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‘A friend.’
‘I have nae fuckin’ friends.’
I pull a bottle of whisky from the brown paper bag that is bulging in my jacket pocket. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
I take a glass from a sink in the corner and hold it up to the light, seeing every fingerprint. After rinsing it out, I pour him a shot. He signals for more. I top it up. He needs two hands to hold it steady.
‘Tell me about your brothers,’ I say.
‘I only got the one.’
‘How did Cameron die?’
‘A fire. I should have saved him.’
‘According to the investigation, you did everything you could.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I read the accident report.’
‘Report,’ he scoffs, breaking into a hacking cough – the early stages of emphysema. He reaches for a packet of cigarettes on the bedspread next to him. A sign on the door says ‘No smoking’. He lights up, cupping the flame. Inhaling. Swallowing. More coughing. More whisky.
‘Did the report get it wrong?’ I ask.
‘You ever been to sea on a trawler?’
‘No.’
‘Ever seen one sink?’
‘No.’
A tiny vein twitches above his right eye.
‘What caused the fire?’ I ask.
He grunts, ‘A worn fuel line, a short circuit, a loose bearing, a spark . . .’
‘Which one?’
‘Take your pick.’ He drags more smoke into his lungs.
‘Maybe the engine overheated,’ I say. ‘It’s a long way from Dogger Bank to Northern Spain.’
Finn’s eyes narrow, not because of the smoke. ‘Who said anything about Spain?’
‘You don’t remember Avilés?’
He scoffs. ‘I cannae remember what I did yesterday.’
‘The Arianna II was smuggling people into Britain.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Somebody who was there.’
‘Get away from me,’ he shouts, struggling to sit up. He swings his feet to the floor and grabs for the bottle of whisky. I hold it out of reach. He curses and lunges again, but suddenly his eyes go wide, staring past me. I have the eerie sensation that he’s looking at someone behind me.
