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trawler, not the QE bloody Two ,’ Pepper had shouted, adding that she could like it or lump it but she wouldn’t get a refund if she stayed behind. She had glared at him and muttered something in her own language, but she and her family had climbed on.
    ‘I’ll get you some,’ said Corke.
    ‘And one of the women over there is sick,’ she said.
    Corke peered down to where she was pointing. Two women in headscarves were squatting against the bulkhead. The younger of them was coughing while the other had an arm round her and was dabbing at her head with a cloth. ‘Are you okay there?’ asked Corke.
    ‘They don’t speak English,’ said the Chinese woman, scornfully. ‘Why are they going to England if they cannot speak the language?’
    Corke swung himself through the hatch and felt for the metal ladder. His boots found the rungs and he lowered himself into the belly of the boat. The stench of fish was almost overpowering and he had to fight to stop himself throwing up. He went over to the two women and knelt down beside the sick one. He felt her forehead with the back of his hand. It was hot and her skin was wet with sweat.
    ‘Do you know what’s wrong with her?’ Corke asked her companion.
    She said something in a language he couldn’t understand and shrugged.
    ‘She is seasick,’ said a man in the shadows.
    Corke beckoned him closer. He was in his thirties, olive-skinned with pockmarked cheeks and a thick moustache. An Afghan, maybe, or Iranian. ‘She’s your wife?’ Corke asked.
    The man nodded. ‘She is seasick,’ he said. ‘That is all.’
    ‘No, she has an infection,’ said Corke. ‘She’s burning up.’
    ‘If she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here,’ the Chinese woman hissed. ‘We could all get sick.’
    Corke ignored her. ‘Does anyone have any water?’ he shouted. He had given them a pack of twelve litre bottles of mineral water before they had left port.
    ‘It has all gone,’ said the man.
    ‘That’s why I said we needed more,’ said the Chinese woman. ‘They drank it all. I said we should ration it, but they wouldn’t listen.’
    ‘Okay,’ said Corke. He felt the woman’s head again. She was way too hot. ‘I’ll see if we’ve got some medicine too.’ He had no idea what was wrong with the woman, but such a high temperature suggested an infection, and with any luck Pepper would have antibiotics in the boat’s medical kit.
    The boat swayed hard to the left and Corke stumbled against three black men who were squatting on the floor. They had been speaking French and Corke figured they were probably West Africans. He apologised, also in French, and they waved dismissively.
    Corke straightened up. ‘Look, a few hours and we’ll be in the UK,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll get you some more water. Just relax, and you’ll soon be on dry land.’ He repeated it in French, then climbed back up the ladder and closed the hatch.
    Pepper glanced over his shoulder as Corke walked into the bridge. ‘Now what?’ he said.
    ‘They need more water, and there’s a sick woman down there.’
    ‘Fuck them,’ said Pepper. ‘They’re paying for passage, not a bloody cruise.’
    There was a first-aid kit on the wall by the door. Corke opened it and rifled through the contents. Bandages, plasters, antiseptic ointment, an emergency dental pack and a few plastic pill bottles. Corke read the labels. They were all painkillers of one form or another, aspirin, paracetamol, codeine. ‘There’s no antibiotics,’ said Corke.
    ‘What the fuck do you need antibiotics for?’ snarled Pepper.
    ‘She’s got a temperature.’ Corke took the paracetamol. It would be better than nothing. ‘I need more water.’
    ‘There’s some in the galley,’ said Mosley, ‘and sodas in the fridge.’
    Corke flashed him a thumbs-up. The ship rolled to the right and he staggered against the door, hard enough to wind him. He swore and rubbed his ribs.
    ‘Where’s your sea legs, Corke?’ Pepper laughed.
    Mosley