Pot Luck

by Nick Fisher

  As Adrian was showing the fruit-smelling detective the MOB waypoint that Matty’d recorded on the electronic chart plotter, a couple of miles or so inshore of the Kidney Bank, Adrian notices how the policewoman is looking in every corner of the wheelhouse. She’s even peering into the boxed-off gap between the sink drainer and the bulkhead where Adrian stores various bits of paperwork and licenses relating to the Kitty K. He is watching out the corner of his eye as the cop with the hair gel and the name like a nickname asks him to display the MOB waypoint not on the chart, but as lat-long numbers. So he can write them down in his notebook. All the while Adrian watching as the Chinese cop slides her tiny hand into the mess on the shelf and pulls out a packet of king-size Rizlas with the cardboard fold-over cover all ripped off.

  By the looks of it, the packet has been in there for months. It’s wrinkled and the top cigarette paper is stuck to the cardboard from weeks of overnight condensation. Adrian didn’t even know it was there all this time. Anyway, she only looks at it for a beat and then pops it back on the shelf, never once making eye contact with Adrian.

  And Adrian can see himself watching as Matty climbs up the metal ladder at the side of the harbour wall and approaches the ambulance. Just as the doors are being shut. Carole standing looking vacantly at the closed doors, Matty reaching out to put his arm around Carole, as Rich pushes Matty away. The forearm with ‘Rich’ tattooed across it, thrust hard in Matty’s chest, heel of his palm coming up against Matty’s cheek. Not quite a punch. But enough to make Matty stagger back a step, as Rich jumps at him now, hollering face to face. Rich shouting, swearing, spittle flying from his mouth. Shouting, showing his yellow nicotine-stained teeth and his crack-pipe-shrunken receding gums.

  Adrian now watching as the tiny Chinese-looking cop lady scales the harbour ladder in a blink. The hair gel cop behind her, thinking he’s fast – what with all that gym-training and stuff – but in fact, he’s clumsy, compared to her. She stops when she reaches the two fighting men, assessing the situation, working out her choices, when hair gel puts an arm up in front of her, as though to stop her getting too close. Like to protect her, although she looks in no need of any protecting. So she pushes his arm aside but then can only watch while hair gel dives between the two men. He’s acting the tough guy hero. But actually just making the whole scene kick off a lot worse.

  Because it’s Rich on the front foot, jabbing and shouting at Matty, Tug addresses him first. Telling Rich to calm down. Rich too fried to even know what calm looks like. Tug grabbing Rich’s ‘Rich’ arm and bending it up behind his back, to pacify him and neutralise the situation. Which doesn’t work, because it’s the one thing that wakes Carole out of her shocked day-dream phase. And now she flies at Tug. Matty trying to calm her. Grabbing her gently as he can, around her waist, to hold her back from attacking the cop. While Rich’s swinging back with his one free bony elbow, hard aiming it at Tug but, because Carole’s lunging in his direction, the spider web tattooed elbow accidentally connects with Carole’s forehead, just above the eye.

  So while Matty’s holding her, from behind, around her waist, she crumples. Going down, like a stone. Tug using the moment of confusion to finally fell Rich with a Hendon-trained move, designed to ‘demobilise and disincentivise’ a suspect. Rich going down hard, right on top of Carole’s spread-eagled legs, and cracking her kneecap into the Portland stone cobbles. Causing Carole to scream like a stuck pig.

  Adrian, at the top of the harbour ladder now too, still feeling like there’s two of him. One whose life has suddenly spiralled out of all sense of control, and the other, who is out there watching this car crash unfold in slow motion and is kind of buzzed and excited by the whole gruesome and bloody spectacle.

  At Weymouth nick, Tug explains to Jackie that although Rich is currently wearing cuffs, he still might not actually be charged with anything. And even though Carole is sitting on the Custody Suite bench, he might need her driven up to Dorchester Hospital A&E department in one of the squad cars.

  Tug wanting to use one of the Custody Suite interview rooms, now Jackie telling him that if he has three detainees present in the interview room, he will need to be monitored by a Custody Suite officer.

  “But she’s not being detained,” says Tug, pointing at Carole, who is sobbing and trying to light a Silk Cut at the same time.

