Human Remains

mortgage at the age of twenty-two.’
    ‘Mortgages aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’
    ‘Exactly!’ Joanna said with emphasis. ‘That’s what I said to her. I’ve got everything she’s got without the burden of debt. And I don’t have to mow any lawn.’
    ‘So that’s what you were fighting about?’
    Joanna was quiet for a moment, her eyes wandering over to the car park where Liam stood, hands on his hips, before pointedly looking at his wristwatch and climbing into the driver’s seat. Above the sounds of the marina – drilling coming from the workshop, the sound of the radio down in the cabin, the distant roar of the traffic from the motorway bridge – the van’s diesel rattle started up.
    ‘Fuck it, I’d better go,’ she said. She shoved the pouch back into her pocket and lit the skinny cigarette she’d just managed to fill. ‘About seven? Eight? What?’
    I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sevenish? Lasagne sounds lovely, but don’t go to any trouble.’
    ‘It’s no trouble. Liam’s made it.’
    With a backward wave, Joanna took one quick hop-step down the gangplank and on to the pontoon, running despite the boots across the grassy bank and up to the car park. The Transit was taking little jumps forward as though it couldn’t wait to be gone.
     
     
    At four, the cabin was finally finished. A bare shell, but at least now it was a bare wooden shell. The walls were clad, and the berth built along the far wall, under the porthole. Where the mattress would sit, two trapdoors with round finger-holes in the board gave access to the storage compartment underneath. The rest of it was pale wood in neat panelling, carved pine edging covering the joins and corners. It would look less like a sauna once it had had a lick of paint, I thought. By next weekend it would be entirely different.
    Clearing away the debris of my most recent foray into carpentry took longer than I thought it would. I had crates for the tools. I hadn’t bothered to put them away since I’d started work on the bedroom, months ago.
    I lugged them forward into the bow, through a hatch and into the cavernous space below. Three steps down, watching my head on the low ceiling, stowing the crates away at the side.
    It was only when I made the last trip, carrying the black plastic sack of fabric from the dinette and throwing it into the front compartment, that I found myself looking into the darkest of the spaces to see if the box was still there. I could just about see it in the gloomy light from the cabin above; on the side of it was written, in thick black marker: KITCHEN STUFF .
    I had a sudden urge to look, to check that the box still had its contents. Of course it did, I told myself. Of course it was still there.
Nobody’s been down here since you put it there
.
    Stooping, I crossed the three wooden pallets that served as a floor, braced myself against the sides of the hull, and crouched next to the box. KITCHEN STUFF . The top two-thirds of the box was full of rubbish I’d brought from the London flat – spatulas, wooden spoons, a Denby teapot with a crack in the lid, a whisk, a blender that didn’t work, an ice cream scoop and various cake tins nested inside each other. Below that was a sheet of cardboard that might, to the casual observer, look sufficiently like the bottom of the box to deter further investigation.
    I folded the cardboard top of the box back down and tucked the other flap underneath it.
    From the back pocket of my jeans, I took out a mobile phone. I found the address book and the only number that was saved there: GARLAND . That was all it said. It wasn’t even his name. It would be so easy to press the little green button now and call him. What would I say? Maybe I could just ask him if he wanted to come tonight.
‘Come to my party, Dylan. It’s just a few close friends. I’d love to see you.’
    What would he say? He’d be angry, shocked that I’d used the phone when he’d expressly told me not to. It was only there for one purpose, he’d told me. It was only for him to ring me, and only when he was ready to make the collection. Not before. If I ever had a call on it from another number, I wasn’t to answer.
    I closed my eyes for a moment, for a brief second allowing myself the indulgence of remembering him. Then I put the screen lock back on the phone so it didn’t accidentally dial any numbers, least of all his, and I shoved it in my pocket and made my way back to the