touching my shoulder.
“More fuckwits in uniform. Haven’t they got anything better to do?”
“Dutchie. I’m scared. Please.”
“Port of London Authority. That’s who it was. No one’s meant to sleep here overnight. Can you believe that?”
“Don’t start. It’s late.”
*
I was still awake two hours later, staring at the ceiling dimly lit by a lamp on the tow path. The orange light reminded me of my room in Clapham. Charlotte was asleep beside me, keeping a respectful distance, her breathing shallow. Perhaps she knew more than I did, or was just braver, but the future looked short and bleak. Tomorrow we would break into the dealing room. I would try to give her time by taking out the alarm, but I was out of touch. We would have to move quickly. Between us we could get the system up and running and log into Reuters. The set-up sounded identical to JKA’s main dealing room, an exact copy as Dan had said. It would then be a matter of faking Kiruna’s call code and contacting every dealer in London. Someone had to respond. The worry was if the real Kiruna bank was planning another bomb for tomorrow; there had never been more than one in a week.