  “Can’t smoke in here, Carole,” says Jackie.

  “Fuck off,” says Carole.

  “I can certainly do that. But you still can’t smoke in here, love.”

  “My fucking Tim’s dead,” Carole shouts in explanation. Jackie crinkling her brow, looking at Tug.

  “Is he?”

  Tug nods back.

  “Accident on the Kitty K,” says Tug.

  “Oh, bless. Smoke away, Carole love. I’m sorry,” says Jackie, reaching for a vending pack of Bourbons. Jackie beckons to Tug to come closer. And says in a low voice, explaining, “I thought Rich’d just been caught giving her a kicking again.”

  “Tried to give me a kicking, instead.”

  “Got ya,” says Jackie. Everything now crystal clear. She passes the dongle, which will unlock one of the interview rooms across the counter, to Tug.

  “Take Number Two,” she says. “Number One still smells of puke. And let me know if you want a cell for Rich.” Jackie looking over to where Rich is cuffed to the bench, making a big show of nursing his police-inflicted bruises. “Was beginning to think you’d forgotten us, Richie,” says Jackie to him. “Matty,” she says, nodding in his direction now, smiling. “Always lovely to see our regulars”.

  Tug ushers Matty towards Interview Room 2, using the dongle to open the door. “Where’s your new partner?” asks Jackie, as Tug leads his group away.

  “Trying to find out what happened, before this lot started fighting.”

  The inspector from the Maritime and Coastguard Agency had a clipboard in his hand. He seemed to be writing down the things that Paulie was saying. Paulie looking sweaty and angry and nervous all at the same time. He shoots a wary look at Adrian, standing now inside the wheelhouse, with the oriental cop. The Coastguard Inspector wanting Paulie to walk him through all the vessel’s safety equipment. As registered owner of the motor fishing vessel, Paulie has a responsibility to maintain all fire extinguishers, life jackets, rescue flares and correct signage. Truth is Paulie doesn’t even know where most of it’s located and is getting seriously fucked off at being put on the spot and made to look like a cunt.

  Paulie owns the vessel. He doesn’t run it. This is what he keeps on trying to point out to the clipboard guy with the uniform. Who in turn keeps on pointing out that Paulie, as registered owner, has ‘legal obligations’.

  Adrian, seeing the look on Paulie’s face, wants to step out the wheelhouse and help Paulie with his bureaucratic nightmare, except Adrian now had problems of his own to deal with.

  “Just talk to me like I’m a child,” the Chinese detective is saying. “Like a child who’s never even seen a crab boat. Let alone one who has any idea how they work.”

  “Right. Well… We bait crab pots. We leave them out in the sea for a couple of days,” says Adrian. “Then, we come back. Pull them up again and take out any crabs.”

  “OK…”

  “Or lobsters. Or whelks.”

  “Right.”

  “Only we’re not whelking just now.”

  “So,” she says. “Why’s he climbing on the roof?”

  “Stowing pots. Strapping them down. Making room on the deck.”

  “While you were boating?”

  “Boating?” he asks, confused.

  “Driving? Moving the boat through the–”

  “Steaming.”

  “Right. Steaming,” she says. “Why’s he strapping them down while you’re steaming?”

  “Saves time. We get home quicker.”

  “And he just fell?”

  Adrian could feel his throat tighten.

  “Yes.”

  “And you saw him f
all?”

  “I was steering.”

  “So you saw him or you didn’t see him?”

  “Didn’t.”

  “You hear him fall?”

  Adrian hesitated… “No… Not really. I think I heard a bang. Maybe. But if I did, I was still trying to work out what it was, when Matty shouted.”

  “You think that bang was him falling?”

  “Don’t really know,” says Adrian. “It all happened so fast. Lots of things bang on a boat. Engine’s really noisy. Old boat like–”

  “What’d he shout?”

  “What?” Adrian’s mouth dry. “Matty?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did Matty shout?”

  She nods. Once.

  “Ahm… Ah.. ‘Man Overboard’. He shouted. ‘Man Overboard’ And, then, I turned the–”

  “Man overboard?” she asks.

  “Yes”

  “Not ‘Tim’ or ‘Him’ or ‘He’s gone over!”

