by Will Smith
‘No, the boat that went through the window. We’ll get to your boat in a bit. Harbour’s a bloody mess.’
‘It was my boat that went through the window.’
‘How come? It’s moored at the marina.’
‘I moved it. Took a buoy in St Clement’s.’
‘When?’
‘Last week.’
‘Ah.’ There was a long, agonising silence.
‘Dave?’
‘Yeah, still here, just checking your boat policy and … You didn’t tell us you’d moved it.’
‘So. I’m telling you now.’
‘The policy is predicated on a specified mooring.’
‘The boat is insured wherever I sail it.’
‘Drive, it’s not a sailboat.’
‘All right, drive. Jesus, you sound like my dad. The point is, that boat is insured wherever I take it.’
‘Yes. But permanent moorings have to be specified.’
‘What about when I take it over to Carteret, or Saint-Malo?’
‘Well, those aren’t permanent moorings, are they?’
‘Well, we can just pretend I was using a temporary mooring.’
‘Not sure about that. Although, I suppose … You still have the mooring at the marina?’
Rob felt like he had stopped breathing. ‘Not … as such … I mean, can’t I say I still do, or do you need proof?’
‘I need proof, Rob. They’ll ask for it. I can’t lie about this stuff. I’d lose my job. It’s actually illegal.’
‘So I’m just supposed to eat the cost of an eighty-grand boat?’
‘Can it be salvaged?’
‘I think the helm’s okay, and a couple of the seat covers. No! It can’t be salvaged, not for much less than the cost of a new one. It’s got a big bloody hole in it where it scraped over the sea wall and smashed up my fucking restaurant. Are you going to stump up for that, or is it on me as well?’
‘Look, the problem is that you—’
‘Oh, you are fucking kidding me!’
‘If it was your boat, and it wasn’t secured properly, on an unregistered mooring, then, yes, I’m afraid the damage it caused to your, or any, property is on you.’
‘It was secured, but in case you hadn’t noticed, the Island was hit by a fucking hurricane!’
‘Whether or not you secured it effectively on the mooring will be difficult to ascertain, but the fact is—’
‘The fact is, you can go and fuck yourself!’ yelled Rob, slamming the phone down. He called straight back. ‘Dave, sorry, that was out of order, but you can understand how bad this is for me.’
‘I know, mate, and I’m sorry. My hands are tied.’
‘A tree came down at the farmhouse. Can we at least get that sorted out? It came through the roof. If it rains again it’s going to fuck up the floorboards …’
‘Sure, sure. Let me ring you back in five.’
Rob had then driven up to the farmhouse to meet some beardless gnome whose opinion he immediately distrusted, not least when he told him the company wasn’t liable for the damage caused by the tree.
‘What do you mean, not liable?’
‘Look at the trunk. That thing’s been dead for years, or at least dying. Should have come down ages ago.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘You have a responsibility to check that no overhanging vegetation is in danger of causing damage to your property.’
‘It wasn’t overhanging. It was blown there by a bloody hurricane. Look, the stump’s over there, and that’s where it landed.’
‘I’m very sorry. There is a plus side. It means you don’t have to hang around waiting for us to approve quotes. You can just get straight on with sorting it out. We’re going to have a hell of a backlog.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, I presume you’ve already got builders working on the conversion, they just tack this on to the job.’
‘Tack it on? I’ve got to pay for a new roof and wall! This is bloody months of extra labour!’
‘We’re all suffering. Think of the payouts we’re going to have to make.’
‘Oh, my heart bleeds! I’m so sorry that you actually have to honour the obligations you’ve made. With the exception of those to me, of course.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’
‘There’s no need to be as fat and bald as you are.’
‘That’s just rude.’
‘Waddle off before I get ruder. Go on, back to your toadstool. I hope it didn’t blow away in the wind. Actually, I hope it did, but you’re personally liable for the damage because you had it registered as a mushroom.’
He’d left the Bretagne without telling Christophe the appalling response of his insurers to the hotel. Now he felt unable to go home and relay to Sally their equally galling attitude to the farmhouse, their coverage of which he had assured her was a ‘done deal’.
