promontory did they stop and pause and look behind them through the downpour. They’d lost the men with their torches; two of them were on the boats going the wrong way and the others had disappeared along the road.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Clem was choking, the tears running down her face. ‘What do they want from us?’ She was shaking uncontrollably. Johnny watched the men scrabbling across the boats. Some of them were running back towards the marina. He leant back against the rock.
‘What are they going to do to us?’ she cried.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, his eyes frantically searching the harbour. How the hell was he meant to know everything? He pulled her in out of the flashing torchlight and they huddled against the rock as far out of the rain as was possible until the cries and footsteps ceased. They sat there for a long while, both of them shocked and frightened, their breathing rapid, their hearts pumping furiously. They sat there until there was quiet, until the only sound was that of water: the sea crashing against the boulders; the rain lashing the rocks. And he wondered what the hell they were going to do.
Clem pulled away from him, tucking herself into a ball, her forehead resting on her knees, motionless. Somewhere in the distance a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. She lifted her head and looked out across the sea. There was nowhere to go to. There was nothing to say.
When she did speak, her voice was flat. The panic had been replaced by an eerie calm.
‘Why do we always end up in scrapes, Johnny?’
‘We don’t always ,’ he said.
‘We do.’
He couldn’t really deny it. They were always in scrapes. In France they’d worked for an awful man who’d conned them out of their money, in Italy they’d been mugged not once but twice and they’d ended up on a very strange hitch-hike through Yugoslavia with a man who kept changing his clothes for no apparent reason. Even their wedding had been a disaster, topped off with him forgetting to take any money to the fancy hotel in Padstow so they’d had to do a runner out of the window down the drainpipe.
‘It’s just what happens when you go travelling,’ he said, but inside he was wondering how other people managed to avoid scrapes – Rob and his girlfriend only ever came back from their travels with suntans and tales of dreams fulfilled.
She didn’t say anything, just carried on staring out at the horizon. She closed her eyes and rested her head on her knees again and started imagining. She could do this easily; she could almost transport herself out of any situation. She could imagine somewhere else so vividly that sometimes it seemed as real as the real thing. She let the rain lead her. She took the sound and turned it into Cornish rain. Only now it was lashing down against the windows of the cottage behind the curtains and she was all warm inside beside the fire, sitting in the faded armchair watching a film on the crappy black and white TV. Johnny was sitting at her feet, leaning on the chair, and his dad was lying on the sofa in his shorts, his hands behind his head, his wild white hair standing up. Every now and then the picture on the telly would go fuzzy and Johnny or his dad would have to get up and fiddle about with the coat hanger that was sticking out of the back.
‘I’m sorry, Clem,’ Johnny said.
The rain was seeping down the back of her shirt; she could feel it running down her back into her pants. ‘It’s all right,’ she said wearily, turning her face towards him, eyes still shut.
He knew what she was doing. But it did them no good thinking like that. Even up shit creek with no paddles you could always use your hands or get out and push. He stood up and looked about him, out to sea, reaching into his pocket to check that he still had their tobacco. He dried his fingers on his shirt and rolled himself a cigarette under his jumper and lit up, keeping the flame covered by his hand. They’d wait here for an hour
‘Jesus Christ.’ Clem was choking, the tears running down her face. ‘What do they want from us?’ She was shaking uncontrollably. Johnny watched the men scrabbling across the boats. Some of them were running back towards the marina. He leant back against the rock.
‘What are they going to do to us?’ she cried.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, his eyes frantically searching the harbour. How the hell was he meant to know everything? He pulled her in out of the flashing torchlight and they huddled against the rock as far out of the rain as was possible until the cries and footsteps ceased. They sat there for a long while, both of them shocked and frightened, their breathing rapid, their hearts pumping furiously. They sat there until there was quiet, until the only sound was that of water: the sea crashing against the boulders; the rain lashing the rocks. And he wondered what the hell they were going to do.
Clem pulled away from him, tucking herself into a ball, her forehead resting on her knees, motionless. Somewhere in the distance a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. She lifted her head and looked out across the sea. There was nowhere to go to. There was nothing to say.
When she did speak, her voice was flat. The panic had been replaced by an eerie calm.
‘Why do we always end up in scrapes, Johnny?’
‘We don’t always ,’ he said.
‘We do.’
He couldn’t really deny it. They were always in scrapes. In France they’d worked for an awful man who’d conned them out of their money, in Italy they’d been mugged not once but twice and they’d ended up on a very strange hitch-hike through Yugoslavia with a man who kept changing his clothes for no apparent reason. Even their wedding had been a disaster, topped off with him forgetting to take any money to the fancy hotel in Padstow so they’d had to do a runner out of the window down the drainpipe.
‘It’s just what happens when you go travelling,’ he said, but inside he was wondering how other people managed to avoid scrapes – Rob and his girlfriend only ever came back from their travels with suntans and tales of dreams fulfilled.
She didn’t say anything, just carried on staring out at the horizon. She closed her eyes and rested her head on her knees again and started imagining. She could do this easily; she could almost transport herself out of any situation. She could imagine somewhere else so vividly that sometimes it seemed as real as the real thing. She let the rain lead her. She took the sound and turned it into Cornish rain. Only now it was lashing down against the windows of the cottage behind the curtains and she was all warm inside beside the fire, sitting in the faded armchair watching a film on the crappy black and white TV. Johnny was sitting at her feet, leaning on the chair, and his dad was lying on the sofa in his shorts, his hands behind his head, his wild white hair standing up. Every now and then the picture on the telly would go fuzzy and Johnny or his dad would have to get up and fiddle about with the coat hanger that was sticking out of the back.
‘I’m sorry, Clem,’ Johnny said.
The rain was seeping down the back of her shirt; she could feel it running down her back into her pants. ‘It’s all right,’ she said wearily, turning her face towards him, eyes still shut.
He knew what she was doing. But it did them no good thinking like that. Even up shit creek with no paddles you could always use your hands or get out and push. He stood up and looked about him, out to sea, reaching into his pocket to check that he still had their tobacco. He dried his fingers on his shirt and rolled himself a cigarette under his jumper and lit up, keeping the flame covered by his hand. They’d wait here for an hour
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