  “It’s the training.” Adrian nodding towards the man in uniform with the clipboard. “We get trained in Man Overboard procedure at MCA courses. And the drill is, you shout ‘Man overboard’.” Adrian feeling glad the bloke with the clipboard is out on deck now. Seems to make his answer sound more credible.

  She wrote something down in her book. “Where was he standing when he shouted?”

  “Matty?”

  “No one else shouted, did they?”

  Adrian hearing a note in her voice now. Little grain of sarcasm. Picking up on him keeping asking her if she meant Matty. Like she thought he was a bit simple. Or maybe she thought he was stalling. Buying himself a little breathing time before answering so he could get his answer straight in his head. Now Adrian worrying this could probably make her suspicious, so maybe he should be more spontaneous with his answers. All the while though, Adrian feeling his heart beating in his chest. Little bubbles of nervousness fizzing in his blood. “On the deck,” says Adrian.

  “Where on the deck?”

  “Near where Paulie is now.”

  “What was he doing, just before Tim fell?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” says Adrian. “I was steering.”

  “What should he’ve been doing?”

  “What d’you mean?” Adrian now feeling like he’s losing his footing with her questions.

  “Tim is doing his job. Stacking crab pots on the roof. What should your brother have been doing?” she asks.

  “Clearing up. Sorting the deck out.”

  “Passing stuff up to Tim?”

  Adrian can feel like she’s sliding a little trap into place, for him to trip over, so now he’s watching his step. Trying to work out if she’s suspicious, or this is just the way she asks questions. Either way, he can see he’s got to tread carefully.

  “I guess if he was so far back he couldn’t be passing stuff up,” says Adrian, looking at where Paulie’s standing. Thinking about what he said about where Matty was on the boat when he first shouted. “But maybe he’d been passing stuff up to Tim. A pot maybe. And so he was walking back up the stern to collect something else.”

  “When he shouted?”

  “Yeah.” Adrian’s tongue sticking to his mouth now. Maybe all this is just in his head, but it doesn’t feel like he’s coming over too good. But what did he expect? After all, he is lying. Lying to a police officer, about the death of a 15-year-old boy, murdered by his little brother. Murdered for the sake of a third-share of a load of someone else’s black dope. So, with every word coming out Adrian’s mouth he is digging himself a deeper hole. Is digging himself into the centre of a very cold grave, where he is choosing to lie down beside his fuckwit brother. No wonder he’s nervous. He’s acting as an accessory. Perverting the course of justice. Putting himself in the frame for a prison sentence. All because of Matty.

  Adrian could feel bitter rough acidic bile seeping into the back of his throat. He could feel his head sweat. He felt a wave of sick rise up inside him as he jammed the flat of his palm across his mouth and ducked around the Chinese cop, and ran onto the deck. Adrian vomiting before he reached the gunwale; all brown creamy stuff with greenish froth.

  He spat and spat to get the taste out his mouth. His eyes now resting on the cuff of his tattered hoodie, where Tim’s blood, thick and gloopy was congealing in the corrugations of the sleeve. He felt his gut heave again, but nothing came now out except a ‘yack’ sound.

  “You alright?” says the Chinese cop.

  “Just the shock,” he says, wiping his mouth with the other sleeve. Feeling his hot face turn cold as he looks up at her. She doesn’t smile. Or look sympathetic. Or even look bored. She just looks straight at him. Deep into his eyes. Unblinking. Adrian holding her gaze for an uncomfortably long moment, then turning away to spit.

  Jackie didn’t like to come out from behind the Custody Suite reception desk if she could possibly avoid it. For the 12 hours of her shift, this is her domain. The throne from which she rules her empire. On the receiving side, the counter stands chest high, to even the biggest ‘clients’. On Jackie’s side, the floor is raised, like on a stage. So clients are always at a disadvantage. And the stainless steel reinforced rings mounted at four points along the receiving side are designed to accommodate handcuffs. With their cuffs looped through the rings, even the lairiest of late night street-fighters are forced to stand upright and pay attention to Queen Jackie.