He had got into his car and driven north. A walk along the beach: that would be good. Plemont was lovely – should be low tide: he could let the breeze clear his head, or he could just crawl into one of the caves, like a hermit. There was a diversion on La Route du Nord while they chainsawed up the trees that had come down there and he ended up going in the wrong direction on La Rue des Platons, which was itself blocked off by a collapsed wall, so he found himself driving back towards Bouley Bay. He surrendered to it, feeling drawn to what he saw as the epicentre of his bad luck, the Black Dog.
He parked as drizzle began wafting over the bay, and abandoned the idea of a walk in favour of a drink. In any case, he didn’t much fancy a wet stroll across the stony beach where he’d given in to Louise’s demands.
As he sat at the bar, with a bag of cheese and onion crisps and a double shot of Famous Grouse, he realised the starkness of the choice before him. It was the hotel or the house. He would have to sell one to save the other. He wasn’t even entertaining the idea of replacing the boat. So, who to disappoint? Sally, who would sulk till the grave, or Christophe, who had lent what was doubtless to him a small fortune in return for a stake in the business he was about to close? Actually, he might have to let them both down. Selling the hotel would still leave him with a sizeable debt and no cash-flow to fund the farmhouse. He could always sell Le Petit Palais, the house they lived in. But then they’d be renting somewhere till they could move into the new place, which he didn’t want to do because it was money with no return, and Sally didn’t want to do because she wouldn’t be able to decorate a rented property and was convinced whatever he found them would be aesthetically abhorrent. He didn’t know which he dreaded most: his wife’s reaction to losing her dream home, or the crowing of Carrière and his cohorts at the news of him having to sell his hotel because it had been wrecked by his boat. When he thought of the latter, he decided he would rather tear off his balls with a lobster claw.
There had to be another move.
His shares. Rick might have pulled some magic already. Maybe not: it had only been a few days. But it was still a substantial portfolio. Play safe, sell now, repair the hotel, stave off the creditors, keep the farmhouse on ice till the year after next. Sally would just have to see sense. And if she was dead set on moving in this coming summer, then they would have to sell their current abode and live in a tent in the garden while the builders finished their work. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He pitied the builders if it did, having Sally on site.
He jumped up and headed for the payphone. He dialled Rick’s direct line and the reception desk five times each, but got the engaged tone repeatedly.
He bought the rest of the bottle of whisky and retreated to a booth. The only other customer was an old man, with nicotine-stained grey hair, by the dartboard.
When he’d finished the whisky he went back to the bar and started on pints. As the old man lit another cigarette he stumbled back to the payphone. Rick was still engaged. Bellend must have left it off the hook. As he swayed back and forth against the wal
l he was struck by an idea, and left a message on the Bretagne office answerphone.
‘Christophe, Rob, I’m at the Black Dog, having a great time. No, it sucks. Sucks like my mother. Not my actual mother, my slut of a stepmother. Anyway, had a thought. The boat might have leaked diesel. Have a fag, toss it in, arson, can we claim for that? Maybe not. I don’t know.’
Once he’d returned to his bar stool, which he clambered on to with difficulty, he noticed that a new pretty barmaid was serving. ‘You could be a model.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Got a boyfriend?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Is he rich? I am. Was. Will be.’
She ignored him as two men in dungarees carrying bags and oilskins entered the bar. ‘All good, guys?
‘Yes, thank you,’ replied the older, squatter man, in a French accent. ‘Repairs all done. One more night and we’ll be off.’
‘We’ll miss you – they gave us free lobsters,’ she added, to Rob.
‘Good job it wasn’t crabs,’ he quipped.
The men were now next to Rob at the bar. ‘Easy,’ he said, ‘I saw her first.’
‘Two ciders?’ she asked them.
‘Fishermen, eh?’ slurred Rob.
‘Yes, we sheltered here from the storm. Some damage to the mast and the winch.’
