By nine o’clock I think I can make out a low smudge to the north that might be Ushant. Minutes later, Deko emerges on deck to confirm my suspicion. The goodies, as he quaintly terms our cargo, are now beyond the reach of the most conscientious rummage crew. He’s laid a thin coat of cement over the false floor and as soon as it’s dried, he’ll re-stow the scrap iron and add a splash or two of engine oil. Only if you physically take the boat apart will anyone find the cocaine.
He takes the wheel, checks the heading, and invites me to inspect the results of his efforts in the forepeak. When I suggest we eat in an hour or so, he nods.
‘Whenever,’ he says. ‘You’ll find garlic, ginger and chillies in one of those bags. The fish is in the fridge. Bonne cuisine, quoi?’
Good luck in the kitchen. I go below and make my way for’ard. I can smell wet cement and a glance through the still-open door reveals a floor that might never have been lifted. Clever.
Back in the galley, I boil water for coffee and add two spoons of sugar to Deko’s mug. When I take it back up to the deck, he’s standing at the wheel, whistling a tune I faintly recognize. ‘Over the Rainbow’, I think. Very appropriate.
‘Hungry?’
‘Starving.’
I return to the galley. The light isn’t good down here. I find new potatoes and a head of broccoli in one of the Tesco bags. I put the potatoes on the stove to boil, chop the broccoli into florets, and put them aside to be steamed. I peel and chop the garlic and ginger, and slide a knife the length of the chillies. The fillets of sea bass, as promised, are still in the fridge. I fetch them out. Unwrapped, they lie on the tiny work surface.
I have a problem with rogue pin bones in my fish, and when I test the flesh with my fingertips I can tell they haven’t been filleted properly. Pin bones are a pain. To get them out in one go you need a pair of fish tweezers. I have a pair at home in London, a present from Pavel when he was still mobile and loved my cooking, and they’re perfect for the job.
I’m looking around the cluttered space that is the galley. Deko, I know, also adores fish. Given his attention to detail, he might have a pair of tweezers on board. There are just three drawers where I might find them, and they’re secured by a vertical bungee cord to keep them shut during rough weather. The first is full of knives, forks, spoons and anything else you might need for the table. The second, more promising, contains a selection of cooking implements. I rummage among the peelers, garlic crushers, draining spoons, and sundry other items. No tweezers. The third drawer is at floor level and is difficult to open.
I get down on my knees, remove the bungee cord, and wrestle with the drawer until it begins to give. One final yank, and I pull it open. At first it seems to contain nothing but an assortment of drying-up cloths. Then I spot a wooden box at the back. Curious, I fetch it out. The box once contained Belgian chocolates and is secured with a little swivelly thing in black metal. I hook it back and open the box. Inside is one of those waterproof pouches with a neck lanyard that dinghy sailors and kitesurfers use. I recognize it at once because Carrie had one. Inside the pouch is a mobile phone.
I gaze at it for a long moment. It’s an iPhone, an old model, and when I switch it on there’s plenty of battery left. I’ve learned in my life that the quickest way to find out who owns a phone is to go to the Gallery icon. Photos are always the giveaway.
The drawer is still open. Amen, untroubled, is puttering along, the steady beat of the engine beneath my feet. I can picture Deko at the wheel, enjoying the sunshine. Should he decide to leave the wheel and pay me a visit, I’ll hear him coming.
Just now, I’ve forgotten all about the fish tweezers and the pin bones. What interests me far more is this phone. Why the box? Why the bottom drawer? Has Deko had some reason to hide it?
I access the Gallery and seconds later I find myself staring at a grid of photos. There’s no mistaking the set of the face, those perfect lips, the deep-green eyes. Carrie. Or Amy. Or whoever she really was. She features in most of them, smiling at the camera in a variety of settings, as gorgeous as ever. But then I realize that no one takes so many selfies, and that this phone must belong to someone else.