  Jackie sits on an hydraulic cushioned executive typing chair with four roller-ball feet. She can steer her throne anywhere within her semi-circle of power, just with the toes of one foot. In front of her are two CCTV monitors, both split into six boxes, which show her 12 different camera points of view at any one time. From the car park to the plastic-covered mattress in Cell 4, she can see it all. She is like the Queen and Big Brother all rolled in to one.

  Jackie has a two-way radio console with which to reach any of the six constables who share her shift, and a PA system through which she can talk and, of course, listen to any cell or interview room. She’d described it to her little sister once, said it was like being Captain Kirk on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise…

  “Only better,” she’d said. “‘Cos I can keep a pair of fleecy slippers in my drawer.”

  Some days the only time she’ll come out from behind the reception counter is to have a wee. She’ll even take her breaks behind the counter. Much more comfortable than the Break Room – and staying put saved her having to slip her shoes back on and retie the laces. Some days she’ll even refuse the odd mug of tea when it’s being made by Cliffy, her most senior Custody Constable, simply because she knows her tea intake is proportionally related to the number of times she’ll have to slip off her slippers, slip on her shoes, slide her well-supported bum out of her well-cushioned executive typing chair, bend over – which isn’t easy – retie her laces, and come out from behind the counter.

  Jackie doesn’t like to come out from behind her counter. Unless it is really, unavoidably necessary. But Jackie knows if she wants to get Rich Tovey, Matty Collins and Carole Shorter out of her Custody Suite without a whole lot of screaming, swearing and paperwork, she is going to have to get up and get out from behind her counter, and go and stop Tug Williams from fucking things up.

  “You know what my only concern is now?” she asks Rich. He wasn’t going to humour her with an answer. She knew this, but still gave a little pause to let him make a sucking noise with his horrible teeth. “Carole, Rich. Carole is all I’m concerned about. Right? She’s lost her boy today, Richie. And now she’s going to have to go on up Accident and Emergency. Get that knee X-rayed. You with me?” she asks Rich. “You think it’s right she should have to go there alone?”

  Jackie moves an inch closer to Rich on the bed bench. He is still handcuffed, but she wouldn’t be frightened of him even if he wasn’t. Jackie isn’t frightened of anyone. Certainly not any man. She’d seen some of the baddest of the bad, burst into tears, piss themselves, crap themselves, puke on themselves. All
just like little toddlers.

  “She shouldn’t have to sit in any hospital waiting room alone. Not today, of all days, Richie. Should she?”

  Jackie can now see that whatever buzz was vibrating through Rich’s brain cells when he came in the Custody Suite today is well and truly wearing off. This is too easy.

  “What d’you say I get Detective Williams to forget about what happened on the Quay, earlier,” she says. “And in turn, you forget any upset you might have with Matty. God knows neither of you need to be up in front of a beak tomorrow, eh? Then, you’ll be free to accompany your lady up to A&E?”

  Rich shrugs. Saying like he could give a fuck. Jackie smiling at him now, acting like he just made some big effort, and she was going to let him step up out the ‘Naughty Corner’. “She needs you, Richie. Needs you to be a man. Be there for her.” Rich juts his chin out, in what could pass as half a nod. Jackie leans closer to Rich and speaks in a confidential whispery tone.

  “You behave,” she says. “And I’ll make sure Supercop keeps Matty in here, least another hour.” Rich liking this idea, showing her a little receding gum. “Yeah?” she says. “That’s what we’ll do. You get out first. Matty has to wait. That sound good?”

  The Chinese woman cop had explained how the Coroner’s office would need to send their people to the boat to take photographs and make measurements. The MCA inspector had then explained to Adrian and to Paulie – but mostly addressing his words at Paulie – how the boat would be required for detailed safety inspection within the next three days and how nothing significant should be altered or moved before the inspection.

  Paulie immediately asking how his crew were supposed to haul pots if nothing was to be moved. His tone nasty. Paulie’s tone always nasty. The Inspector explaining that in order to continue to enjoy commercial certification – as required for the landing and trading of fish and crustaceans – they would be required to comply with his agency’s wishes, to the letter. Telling Paulie in a polite, official way, that if Kitty K was to go pot-hauling tomorrow or the next day or the one after, she’d be stripped of her MCA license, and so could not legally sell so much as a whelk.