I bring theSironain hard, the discordant thrum from the engine rattling my bones, and ignore him. Gather my catch and pray he doesn’t jump aboard to “help” and see how big my crab haul is. Like me, my dad’s a generational fisherman. Heknowswhat this catch is worth, and I thank the gods I had the foresightto radio ahead to the harbour buyer who’s already out on the quay.
Thequietquay.
No people, no sunshine.
As I make land Porth Luck is grey mist and gloom.
I throw a rope. It slaps against the buyer’s boots and he gives me a look. “You’re the last one in.”
“Aw, Rog. But you know I bring the best.”
Roger treats me to the same vague sympathy he gives every poor bastard bringing in shellfish right now. “Weather’s turning.”
“Calm enough today.”
“Wasn’t yesterday.”
True story. And I know what he’s getting at. What he’s trying to do. But I already know the storms have churned up the seabed and drowned the pots we have left in sediment. I don’t need forewarning he’s going to drive the price down. He’ll pay what he’ll pay, and I’ll take it.
“All right then.” Roger stands back as I set the first crate on the quay. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He’s not the only one who wants to see. As he crouches, I sense my dad drifting closer, peering at the browns as they clatter and skitter. Heavy crabs, lively and solid despite the battering they’ve had from the storms. They’re worth enough to pay Oscar for the week, put enough diesel in theSironato keep her moving, and perhaps cover the patch repairs for whatever fresh hell the weather’s shaken loose below deck. Maybe even leave Jack another touch in the microwave.
But Roger clicks his tongue with a shrug. “Market’s soft right now.”
“How soft?”
He names a figure and it’s terrible enough that my dad takes a few steps back.
I sigh, something oily churning my gut, and take the deal anyway. What else am I going to do?
Roger counts the crates and hands me a roll of cash too small and too thin to brighten my day. I should stick around to help him load his van, but it’s not in me. I secure theSironaand walk away from her, aware of my dad following me along the sea wall, chasing me all the way to Oscar’s house. Right there when I discover Oscar’s not home.
Damnit, Oscar.
He’s the nicest dude in the world, but if there’s one soul on earth my sunny wingman has no patience for, it’s my dad. And gods, I wish I didn’t either. That I was stronger. But I feel the weakness in my bones as I stuff Oscar’s wages through his letterbox and bundle what’s left with a stray elastic band.
It’s not much.
Won’t get my dad much more than an hour in the bookies.
But I give it to him anyway. Toss it at his chest and walk away. And I keep walking until I’m out of town and find myself halfway to Porth Ewan. To the Sea Bell—the only pub I can drink in without getting shit for my dad’s bad choices or where I like to put my dick.
Where Iusedto put my dick, before the idea of touching someone who didn’t haunt my dreams made me want to feed myself to the sharks.
I reach the Sea Bell and slip through doors almost as venerable as the ones that frame the Joker. Old wood and stale beer, it should feel like home, but it doesn’t. Because my people aren’t here. No one is and I sit in a quiet corner alone with a pint that doesn’t taste as crisp as the ale Jack serves, becauseno oneis as diligent and focused as he is, about line-cleaning or anything else.
You haven’t lost it, Jackie. I promise.
“Why the fuck are you drinking at crack o’clock in the morning?”
A shadow darkens the table as a figure looms over me. Mal, of course. Despite the bitter wind, he’s wearing cargo shorts and running shoes, with one of Jack’s hoodies slung over whichever of his three t-shirts he’s wearing today. My clothes are as old as time because I can’t afford to replace them. Mal would rather wear his big brother’s and it’s cute when I have the headspace to think about it.
I don’t today. I have beer, empty pockets, and a toothless irritation that my solitary sulk is over. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed you.” Mal spits that like it’s normal and sinks into the chair opposite. “In case you jumped off that dirt nap spot out there.”
“Not funny, Mally.”