Revenge of the Tide

by Elizabeth Haynes

  I shook my head. ‘It’s not here, Dylan. It’s my day job. Three or four weeks ago my stupid boss showed up in the club and recognised me. He’s been giving me shit ever since.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He followed me out of a pub the other weekend; he was making a scene down on the Tube platform. I had to go and get a cab in the end. Now he’s started being all suggestive at work. I have to make sure there’s always someone there when I see him, that I’m never on my own with him.’

  ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘What do you think he wants, Dylan? He wants the same thing they all want. Apart from you.’

  ‘You want me to sort him out?’ he said. He was smiling but that didn’t mean he was joking.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  He finished off his vodka, throwing it down the back of his throat as if it were water and he was dying of thirst. ‘Well, just say the word. I’ve dealt with pricks like that before. Thinking they own you just because you flashed your knickers at them. Piece of shit.’

  Dylan waved at the waitress who came straight over, despite the crush of people waiting to be served. ‘Another vodka. Viva?’

  ‘I’m fine with this one, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘So,’ he said, when the waitress had gone. ‘A boat, eh? And how much are you short?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ I said, thinking it was none of his goddamn business.

  ‘And this is why you’re dancing? To get the money together?’

  I sighed and drank some water. This was getting torturous, and I almost wished I’d never told him. ‘I have a good job – during the day, I mean. It pays well. I thought I would be able to save up enough to buy the boat at some point, take a year’s sabbatical maybe. But it’s hard work, high-pressure, so I started doing this – dancing – for a laugh, for some exercise… and what do you know? I’m good at it. I can earn money doing something that to me is little more than a workout. So now I’ve got two jobs, the money’s coming in faster and faster, and the more money I make, the closer I get to my dream. Now, instead of two years away, I could be on my boat by Christmas. And it’s making me hungry for it, especially now I’ve got all the shit with my boss hanging over my head. So yes, I’m earning money, and I want to make more money. And Fitz has got lots of it. Hasn’t he?’

  ‘Fitz could buy Parliament,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Exactly. And he likes me. What’s fifty grand to him? Nothing. He could give me that and he almost wouldn’t even notice.’

  The waitress appeared with Dylan’s second vodka, a large one by the look of it. When she had gone, he drank half of it in one gulp, breathed in through his nose and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Have you ever thought where he gets his money from?’

  ‘Of course I have; I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I know it’s dodgy, if that’s what you’re asking. And I don’t care, personally.’

  He smiled, a slow smile, one of those that made him look beautiful. I felt as if I’d crossed some kind of line – as though I’d given the right answer, somehow.

  ‘And,’ I added, ‘if he asks me to do another private party, I will. I know you think I’m a slut for what I did the other weekend; I don’t really care about that. I want my boat. I want to be away from London. I’ve had enough of it.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a slut at all.’

  ‘Why were you so pissed off with me in the car on the way home, then?’ He didn’t answer at first; when he did, he looked away. ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Anyway, why do you care what I spend my money on?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I think of you and me as mates,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t have many friends, to be honest with you. I like you. I think you’re clever, and witty, and you don’t sell yourself like some of them do here. When you dance, you do it as a job, and yet you look as though you do it because it’s all you want to do in the world. What I’m saying to you is, I respect you as a person who does a good job no matter what the circumstances. You’re committed. And you don’t interfere.’

  ‘Interfere?’

  ‘That party,’ he said, leaning over the table again, ‘was a test. Did you know that?’

  ‘I thought I was just there to dance for his private guests,’ I said.

  ‘It was a test to see if you could be trusted.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With Fitz’s business.’

  I was confused. ‘I wasn’t there when they were discussing business. What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly. You did your job, you did it well, you put your heart and soul into it, and you didn’t piss about being nosy about what was going on upstairs, or what Fitz was talking about with his “private guests”, as you call them.’

  Light was starting to dawn in my head, as well as through the windows to the street outside. ‘I don’t give a stuff what he does,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ Dylan said quietly. The bar was beginning to empty. We were getting near closing time. ‘Because the minute you do is the minute you start to become a risk. And that’s why I want you to be careful around Fitz.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘He’s going to ask you to do another private party,’ he said.

  I felt a sudden rush of elation. I wasn’t sure if it was the money, or the thought of dancing in front of Fitz and watching his face as I danced, that was making me feel so pleased with myself.

  ‘You’ll say yes?’

  ‘Of course. What do you think?’

  ‘If you do,’ he said, ‘ask for more cash. And now you’ve set a precedent you’ll probably have to do more intimate stuff. You know that, though, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘So, if you do it, he’ll make it worth your while. But remember what I said about being careful.’

  ‘Will you be there?’

  He smiled at me again. I wished he smiled like that all the time. ‘If I have to.’

  The waitress had appeared again. ‘Can I get you anything else, Dylan? We’re just starting to close…’

  ‘It’s alright, Tina. We’re going back upstairs.’

