fussy?’ Corke started to put it back into his pocket.
Pepper let go of the wheel with his left hand and gripped Corke’s shoulder with thick fingers. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want it. I just wanted to know its heritage,’ he growled.
Corke handed him the flask. Pepper took two big gulps, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and gave it back. ‘That’s about all the Irish are good for,’ he said. ‘Guinness and Jameson’s.’
‘What about Joyce, Wilde, Shaw, Swift?’
‘What?’ Pepper belched, and Corke caught a whiff of garlic. They’d had lunch at a small café near Calais and Pepper had wolfed down two plates of calamari.
‘Irish literary giants,’ said Corke. ‘Then there’s the Irish poets. William Butler Yeats. Seamus Heaney. And the music – U2, the Corrs. Film directors like Sheridan and Jordan. Not bad for a population of three million.’ He offered the flask to Mosley, who shook his head.
‘Wouldn’t have put you down as a Paddy-lover,’ said Pepper. ‘You said you were from Bristol.’
‘Used to holiday in Galway when I was a kid,’ said Corke. ‘That’s where I learned to sail.’
‘You can’t trust the Micks,’ said Pepper. ‘They’ll steal the enamel from your teeth.’
‘That’s what you said about the Armenians,’ said Corke.
‘They’re as bad as the Micks,’ said Pepper.
‘Let’s face it, you hate pretty much everyone.’
Pepper laughed harshly. ‘I met a Russian guy once and liked him. And you’re okay, Tony, for a sheep-shagger.’
‘I thought that was the Welsh.’
‘Bristol’s in Wales, innit?’
Corke shook his head. ‘I give up,’ he said. He unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth.
‘Why don’t you check on the cargo?’ said Pepper. He swung the wheel hard to the left, keeping the prow into the waves. ‘Looks like we’re going to beat the weather.’
Corke nodded. The forecast had been for squalls and showers but the rain had held off and with any luck it would stay that way until they reached the Northumberland coast. Not that heavy weather would make much of an impression on the sixty-five-foot trawler: it had been built to fish out in the Atlantic and was practically unsinkable. Its huge diesel engine would power the vessel through any weather and it was equipped with state-of-the-art navigation systems. Plus a few other tricks, courtesy of Andy Mosley.
Corke shoved his hip flask into his back pocket and pushed open the door that led to the deck. Spray flecked his face and he licked his lips, tasting salt. He swayed as he walked, trying to match his gait to the movement of the boat. He wasn’t wearing a life-jacket. They were for wimps, said Pepper, and Pepper was the captain. Corke knelt down and pushed open the wooden hatch, the entrance to the hold where fishermen would store their catch, packed in ice.
Anxious faces gazed up at him, men, women and children: a catch far more profitable than fish. There were thirty-four in the hold and each was paying several thousand euros to be delivered safe and sound to Britain. Pepper and the men he worked for didn’t care where the immigrants were from, how old they were, or why they wanted to get into the United Kingdom. All they cared about was that they had the money to pay for their passage. There were two girls among them who couldn’t have been more than eight, and Pepper had told Corke they were charged the same rate as the adults. ‘A body’s a body,’ the captain had said.
‘Everybody okay?’ Corke shouted down.
A few men nodded fearfully. They were all wrapped up against the cold in thick jackets and scarves, and the children were swathed in blankets that a woman had brought on board.
‘We need more water,’ said a middle-aged Oriental woman. She was probably Chinese, thought Corke. She was with her husband, teenage son and half a dozen nylon duffel bags, the first to complain when Pepper had told them there weren’t any life-jackets. ‘This is a
Pepper let go of the wheel with his left hand and gripped Corke’s shoulder with thick fingers. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want it. I just wanted to know its heritage,’ he growled.
Corke handed him the flask. Pepper took two big gulps, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and gave it back. ‘That’s about all the Irish are good for,’ he said. ‘Guinness and Jameson’s.’
‘What about Joyce, Wilde, Shaw, Swift?’
‘What?’ Pepper belched, and Corke caught a whiff of garlic. They’d had lunch at a small café near Calais and Pepper had wolfed down two plates of calamari.
‘Irish literary giants,’ said Corke. ‘Then there’s the Irish poets. William Butler Yeats. Seamus Heaney. And the music – U2, the Corrs. Film directors like Sheridan and Jordan. Not bad for a population of three million.’ He offered the flask to Mosley, who shook his head.
‘Wouldn’t have put you down as a Paddy-lover,’ said Pepper. ‘You said you were from Bristol.’
‘Used to holiday in Galway when I was a kid,’ said Corke. ‘That’s where I learned to sail.’
‘You can’t trust the Micks,’ said Pepper. ‘They’ll steal the enamel from your teeth.’
‘That’s what you said about the Armenians,’ said Corke.
‘They’re as bad as the Micks,’ said Pepper.
‘Let’s face it, you hate pretty much everyone.’
Pepper laughed harshly. ‘I met a Russian guy once and liked him. And you’re okay, Tony, for a sheep-shagger.’
‘I thought that was the Welsh.’
‘Bristol’s in Wales, innit?’
Corke shook his head. ‘I give up,’ he said. He unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth.
‘Why don’t you check on the cargo?’ said Pepper. He swung the wheel hard to the left, keeping the prow into the waves. ‘Looks like we’re going to beat the weather.’
Corke nodded. The forecast had been for squalls and showers but the rain had held off and with any luck it would stay that way until they reached the Northumberland coast. Not that heavy weather would make much of an impression on the sixty-five-foot trawler: it had been built to fish out in the Atlantic and was practically unsinkable. Its huge diesel engine would power the vessel through any weather and it was equipped with state-of-the-art navigation systems. Plus a few other tricks, courtesy of Andy Mosley.
Corke shoved his hip flask into his back pocket and pushed open the door that led to the deck. Spray flecked his face and he licked his lips, tasting salt. He swayed as he walked, trying to match his gait to the movement of the boat. He wasn’t wearing a life-jacket. They were for wimps, said Pepper, and Pepper was the captain. Corke knelt down and pushed open the wooden hatch, the entrance to the hold where fishermen would store their catch, packed in ice.
Anxious faces gazed up at him, men, women and children: a catch far more profitable than fish. There were thirty-four in the hold and each was paying several thousand euros to be delivered safe and sound to Britain. Pepper and the men he worked for didn’t care where the immigrants were from, how old they were, or why they wanted to get into the United Kingdom. All they cared about was that they had the money to pay for their passage. There were two girls among them who couldn’t have been more than eight, and Pepper had told Corke they were charged the same rate as the adults. ‘A body’s a body,’ the captain had said.
‘Everybody okay?’ Corke shouted down.
A few men nodded fearfully. They were all wrapped up against the cold in thick jackets and scarves, and the children were swathed in blankets that a woman had brought on board.
‘We need more water,’ said a middle-aged Oriental woman. She was probably Chinese, thought Corke. She was with her husband, teenage son and half a dozen nylon duffel bags, the first to complain when Pepper had told them there weren’t any life-jackets. ‘This is a
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