‘That’s nothing. I lost a bloody hull. And the rest.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Good living?’
‘Is okay. Some seasons good, some seasons—’
‘“Okay” – that’s one of the words you nicked from us. Like la télévision and la radio. What’s that about?’
‘Pourquoi parlons-nous à cet ivrogne?’ asked his younger, taller, wiry companion, whose eyes narrowed with contempt.
‘Why are you talking to this drunk?’ translated Rob. ‘Yeah, we learn your language over here. Not like you guys.’
‘We both speak English.’ The man sighed, as he and his friend tried to move off with their drinks.
‘Yeah, but you pretend you can’t. I’ve been to Paris. Fucking rude, all of them.’
‘And what are you being?’
‘I’m just being honest, pal.’
‘Excuse us.’
‘No, no, no. Let me buy you a drink. What’ll it be? Cointreau? Armagnac? Une bière? Another word you nicked from us. I’m joking. Come on, my shout.’
‘No, thank you, we have drinks.’
‘You think I’m not good for it? Probably not. Lost a boat today. And a house. And a hotel. How much your boat cost? Fuck it, I don’t care. Go on, go forage for snails, pick some limpets off the rocks. I was being friendly, I’m bored of that now …’
Rob turned back to look at the TV in the corner of the bar, and missed the restraining hand the older man placed on the younger one’s shoulder as he stepped back towards Rob.
‘Ah, look at those legs! Beautiful!’ The video for Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted to Love’ was playing. ‘Turn it up, love!’
The barmaid was about to comply when the young Frenchman leant over and changed the channel.
‘Hey, what’d you do that for?’ leered Rob. ‘I was enjoying that.’
‘No one was enjoying you.’
‘You’re just jealous. I’ve fucked plenty of women as hot as them. Hotter. Little tip, you’re not going to get your cock wet wearing wellies.’
‘Ignore him,’ said the barmaid. ‘He’s drunk. I’m not serving him any more. He’ll be gone soon.’
‘Who’s drunk?’
‘You.’
‘Says who?’
‘Me. Drink up and go.’
‘Only if you put the Robert Palmer back on.’
‘No. No TV.’
She switched it off just as a newscaster delivered the phrase ‘biggest day of losses since the crash of 1929’. Rob found himself marginally sobered by this.
‘Turn it back on!’
‘No.’
‘Fucking turn it on! What crash? What’s happened?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘The stock markets have crashed. Twenty-six per cent drop in the UK,’ intoned the weary Frenchman from the corner. ‘Yes, fishermen can know things too.’
‘What do you fucking know?’ spat Rob. ‘Twenty-six per cent? Bollocks. Not possible.’
‘While you’ve been molesting women, we have been listening to the news.’
‘I’d rather molest women than boys. Like you lot. Fuck it, I’m going. I’m gone. Fucking fucks.’
Rob swayed out into the car park, thinking about where to throw up. Maybe the front seat of whatever lawnmower those two Frog pricks had driven up in. Wasn’t a car, though, it was a boat, wasn’t it? Look out for a pedalo, then. Twenty-six per cent losses? That newsreader was talking absolute bollocks.
He felt a blow to the back of his shoulders and fell down on all fours. Fuck, it hurt. He was wondering how he’d walked backwards into something while moving forwards, when a kick to the ribs disabused him of the idea that his injury had been self-inflicted.
Someone picked him up by the lapels of his jacket, spat in his face and kneed him in the balls. He had never known pain like it. From toenails to hair follicles, every cell was screaming.
His head was spinning and he was slow to translate the phrases that were being yelled at him, but he could tell from the tone they weren’t complimentary. A foot pushed at his shoulder, trying to turn him on to his back. He vomited an afternoon’s worth of booze and bar snacks on to it, which didn’t go down too well with the owner of the shoe. Rob laughed bubbles of puke and blood. The only fight of his life and all he’d managed to do was cause damage to what looked like a two-pound shoe. He pulled his arms over his head and began to cry, knowing the beating he was about to take, when another French voice joined in the chorus. Oh, Christ, the whole fleet was about to pile in. Except he recognised this voice.