I swipe to a new grid of shots, and this time it’s more than obvious that she’s not alone. Neither is she clothed. I’ve never seen Carrie naked but here she is, more beautiful than ever, offering herself to the camera. Some of the poses are explicit, a present you’d only offer someone you loved. Then, on the bottom row, my finger hesitates over another shot.
I gently touch the screen. Milliseconds later I’m looking at a naked Carrie pleasuring an erection I recognize only too well. Deko, I think. With his Amy.
THIRTY-EIGHT
For the second time in twenty-four hours, I’m thanking God I’m an actress. The photos on the phone, no matter who they belong to, tell a story I’ve never wanted to believe. The man I’m sharing this boat with, the man whom I’ve bedded, the man who’s just turned me into a cocaine smuggler, the man who can put me in a prison cell for a very long time, was Carrie’s lover. The implications are beyond troubling. When did this affair of theirs really end? The more explicit photos are date-stamped November last year. Does that make the baby Carrie was carrying Deko’s? If so, what happened to bring it all to an end?
Beyond this, of course, are a series of other questions. I’ve absolutely no doubt that Deko has sought to control every last detail of his colourful life. He’s that kind of man. Nothing, and no one, would ever be permitted to stand in his way. That’s why, in certain lights, he’s so commanding, so attractive. He has total self-belief. And unlike the rest of us, that makes him indomitable.
So, what really happened to Carrie that night she died? Was it really Moonie who found his way back to her basement flat? Or is there some other explanation? I shake my head. Playing detective means keeping your head and just now, to be frank, I’m scared witless. I’ve got this plot hopelessly wrong, and the implications – should Deko find out about the phone – don’t bear contemplation. Somehow, I have to busk my way through the next day or so before we make landfall. Only then might I have the presence of mind to work out what to do next.
‘Up here or below?’ I say brightly.
I’m standing on the top ladder, playing the mistress who knows a thing or two about cooking sea bass. The phone is safely back in its wooden box, and all the drawers are firmly closed and secured with the bungee cord. Everything is ready except the fish itself. Five minutes, I tell Deko, is all I need to serve the meal of his dreams.
‘Down below.’ He gestures forward. ‘Ushant’s still five K away. It’s low tide. We can drift for half an hour at least.’
‘Fine.’ My heart sinks. The last thing I want to share just now is the half-darkness of the saloon. Intimacy is one thing. Menace is quite another. ‘Are you sure you don’t want it up here? I can steer. The sun’s lovely. We can take turns to eat.’
Unlike me, Deko would make a great detective. Something in my voice has caught his attention. Maybe I’ve overdone the brightness. Schoolgirl error. Unforgiveable.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine. Just a little queasy.’
‘In this sea? When you’ve done so well so far?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘I dunno. Maybe it’s the smell down there. Wet cement was never my thing.’
‘Sure.’ I can tell he’s far from convinced. ‘Up here, then. En pleine air.’
Out in the open. I retreat to my cave, relieved to be spared his presence across the table. The frying pan is still on the stove, the dash of olive oil still hot. When I turn up the heat and drop the fish in I realize my hands are shaking. I close my eyes for a moment, then swallow hard. To my knowledge, there’s only one other person on this boat. The footsteps thump-thumping down the stairs from the deck have to be his. The missing knife, I think. The missing knife in his kitchen. Japanese. A Kamikoto. The biggest in the set. Razor sharp. And Carrie, poor Carrie, her belly ripped open in the darkness of her bedroom.
I’m still standing at the stove. There’s just enough room for Deko to squeeze in behind me. I can feel him pressing against me. Then those big hands close over my breasts.
‘Something I said?’ he whispers.
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’
‘You’re sure? Just say. I’m a big boy. I can take it.’
Big boy? Oh, yes. One tiny little part of me wants to shake him free, wants to throw hot oil in his face, wants to know the truth behind those hideous photos. Why the lies? Why the denials? Why the careful pretence? Instead, all too predictably, I try and confect a pleasurable squirm or two under his touch and tell him I’ve got to turn the fish fillets over before they burn.
‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘Yeah?’
He doesn’t answer me. I feel his lips settling briefly on the nape of my neck in a parting kiss. Then he’s gone.
I’m really shaking now, both inside and out. I steady myself, turning the gas off, moving the pan aside to let the fillets cool. Just the sight of them, after what’s just happened, makes me nauseous. Maybe I should give in. Maybe I should deliver his plate of precious sea bass and throw up over the side. Then, at least, he might leave me alone.
I briefly warm the plates over the pan, then dish up. Steady, I tell myself. Stay in control. You can survive this, and you must. For Pavel’s sake, for your own sake, maybe even for Moonie’s sake. I make it up to the deck, the plate in one hand, the stair rail in the other. Deko’s smile at the sight of the sea bass is unfeigned.
‘Wonderful,’ he says as he takes the plate. ‘Any chance of a knife and fork?’
‘Shit.’ I make a big thing of playing the idiot. ‘You want wine?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘This is perfect.’
I fetch him a knife and fork and take over at the wheel while he stands at the rail, inspecting Ushant from afar, forking the food into his mouth. After a while, almost absently, he shakes the remains into the sea and returns to the wheel.
‘Have I told you I love you?’ he says.
‘No. Never.’
‘Do you believe me?’
‘I’d like to.’
‘Then you should,’ he kisses me lightly on my sorry bruise, ‘because it’s true.’
We push on through the afternoon, clearing Ushant and setting course for the Devon coast. In the end, I passed on the sea bass, blaming some treacherous tummy bug, an excuse Deko seemed happy to accept. The sun is still out and the deck beneath my bare feet is warm. I fetch a couple of blankets from down below and sit on them with my back against the mast once again. I’ve noticed over the course of our brief relationship that Deko is very comfortable with silence, and this is another blessing. Just now, I’m not sure I could handle any kind of conversation.
Towards six o’clock, Deko announces that he needs to see whether the cement has dried. If so, he’ll drag the scrap metal back into the forepeak, and after that, he’d rather like a brief kip.
‘You OK, up here?’
I get to my feet, fighting a wave of dizziness, and say yes. We’re on the edge of the Channel shipping lanes now but I can see nothing in either direction, and once I’ve taken the wheel Deko checks on the GPS down below. I do my best to steady the needle on the compass heading he’s given me, thankful that I have the deck to myself. Then his head appears in the hatch.
‘We’re bang on,’ he says. ‘Any problems, give me a shout.’
As if. Minutes later, I hear him dragging the heavy chain into the forepeak. Then comes the clang-clang of assorted metal before silence once again descends. He’s covered it all up, I think. Just like he’s hidden everything else in his life.
For the next couple of hours, we push ever deeper into the English Channel. I’m tempted to reach for the throttle and go faster but I know there’s no point. Already, Deko has told me that we’ll be lying off the Devon coast until daybreak. Fishermen are laying more and more lobster and crab pots on the seabed, tethered by a rope to a buoy above. The buoys are impossible to spot in the dark and it’s all too easy to end up with the rope fouling the propeller, a situation that would leave us requesting a tow. The last thing Amen needs is this kind of attention, and so we’ll park up again, and make ourselves comfortable, and wait for daylight. Only hours ago, I could think of nothing more delicious. Now, the prospect fills me with dread.
THIRTY-NINE
According to Deko, the beam from the lighthouse on Start Point is visible from twenty miles away. The first clue is a flicker of light on the horizon, coming and going, but as we get closer, I can see the beam reaching towards us. Closer still, it washes Deko’s face with a rich yellow light. He hasn’t shaved for days and if I wasn’t so preoccupied, I’d say it suited him. Even now, knowing what I know, I feel just the faintest stir when his face briefly emerges from the darkness. I fucked that man, I tell myself, because he was irresistible. And now I must cope with the consequences.
