The Annamae drew back to Newlyn like a wounded soldier limping home from the trenches. The waves had eased, as if the storm was replete and, though the rain continued to lash the boat with relentless resolve, the wind had lost its fury.
The four of them sat, numb and mute, with mugs of whisky in front of them. Cam glanced at Davy for the hundredth time. His mouth was set, eyes fixed grimly, white knuckles gripping his mug so hard Cam thought it might shatter in his salt-calloused hand. Cam wracked his brain in search of something – anything – he could say to console him. Banter on the boat was easy. The teasing, the roughness, the barbed comments and rugged jokes, it all gushed out of them like a winter stream. Words of comfort? Well, they came harder. And what could he say anyway? He had a better idea than most of what Davy was going through. They might not have got on that well, but Cam knew what it was like to lose a father to the sea.
‘He’ll be OK,’ Lawrie said, as he tipped his whisky into Davy’s empty mug. ‘I know he will.’
Cam winced, waiting for Geren to snarl or Davy to tell him to fuck off, but neither did. Geren lowered his head and Davy nodded, eyes closed, and drank.
Geren put his mug down with a bang. ‘Fuck this. Jesus. Fuck this job. It’s my fucking fault, isn’t it? Me who said not to turn back.’ His face screwed up with pain.
‘No.’ Slim’s voice firm. ‘It’s not your fault. The only person at fault here is me. I’m the skipper. This is my boat.’
‘But I fucking told you to stay out,’ Geren blazed.
‘And I told you we wouldn’t. That I was turning back. That we’d shoot the gear one last time. I could have steamed home. But I didn’t, did I? We shot the gear one more time and that was my decision.’
‘So if he dies it’s on your head?’ Geren spat the words out like they were broken teeth.
‘Yes.’
Cam rested a hand on Geren’s arm to quieten him. ‘It was an accident.’
‘We shouldn’t have come out.’
‘Well we did. And twenty-four hours ago, we were all doing fucking backflips with pound signs in our eyes.’ Cam’s voice was a growl. ‘It’s part of the job and you know it. We all know it.’
Davy pushed away from the table and walked out of the galley like a storm cloud.
‘We need to calm—’
‘Fuck off, Cam,’ Geren cried. ‘Jesus. You always have to be the fucking hero, don’t you? The one to make everything better.’ Geren’s vitriol speared Cam. ‘No wonder those slags in the village climb all over you. Cameron Stewart, fucking good-guy hero.’
Cam didn’t speak. He stared down at his whisky and caught his distorted face in its reflection.
Geren pressed on. ‘All of them, opening their legs for you, telling their friends what a gent you are, what a fucking hero. But don’t be flattered. I hear this latest minge goes with anyone. A wink and a Babycham and she’s open-mouthed and on her knees—’
Before Cam had the chance to think, he’d thrown himself across the table and had Geren by the throat, rammed up against the wall, free hand drawn back.
‘Go on then,’ growled Geren, teeth bared.
‘Don’t!’
It was Lawrie. Cam glanced at him; he looked like a scared child.
Cam turned back to Geren, stared at him, crazed eyeball to crazed eyeball, panting heavily.
‘Go on,’ Geren hissed. ‘Fucking hit me.’
Cam hesitated, then lowered his hand a fraction, and a look of disappointment slid over Geren’s face. ‘You pussy,’ he rasped.
‘Enough!’ Slim said then. He stood up from the table and moved towards the door. When he reached it, he stopped and turned. ‘Both of you calm yourselves down. We’re all emotional – every one of us – but if you don’t rein it in, you won’t find yourself on The Annamae again.’ Then he walked out of the galley and down into the bunk room where they heard him talking – low and indiscernible – to Davy.
Cam grabbed his tobacco from the table and headed out of the galley. It was too wet to smoke on deck, so he hovered in the doorway and rolled a cigarette. Who the hell did Geren think he was? How dare he talk about Hannah like that? And in front of Slim? And Lawrie too? Within earshot of Davy? He drew on the cigarette and smacked his hand against the doorframe. What worried him more than Geren being a dick was how out of control he’d felt. A thick fog had obscured all rational thought. Nothing Geren said about her was true, but hearing it, just thinking about her with anyone else, sent him into an intense rage which terrified him.
Martin didn’t die, but they did take his arm from just below the shoulder. Sheila phoned the harbour office from the hospital and spoke to Davy who nodded and grunted in one-syllables whilst tapping a grubby finger against the desk.
‘He was lucky to make it,’ Davy said as he came out to join the others who were huddled tight, smoking in the rain which now spat gently in the wake of the storm. ‘She thought we’d lost him.’ Davy lowered his head and took a cigarette out of the pack Geren proffered. ‘He won’t fish again. Doubt he’ll work again.’
Slim rubbed his face hard and he cleared his throat.
Geren slipped another cigarette between his lips. ‘Fuck this job,’ he breathed.
As they waited, weary and shell-shocked, not talking to each other or anyone else, Slim took the haul to market. It was surreal to Cam that Newlyn carried on as normal. He was detached from it all, as if he’d prefer to be out at sea, not around people for whom the accident on The Annamae was merely a shocking story with the salacious detail of Martin’s taken arm to enjoy passing on.
The catch was big and the prices high, and the envelopes of money Slim had for them were heavy. The Annamae was one of only a few of the fleet which had risked the weather, and as they knew, this meant rewards were high. But the mood was sombre as he handed their money over. Usually it was the part of a trip which made everything worthwhile. But not that day. That day there was no joyful whoops and exaggerated kissing of folded notes.
Cam slipped his envelope into his back pocket. All he wanted was to be with Hannah. He closed his eyes for a moment to block out the image of Martin’s arm, of the splinters of bone pressed into his flesh, his face growing paler and paler, ghostly in the lights which illuminated the deck in the raging storm. He tried to replace the image with her face. Her smile. Her hand flat against his cheek. The smell of her, perfumed and creamy, the washing powder which clung to her clothes.
‘I sometimes wonder, why the hell do we do it?’ Slim’s voice dragged him back to the rainy pier.
Cam looked at him and saw a man aged ten years.
‘Because of what we’re holding.’ Geren’s face was dark. ‘Because of the money. And because we don’t know anything but the sea. We risk our lives every day we’re out there. But, hey,’ he said as he waved the money in his hand, ‘got to earn a living.’ He looked round at them all as he slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. ‘Sitting here crying like little girls isn’t going to bring Martin’s arm back, but you know what? Martin’s alive and that’s something to be thankful for. That was a mighty gale and we’re all back and we’re all alive. And I for one am going take this cash and celebrate being alive. I’m not going to mope because a man got unlucky with some rigging. I’m going to go for a fucking lash-up, drink enough booze to ground an army, then I’m going home to fuck my wife, because if we don’t celebrate being alive – if we don’t drink and fuck – then what’s the goddamned point of any of it?’