Jacquot and the Waterman (27 page)

Scoop it up or leave it be.

Yet another pleasure to be savoured.

For there was, the Waterman knew, a certain satisfying
contrariness in knowing that you could do something, yet
not do it. If you had the discipline, if you could resist and
carry it off. For there was little doubt in the Waterman's
experience that denial of this magnitude only sharpened
the appetite for the next encounter, increased that beguiling sense of edge, gave a certain thirsty need for the next
headlong plunge.

And always, close by, wherever the Waterman prowled,
the comforting sound of the ocean, or a sense of it pulling
at the shore. Its distances and depths. Moods and movement. Its cool, cleansing influence.

Tonight, driving through the city, the Waterman
enjoyed a moments buoyant, brimming confidence. It was
all so good here, so enlivening. And so easy. So easy that
there was always the possibility you might make a mistake.
Take your eye off the ball.

And there, the Waterman conceded, was yet another
frisson to relish - the possibility of error, something going
wrong. That single, unseen snag in the weave, only mitigated by the sheer, head-spinning exultation of the close
call, the narrow escape. There had been a few of those, the
Waterman would tell you. The breathless, heart-thumping
rush of it.

And so, in a spirit of almost reckless abandon, tools of
the trade stowed away in the glove compartment, the
Waterman cruised the streets once more, hands idly playing the wheel, eyes darting left and right, searching out
prey.

illy Holford had a date.

The cab slowed and she leant forward over the front
seat, looking out for the name of the street. Somewhere
off the road to Prado, he'd said.

Back from the sea. Away from the boat and away from
the brothers, at last.

She'd left them moored in the Vieux Port, said it was a
family thing, told them she was meeting her sister in
Nxmes. Which was nowhere near the truth. She didn't
even have a sister. It was just a story she'd spun to put
them off the scent, to get away from them, to find herself
some breathing space.

Because she knew that she wasn't going back that night,
nor the next if she could manage it.

Grudgingly they'd let her go, passing up the knapsack -
her 'stay-over bag' - with only her make-up inside, her
toothbrush, some clean knickers and that dress she'd
bought in Grenada the day before they set sail. The one
with the full skirt, tight top and low front, the squared
shoulders and the swirl of colours, the one she'd never
worn outside the privacy of her cabin. As soon as she saw
Marseilles looming above them as
Anemone
sailed into
harbour, she'd known that dress was a Marseilles dress.

Even before she set eyes on him.

Jean. Jean. Jean. She hadn't been able to get the name
out of her head.

She was going to fuck him, as simple as that.

And he knew it too. From the moment he levelled those
dark eyes on her, they'd both known it. But she didn't give
any sign, not in front of Ralph and Tim, the three of them
celebrating their arrival in Marseilles in that tiny Rive
Neuve bar, the first one they found as they staggered off
the boat, first landfall since San Miguel.

He'd been sitting on a stool at the end of the bar.
Caught her eye. Smiled when the brothers weren't looking. Seemed to know.
. .
Then he was gone, simply not
there any more, and she'd been shocked, disappointed.
Until the barman, delivering yet another round of beers to
their table, discreetly passed her the card - the name,
Jean, and a telephone number.

Result.

Jilly had called a couple of times before she got
through. His voice was just as she'd imagined it. Black as
molasses, smooth, a laughing kind of voice to match that
smile. Of course, he assured her, of course he remembered her, so pleased she'd called, they must meet.

She'd changed into the Grenada dress in the Ladies'
restroom at Cafe Samaritaine, applied her first make-up in
weeks with an uncertain hand and stowed the knapsack in a
left-luggage locker at Gare St-Charles. And now they were
meeting. A little bar he knew. Back from the Corniche, he'd told her. They could have a drink. Maybe some dinner
...

Except, she seemed to have got his directions wrong.
Halfway down the Prado beach the cab driver said he must
have missed the place and, circling the statue of David at
the Prado
rondpoint,
he worked his way back along the
strip and up onto the Corniche road. It was getting late
and the sun hovered thickly over the distant ridges of the
Frioul Islands.

Anxiously Jilly rubbed her hands together, still rough
and sticky with salt. The first thing she'd done when they
got their berth was find a
pharmacie,
some skin lotion,
moisturiser, something to soften the hard ridges and salty
lines that calloused her hands. But it didn't seem to have
worked.

"Voila, M'mselle. La-haut!'
said the driver and, swinging
off the Corniche, he pulled up by a steep flight of steps
almost hidden between a
tabac
and a launderette. On the
wall of the launderette was a sign, the name of the bar
they'd been looking for, a fist with a finger tilted upwards.

An hour later Jilly finished her second beer and looked
at her watch. She couldn't believe he could have done this
to her. She'd been stood up. The bastard wasn't going to
show.

She beckoned over the waiter, asked for the bill and
settled up.It was dark by the time she got outside, which maybe
explained why everything seemed so different. She stood
on the pavement, looking up and down the street, trying
to get her bearings. Everything was suddenly unfamiliar -
the road, the houses, the shopfronts. She tried to remember the direction she'd come from, the steps from the
Corniche, which way the cab had been headed. But she
couldn't be certain. The darkness had changed everything.

Deciding to go left, Jilly set off along the street, glancing in shop windows, grateful for her reflection walking
alongside and keeping her company. By the time she
realised her mistake, she'd gone so far that she decided to
carry on. Just so long as she kept heading downhill, she
reasoned, she'd reach the Corniche and find herself
another cab. She was wondering how she'd explain to the
brothers her return from Nîmes so soon, when she heard a
car coming up behind her, a cab.

And, truth be told, she really did think it was a cab, the
low-gear prowling sound of it as though the driver was on
the lookout for a fare. Squinting through the darkness at
the approaching vehicle, Jilly tentatively raised an arm to
flag it down - even if she couldn't actually see a cab light -
and felt a jolt of relief as it pulled in ahead of her, the
passenger door opening, the driver leaning across the
passenger seat, face in shadow.