Revenge of the Tide

  I leaned over a bit further, dizzy with the beer and with a sudden waft of stinking silt, until I could see that the footprints were right underneath the porthole. The porthole that looked in on my saloon.

  Twenty

  I didn’t see Dunkerley on Monday morning. He was out at meetings, and as usual it was a hectic day. By home time, I was starting to feel relief where previously I’d been feeling dread, panic. Lord knew he made my life hellish enough as it was. He didn’t need any additional weapon to fire at me.

  Tuesday was our regular team meeting. Usually this was the time he picked on one of us, the one he perceived to be performing badly and needing a boost. We all dreaded it, every week.

  But this Tuesday was different. He scanned the room to see if anyone was missing. I felt his eyes brush over me like an unwelcome grope on a crowded Underground train.

  But there was no public humiliation, not for me or for anyone else. He was quiet, writing notes, his skin and bald head pink and shiny with perspiration. He asked for updates on workload, on profits. As soon as that was over he called the meeting to a close and scuttled off.

  ‘What the fuck? What’s happened to him?’ asked Alan.

  We all celebrated our first gentle meeting since Dunkerley had arrived with a coffee and a prolonged discussion about what could possibly have come over him. I had a horrible feeling it might have been related to our encounter in the club, but I kept quiet.

  Dunkerley avoided me at work after that, and I started to relax. Maybe he’d been embarrassed by it; maybe he was worried that I would tell everyone he’d been seen in a lap dancing club. I was almost able to enjoy work again, for the first time in ages, without that constant pressure.

  Of course, it all changed the following weekend at the Barclay.

  He was there early, not with his mates this time. He managed to bag himself a table right at the front of the main stage, and he was sitting there looking up with a kind of joyous anticipation, like a kid at his first pantomime.

  I stared at his ugly mug, the door to the dressing rooms open just a crack.

  Well, there was no doubt in my mind what he’d come to see, and I had no way of getting out of it.

  He was there for all my dances. He only ever moved when I came off the stage. I did my best as I always did, but the force of his stare was off-putting. In my second dance I slipped and only just recovered in time. Even so, he laughed. The bastard laughed.

  After that I got fire in me and the rest of my routine was powerful, and faultless. I would show him.

  I was half-expecting him to ask for a dance with me, and it was no surprise when Helena came to see me in the dressing room when I still had at least two dances left.

  ‘There’s a customer for you,’ she said.

  ‘I thought there might be.’

  ‘Thing is, he said he wants a private pole dance with you for free. I told him that wasn’t an option. He said I should ask you. Someone you know, is it?’

  ‘Yes. The man’s a complete idiot.’

  ‘I take it you don’t want to dance for him, then?’

  I gave her a look which said it all.

  ‘Is he giving you any shit?’

  ‘Yeah, he is a bit. He’s sitting at the front and he’s putting me off, to be honest with you.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, and marched out again.

  When I went back out into the club, he had gone.

  I asked Helena when I got a chance to talk to her. They’d taken him out. He wasn’t welcome, she said.

  I could have kissed her.

  I spent the afternoon keeping busy, anything to take my mind away from the churned-up mud under the porthole, but even so the thought of it kept returning. Whoever it was had been there at low tide, which meant first thing this morning. I’d been asleep in bed.

  The cabin was still full of dust from the sanding I’d done earlier, so I spent a long time wiping everything down with a damp cloth. I kept glancing across to the porthole as I did it, as though I was expecting to see a face appearing there. In the end it got dark and then all I could see when I looked up was a blank, black circle.

  When I’d finished wiping down the cabin, I rinsed out the cloth and left it out to dry. It was early, but I was exhausted. I got ready for bed and, as I drifted off into an uneasy sleep, the tide ebbed away once more and left behind it a clean, smooth surface to the mud outside the porthole, as if the footprints had never been there at all.

  The week after he’d been chucked out of the Barclay, Ian Dunkerley avoided me. I thought that I’d escaped somehow, that maybe the heavies at the club ejecting him had put an end to it.

  Of course, I was wrong.

  It was one of the regular Friday night after-work drinking sessions that I’d participated in with rather less frequency since I’d been dancing; most of my team went, got smashed every Friday on expenses and then either staggered home to nurse their heads, or went off into town and got drunker and drunker at their own expense.

  Dunkerley didn’t come along often; he’d told one of the supervisors that he felt it was important to allow the team to relax without him, it helped foster an atmosphere of independence. Bollocks to that. It was because he knew we all hated him and if any of us saw him away from company property there was a strong chance one of us would punch him, especially when lubricated by several bottles of wine.

  This time, he was in the Highwayman with a large glass of red wine when I made it in there at nearly eight. I’d been working hard to set up appointments for the following week, something I liked to do on a Friday because then I could draw a line under the day job and concentrate on getting ready for the Barclay.

  He was already a bit pissed, I noticed, his bald fat head shiny in the lights from the bar. Of course, what I should have done was to turn on my heels and leave again immediately, but I was tired and I’d been looking forward to my two glasses of wine for most of the afternoon.