‘Laissez-lui seul.’ Christophe was telling them to leave him alone.
He felt feet step over him and, peering out from between his shielding elbows, could see Christophe’s silhouette under the harbour lights. His assailants seemed to be nonplussed by the appearance of a countryman.
‘Reste en dehors de tout ça!’ spat the older man. Keep out of it, Rob worked out he was saying.
‘On dirait que vous venez de Marseille?’ asked Christophe. You sound like you’re from Marseille, yes? Did he hope they had some friends in common?
‘Qu’est-ce que ça peut te faire, putain?’ hissed the younger man. What’s it got to do with you … bitch? Yes, that was it. Bitch or whore. Either way the mutual-friends angle was looking pretty hopeless.
Christophe took off his jacket and hung it on a railing. Oh, Christ, they’d kill him. Maybe Rob could crawl back to the bar and get help while they laid into him. In fact, why didn’t Christophe run for help now? Too late, the men were circling him, but he looked as though he didn’t know they were there, unbuttoning his shirt as though he was getting ready for a swim.
‘Voulez-vous chercher la bagarre, ou voulez-vous baiser, pédé?’ Are you looking to fight or fuck, faggot? The younger one clearly favoured the former, and lunged at Christophe. Even though he was looking down as he fiddled with his shirt, the little man managed to sidestep his attacker and deliver a mighty punch to the side of the neck that left him gurgling on the ground. Christophe calmly put his foot on the side of his throat and opened his shirt to the older man, who was about to rush him.
The Marseillais saw something that made him stop and hold his palms wide, signalling surrender. Christophe took his foot off the groaning man’s neck, rebuttoned his shirt as he went to retrieve his jacket, then walked over to help Rob up as the two Frenchmen scurried into the night.
‘Are you okay, Mr de la Haye?’
‘Not really. I’m fucking ruined, Christophe. Ruined.’
‘It could be worse. Imagine if you had not liquidated your shares. Bad news today for investors.’
So it was true. No wonde
r Rick’s phones had been engaged. Rob laughed long and hard, then winced at a pain in his ribs. ‘Yes, imagine! It would be fucking terrible.’ Especially for the kind of fool who’d reinvested fifty per cent of whatever junk he’d had in the first place, he thought. He laughed again. If you’re going to go down, go down big.
‘Let me get you home.’
‘Thanks. I think I’m a bit over the limit.’
‘Sleep it off. Things will be clearer in the morning.’
Christophe helped a hobbling Rob to his car. ‘Did you speak to your insurance friend?’
‘Yeah, not good.’
‘We will work together on this.’
‘You’re quite the brawler.’
‘I used to do a bit of door work in the rougher part of town.’
‘Well, if I ever sack you, I’ll do it by fax.’
He eased Rob into the back seat. Rob felt something hard next to him. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, recognising his briefcase in the flare of the interior light before Christophe shut the driver’s door.
‘Someone dropped it in this afternoon,’ he replied. ‘You must have left it somewhere. You see, your luck has not completely run out. I know how much that case means to you.’
‘Yes. It did,’ said Rob, stonily, as he wound down the window and flung the case on to the verge as Christophe sped up the hill.
27
COLIN
Monday, 19 October 1987
Colin sat on the ledge, his feet dangling two hundred feet above the same wave-lashed cliff base into which Duncan had contemplated hurling himself the week before. He let the sea calm him, while he idly stroked some yellow lichen on the rock next to his thigh, watching its colour bleach into grey as the light fell.
Bathed in the half-light, he no longer felt like a ghost on the Island. Now he had a purpose, a reason to be here. His baby was growing inside Emma. He knew what it was like to be fatherless, and he would never allow that to happen to his own child.
He had known that morning he would remain on the Island, but he hadn’t known he was going to remain at the school. But he had a responsibility, not just to Duncan but to all the pupils. If not him, who would help the future Duncans? Who would stop the other Blampieds? No one had been there before. He would be there now.