It’s gone three in the morning when Deko finally kills the engine and we drift to a halt. We’re safely outside the crab-pot zone but there’s a four-knot tide running beneath us and Deko says he has no choice but to lower the anchor. I give him a hand with the big winch up for’ard. He slips the brake on the chain and lets the anchor drop to the seabed. We’re both peering into the darkness over the bow. Deko has a torch. He pools the light on the anchor chain and says he thinks we’re fast. Fast appears to be good news. Amen is shivering in the tide now, held by the anchor. I know exactly how she feels.
‘Cold?’ He has his arm round me.
I want to say no. I want to tell him I need to stay out here on deck for as long as it takes for the sun to come up and chase the darkness away because then we can be on the move again. I want the feel of dry land beneath my feet, the comfort of my own bed, the knowledge that the apartment door is treble-locked, and that this nightmare has come to an end.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him.
‘You’re not. You’re shivering. Come below.’
I tell myself I have no choice. What would be truly unthinkable is Deko finding out that I’ve seen the photos. Should that happen, I tell myself, then I might not get home at all.
I follow him down to the saloon.
‘Coffee?’ I suggest.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘We should get our heads down. There’s room now up for’ard. Yeah?’
I’m not quite sure what this innocent little invitation really means. The last time I got my head down as far as Deko is concerned was on his sofa on the Beacon. And the last time Carrie did something similar, he took a bloody photo.
‘You’re right.’ I manage a stagey yawn. ‘I’m knackered.’
We clamber into adjoining bunks, an arm’s length between us. For a minute or two, hoping against hope, I think he may have gone to sleep. Wrong.
‘It’ll be better when we get back,’ he murmurs, ‘I promise.’
‘Better how?’
‘You’re tired. You’ve never been a drug dealer before. Never rehearsed.’
In any other context this could be funny. Being a drug dealer, I can cope with. Sleeping within touching distance of someone I thought I knew is very different.
‘I’m a smuggler,’ I say. ‘It’s more romantic.’
‘Sure. But tell me it wasn’t a shock.’
‘Finding out?’
‘Yes.’
‘About you?’
‘About the cocaine. What it’s funded. Why I do all this stuff.’
‘Of course.’ I nod in the darkness, not knowing what else to say.
There’s a brief silence. Listen hard and I can hear the murmur of the tide against the wooden hull.
‘Should I have told you earlier?’ he asks at last. ‘Would that have made a difference?’
‘How?’
‘Would you still have come?’
It’s a good question. When I tell him I sort of knew already, he laughs.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he says.
‘It’s true. I know it’s hin
dsight but there had to be a way you paid for all the stuff you do. To be honest I never thought too hard about it because there was no need. You never settled your bills and you owed the taxman a fortune but that didn’t seem to matter so I just assumed you’d got it all in hand.’
‘You’re right, I had. Give me a week or two and I’ll be square with everyone. And even after that, we’ll still be rich.’
I roll over, telling myself this might be interesting if I need it later.
‘So how do you sell all that stuff? You have a buyer? Someone you know?’
‘Of course.’
‘Someone local?’
‘Christ, no. Exmouth’s a lovely place but it doesn’t have that kind of money.’
‘London, then?’
‘Bristol. One phone call and the man is on the motorway. We meet at a farm a friend of his owns. We do the biz. He won’t buy the lot, not straight off, but I’d be surprised if he doesn’t want at least half, maybe more. That’s going to be a couple of million.’
‘In cash?’
‘Euros or dollars. The pound’s sick. You have to think ahead.’
‘And he can lay hands on money like that?’
‘Of course.’ A chuckle this time. ‘This is cocaine. It sells itself.’
I nod, struck once again by how simple these transactions are. If you’re selling the marching powder and you have the bollocks, as H once told me, you have no option but to get very, very rich.
‘And will this little consignment be enough?’
‘You want the honest answer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that depends.’
‘On what? Am I allowed to ask?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then tell me.’
There’s another silence, much longer. Then I hear him stirring in the bunk. For a moment I think he may be coming over to join me but I’m wrong. He’s turned over, and when I risk a look, I can see the pale disk of his face staring at me.
Off Script Page 28