  I followed him up the carpeted stairs to the club, and when we got to the top he left me to go to the dressing room by myself. We’d spent long enough in each other’s company. There was no doubt it would have been noted, and it would get back to Fitz. My head was swimming with it all. How could Dylan be loyal to Fitz and just have told me so much about him?

  And yet, his smile.

  I made a start on tidying, beginning at the front of the boat and working my way back. I put all the spatulas, spoons and various gadgets back in the box marked KITCHEN STUFF and set it back in its position at the very point of the bow.

  Some of the other boxes of tools I refilled and placed surrounding the box, a rather half-hearted attempt to disguise its significance. Where was the best place to hide a box but in amongst other boxes, after all?

  This wasn’t the ideal place for it, I knew that. In a few weeks’ time it would have to be moved in any case, as Kev and I would be taking the roof off this section of the boat and my vast storage compartment would become a conservatory, plus another room at the end, which I could use as a junk room until I’d moved on to the final part of the project. Even so, it would be more exposed.

  What I should do, of course, was get the thing off my boat.

  What I didn’t understand in all of this was why the hell Fitz wanted Dylan’s parcel – unless Dylan had stolen it from Fitz in the first place. It seemed so unlikely. Dylan wasn’t a thief. He was a bruiser, an enforcer, but not a thief.

  So if Dylan had decided to branch out in business for himself, how had Fitz found out? And why would he believe he was entitled to come here and take something Dylan had left in my care?

  Unless it wasn’t about the parcel after all.

  What if they thought Dylan and I had some other scheme going? What if
someone else had stolen something from Fitz, and they’d assumed, because we were friends at the end, because he’d protected me, that I was in on it?

  All that time, five months, that I had no contact from Dylan at all and I’d so desperately wanted to talk to him, to see him again… he should have sorted things out with Fitz – that was the plan, after all.

  Maybe Fitz assumed we were together. If it wasn’t the parcel, what on earth were they looking for?

  My brain wasn’t functioning properly – all I had was a lump on the side of my head and a headache the like of which I’d never experienced. I left the bow storage area behind. The paint that had been thrown over the wall could stay there. I was going to clad over it anyway, one of these days.

  The state of the kitchen and the saloon made tears start again. That, and my aching head. I picked up all the papers, rearranged them into some sort of order. I replaced everything in the storage area under the dinette, then put the cushions back. Already it looked a lot better, more like my usual mess than an actual burglary.

  The only things that were broken in the kitchen were a mug from Dover Castle and the cupboard doors. I didn’t tend to buy many fragile things, since it would only have taken a rough spell at high tide for things to get knocked about in the cabin. Everything breakable was either behind a rail or, in the case of the television and music system, fixed to the wall. Most of my plates were melamine. It didn’t look as nice, but I was generally the only one using them.

  In a pile on the floor I found a pack of painkillers that had been in one of the galley drawers. I took three and swilled them down with a handful of water from the sink.

  When Jim Carling rang me at eight-thirty, I was already drunk.

  I’d finished the beer and most of a bottle of wine, sitting by myself in the saloon waiting for night to fall. I thought it would be easier to deal with if I was pissed.

  I answered the phone the third time it rang, having ignored the first two. I couldn’t think of anyone I really wanted to talk to, except for Dylan, and yet again his phone was switched off. ‘Hello,’ I said at last.

  ‘Genevieve. Why didn’t you answer the phone?’

  He didn’t say ‘It’s Carling’, I noticed. He sounded pissed off.

  ‘I was out on the deck,’ I lied.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve had a few drinks,’ I said, by way of explanation.

  ‘Ah. Sounds like a good state to be in. I need to catch up,’ he said.

  I didn’t answer, my thoughts drifting away from the phone conversation.

  ‘So,’ he went on, ‘I was wondering if I could come and see you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  I was going to say that I couldn’t remember, which would have been the truth. But that would sound as if I wasn’t taking care of myself, and I couldn’t face a telling-off. ‘Um… not yet. Why?’

  ‘I could bring a takeaway. What do you fancy – Chinese, Indian or fish and chips?’

  ‘Oh, chips. Just chips. That would be great. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll be over in half an hour or so, then,’ he said. ‘Don’t go anywhere, will you?’

  As soon as he’d rung off, I tried Dylan’s number again.

  The number you have dialled is currently unavailable. Please try later.

  I tried to tidy up again, half-heartedly, my senses dulled by the alcohol and by the tiredness. My body still ached; everything hurt. If I had a bathroom, I told myself crossly, I could be soaking in a nice hot bath right now. Instead it was a choice between a shower in the shower block, or the hose.

  I took clean clothes over to the shower room with me. The sky was darkening, the lights across the river reflecting patterns on the water.

  The car park had filled up since I’d last looked this afternoon. Joanna and Liam’s Transit was there, and Maureen and Pat’s Fiesta. I didn’t see any cars I didn’t recognise.

