‘I’ll like it?’
I smiled at him, hopeful. ‘I think you will.’
‘I like the sound of the pub.’
‘You have to walk across the lock to get to it. I’m on the wrong bank.’
‘And it’s alright there? Safe?’
‘Yes. I feel safe.’
‘Good.’
Maybe it was the fact that we were a long way outside London now, but I could feel him thawing. His shoulders were not as rigid, his grip on the steering wheel more relaxed.
‘Your boat’s alright?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’m still repairing things. But now I’m just getting it straightened out so I can sell it.’
‘Why?’
He looked at me properly for the first time since we’d left Chislehurst.
‘I can’t live there any more. I moved the boat because I thought it would help, but it hasn’t. So much happened on that boat, Dylan. Everything I look at reminds me of that night. Of Malcolm getting shot, of what Arnold was going to do. Of you nearly getting beaten to death.’
‘You can’t just give up on your dream. You need to give it time.’
I shook my head. ‘It won’t change how I feel. I can’t stay there. You need to take the next turning on the left. That one, there, look.’
The car turned into Castle Road and slowed as the road narrowed, towards the end. Minutes, that was all I had left. Just a few minutes with him.
‘What will you do?’ he asked.
I couldn’t cry, not now. I forced the tears back. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do.’ I wanted so desperately to hear him say the words Come to Spain. Come with me. But he didn’t.
At the end of the road was a turning circle, with the entrance to the lock-keeper’s cottage and, beyond it, the car park which served the slipway into the river. And we were there. The car’s tyres crunched on the gravel and we pulled to a stop. The Revenge of the Tide was moored against the concrete bank, a few feet from where we were parked. It was sandwiched between two narrowboats and it looked huge and out of place, crouching like a grown-up between two kids, dominating the bank.
I took a deep breath. ‘Will you come inside?’
He shook his head.
‘I can’t,’ he said. He was actually gritting his teeth.
‘Can’t what?’
He paused, ran a hand over his forehead. ‘Can’t – do this any more. Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ And he finally turned to look at me, properly, for what felt like the first time.
I reached across to him, put my hand up to stroke his cheek. ‘Because I love you,’ I said. ‘And I know you love me, even though you won’t say it. I know you do.’
He stared at me for a long moment and I stared right back at him, challenging him to refuse, or make a joke about it, or laugh. When he did none of those things I put my hand up to his cheek, stroked it gently, and then clambered over the central console of the BMW and kissed him, ignoring the wince as my weight fell against his bruised chest, pushing him back against the door so that I could pretty much climb on to his lap, and put my arms around his neck so he couldn’t get away, couldn’t move until I’d finished, until I’d made him change his mind.
Author’s Note
Readers who are familiar with the Medway may well recognise some of the locations mentioned in this book. However, the marina where the Revenge of the Tide is moored is an imaginative blend of several of the boatyards along the river and therefore does not exist as it is described in the story. The Barclay is also entirely fictional.
Acknowledgements
The first draft of Revenge of the Tide was written in November 2010 for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and was excitedly presented to my editor, Vicky Blunden, as a 90,000-word draft. The transformation of that tangled mess of ideas, characters and plot into the final book is thanks to her, and to the brilliant team at Myriad, including Candida Lacey, Corinne Pearlman, Linda McQueen, Anthony Grech-Cumbo, Adrian Weston, Dawn Sackett and Emma Dowson. Thank you all.
I would also like to thank Vanessa Very and Linda Weeks for reading early drafts and making invaluable suggestions which changed the course of the story completely. Vanessa, who seems to be making a habit of resurrecting characters I try to kill off, saved Dylan from just such a fate.
Whilst I was conducting research for the book, Jill Vago very kindly let me spend some time on her boat, Tobias, and helped me with all my questions about living aboard. Thank you very much, Jill!
Two reference books in particular were also invaluable, and I can highly recommend them to any reader: A Home Afloat by Paul Cookson, with wonderful photographs of boats which provided inspiration for the interiors of the Revenge of the Tide, and Living Aboard by Nick Corble and Allan Ford, which helped me with the practical aspects of converting a barge to living accommodation.
I would also like to thank Jane Salida, Louise Payne and Keli Stephenson of the fabulous Pole Saints, who introduced me to pole fitness, and to the other class members who let me draw stick figures while they did all the hard work. Thank you, too, to Nikki W, who kindly answered my questions about working in London clubs. For a detailed account of a dancer’s life, I can highly recommend the excellent book Girl in High Heels by Ellouise Moore.
So many people provided support and encouragement while I was writing this book that it would take several pages to list them all. So thank you to all my wonderful friends and colleagues at Kent Police, especially to Lisa James and Mitch Humphrys who kindly checked my manuscript for procedural accuracy. To the talented Medway Mermaids, and to the inspirational Rochester and Chatham book club – thank you, ladies. And for all my online friends, especially the Kent NaNoWriMo participants who went through the madness of November with me – thank you.