  ‘Genevieve,’ he said, holding out his arm in an arc as though he expected me to snuggle into his sweaty armpit and embrace him.

  ‘Ian,’ I said in reply. ‘Special occasion?’

  He tried to laugh but snorted instead, which made him look like a drunken idiot.

  ‘I was just thinking I’d have a few drinks with my team,’ he said in general, and then, in a hushed comedy whisper which was directed at me, ‘I might go on somewhere else, later. Anywhere you recommend?’

  ‘I recommend you go home,’ I said.

  Dunkerley gave me a foul look; clearly, I’d made a mistake.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, with a tight smile. ‘It’s been a hectic day.’

  I got myself a glass of burgundy and took a big sip. One glass, I thought. One glass and I’d be on my way. I tried talking to some of the other guys on the team, but they kept looking over my shoulder at Dunkerley as though he might erupt at any moment.

  ‘He’s been acting really weird,’ Gavin said. ‘It’s like he’s disturbed, or something.’

  I laughed at that, recognising that that was probably exactly what had happened to him. I still hadn’t told anyone about the Barclay. I wasn’t sure any of them would believe me if I did.

  A few minutes later I finished my glass of wine. ‘I’m off,’ I said to Gavin.

  ‘What? You can’t go yet!’

  I winked at him. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a hot date,’ I said. Only something of that magnitude would satisfy him.

  ‘Really? Who is it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it on Monday,’ I said, recognising that by the time Monday rolled around Gavin was likely to have consumed enough alcohol to have killed off all the brain cells that were currently engaged in our conversation.

  I kissed him on the cheek and made for the door.

  Dunkerley followed. I didn’t realise until I’d reached the Underground, and there he was, pressed against me from behind in the crush to get on the District Line. It was still the tail end of rush hour, I’d left the bar so early.

&nb
sp; ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked into my ear, breathing wine fumes and cheese-flavoured corn-based snack all over me.

  ‘Home,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you go back to the bar, Ian? They’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.’

  I recognised that this was a dangerous situation, despite the crowds of people. I had to be pleasant to him, when all I wanted to do was throw him on the tracks.

  ‘Are you dancing tonight?’ he asked, as though to put to bed any lingering doubts I might have had over his recognising me.

  ‘Not tonight,’ I lied.

  ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘I was going to try again for another private dance.’

  The woman standing next to us on the platform looked at me, and him, and then focused on the advertisement for coffee on the far wall.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll let you in, Ian.’

  His voice rose, just slightly. ‘And who do I have to thank for that, eh? You sarcastic bitch.’

  That did it. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said you’re a sarcastic bitch!’ His voice got louder and louder and by the last two words they were a full-on shout.

  The other platform occupants were torn between staring or looking pointedly in the opposite direction. Of course, no one intervened. He could have put his hand up my skirt and not a single person would have said or done anything.

  I felt a gust of wind heading towards us through the tunnel. I turned and started to walk away. As I thought he would, he followed. I had to push my way through the crowds who were surging forward to try and get on the train.

  ‘Where the fuck are you going?’ he shouted, over people’s heads.

  I didn’t answer. I was going to get a cab home. He couldn’t follow me there, after all. I had a sudden vision of being crammed against him in the train, feeling his skinny little erection pressing into my backside. I’d rather die, I thought, I really would.

  Outside the station, though, there were no cabs anywhere. It had started raining, and everywhere I looked were people patently ignoring this wanker who was standing within my personal space, bleating something about my being a stuck-up bitch who needed to get a grip.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I said. ‘Seriously, Ian, fuck off back to the pub. This is getting embarrassing.’

  That didn’t work either; in fact it seemed to make him even more mad. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re moonlighting. You could lose your job. I could sack you.’

  ‘Yeah, course you could. And how would you explain how you found out what I do in my spare time, huh?’

  It threw him for a second, but he rallied. ‘I don’t need to explain myself. If anyone asks, I’ll say I got a tip-off.’

  ‘You can’t sack someone on hearsay. And in any case, you know what – I don’t give a fuck. You tell anyone about my job, and I’ll make your life hell, do you understand? Does your wife know where you were? Do you think she’d like to hear about it?’ I was getting angry and raising my voice, and of course now people were starting to take an interest. Fortunately for me, at that moment a cab came into view with its light still on, and I waved at it and stepped into the road to force it to stop. I got in and told the driver to go, fast, please just go… just as Dunkerley reached for the door handle and had it snatched away from him as we sped off.

  I cried in the cab. I had been afraid of him, the wanker; if I’d been in a different place, with fewer people around, what would he have done? Would he have tried to be more physical with me? Would he have hurt me?

  Would I have been able to fight him off, even if I was angry?

  ‘You alright, love?’ the cab driver asked me.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I sniffed. ‘Thanks.’

  He drove me home and the cost of it, thirty quid, came out of my savings. Even though I had plenty of money by this stage, it was the principle of it, that that man had taken money out of my boat fund, that made me mad.

