The Boat Read Online Free PDF Page B

officiously at the back of a large lorry with a GB plate parked not ten feet from the stern of the motor yacht, examining the lorry’s contents from the rear sliding door. He was too huge to actually get up into the truck but was managing to exert his authority just by leaning against the back frame and mumbling into his crackling walkie-talkie from the pavement.
    Johnny, observing the proceedings, had wandered round to the back of the truck himself to have a look inside. As far as he could tell some wealthy bastard was moving house: it was piled high with grand pieces of furniture and huge Harrods boxes.
    A spotty Turkish youth stood between the Uniform and Charlie, attempting to translate. Johnny stood behind them eavesdropping, sensing an opportunity. He had a gift for being noticed, for appearing at the perfect moment, and right now, at this juncture in their travels, they badly needed some work. He and Clem were totally skint – work had dried up in the boatyard and they were living in a tent behind Attila’s restaurant with the equivalent of three pounds left to live on. That meant two days before they’d have to start nicking food again.
    There was a military precision about Charlie, accentuated by his habit of clicking his heels together as a means of punctuating his speech. Both his accent and his beard were tightly clipped. He was quite clearly used to being obeyed and made no attempt whatsoever to speak slowly to the Turks.
    ‘We leave the truck here at customs as agreed, and the proprietor, as I have already explained, will be here tomorrow morning at zero eight hundred hours. The proprietor will remove the truck from your premises. Understand?’
    The spotty youth’s version of these instructions sounded considerably shorter. The Uniform grunted, shook his head and waved his hands and the youth looked gloomily back at Charlie. ‘No truck,’ he said.
    ‘My boss has already paid you to take it,’ Charlie insisted, clicking the heels for emphasis.
    The translator translated but the Uniform shook his head again and lit up yet another cigarette. ‘OK,’ Charlie persisted. ‘ We unload the belongings from the truck and leave them with you to be collected at the aforementioned hour.’ Neither the translator nor the Uniform was impressed by this idea either.
    ‘Take it to Kos!’ the Uniform said, turning away with a nonchalant scratch of his balls.
    ‘Need any help?’ Johnny said, stepping forward. ‘We’re looking for work.’ He nodded in Clem’s direction; she was crouched down on the quayside repacking their maroon bag that his dad had made them out of the sail of a Cornish Crabber. She was a hoarder, she collected everything – sweet wrappers, matchboxes, any old tosh – and now had it all laid out on the quay like she was holding a jumble sale. Charlie rubbed his beard, his attention still on the receding oval figure of the Uniform. ‘Bloody idiot,’ he said. ‘Thinks I’m made of money…’
    It seemed a fair enough assumption; Charlie certainly had the reek of money about him. He had that casual yet pressed cleanness that the rich favour: his dark neat jeans were rolled up just so, his ironed shirt was whiter than white and his deck shoes were gleamingly unscuffed.
    ‘Is she not your boat then?’ Johnny asked, looking down the Old Rangoon , wondering whether it was worth hanging around or not.
    Charlie eyed Johnny suspiciously. ‘For God’s sake, man, do I look like a mighty great shipping magnate? Would I be taking this sort of codswallop if I were at the top of the food chain?’
    Not once in his entire life had Johnny ever heard anyone use the word codswallop .
    ‘Oh no, I can assure you,’ Charlie continued. ‘I’m just the monkey who sails the boat.’
    Johnny strolled round to the back of the truck. ‘Who does all this belong to then?’ he asked, nodding at the truck.
    ‘My boss is responsible for this truck.’ He directed everything he said not at Johnny but at the