Revenge of the Tide (34 page)

‘Well, he didn’t. I’m still here.’

‘Do you miss the club?’ Oh, so many stupid questions. I couldn’t think of the right one.

‘No.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What?’

‘I mean, are you working?’

‘No.’

Silence again. I closed my eyes, half-wishing I’d not asked him for the lift after all. If he’d dropped me at the station, this torture would have been over with by now.

I must have dozed, because the gentle click of the indicator woke me. I sat up straight and looked out of the window.

‘Oh, don’t turn off here.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve moved the boat.’

The BMW moved swiftly out of the exit lane for Rochester and Strood, and back on to the main carriageway. A car behind us beeped. Dylan looked in his rear view mirror at the driver.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘So where the fuck is your boat?’

‘Allington. Near Maidstone. It’s the next exit. Sorry, I should have said.’

We were on the Medway bridge by this time. Beneath us, the marina where I’d lived for six months in total, where I’d made some good friends, and where it had all fallen apart. I couldn’t see it from up here. Just the straight lines of the motorway and, in the distance to the left, Rochester Castle, a flag flying from the battlements.

‘When did you move the boat?’

‘A few weeks ago. Bloody ordeal that was, I can tell you. I had to go through a lock. I had to pay Cameron to help me move it.’

He didn’t say anything. At the next exit he turned off towards Maidstone, down a long, steep hill with a view over the Medway valley. ‘It was difficult,’ I said, even though he’d not asked. ‘You know, with the people in the marina. They’re lovely, all of them, but they’ve chosen this quiet life, you know? Or at least, that’s what they were hoping for, until I turned up and ruined it for them. And Malcolm and Josie… We did try. We were talking about it all. But Josie blames me for everything that happened. And I blame myself.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said at last. ‘He was the fucking idiot that brought Fitz to your door.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I did that. Malcolm just hurried him along a bit.’

He fell silent again, concentrating on the short stretch of the M20 that would take us back towards Maidstone. I couldn’t bear the quiet. The minutes were flying past, the precious time I had with him was slipping away like sand through my fingers.

‘It’s a nice place, anyway,’ I said. ‘Not a marina. Just a few moorings, and there’s a nice pub too, with a restaurant. There’s even a shower block; it’s supposed to be for kayakers I think, but I used it anyway until I finished the bathroom last weekend. And the river isn’t tidal because I’m above the lock. I get ducks and swans now, instead of bloody seagulls. It’s a nice place. You’ll like it.’

‘I’ll like it?’

I smiled at him, hopeful. ‘I think you will.’

‘I like the sound of the pub.’

‘You have to walk across the lock to get to it. I’m on the wrong bank.’

‘And it’s alright there? Safe?’

‘Yes. I feel safe.’

‘Good.’

Maybe it was the fact that we were a long way outside London now, but I could feel him thawing. His shoulders were not as rigid, his grip on the steering wheel more relaxed.

‘Your boat’s alright?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’m still repairing things. But now I’m just getting it straightened out so I can sell it.’

‘Why?’

He looked at me properly for the first time since we’d left Chislehurst.

‘I can’t live there any more. I moved the boat because I thought it would help, but it hasn’t. So much happened on that boat, Dylan. Everything I look at reminds me of that night. Of Malcolm getting shot, of what Arnold was going to do. Of you nearly getting beaten to death.’

‘You can’t just give up on your dream. You need to give it time.’

I shook my head. ‘It won’t change how I feel. I can’t stay there. You need to take the next turning on the left. That one, there, look.’

The car turned into Castle Road and slowed as the road narrowed, towards the end. Minutes, that was all I had left. Just a few minutes with him.

‘What will you do?’ he asked.

I couldn’t cry, not now. I forced the tears back. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do.’ I wanted so desperately to hear him say the words
Come to Spain. Come with me.
But he didn’t.

At the end of the road was a turning circle, with the entrance to the lock-keeper’s cottage and, beyond it, the car park which served the slipway into the river. And we were there. The car’s tyres crunched on the gravel and we pulled to a stop. The
Revenge of the Tide
was moored against the concrete bank, a few feet from where we were parked. It was sandwiched between two narrowboats and it looked huge and out of place, crouching like a grown-up between two kids, dominating the bank.

I took a deep breath. ‘Will you come inside?’

He shook his head.

‘I can’t,’ he said. He was actually gritting his teeth.

‘Can’t what?’

He paused, ran a hand over his forehead. ‘Can’t – do this any more. Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ And he finally turned to look at me, properly, for what felt like the first time.

I reached across to him, put my hand up to stroke his cheek. ‘Because I love you,’ I said. ‘And I know you love me, even though you won’t say it. I know you do.’

He stared at me for a long moment and I stared right back at him, challenging him to refuse, or make a joke about it, or laugh. When he did none of those things I put my hand up to his cheek, stroked it gently, and then clambered over the central console of the BMW and kissed him, ignoring the wince as my weight fell against his bruised chest, pushing him back against the door so that I could pretty much climb on to his lap, and put my arms around his neck so he couldn’t get away, couldn’t move until I’d finished, until I’d made him change his mind.

The first draft of
Revenge of the Tide
was written in November 2010 for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and was excitedly presented to my editor, Vicky Blunden, as a 90,000-word draft. The transformation of that tangled mess of ideas, characters and plot into the final book is thanks to her, and to the brilliant team at Myriad, including Candida Lacey, Corinne Pearlman, Linda McQueen, Anthony Grech-Cumbo, Adrian Weston, Dawn Sackett and Emma Dowson. Thank you all.