  I sensed that wasn’t the final confrontation between us. Things would not get better, they would get worse from now on. He’d make every day at work a misery for me, until I left. I needed more money. I needed enough money to get out, and soon.

  I woke up, with a start – my heart pounding – without really knowing why.

  I sat up in bed and shrank back into the corner, away from the skylight, even though it was still dark overhead – grey clouds. Too early to be awake.

  Something must have woken me up – what? I strained to listen, but there was nothing, except the gentle rise and fall of the boat, the noise of the water. I could distantly hear something else – a car maybe?

  And then, a sound, directly overhead. On the roof of the cabin. I froze, listening hard, my heart thumping with panic. I thought of my mobile phone – both of them, mine and Dylan’s – on the table of the dinette. Fat lot of good they were there – what if I needed them? I would bring them both to bed with me tomorrow…

  In the perfect rectangle of the skylight, framed against the grey sky, I saw the figure of a man.

  I took in a sudden gasp of breath and pushed myself back even further into the corner. From here I could just see the dark shape outlined against the sky. I could see him moving as he tried to peer in. And then I heard something else, a voice – but not clear enough to make it out, and a footstep on the deck.

  Seconds later and there was a figure in the doorway to the bedroom.

  I tried to scream but it was too late. He saw me in the corner and lunged for me, grabbing my pillow and ramming it against my face. My head hit the wall behind the bed and for a second I saw stars. Then I started struggling and kicking, fighting as hard as I could.

  ‘Stop it,’ he hissed, ‘stop it, you stupid bitch.’

  I kicked harder, and he put one hand across my throat until I couldn’t get any air. I really panicked then.

  ‘You going to stop struggling?’

  I tried to speak but couldn’t get a word out with his hand over my throat, so I nodded, hoping he could see me in the darkness. Someone else came into the room.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘She was fucking right kicking off,’ said the first man in a low whisper. He took his hand away from my throat and I gasped and choked, pulling air into my lungs.

  He pushed me over on to my front and between them they grabbed my wrists and fastened them with something, pulled it tight, the plastic biting into my skin.

  ‘Genevieve,’ said a voice – the second man. ‘You want to tell us what the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ I wailed. They were whispering but I had no intention of doing that on my own boat.

  He lifted my head by my hair and flung it back on the pillow so my teeth knocked against my lip. I felt blood in my mouth and spat it away.

  ‘Don’t make it worse. Tell us what you’re up to, and get it over with, or we’ll just fucking shut you up and have plenty of time to look round the boat. What’s it going to be?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘My boyfriend’s coming over when he’s finished work. He’ll be here in a minute.’

  He laughed. ‘Like fuck he is. You mean your boyfriend Mr Carling? He’s tucked up at home with Mrs Carling. He’s certainly not on his way round here. Oh, Genevieve, you’re hilarious.’

  There was a breeze a fraction of a second before his fist connected with the side of my head, just behind my ear, once, twice – hard; I felt dizzy and sick.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Right?’

  I could hear buzzing, a ringing, and for a second I wondered what it was, until I realised it was coming from inside my own head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, my voice muffled by sobs, by the bedclothes and the pillow, ‘what you’re talking about.’

  Someone else was on the boat. They were throwing things around in the galley.

  I recognised the voice of the second man, the one who had stopped the first from strangling me. It was Nicks, Robbie Nicks, one of Fitz’s men.

  ‘Nicks?’ I said.

  There was silenc
e in the room, broken only by the noises from the saloon and the galley.

  ‘Will you shut up, you stupid fucking bitch,’ he hissed.

  There was a bang like a firework going off in my head, and the room disappeared and everything in it.

  Twenty-one

  After the episode with Dunkerley, I spent some time counting up the money I’d saved. Realistically, I needed eighty to a hundred grand for a barge in a reasonable condition. I could have got a narrowboat for much less, but I found them restrictive. I wanted the same space I could get in a house, on a boat. After all, I was going to live on it, not spend summer weekends there. After that, I would need cash to do it up – say another twenty or thirty grand assuming a worst case scenario, a boat with some sort of structural problems or one that needed taking out of the water and welding. On top of that, I’d need enough to live on for at least twelve months, although it was in the back of my mind that I could get a part-time job if I had to, once the process had started.

  I had about two-thirds of the amount I needed, and most of that had come from equity from my flat, which I’d sold a year ago. Nowhere near enough to be able to leave the job now. Part of the trouble was that, as much as I earned from dancing, there were expenses too: clothes, shoes, cosmetics – even being frugal I was spending a small fortune on make-up every month. So: another six months at work, assuming I didn’t get the opportunity to do any more of Fitz’s private parties, and I should have enough money to be able to resign.

  I didn’t know if I could stand it that long.

  Dunkerley went back to keeping out of my way, but he had also returned to his usual dreadful self. Performance targets had been published – an increase for all of us. We were already working as hard as we could. Where the extra was supposed to come from, none of us had any idea. The only reason I stayed was because of the money. Other organisations in our sector were actively making people redundant. I didn’t hold out much hope of getting another job if I chose to leave, especially since Dunkerley would be the one writing my reference.