The Trawlerman, стр. 19

So she waved harder. The tourists didn’t seem to think it was OK to leave while she was still waving at them. They stood there politely waving back until she had finally stopped, then turned and walked on, chattering.

South had the ability to stay silent for long periods of time. He picked up a rasp and started rubbing it against a burr of metal on the roof. The noise was raw and loud, like an animal in pain might make.

‘So,’ said Alex eventually. ‘You were a community copper when that went on, when Frank Hogben was reported missing. You must have heard stuff.’

‘Not really.’

‘You never thought there was anything in what Mandy Hogben said?’

‘That Tina killed him? What makes you think there is?’

‘I don’t know. There’s something about Tina that’s off. I can’t put my finger on it. She reminds me of a deer caught in the headlights, somehow.’

He got back to work, dulling the sharp zinc edge with the rasp.

‘What?’ she said, annoyed.

‘You’re not that different,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That look. Sometimes you have it too. Like those rabbits you see on the tracks around here. At night when you catch them with the torches.’

‘No I don’t,’ she protested, offended. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Irritated, Alex got up and made her way back to the ladder, ready to descend. The tourists were on their way back down the path, waving at them again.

She picked up Zoë from the nature reserve at five, watching her say goodbye to Kenny and the others. ‘I thought we could go to the beach and swim. Salt water is good for blisters,’ she said. She had put the barbecue in the back.

The tide was out. Unlike Dungeness, Greatstone beach was wide and sandy when the tide was low. They set up camp on the edge of the dunes and wriggled into costumes, then ran across the rippled beach into the water, which was always freezing whatever the season, and plunged in regardless, laughing.

When she had been pregnant with Zoë, Alex had always been determined to be a better mum than her own mother, Helen, who she thought had never been that interested in children. Zoë had done everything to make that task hard. As a young child, she was prone to tantrums and sulks. The only times she had seemed genuinely happy had been in the bath or in swimming pools. There was something mysterious about water.

Alex swam until her arms tired, got out, wrapped herself in a towel and went back to the dunes to light the barbecue and start putting vegetables on skewers, watching Zoë still moving in the water. The charcoal took a long time to heat. She put the first of the skewers on the coals and heard the hiss.

‘I thought it was you.’

She looked up to see Terry Neill, the man from the golf club, dressed in a T-shirt and sky-blue swimming shorts. ‘I live over there,’ he said, pointing towards the houses that backed onto the beach. ‘I could see you.’

Zoë was out of the water, teeth chattering. ‘Who’s this?’ she demanded.

‘A man I met at the golf club today. Terry, this is Zoë.’

‘Golf club?’ Zoë had found a pair of dead starfish and brought them with her, flattening the sand and laying them on it, then holding her water-wrinkled hands above the coals to try and warm herself. ‘You hate golf.’

‘So do I,’ said Terry, laughing.

‘Do you play it?’ Zoë said.

‘Yes. I do.’

‘That’s stupid,’ said Zoë.

Terry laughed again. ‘It’s an addiction. I don’t enjoy it at all. What are those?’

‘Asterias rubens.’ Zoë looked down at the starfish. ‘I’m going to take them home and dissect them.’

‘Oh,’ said Terry. ‘A biologist. How splendid. Did you know that the starfish has no blood?’

‘Obviously,’ said Zoë.

‘Don’t mind her. Sit down. Do you want some food?’

Terry squatted on his haunches and watched her as she turned the vegetable skewers. The coals hissed as marinade dripped onto them. ‘I’m sorry I cried today.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Why were you crying?’ asked Zoë bluntly.

‘A friend of mine died . . . very suddenly,’ he said. ‘I miss him.’

Zoë nodded.

‘It’s ready,’ said Alex, rummaging in her picnic bag. ‘I’m afraid I only brought two plates,’ she told Terry.

‘Maybe we should have some wine with it?’ he said.

‘Mum always wants wine.’

‘I’m driving, Zoë,’ protested Alex.

‘One won’t hurt, then,’ Terry said. ‘I’m only a couple of minutes away.’ He stood and set off towards the houses.

Alex’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Jill:

Call me. X.

‘I don’t always want wine,’ said Alex.

‘Why did you offer him food? You hardly know him.’

‘He’s a biophysicist, Zoë. He probably knows all about starfish.’

Zoë looked doubtful. And then Terry was back with a chilled bottle of Zinfandel and three glasses. ‘I didn’t know if Zoë wanted some.’

Zoë softened a little, pleased to be counted as an adult, but she said, ‘Not much.’

They ate marinaded onions, mushrooms, aubergines, tofu and courgettes, much of it slightly charred, in flatbread, feeling the warm juices run down their chins as the coals faded from red to grey.

‘You told me you were seeing a counsellor,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I ask why? If it’s prying, don’t worry.’

‘I have been diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Work stuff. Nothing serious.’

Zoë watched her as she spoke.

‘You’ve probably seen some pretty grisly stuff,’ Terry said. ‘I believe it’s very common in the police and emergency services.’

‘My boss said I should try it.’

‘Mum!’ Zoë protested.

‘What?’

‘Stop saying it’s not that bad.’

‘Loads of people have it worse than me.’

‘Mum,’ muttered Zoë.

‘You shouldn’t dismiss it,’ said Terry quietly. ‘The damage can be real. If you look at an MRI scan of someone who has been through significant trauma, you can often see how their brains have physically changed. The hippocampus can be diminished. You can see the damage.’

With a soft rattle, charcoal settled in the metal barbecue pan.

‘I’m not on that scale.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You think my brain would be like that?’

‘I don’t know. Imaging shows you physiological differences in traumatised people.