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Angus takes out his hip flask and unscrews the lid, taking two swallows. A gust of wind blows his fringe across his eyes.
‘You once proudly told me you were a fisherman,’ I say. ‘Fourth generation. And now look at you. Aren’t you embarrassed?’
A spark of anger. ‘You know fuck all about me.’
‘I talked to Finn. He did a lot of whinging about fishing quotas and illegal catches and bureaucrats in Brussels. What’s your excuse?’
‘Did he tell you that forty years ago there were nearly five thousand fishermen working the trawlers in Scotland? Now there are nine hundred. The smaller boats have been forced out. Young people are going off to the cities, leaving behind empty shops and abandoned houses and closed schools.’
‘You think you’re the first industry to have to change. Talk to coal miners, factory workers, garment makers. It’s always been the same – you adapt or you die.’
‘Yeah, well, I decided to adapt.’
‘By exploiting the vulnerable.’
‘By offering them a new life. We got ’em jobs and houses. We helped arrange visas. Some of them are married now and have kids at the local schools. We saved our community.’
‘We’ve seen the accommodation,’ I say. ‘Tents, caravans, pit toilets, bucket showers.’
‘Short-term solutions,’ he says, taking another swig from his flask.
‘Where was my job, my house, my visa?’ asks Evie.
Angus shrugs. ‘You were too young.’
‘You sold me.’
‘We had you adopted.’
‘Do you know what happened to me?’
‘You’re alive. Can’t have been that bad.’
Evie tries to launch herself across the space, but I manage to hook my legs around her, stopping her progress. Angus laughs and calls it ‘touching’.
‘What about Arben Pasha’s sister and the other woman? Have they been sold or offered a new life?’ I ask.
Angus doesn’t answer.
‘Where are they?’
More silence.
‘So, tell me, Angus, when did your philosophy change?’
‘What d’yer mean?’
‘The people who died off the coast of Cleethorpes. You deliberately rammed their boat. You ran them down. You watched them die.’
‘They hadn’t paid.’
‘Who were they supposed to pay?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Are you the Ferryman?’ I ask.
He laughs and shakes his head.