The last and best thanks of all to my boys, David and Alex, I love you.
If you liked Revenge of the Tide, you might
like Elizabeth Haynes’ bestselling
debut novel Into the Darkest Corner.
AMAZON BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR 2011
WINNER OF AMAZON RISING STARS 2011
LONGLISTED FOR THE
CWA JOHN CREASEY DAGGER 2011
FEATURED ON THE SPECSAVERS
TV BOOK CLUB 2012
Friday 31 October 2003
Friday night, Hallowe’en, and the bars in town were all full to the cauldron’s brim.
In the Cheshire Arms I’d drunk cider and vodka and somehow lost Claire and Louise and Sylvia, and gained a new friend called Kelly. Kelly had been to the same school as me, although I didn’t remember her. That was no matter to either of us; Kelly was dressed as a witch without a broomstick, all stripy orange tights and black nylon wig, me like the bride of Satan, a fitted red satin dress and cherry-red silk shoes that had cost more than the dress. I’d already been groped a few times.
By one, most people were heading for the night bus, or the taxi rank, or staggering away from the town centre into the freezing night. Kelly and I headed for the River bar, since it was the only place likely still to let us in.
‘You are so going to pull wearing that dress, Catherine,’ Kelly said, her teeth chattering.
‘I fucking hope so, it cost me enough.’
‘Do you think there will be anything decent in there?’ she said, peering hopefully at the bedraggled queue.
‘I doubt it. Anyway, I thought you said that you were off men?’
‘I said I’ve given up on relationships. Doesn’t mean I’m off sex.’
It was bitterly cold and starting to drizzle, the wind whipping the smells of a Friday night around me, blowing up my skirt. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and crossed my arms over it.
We headed for the VIP entrance. I remember wondering if this was a good idea, whether it might not be better to call it a night, when I realised Kelly had been let in already and I went to follow her. I was blocked by a wall of charcoal-grey suit.
I looked up to see a pair of incredible blue eyes, short blond hair.
Not someone you’d want to have an argument with.
‘Hold up,’ said the voice, and I looked up at the doorman. He wasn’t massive like the other two, but still taller than me. He had a very appealing smile.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Am I allowed to go in with my friend?’
He paused for a moment and looked at me just a fraction longer than was seemly. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Of course. Just…’
I waited for him to continue. ‘Just what?’
He glanced across to where the other door staff were chatting up some teenagers busy trying their hardest to get in.
‘Just couldn’t believe my luck for a moment, that’s all.’
I laughed at his cheek. ‘Not been a good night, then?’
‘I have a thing for red dresses,’ he said.
‘I don’t think this one would fit you.’
He laughed and held the velvet rope to one side to let me in. I felt him watching me as I handed my jacket in to the cloakroom; chanced a glance back to the door and saw him again, just watching me. I gave him a smile and went up the steps to the bar.
All I could think of that night was dancing until I was numb, smiling and laughing at people with my new best friend, dancing in that red dress until I caught the eye of someone, anyone, and best of all finding some dark corner of the club and being fucked against a wall.
Thursday 1 November 2007
It took me a long, long time to get out of the flat this morning. It wasn’t the cold, although the heating in the flat seems to take an age to have any effect. Nor was it the dark. I’m up every day before five; it’s been dark at that time since September.
Getting up isn’t my problem; getting out of the house is. Once I’m showered and dressed, have had something to eat, I start the process of checking that the flat is secure before I go to work. It’s like a reverse of the process I go through in the evening, but worse somehow, because I know that time is against me. I can spend all night checking if I want to, but I know I have to get to work, so in the mornings I can only do it so many times. I have to leave the curtains in the lounge and in the dining room, by the balcony, open to exactly the right width every day or I can’t come back in the flat again. There are sixteen panes in each of the patio doors; the curtains have to be open so that I can see just eight panes of each door if I look up to the flat from the path at the back of the house. If I can see a sliver of the dining room through the other panes, or if the curtains aren’t hanging straight, then I’ll have to go back up to the flat and start again.
I’ve got quite good at getting this right, but it still takes a long time. The more thorough I am, the less likely I’ll find myself on the path behind the house cursing my carelessness and checking my watch.
The door is particularly bad. At least in the last place, that poky basement in Kilburn, I had my own front door. Here I have to check and re-check the flat door properly six or twelve times, and then the communal front door as well.
The flat in Kilburn did have a front door but nothing at all at the back, no back door, no windows. It was like living in a cave. I didn’t have an escape route, which meant that I never felt really safe in there. Here, things are much better: I have French doors which lead onto a small balcony. Just below that is the roof of the shed which is shared with the other flats, although I don’t know if anyone else uses it. I can get out of the French doors, jump down to the shed roof, and from there down onto the grass. Through the garden and out the gate into the alleyway at the back. I can do it in less than half a minute.
