Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

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.

The Courier carries his breakfast in a brown paper bag with paper handles. It contains a sweet pastry, cheese, fresh dates and a boiled egg. He orders a double espresso laced with sugar and takes it to a table outside, sitting with his back to the wall so he can feel the weak sunshine on his face.

He has a wedge-shaped body, narrow at the hips, broad across his shoulders. Wide eyes. Oddly sensual lips. His lips embarrass him. They are not manly enough. Taking out a napkin, he places it on the table, setting out his breakfast as though making an offering.

Three women pushing oversized prams are watching him. He ignores them and taps the boiled egg against the table, peeling it slowly, prying off the shell in big pieces so as not to tear the albumen. Taking a pinch of sea salt, he dusts the crown of the egg and bites it in half.

Eggs had been a luxury when he was growing up. Food had been a luxury, to be queued for, haggled over and eaten with reverence. Every day had been a struggle for his mother, who raised six children on the West Bank, earning a few shekels by sewing for neighbors. His father was a man in a photograph; a stranger who spent eighteen years in an Israeli prison before dying of a heart attack at fifty-two. The Israelis wouldn’t return his body to be buried in Ramallah.

The Courier finishes eating and brushes the crumbs from the table. He folds the paper bag, putting it into his pocket. Then he crosses the street, pausing to put on his gloves, tugging at the cuffs and smoothing the soft leather on his fingers.

Taking the stairs he climbs three floors and knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

A voice summons him inside. The receptionist is a lank-haired blonde, barely twenty. Her hips and thighs are pushing against her skirt and her breath reeks of mentholated cough drops.

“I’m looking for Mr. Hackett,” he says in a perfect London accent.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“We’re old friends.”

The receptionist sneezes into a tissue. Blows her nose.

“That’s a nasty cold. You should be home in bed.”

“Uncle Colin doesn’t believe in sick days.”

“Mr. Hackett is your uncle.”

The Courier sits on the edge of her desk, toying with her pencil holder. His nearness makes her feel uncomfortable.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Janice.”

He repeats the name out loud. She doesn’t like how it sounds coming from his mouth.

“Perhaps you should come back later.”

“No, I’ll wait.”

His eyes slowly drop down to her chest, then to the hem of her skirt and her crossed legs. She checks the top button of her blouse self-consciously.

“Where do you live, Janice?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You should go home. Crawl into bed. Stay warm.”

“Someone has to look after the office.”

“I can do that.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Like I said, I’m an old friend.”

The Courier has opened his wallet. He pulls out a handful of banknotes and begins placing them one by one on the desk blotter.

“How much do you earn?”

“Why?”

“Ten pounds an hour… twenty?”

“It’s not really any of your business.”

“What if I offered to cover your missed wages?”

A hundred pounds is sitting on the blotter. Janice looks at the money and trembles, a pool of heat burning on her forehead as though her hairdryer has been left on the same spot for too long.

She stands, picks up her coat, not making eye contact.

“Wait!” he says.

Janice stops. Trembling. She can feel the contents of her stomach liquefying and rushing through her colon. The visitor picks up the banknotes and pushes them into the pocket of her coat.

“Take yourself off to bed,” he says. “I’ll tell Mr. Hackett you went home.”

He touches her shoulder. Opens the door. She wants to run but can’t move quickly in her heels.

Outside on the street, not stopping, she calls Colin Hackett on his mobile.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“In Luton.”

“There’s a man in your office. He sent me home.”

“What do you mean he sent you home?”

“He told me to leave.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know, but he says he knows you.”

“What’s he look like?”

She swallows. “I don’t think he’s a nice man, Uncle Colin. I don’t think he’s your friend.”