The Wreckage

6

Seagulls wheel and scream above Holly’s head, bickering like siblings. The Thames is at full tide. Dusk gathering. The wooden boat is pulled on to a narrow beach. Fuel lines uncoupled. The outboard engine lifted from its mounts. The younger fisherman has been dropped off at a jetty. The remaining one is covering the boat with a tarpaulin, pegging down the faded fabric.

Thin and wiry with acne-divots in his cheeks, his name is Pete and he’s dressed in overalls and heavy work boots. Holly follows him along a narrow, winding path between blackberry bushes until they reach a weathered caravan.

A skinny dog with a large square head emerges from beneath the axle, wagging its entire body. The dog sniffs at her crotch and she pushes it away.

“What is this place?”

“It’s called Platt’s Eyot.”

“It’s an island?”

“Used to be an old boat yard. Hasn’t been used since the sixties.”

“And you live here?”

“This is my weekender.”

“It’s not the weekend.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I stay here during the week.”

Pete stores his fishing gear beneath the wheel arch and retrieves a key on a piece of string that is hanging from a secret hiding place. He opens the door of the caravan and pulls out two canvas stools, placing them beneath the awning.

Holly looks around the caravan. It has a bunk bed with a sleeping bag, a small TV, a gas stove and sink. Beyond the awning, just visible in the fading light, an abandoned building seems to crumble under the weight of vines and weeds. Rusting metal stanchions rise into the darkening sky to where the roof has partially collapsed and tin sheets hang from the frame. Oily water laps against a slipway and a sign strung across the entrance says, HAZARDOUS AREA: KEEP OUT.

“Are we allowed to be here?”

“I sort of look after the place… unofficially.”

“What about the other guy?” she asks.

“Marty is a mate of mine. He lives in Sunbury. I take him fishing sometimes.”

Pete sits on a stool and smokes a roll-up cigarette out of the corner of his mouth. Next to the caravan are empty fuel drums, gas cylinders and a hammock slung beneath the branches.

Holly’s jeans are torn and a small patch of blood stains the left knee. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she watches him pour boiling water into cups.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“No.”

Pete rummages through a cupboard. Then he searches a duffel bag. Finally he hands her an old stained sweater that is so long in the arms Holly has to fold up the sleeves and push them up to her elbows.

Pete opens a can of beans and puts it in a metal saucepan, firing up a gas ring.

“What do you do?”

“I used to be a printer. Lost my job. Wife left me.”

“When was that?”

“Ninety-six.”

“So what do you do for money?”

“I got a disability pension. I catch fish. I salvage stuff.”

The beans are bubbling. He spoons them into his mouth straight from the saucepan. Blowing on each one.

He hands Holly an extra spoon.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat.”

Her stomach is rumbling. The beans are warm and good.

“Don’t you have any plates?”

“This saves on washing up.”

Pete’s dog whimpers, looking at them expectantly.

“What’s his name?”

“Dog.”

“That’s original.”

“Somebody dumped him on the island when he was just a puppy. Stupid animal can’t swim.”

“What breed is he?”

“The non-swimming kind.”

Pete opens a can of dog food and bangs the base, up-ending a turd-colored log into a plastic bowl and breaking it with the sharp edge of the can. Dog eats noisily and licks the bowl clean with a slavering tongue.

Pete hasn’t asked her why the men were chasing her. He seems to accept that she’ll tell him when she’s ready or she won’t. Privacy is something he understands. Holly has been going backwards and forwards over the details of the day. Ruiz had called to warn her. He told her to get out. Does that mean she can trust him? Maybe it’s best if she stays on her own. People tend to die when they get too close to her.

A rim of storm clouds has swallowed the stars and the air is thick with the smell of rain. They sit for a long time in the dying firelight, until fat drops sizzle as they hit the coals.

Holly wants a bath. The most Pete can offer is to boil a kettle and she can mix it with a bucket of water from the river. He collects the water before the rain gets any heavier and carries it to a wooden block beneath the awning. Once the kettle has boiled, he turns away, tidying the caravan.

Holly takes off her blouse and washes her upper body with a warm cloth, feeling how quickly her skin grows cold. Pete might be watching her through the window. She doesn’t care. A lone kerosene lantern hangs from the branch of a tree above her, attracting insects that bounce off the globe and come back again.

Buttoning her blouse, she lifts the bucket to the ground and washes her feet before pulling on her jeans.

“You can stay here tonight,” he says, pointing to the bed.

“Where will you sleep?”

“I got a hammock.”

She’s in no position to argue. Pete takes a sleeping bag from a cupboard and lights a second kerosene lantern. He passes her window, throwing shadows on the ground as he walks. Dog looks at Holly and then at Pete before following him into the night.