The Trawlerman, стр. 46
In the end, she pushed the car to a corner, sweating like a fool. She left another note on the windscreen saying Broken down.
The only person she could think of who could help right now was Curly. She called him. ‘I thought you weren’t speaking to me,’ he said.
‘I’m not. Except I’m in need of a favour.’
‘What was the make of Max Hogben’s car again?’
‘What are you on about, Alex?’
‘Remind me.’
‘Ford Escort RS 1600-i. Kind of like an early boy racer classic.’ She didn’t know what an RS 1600-i looked like but she guessed it was probably quite like what she had just seen disappearing down the New Dover Road.
‘Red, right?’
‘Very.’
She left the keys on the front tyre. The Uber was late picking her up and by the time she got to the counsellor’s office, down on The Leas, she was half an hour behind schedule.
— Don’t worry. It’s your time.
— I don’t feel great, to be honest. You want to know why I’m late? I’m late because I met a ghost.
— Ah. So we’re back to that, are we, Alexandra?
The session was exhausting. He had asked her, yet again, about the days that people had died; all the things she had witnessed and done. The stories came out exactly the same. Nothing changed. The endings were just as bad as they had been before.
Her Yaris was outside the back of the house when another taxi finally dropped her home after the session. Curly’s pickup was there, too. After her time on the trawler, she was not sure she could cope with Curly.
Here he was now, inside, sitting at the kitchen table, eating a giant bowl of brown vegan bean stew that Zoë had made. The hand he held his spoon with was still covered in smudges of oil, black in the cracks of his skin.
‘Somebody don’t like you,’ he said, mouth full.
‘Just the one?’ said Zoë.
Alex was not sure what she felt about Curly being in her house right now, but Zoë must have invited him in when he had arrived towing her dead car. ‘What do you mean?’
Curly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Someone gone and put a gallon of water into your petrol tank. That’s why you broke down.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Well, I don’t know how else it would have got in there.’
Alex frowned. ‘When? Could they have put it in a few days ago?’
Curly pushed his spoon slowly around the bowl. ‘Nah. Water’s heavier than petrol. Goes straight to the fuel line. You’d have noticed it pretty quick.’
‘So someone would have done it in the car park where I left my car?’
‘Most likely.’
‘I’ve got a question for you . . . You told me that Frank was on The Hopeful when he fell off the back.’
Curly scowled. ‘Not this again.’
‘Mum,’ wailed Zoë. ‘I thought you were done with all that.’
‘Listen to your daughter, Alex.’ Curly tipped the bowl and scooped up the last mouthful of stew. He took a glass of water and drained it, then stood up.
‘Could he have survived? You a hundred per cent sure he’s dead?’
Curly just looked at her evenly and said, ‘You’ll want a new engine. Better still a new car. A total fresh start. That one is pretty much only good for scrap now. Want me to tow it?’
‘Jesus. We have no car?’
‘Nope.’
‘We don’t need a car, Mum.’
Alex looked at her daughter like she was mad. ‘We live out here on the edge of the world. How am I supposed to get to work every day?’
Zoë shrugged. ‘We’re all going to have to give up cars soon anyway.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
Curly shook his head. ‘You’re OK, Alex. You’re a friend.’
‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Definitely not.’ Alex picked up her bag and started digging around trying to find her wallet. She pulled out ten-pound notes and started counting them out.
‘No need for that, Alex,’ said Curly. ‘Honest to God. We look after each other, round here.’
‘I’m still a police officer, Curly. In case you hadn’t noticed.’
Curly looked a little hurt but didn’t stop her adding cash. When the pile reached £70 he said, ‘That’ll do it,’ folded the notes in two and put them into the back pocket of his oily jeans.
When he’d gone, and Zoë had disappeared upstairs, she made herself a coffee, though the counsellor had suggested she avoid them – especially in the evenings.
Zoë had left the cooker in a mess. The dirt had burned on. It was going to take an age to clean that.
In the morning, she had felt superhuman. Now she took her coffee to the living room and sat down alone, drained and miserable. The room was stuffy and hot. She noticed dust on the picture frames. In her bag was a note from a man who had been dead for seven years. Bill South was still missing, and maybe he had gone for ever. Jill was working so hard, she barely saw her any more. A man had killed his wife in horrible circumstances, and then murdered himself, because he had been cheated. An awfully traumatised man had been arrested, charged with a murder he had not committed. Though he had now been released, there would only have been the usual apology and nothing more. He would be back out there on his own.
After a minute, she stood again, closed the curtains. The bright sunshine outside was too much; there was something malevolent about its brightness. The light seemed to press on her chest, like a weight. She sat back down on the couch and closed her eyes.
Now they were closed, she was suddenly sure that if she opened them, she would find blood all around her, soaking into the fibres of the carpet, though in her rational mind she knew there was nothing there