“He’s always suspicious about something,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“You love him,” I said, trying for a subtle change of subject.
“Yeah, well, I do make that a bit obvious sometimes. Stupid.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” I said. “You deserve so much better than that.”
“Unrequited love,” she said. “It sucks.”
She stretched one leg in front of her, looking at her impeccably pedicured toes as though they could do with a new polish. And then, out of the blue: “You remember Chanelle?”
“The one who you saw in the bar that time we met up?”
She nodded, perfect teeth biting her lower lip.
“What about her?”
“She’s dead. Her mum called me. She’d found my number in Chanelle’s address book. They don’t know what happened to her phone.”
“Dead? What happened?”
Caddy sighed. “Overdose.”
There was something in the way she said it, as though the manner of her death had been entirely predictable.
“Was she a heavy user, then? I thought Fitz didn’t like girls using too much.”
“Exactly. He didn’t. And, no, she wasn’t a heavy user. Not when I knew her, anyway.”
“You mean Fitz had something to do with it?”
She stared at me for a moment and then relaxed a little. “You know where Chanelle went, when she left the Barclay?”
“No.”
“She went to work for Leon Arnold.”
“Doing what?”
“No idea. But he’s not someone I’d want to work for.”
“He attacked me,” I said. “In the club. Nobody was monitoring the CCTV.”
“Yeah.”
My head was spinning with all this information. There was plenty she wasn’t telling me. All through my time at the Barclay I’d deliberately avoided knowing Fitz’s business, closed my ears to overheard conversations, looked away.
“So you think Arnold—”
“He’s more dangerous than Fitz,” she said, interrupting.
“The man you’re in love with,” I reminded her, “who is still unpredictable and dangerous.”
Caddy laughed. “He wouldn’t hurt me, though. Not Fitz. Leon Arnold, however, I’d steer clear of.”
I felt a light dawning somewhere. “Is that why you were so angry with me at that party? Because I was talking to Leon Arnold? You tried to warn me . . .”
“I was pissed off because you were flirting with Fitz. And because you were too stupid to listen to me telling you to be careful of Arnold.”
I drank the last of my water and thought about leaving. I’d come here to straighten things out with her, to make sure she was all right, and I’d achieved that.
“Anyway, you’re not in any sort of position to judge me about how I feel about Fitz. What about Dylan?” she said.
“What about him?”
“Well. Me and Fitz, you and Dylan. Don’t tell me you didn’t know he likes you.”
I couldn’t answer that one.
“He’s very careful, Dylan, about not giving anything away. But you could tell by the way he looked out for you. And by the way he watched you when you weren’t looking.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. And he’s been fucking miserable since you left.”
“Poor Dylan,” I said. “He needs someone to look after him.”
We both laughed—the thought of Dylan needing to be taken care of was ludicrous.
Then she said, “I think about leaving sometimes. I thought about it when I heard you’d gone, in fact. Trouble is, girls leave but they always end up coming back. You get used to the money, you know?”
“I’ve been saving up,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s why you were always borrowing my stuff, huh?”
I got up, taking my glass through to her kitchenette.
“You can come and visit me,” I said. “When I’ve got the boat straightened out. Come and stay.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like to.”
“I’ll have a boatwarming party,” I said. “I’ll give you a call.”
She walked me to the door of the flat and gave me a hug. Without her heels on she was tiny.
“I’m glad you came by,” she said.
“I want to tell you to keep yourself safe,” I said. For some reason I felt on the verge of tears.
“I can look after myself,” she said.
“I know. But they’re—you know. They’re doing all kinds of stuff on the side. The place got raided, Caddy. The police must realize something’s going on. It’s only a matter of time before Fitz gets caught doing some deal or other.”
“You think I don’t know that? I just do what you did—keep my nose out of it. It’s the only way.”
Once we’d reached New Road, the traffic started to ease up. It slowed again for all the traffic lights in Corporation Street, at the back of Rochester High Street, and finally we turned left onto the Esplanade before the bridge. Jim had gotten very quiet. Eventually, he pulled into the parking lot and sat, waiting for me to get out.
I was staring at the wipers, wondering what to say.
“Thanks for the lift, it was very kind of you.”
“No problem.”
“You want to come in for a coffee or something?”
He hesitated, clearly debating with himself, and then: “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
I gave him a half-smile, but he wasn’t looking at me. I got out of the car and shut the door, ran down toward the dock, splashing through the puddles, expecting the car to roar off up the hill to the main road, but it didn’t. When I got to the boat and looked back, he’d parked the car properly and was following me, hands shoved in the pockets of his pants, head down.
“Changed my mind,” he said gruffly, when he’d caught up.
The boat was freezing cold. I busied myself with the stove while he brewed coffee. I glanced around the cabin when I thought he wasn’t watching. The boat looked the same as it always had—untidy, cobwebby in places, but not as though it had been searched.
The fire crackled and spat, the flames brightening the room. I shut the glass door and watched the fire for a moment.
