Evolution of Fear by Paul E. Hardisty Read Free Book Online Page A

with that dead smell of the sea, of things recently expired, washed ashore. He closed the door and walked along the verge to the gate, scanning the laneway back to the coast road. There was no one about. The gate was wire link with tarpaulin stretched behind, ragged and torn. A rusty, padlocked chain held the gate closed. Clay peered through the gap between the gate and the fence post. A gravelled lot, brambles thick on all sides, an asbestos-roofed shack, a few dilapidated sail boats up on blocks, the grey fibreglass hulls of land-ridden power boats, stacks of weathered lumber, a few drums, the flat, grey estuary in the background. The whole place had that marginal, break-even look. Clay looked back down the still-deserted laneway, wedged the toe of his boot into the fence, grabbed the wire, pulled himself up and over, and landed with a smooth flex of both knees.
    He looked at his watch. 06:07. The boat ramp was quiet, the haul half out of the water as if someone had forgotten to pull it out after a launch. There was no wind. Half a dozen craft dozed on buoys under a close, grey sky. Gulls cried low across the glassy estuary, wingtip perfect. Clay stood for a moment and looked out across the muddy water towards the sea.
    ‘Buying or selling?’
    Clay turned towards the voice, startled.
    A man stood on the boat ramp. He was short, not much over five feet, clad in a grey wool jumper, faded, loose-fitting jeans and black lace-up boots. He was clean-shaven, the skin lined, weathered. His hair was spiked, straight-up punk, platinum. He looked Clay up and down, fixed for a fraction of a second on his stump.
    ‘Both,’ said Clay.
    Punk shuffled down to where Clay was standing and stood, hands on hips, looking up into his eyes. ‘Bit early for boat buying, innit?’
    ‘Couldn’t sleep.’
    Punk glanced at Clay’s shoulder, narrowed his eyes. ‘I can see that.’
    Clay raised his hand to his arm. The sleeve was wet with blood. ‘Clumsy.’
    Punk’s mouth curled into a thin approximation of a smile. ‘I’m not buying.’
    ‘What about a trade?’
    ‘You thinking perhaps that nice new BMW out front?’
    Clay smiled. ‘Could be. Depends.’
    ‘Shame about the window.’
    Clay said nothing, insides tumbling.
    ‘What’re you after?’
    ‘Something sea-going. Sturdy.’
    Punk sniffed the air, looked out across the estuary. ‘If you’re in a hurry to go out there,’ he jutted his chin towards the sea, ‘you should think again. Storm coming. You an experienced yachtsman?’
    Clay pointed to a powerboat moored about fifty metres out. It looked sleek and powerful, with twin inboard-outboard engines. ‘What about that one?’ He had about thirty thousand pounds cash left. That was it.
    ‘Not for sale.’
    There were a couple of old-style boxwork cabin cruisers that looked as if they hadn’t moved in decades, an open whaler and a compact sloop with an aluminium mast – too slow, too light and small to make the crossing. Nothing else back in the yard had looked even remotely seaworthy. Clay turned and started walking back to the car. He would have to try somewhere else.
    ‘Where you going?’ said Punk.
    Clay kept walking.
    ‘Ey there, guv, what you want for the car?’ Punk called after him.
    Clay stopped, looked down at his boots, at the oiled gravel of the boat ramp.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Punk continued. ‘I can clean it. I have friends.’
    ‘I’m happy for you.’ All mine are dead or in deep shit. Clay stood, not looking back. He had a decision to make. And he had to make it now. Trust the guy, or leave. Problem was, he was running out of time. Time and options.
    Punk was alongside him now. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’
    Punk led him to a steel door in the warehouse wall, through a darkened loading bay and out through another door. He walked slowly, deliberately, with a pronounced limp, as if one leg was shorter than the other. They were on a raised wharf, looking out over the