I would also like to thank Vanessa Very and Linda Weeks for reading early drafts and making invaluable suggestions which changed the course of the story completely. Vanessa, who seems to be making a habit of resurrecting characters I try to kill off, saved Dylan from just such a fate.

Whilst I was conducting research for the book, Jill Vago very kindly let me spend some time on her boat,
Tobias
, and helped me with all my questions about living aboard. Thank you very much, Jill!

Two reference books in particular were also invaluable, and I can highly recommend them to any reader:
A Home Afloat
by Paul Cookson, with wonderful photographs of boats which provided inspiration for the interiors of the
Revenge of the Tide,
and
Living Aboard
by Nick Corble and Allan Ford, which helped me with the practical aspects of converting a barge to living accommodation.

I would also like to thank Jane Salida, Louise Payne and Keli Stephenson of the fabulous Pole Saints, who introduced me to pole fitness, and to the other class members who let me draw stick figures while they did all the hard work. Thank you, too, to Nikki W, who kindly answered my questions about working in London clubs. For a detailed account of a dancer’s life, I can highly recommend the excellent book
Girl in High Heels
by Ellouise Moore.

So many people provided support and encouragement while I was writing this book that it would take several pages to list them all. So thank you to all my wonderful friends and colleagues at Kent Police, especially to Lisa James and Mitch Humphrys who kindly checked my manuscript for procedural accuracy. To the talented Medway Mermaids, and to the inspirational Rochester and Chatham book club – thank you, ladies. And for all my online friends, especially the Kent NaNoWriMo participants who went through the madness of November with me – thank you.

The last and best thanks of all to my boys, David and Alex, I love you.

 If you liked
Revenge
of the Tide
, you might
like Elizabeth Haynes’ bestselling
debut novel
Into the Darkest Corner.

 

AMAZON BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR 2011
WINNER OF AMAZON RISING STARS 2011

 

LONGLISTED FOR THE
CWA JOHN CREASEY DAGGER 2011

 

FEATURED ON THE SPECSAVERS
TV BOOK CLUB 2012

 

Friday night, Hallowe’en, and the bars in town were all full to the cauldron’s brim.

In the Cheshire Arms I’d drunk cider and vodka and somehow lost Claire and Louise and Sylvia, and gained a new friend called Kelly. Kelly had been to the same school as me, although I didn’t remember her. That was no matter to either of us; Kelly was dressed as a witch without a broomstick, all stripy orange tights and black nylon wig, me like the bride of Satan, a fitted red satin dress and cherry-red silk shoes that had cost more than the dress. I’d already been groped a few times.

By one, most people were heading for the night bus, or the taxi rank, or staggering away from the town centre into the freezing night. Kelly and I headed for the River bar, since it was the only place likely still to let us in.

‘You are
so
going to pull wearing that dress, Catherine,’ Kelly said, her teeth chattering.

‘I fucking hope so, it cost me enough.’

‘Do you think there will be anything decent in there?’ she said, peering hopefully at the bedraggled queue.

‘I doubt it. Anyway, I thought you said that you were off men?’

‘I said I’ve given up on relationships. Doesn’t mean I’m off sex.’

It was bitterly cold and starting to drizzle, the wind whipping the smells of a Friday night around me, blowing up my skirt. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and crossed my arms over it.

We headed for the VIP entrance. I remember wondering if this was a good idea, whether it might not be better to call it a night, when I realised Kelly had been let in already and I went to follow her. I was blocked by a wall of charcoal-grey suit.

I looked up to see a pair of incredible blue eyes, short blond hair. Not someone you’d want to have an argument with.

‘Hold up,’ said the voice, and I looked up at the doorman. He wasn’t massive like the other two, but still taller than me. He had a very appealing smile.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Am I allowed to go in with my friend?’

He paused for a moment and looked at me just a fraction longer than was seemly. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Of course. Just…’

I waited for him to continue. ‘Just what?’

He glanced across to where the other door staff were chatting up some teenagers busy trying their hardest to get in.

‘Just couldn’t believe my luck for a moment, that’s all.’

I laughed at his cheek. ‘Not been a good night, then?’

‘I have a thing for red dresses,’ he said.

‘I don’t think this one would fit you.’

He laughed and held the velvet rope to one side to let me in. I felt him watching me as I handed my jacket in to the cloakroom; chanced a glance back to the door and saw him again, just watching me. I gave him a smile and went up the steps to the bar.

All I could think of that night was dancing until I was numb, smiling and laughing at people with my new best friend, dancing in that red dress until I caught the eye of someone, anyone, and best of all finding some dark corner of the club and being fucked against a wall.

It took me a long, long time to get out of the flat this morning. It wasn’t the cold, although the heating in the flat seems to take an age to have any effect. Nor was it the dark. I’m up every day before five; it’s been dark at that time since September.

Getting up isn’t my problem; getting out of the house is. Once I’m showered and dressed, have had something to eat, I start the process of checking that the flat is secure before I go to work. It’s like a reverse of the process I go through in the evening, but worse somehow, because I know that time is against me. I can spend all night checking if I want to, but I know I have to get to work, so in the mornings I can only do it so many times. I have to leave the curtains in the lounge and in the dining room, by the balcony, open to exactly the right width every day or I can’t come back in the flat again. There are sixteen panes in each of the patio doors; the curtains have to be open so that I can see just eight panes of each door if I look up to the flat from the path at the back of the house. If I can see a sliver of the dining room through the other panes, or if the curtains aren’t hanging straight, then I’ll have to go back up to the flat and start again.