“You should think about putting in central heating,” said Carling.
“I know,” I said. “It didn’t seem that important in the summer. It’s crazy really: the weather’s turning, I should be taking care of the bathroom, but the next thing that’s going to get done is the deck garden.”
“I’ll help you with the bathroom, if you like.”
I smiled. “Thanks. That’s a kind offer.”
He put two mugs of coffee on the table and sat down with a sigh.
“I’m just going to get changed,” I said. My jeans were soaked.
I left him in the main cabin and padded down to the bedroom. Waited for a second, then continued on to the hatch—just to see the box, if nothing else . . . I just needed to look. I could check properly later.
The space was cavernous and dark. I opened the door enough and stood away a little to let the light shine in. I could see the shape of the box at the end. Had it moved? Was it more visible than it had been? I’d thought the other boxes had been grouped around it, hiding it, but from here I could just about make out the words written on the side . . .
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, yes, fine,” I said quickly, shutting the hatch door with a bang. “I was just—um—looking for something.”
I must have looked about as guilty as it was possible to be.
He gazed at me steadily, then a quick but deliberate up and down my body, taking in my wet socks and my wet jeans and my wet top. Then he said, “Your coffee’s getting cold,” and turned to go back to the main cabin.
I went into the bedroom, with my heart thumping in my chest. I would have to be careful. I’d almost given it away just then—so stupid. He wasn’t crazy, he must kno
w there was so much I hadn’t told him. And Dylan, too—I’d almost told him about Dylan . . .
I wrestled my sodden jeans down my legs, then got my socked foot caught on the hem of the other leg of the jeans and before I knew what had happened I’d slipped and landed with a crash and a yelp against the chest of drawers.
Jim was in the doorway within a second; he stood there looking at me for a moment, in a heap with my jeans bunched up around my knees, and then he laughed.
“It’s not funny, you piece of shit!”
He crouched down next to me. “Yes, it is,” he said, still laughing.
I couldn’t help laughing, too, even though my back hurt from landing against the drawers. He offered me his hand and hauled me to my feet. “Come and sit down, I’ll give you a hand.”
He helped me shuffle over to the bed, and while I sat on the edge he pulled my jeans down. They were so wet, the denim was glued to my skin. He tugged and heaved, and I held on to the edge of the bed, but not tightly enough because the next thing I knew he’d pulled me right off the bed and I landed with a thump with my ass on the floor.
I was laughing and crying at the same time, and he could hardly move, his shoulders shaking. “Oh, God . . . I’m sorry . . . are you all right?”
I nodded and shook my head, and then before I could say anything he was kissing me, hard, catching his breath, pulling me against him.
“You are so sexy,” he said quickly, “so sexy. You don’t even know what you do to me . . .”
I was lying on my back, looking at the dark night sky through the skylight over my head, and feeling the Revenge of the Tide moving gently as the water rose up the inlet from the sea and lifted the boat from its muddy cradle.
Jim had woken me, climbing out of bed. I watched him turn left out of the door, heading for the bathroom, and turned over in bed, pulling the covers up.
I dozed for a while, and when I opened my eyes again he had not come back. I wondered if he’d gone home, then I caught the sound of his voice—where? On deck?
The skylight was gray now, light enough in the room to see Jim’s T-shirt and sweater on the chair, his jeans missing. I sat up in bed and strained to hear. Silence. And then—a few words. A laugh?
Just as I was considering getting up and going to see if I could hear any better from the doorway, I heard his footsteps in the cabin and I lay back down again quickly, covers up. I listened to the sounds of him taking off his jeans, the chink of the belt buckle as he folded them and put them back on the chair. Then the creak of the bed as he lifted the covers and got back in beside me. His cold hand slid over my stomach. “I know you’re not asleep,” he said softly. “I can tell.”
“How can you tell?” I murmured, still half pretending.
“From how you breathe.” He was kissing my neck, my throat, my shoulder, pulling me toward him.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked, my voice muffled against his skin.
“Work.”
“Mm. What do they want at this time of the morning? Your hands are cold.”
He didn’t answer my question. I straddled him, reached up to the wood siding over my head, put both my hands flat against the ceiling to give me balance, and he cupped my breasts with his hands and watched me move, and let out a sound that might have been a word, or might just have been a groan.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The sunlight streaming through the skylight onto my face woke me up. The bed was empty. I squinted across to the chair. Jim’s clothes were gone.
I lay still for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of the sun, remembering what we’d done the night before. He was good at it. He was getting better and better, in fact.
I heard noises coming from the galley—washing-up noises. Then the radio went on, the sound down low. Just enough for me to hear the music.
I got up and found some clothes, ran a hand through my hair to flatten the bits that were sticking up.
When he saw me, he put the kettle back on the stove. “Morning,” he said.
“Good morning to you, too.” I leaned over him and kissed his jawline. He smelled of warmth and yesterday’s aftershave.
