The Trawlerman, стр. 48
‘Look. I’m not your therapist, but I think we’re both pretty low. You shouldn’t be home, brooding on things. This isn’t just a way of trying to persuade you to come out for a meal, but you should find something outside yourself. The offer still stands, though I totally understand if you just want to stay home and watch box sets.’
So, walking back up the beach, along the path of one of the old crooked rail tracks that fishermen had once used to haul their boats on, rusted now, turning the stones a darker brown, she called Zoë to say she would be out tonight. The call went to voicemail. She left a couple of messages, but by the time she’d reached the road, Zoë hadn’t answered, so she tried the Wildlife Trust centre instead. A woman was in the office, pecking at the keyboard of a computer. ‘No, there are no volunteers in today.’
‘Sorry? Are you sure? You must be wrong. She definitely said she was coming over there.’
‘I know Zoë,’ the woman said. ‘The very serious one? No, she’s definitely not here today.’
Anxious now, she texted Zoë again:
Where are you, love? Called the WT. You’re not there. Are you OK?
From where she stood now on the curve of the beach, only the masts of boats were visible, triangles of sail moving parallel to the shore. She lay down on the shingle by the Snack Shack, concentrating on slow breaths as her counsellor had told her to; in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Sat at a table, having lunch with her family, a four-year-old said loudly, ‘Is that lady sleeping?’
When her phone finally rang, she sat up and grabbed it. ‘Sorry. I got the day wrong,’ Zoë was saying, ‘I’m not at the Wildlife Trust.’
‘So where are you?’
‘I got the bus into Folkestone instead. I’m fine, Mum. Sorry. Were you worried?’
Alex exhaled. ‘You went all the way to the Visitor Centre, discovered it wasn’t a volunteer day, then went on to Folkestone?’
‘Yeah, Mum. I know. You’re not the only crazy one in the house. Sorry. Bad joke.’
When Alex told her about the meal, Zoë said incredulously, ‘Is that like a date?’
‘No. He’s just a friend.’
‘It sounds like a date.’
‘He’s just a nice man and he’s feeling a bit low too.’
‘You should go. You should definitely go, Mum.’
‘But I’ll be out. Will you be OK?’
‘Course I bloody will, Mum. I’ll stay over with Stella and Tina. They’ll be fine about it.’
‘Will they?’
Alex stood and went to the hut that sold fish and looked at the rows of lobsters lined up on the table. She texted Terry:
I’ll bring fish.
‘Two plaice,’ she said to the rosy-cheeked boy behind the counter in the little hut. Then she had an afterthought. ‘And a mackerel. Can you wrap it separately?’
Thirty-five
Instead of cycling straight to Greatstone, Alex took the long way round, via the Younises’ house. The windows looked dusty. The grass had grown unruly since she was last here; the petals on the rose bushes had browned and the beds were full of weeds. She locked the bike to the gate, then fought her way into the copse.
In the evening light, the footpath Georgia Coaker had talked about was visible; young plants had been trampled. It had been recently used.
The summer heat hung heavily. Small black bugs filled the air. The shaded earth seemed to give off a thicker smell. Someone had tugged down the barbed wire of the fence at the north side of the wooden brake to make crossing easier. She stepped over it and into a hay field.
The tent was still there, as Georgia had described it, lurking under the low trees about a hundred metres away.
There were sheep. Instead of scattering at her approach, they just stood staring at her. Maybe they had become used to humans, or maybe they were just too hot to run.
The smell of an old fire gave him away as she approached. She was right. He was still living here; he must have returned here last week. ‘Mr Glass? Is that you?’
The site was tidy, as she’d expect from a military man, whatever his mental state. There was a small wooden cross driven into the ground by the front end of the tent. She could tell that the tent’s flap was open, but it was pitched with the entrance up towards the hedge, so she couldn’t see inside.
She lowered her voice; she spoke as softly as she could. ‘Hello? I don’t want to disturb you. Please don’t be afraid. My name is Alexandra Cupidi. I want to apologise to you.’
There was no reaction from inside the khaki canvas.
‘Mr Glass. Are you in there?’
She was sure he was. It was a small tent. When she stepped closer, seeing the far side of the canvas for the first time, there was a tell-tale bulge in the cloth.
He was lying still, hoping she would go away. He was not used to people. He didn’t like or trust them. But she heard a small rustling from inside – as if he were searching for a stick or a knife, she thought.
‘Don’t worry.’ She kept her voice low; almost a whisper. There was just canvas and air between them. ‘I mean you no harm, I promise. I just want to say that I’m sorry. I feel bad that you were arrested for the murder of Ayman Younis. I think that was my fault. If I hadn’t come across you that night and given a description, you would never have been a suspect. I knew it wasn’t you, though, all along. I tried to tell them.’
She waited and listened. Inside the tent she heard him turn. Sure that she had his attention now, she said, ‘You don’t have to say anything.’
The hum of summer reasserted itself in the air around them.
‘It’s just that I think I understand