The Trawler Man
The forts in the Solent stood out, as did the Spinnaker Tower in Pompey. A clear day. No doubt. Tom Morris walked along the quay in the Island town of Hagstone. The island being the Isle of Wight, five miles across the Solent from Portsmouth.
He pulled out his phone and dialled his mate, John Downer.
—Alright?
—Yeah, I’m down on the quay, are yer comin or what?
—I’ll be there somewhen today.
—Funny man. Get yer arse here, we need to look at that house.
—Yeah, yeah. Be there in five.
They cancelled the call.
Tom stuck his hands in his gilet pockets and looked around. Fishing boats knocked against their moorings in the swell, hulls groaning through flaking paint.
The rigging ticked and sung in the wind. A thin, atonal music that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. There were gulls, but they sat in silence on the iron bollards, watching Tom with an attention that looked less like curiosity and more like patience.
He walked down to the old property at the end of the quay. A simple two-up, two-down. An old fisherman’s house. He’d heard in town that it came up for sale. And some overner bought it and now wanted it doing up.
They met the new owner. Sarah Fisher was her name. Nice young lass from Petersfield. John, being a builder, and Tom being a painter, and both local, it hadn’t taken much for them to get the work.
The house had a Georgian-style front door and a bay window downstairs. He peeked through the window and saw a small sitting room, with no furniture or carpet.
A battered white van pulled up. John Downer climbed out, grinning.
—Alright, mate?
—Yeah, about time you turned up int it?
—Ah, yer worry too much.
Tom pulled the keys out of his pocket and opened the front door. They both stepped inside. The smell. Damp, old timber and something else. Like copper or summat like that. Weird.
—Alright in here. Walls are damp. We’ll sort that dead easy.
—That fireplace?
John leaned over and studied it. —Depends on what she wants. We could rip it out. Or keep it and make it nice.
Tom looked at his notes from the meeting with Sarah.
—She wants to keep it.
—Cool, that saves a bit of graft. Mind you, I’ll get me level in a minute, that thing looks well off.
Tom walked to the window and checked the woodwork. It’d need stripping back to bare timber. Grand, no problem. He walked to the door between the sitting room and entrance. Same deal. Stripe it back to bare timber.
He stepped into the kitchen and jolted in shock. A man wearing yellow oilskins, a black trawler man’s jumper and boots stood there. His thick grey beard and ruddy skin glowed in the grey light of the room.
—Hello there, stranger. I be Henry Attrill and this be my house.
—Where the fuck did yer spring from?
—I did no springing, I’ve always been here.
—The house is sold, mate.
—I wants to know what person says that. They be wrong.
—Er, we are here on behalf of the new owner—
—Nope, you ain’t. I wants to be making that clear.
—Well, the thing is, Henry, we are.
—I says you ain’t. And that fella you’re with? He’s having a bad day.
—What?
—I says yer should go and look.
Tom spun around and rushed into the sitting room. John lay on the floor. All colour drained from his face.
—What the fuck—
—No need fer them cuss words. He’ll be fine. If yers leave. Now.
—Look mate, we can’t leave. We have work to do in this house. Work we are getting paid to do—
—You ain’t listening are yer?
Tom felt a pain start in his chest. It spread over to his left arm. He glanced at Henry. His eyes had turned black.
—Is that... What the fuck—
—I tells yer nipper, no need fer the foul language. Yer need to get out. NOW.
—I can’t leave John—
—Take him. But yer have one chance to go now. GET OUT.
Tom rubbed his chest and felt the pain ease. He reached down and grabbed John by the jacket and pulled him out of the small sitting room. He got him to the front door.
It opened before he had a chance to do it.
—OUT. NOW.
Henry watched him as he hauled John out onto the quay.
—Be gone and STAY GONE.
Henry Attrill slammed the door.
Tom pulled out his phone and dialled 999.