I took a dish towel from the handle on the door of the stove and dried the cups he’d washed, putting them away in the cabinet. I felt all domesticated, the sunshine streaming in through the skylights, creating shafts of light and warmth. I loved my boat. Even the wooden boards under my bare feet were warm.
He poured me out a coffee and put the mug on the table.
“I could use a shower,” he said.
“You could go and have one over by the office.”
“By the office?”
“There’s a shower room. It’s quite nice, and clean. Better than my hose, anyway.”
“I should really go home. I need clean clothes, and I’m back at work this afternoon.”
“Oh. All right.”
He was staring at me, his dark eyes unfathomable.
“What?” I said, thinking I might have said or done something wrong.
“I don’t want to go.”
I smiled, kissed him again. “I don’t want you to go, either.”
“How about,” he said into my throat, his hands up under my top, “I go and have a quick shower now, and later I can just dash home and get changed on the way to work?”
I made a noise that might have been assent; it was enough to satisfy him. When he let me go, I went to find him a clean towel and some shower gel. He took it and climbed the steps to the wheelhouse.
“Want me to come with you?” I asked.
“Not unless you’re going to shower with me,” he said.
I let him go.
I went back to the bedroom and made the bed, shaking the tangled duvet over the creased bottom sheet. I opened the skylight to let in some fresh air. I was brushing my teeth a few moments later when I heard it—a buzzing noise. Toothbrush sticking out of the corner of my mouth, I went into the main cabin. It was louder in here.
On the seat of the dinette, a cell phone on vibrate was buzzing and flashing. I picked it up and my first instinct was to answer it, but it wasn’t my phone. It was Jim’s.
I stared at the phone in my hand, at the number that was illuminated on the display. The name that showed up on the screen was simply: D. On the table was a pile of papers, envelopes, receipts. I grabbed a pen from a broken-handled mug on the shelf in the galley and wrote down the number on the back of my credit card bill just as the phone stopped vibrating.
One missed call.
I put the phone on the seat, chewing my toothbrush thoughtfully. I went back to my poor excuse for a bathroom and rinsed my mouth. In the mirror above the sink I caught the look in my eyes. My heart was pounding.
I found yesterday’s jeans in the bedroom and, in the back pocket, Dylan’s phone. I scrolled through to the address book. Looked at the number for GARLAND. And then at the number written on the back of the credit card envelope.
I jumped up the steps to the wheelhouse and peered across the boats toward the office. No sign of anyone. The marina was deserted, the boats bathed in bright sunshine. I couldn’t see the door to the shower room from here, but there was no sign of Jim.
Back in the cabin, I picked up Jim’s phone, activated the screen. He didn’t have a password.
One missed call.
I worked my way through unfamiliar menus—Call History? That was it—and there it was . . . Missed Calls. And the last number, the one I recognized.
I selected the icon that looked like a handset and within a few moments I heard a ringing tone as the call connected.
And then—
“Yeah?”
I stood there immobile, the phone pressed to my ear. Just that one word—could I be certain?
“Dylan?”
“Who is this?”
It was him; all my doubts vanished with those three words. “It’s me.”
There was silence on the other end. I half-expected him to ask, Who? but he didn’t. He
knew my voice as well as I knew his.
“Where’s Jim?” he asked.
“Hang on—how the hell do you know Jim? And why is your phone off all the time? And where the hell are you? And what am I supposed to do with this . . . this package you left here?”
I heard him sigh, above the noise of the wind blowing across the phone.
“You’re supposed to trust me,” he said.
“How can I trust you when you never answer your bloody phone? Some men broke in. They tied me up.”
There was a pause before he answered. He probably already knew, after all. He spent enough time with Nicks and the others; he knew everything that was going on in Fitz’s world. Still, he played dumb.
“What do you mean, they tied you up? Are you all right?”
“I am now. But I’ve been really afraid, Dylan! What am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do?”
“Is Jim there?” he asked then.
“No, he isn’t!”
“Get him to call me when he gets back,” he said.
“Dylan! What’s going on?”
But he had disconnected the call.
There was something—a noise—some small sound behind me. Jim was standing at the foot of the steps, hair damp, towel in one hand and his shoes in the other. He was looking at me with an expression that might have been reproach.
“What the fuck’s going on?” I demanded.
“Is that my phone?”
He took a step forward, took it from my hand, fiddled with the buttons. I thought he was going to say something, shout back at me, but instead he held the phone up to his ear.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, as the call connected. “I know. Where are you? . . . Yes, you know you can . . .”
He looked up at me then. I could hear Dylan’s voice through the phone but couldn’t make out the words.
“She’s all right. No, of course not. It’s what we said, yeah? When? . . . All right. I’ll work something out. Okay. Bye for now.” All through this he didn’t take his eyes off me. All my righteous anger at having been somehow set up, made a fool of, was dissolving into feelings of unqualified guilt at picking up his phone in the first place. And what made it all worse was that he was standing in my cabin, his jeans unbuttoned, his hair wet.