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through him, cold like the October wind moaning outside.
    â€˜This was going to be my escape,’ said Punk. ‘Estelle and me. Get out, go live in the Greek islands. Never worked out that way.’ He pulled open the engine compartment, revealing a beautifully maintained diesel engine. ‘There’s a full tank of fuel, a hundred gallons of fresh water in two tanks, fore and aft, plenty of food, as long as you don’t mind baked beans and sardines.’
    Clay smiled. ‘I can’t take her,’ he said.
    Punk turned, stood there with the foam-insulated engine panel in his hands. ‘I’m not coming down from twenty,’ he said. ‘The deal’s struck.’
    â€˜It’s not the money, broer . You got anything else?’
    Punk looked out the starboard porthole at the building weather. ‘Nothing that’s going to survive what’s coming. If you’re set on going, this is the best you can do. Believe me.’
    Clay could see what the boat meant to this old guy, the love he’d poured into her, the years of faithful care, the hoped for adventures.
    â€˜Look, guv,’ said Punk, ‘my friends are going to be here soon. It’s all in motion now, as we used to say back in the day. Nothing for it now but to push on.’
    He was ex-army, Clay was sure now. Maybe a para like him. He wasn’t going to ask, just like Punk wasn’t going to tell.
    Punk produced a set of keys, flicked them by like pages in an unwritten book. Engine ignition, padlocks for the hatch cover, starboard cockpit locker, safe under the port saloon locker. Clay took the keys and pocketed them. Sails forward, full complement, labelled.Extra sheets and warps in the starboard cockpit locker. Self-steering gear. Tool kit, emergency tiller, planking for repairs in the forward port-side locker. Full set of charts in the nav station, Baltic to the Med, radio, lights, transponder.
    â€˜No GPS, mind,’ said Punk. ‘I’m a bit of a purist that way. How’s your celestial navigation?’
    â€˜Rusty. Sextant on board?’
    â€˜Included in the price. That’s about all.’ Punk looked at Clay and held out his hand. They shook. Clay counted out the cash.
    â€˜Oh, and one more thing,’ said Punk, shoving the wad of bills into his trouser pocket. He crouched down, reaching up and under the nav table. A teak panel swung open. ‘Priest hole.’
    Clay peered inside. It was about the size of a kitchen freezer.
    â€˜Me mate’s a master cabinet maker,’ said Punk, arms crossed, smiling with pride. ‘Join work is perfect. Completely invisible once it’s closed up. There’s an air vent to the outside, even a foam base for your arse.’ He looked Clay down and up. ‘Might be a little tight for you, mind. But you never know, do you?
    Clay smiled. ‘You never do, broer .’
    Punk reached into the compartment, withdrew a polished wooden instrument and closed the door. He stood for a moment looking down at the thing, a miniature guitar. He looked up at Clay and handed him the ukulele. ‘Nights can get long,’ he said with an oblique scowl, half grin, half frown. ‘Especially single-handed.’
    â€˜I’m getting used to it.’
    Punk grinned wide, pushed the ukulele into Clay’s hand. Like the rest of this place, the instrument gleamed as if it had been freshly, lovingly polished.
    â€˜Play left-handed,’ Punk said. ‘Strum with your stump.’
    Clay looked into Punk’s eyes and smiled.
    â€˜Rhodesia?’ Punk said.
    Clay shook his head.
    â€˜When’d you leave South Africa?’
    â€˜Eighty-three.’
    Punk nodded, turned and climbed the companionway steps. Clay followed him up to the cockpit. Above decks, the wind had risen. Waves thudded against the hull. The rigging sang. A few drops of rain spattered the deck, dotted the murky water.
    â€˜Look after her for me,’ Punk said