Sometimes I have to go back and check the flat door again. If one of the other tenants has left the front door on the latch again I definitely have to check the flat door. Anyone could have been in.
This morning, for example, was one of the worst.
Not only was the front door on the latch, it was actually slightly ajar. As I reached for it, a man in a suit pushed it open towards me which made me jump. Behind him, another man, younger, tall, wearing jeans and a hooded top. Dark hair cropped close to his head, unshaven, tired green eyes. He gave me a smile, and mouthed ‘sorry’, which helped.
Suits still freak me out. I tried not to look at the suit at all, but I heard it say as it went up the stairs, ‘…this one’s only just become available, you’ll have to move fast if you want it.’
A lettings agent, then.
The Chinese students who’d been on the top floor must have finally decided to move on. They weren’t students any more, they graduated in the summer – the party they’d had had gone on all night, while I lay in my bed underneath listening to the sound of feet marching up and down the stairs. The front door had been on the latch all night. I’d barricaded myself in by pushing the dining table against the flat door, but the noise had kept me awake and anxious.
I watched the second man following the suit up the stairs.
To my horror the man in jeans turned halfway up the first flight and gave me another smile, a rueful one this time, raising his eyes as if he was already sick of the letting agent’s voice. I felt myself blushing furiously. It’s been a long time since I made eye contact with a stranger.
I listened to the footsteps heading up to the top floor, meaning they’d gone past my front door. I checked my watch – a quarter past eight already! I couldn’t just go and leave them inside the house.
I shut the front door firmly and unclipped the latch, checking that it had shot home by rattling the door a few times. With my fingertips I traced around the edge of the doorframe, feeling that the door was flush with the frame. I turned the doorknob six times, to make sure it was properly closed. One, two, three, four, five, six. Then the doorframe again. Then the doorknob, six times. One, two, three, four, five, six. Then the latch. Once, and again. Then the doorframe. Lastly the knob, six times.
I felt the relief that comes when I manage to do this properly.
Then I marched back up to the flat, fuming that these two idiots were going to make me late.
I sat on the edge of my bed for a while with my eyes lifted to the ceiling, as if I could see them through the plaster and the rafters. All the time I was fighting the urge to start checking the window locks again.
I concentrated on my breathing, my eyes closed, trying to calm my racing heart. They won’t be long, I told myself. He’s only looking. They won’t be long. Everything is fine. The flat is safe. I’m safe. I did it properly before. The front door is shut. Everything is fine.
Every so often a small sound made me jump, even though it seemed to come from a long way away. A cupboard door banging? Maybe. What if they’d opened a window up there? I could hear a vague murmur, far too far away to make out words. I wondered what price they were asking for it – it might be nicer to be higher up. But then I wouldn’t have the balcony. As much as I love being out of reach, having an escape route is just as important.
I checked my watch – nearly a quarter to nine. What the fuck were they doing up there? I made the mistake of glancing at the bedroom window, and then of course I had to check it. And that started me off, so I had to start again at the door, and I was on my second round, standing on the lid of the toilet, feeling my way with my fingertips around the edge of the frosted window which doesn’t even open, when I heard the door shutting upstairs and the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside.
‘…nice safe area, at least. Never need to worry about leaving your car outside.’
‘Yeah, well, I’d probably get the bus. Or I might use my bike.’
‘I think there’s a communal shed in the garden; I’ll check when we get back to the office.’
‘Cheers. I’d probably leave it in the hallway.’
Leave it in the hallway? Bloody cheek. It was untidy enough as it was. But then, maybe someone other than me would make a point of locking the front door.
I finished off the check, and then did the flat door. Not too bad. I waited for it, the anxiety, the need to go round and start again, but it was okay. I’d done it right, and o
nly two times. The house was silent, which made things easier. Best of all, this time the front door was firmly fastened, indicating that the man in jeans had shut it properly behind him. Maybe he wouldn’t be a bad tenant after all.
It was nearly nine-thirty by the time I finally got to the Tube.
About the Author
Elizabeth Haynes grew up in Sussex. She works as a police intelligence analyst and lives in Kent with her husband and son. Her first novel Into the Darkest Corner was Amazon’s Best Book of the Year, winner of Rising Stars and featured on the Specsavers TV Book Club. Revenge of the Tide is her second novel.
Copyright
First edition published in 2012
This ebook edition published in 2012 by
Myriad Editions
59 Lansdowne Place
Brighton BN3 1FL
www.MyriadEditions.com
Copyright © Elizabeth Haynes 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–908434–06–7
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