  I had a hot shower and it made me feel better, more awake, although I kept dropping things. There were marks around my wrists where I’d spent most of the night tied up, and when I washed my hair I felt the big lump on the side of my head, above my ear. I tried pressing it experimentally, but only the once because the pain was sudden and sharp and brutal. Fortunately no blood, no broken bones. With a bit of luck Carling might not notice.

  I had no idea how long I’d been in the shower, but when I came out it was properly dark. I waited for the light to come on in the car park, but it stayed resolutely off. Surely it should trigger? I thought, standing under the sensor in my trackie bottoms and trainers. Maybe they’d cut it again last night. Maybe they cut it every night, and Cam repaired it every morning. Maybe he wasn’t bothering to repair it any more.

  I started walking back to the boat, my feet unsteady on the moving pontoon.

  The lights were on in my boat. I tried to remember whether I’d left the lights on or not, and couldn’t decide. My brain felt as though it were full of cotton wool.

  I went down the steps into the cabin and nearly jumped out of my skin – Carling was standing at the kitchen sink, about to fill the kettle.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘You just gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘You should lock your door when you leave the boat.’

  ‘I only went for a shower.’

  He came up to me and took me in his arms. It hurt, and felt good at the same time. He kissed me after that. It felt a bit awkward, not like the kiss we’d shared before.

  For a moment, I thought about Dylan.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, his expression concerned.

  ‘I’m still a bit drunk,’ I said, as if this explained it all. ‘I’m sorry. I was miserable and I felt like getting so pissed, the world would go away.’

  On the table in the dinette was a big paper bag with two wrapped packets of chips. I fetched sauce, salt and vinegar from the kitchen cupboards.

  ‘I brought more alcohol,’ he said. ‘I thought you might be running low.’

  Two bottles of wine, one white, one red. They looked very tempting. I smiled at him, my best drunken smile.

  ‘You open it,’ I said, handing him the corkscrew. ‘I’ve completely forgotten how.’

  We ate our chips sitting at the dinette. It was only when I started eating that I realised how hungry I was. I ate all the chips, every one, scraping the last bits of sauce from the paper. He ate his at a more sedate pace, sipping wine elegantly as though he was at a restaurant instead of sitting on a worn velvet cushion in a half-finished Dutch barge on the Medway.

  ‘So,’ he said at last, ‘why were you miserable?’

  I shrugged. I felt a bit less drunk but still vulnerable, as though tears were only a matter of time away. ‘I guess I felt alone, that’s all. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t get lonely very often, but I did today.’

  ‘Well, not any more. We can be alone together.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Why are you looking so sad?’ I said.

  He laughed, but without mirth, and topped up my wine glass. ‘I’m not sad. Just getting old.’

  ‘You’re not old.’

  ‘I’m older than you.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Alright, then, I feel old today. Which is also a good excuse for getting drunk.’

  I smiled at him, starting to really enjoy his company for the first time. ‘We need shots,’ I said.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ he said. From a holdall which had appeared just beside the steps up to the wheelhouse he brought out a bottle of vodka. ‘I hope you like this stuff.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said, ‘it’s better than meths.’

  After that, everything seemed funny, to him and to me, and we drank shots while listening to jazz on the radio, which neither of us really liked. Every time one of us grimaced at a discordant note we had to drink. And so we both got drunker and drunker.

  The bag and the bottle of vodka told me he was planning to s
tay the night. He was going to stay the whole night, and judging by how much of the vodka he was downing he didn’t need to get up early tomorrow to go to work either. And, once that had filtered through my poor, drunken, battered brain, I realised that tonight, at least, I could relax.

  They wouldn’t be invading my boat again, not tonight. Dylan’s parcel was safe.

  Twenty-three

  It was a Friday, again, the next time Dunkerley stepped over the line.

  I was looking forward to dancing, and, although it had been an incredibly busy week at work, it was nearly over and I couldn’t wait to get to the Barclay later and loosen up.

  There was an afternoon meeting, one of the things Dunkerley had initiated that was universally unpopular with my team. On this Friday, to my great misfortune, nobody turned up except me. We’d been so busy during the day that I’d hardly noticed that most of the team were off work. Two of them were off sick. Gavin was in Tenerife. Lucy had taken a half-day to get her nails done. So that left me, and Dunkerley.

  I think he’d been told to stay out of my way by Human Resources, while they investigated my allegations. Either way, I’d hardly seen him since that argument we’d had in his office. But now, here he was, sitting across the boardroom table from me, staring at me blatantly in a way that was making me feel increasingly uncomfortable.

  We waited in silence, until ten minutes after the meeting was supposed to start, Dunkerley cleared his throat and said, ‘Well, Genevieve. Looks as if it’s just you and me today.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ I said.

  ‘So, what have you got to report?’

  I looked down at the performance report I’d printed off in preparation and passed it across the table towards him. I was top this month. It had nearly killed me, but the need to get away from all this had spurred me on.

  He read over it quickly and nodded. ‘See,’ he said, ‘what you can do if you try?’

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t trust myself to speak.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I think you may have misunderstood my intentions towards you.’

  I raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Really? And what were your intentions, exactly?’