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Back The Dead Line Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

‘You might as bloody well be.’

They froze, still in their beautiful kitchen.

‘Fine,’ Miranda spoke into the silence. ‘I’ll be on the next fucking plane.’

42

42

At the head of Sandwip pier there was a chaos of little shops. A small herd of black goats scrabbled among the litter, chewing on anything edible. By dawn, Casey and Ed were walking along the pier, gazing south down the coast. It was almost half a mile long, Sandwip pier, reaching right out over the mudflats to where the water is deep enough for the local ferry to chug in. Even this early, porters scuttled up and down, pushing wheelbarrows, or racing on motorbikes, swearing at people in their way. Beneath the rattling planks, the shallow brown water sucked at the uprights. The Sandwip ferry motored backwards and forwards, heading out to the 350,000 people who live on Sandwip island, far out in the Meghna river’s huge estuary.

To the left and the right of the pier, vast ships slumped like drunks in the mud. A crowd of workers were already scurrying around thewrecks. As they walked along the pier, the locals peered at them interestedly.

‘Ed and I will have to pretend to be a couple,’ Casey had said. ‘Tourists. The three of us together would look too odd.’

‘I’ll chill out in the hotel for a bit,’ Hessa grinned, the anger of yesterday forgotten.

Now Casey felt peacock-conspicuous, trying to ignore the stares as she gazed along the coastline.

The boat to the south of the pier must once have been a supertanker, built for efficiency not charm. Oil rainbowed the silt below her: violet, orange, electric blue, gold. Casey could make out a worker climbing carefully out of the ship. The man jumped and landed, ankle-deep in the grey-brown mud, carrying some piece of junk for the breaking yard. As Casey watched, he slipped, falling to his knees in the mud.

The ship to the north had been enormous, once. Her wreckage dripped with rust, her name painted out for shame. This ship had been a cheery cherry-red once, apple-green beneath her waterline, but only fragments remained. She was picked to a carcass, the steel of her hull stripped away.

Casey ran her hand along the pier’s rough and ready wooden barriers as a stray dog contemplated her thoughtfully. Ed was talking to a boy with a little fishing boat, maybe 10 feet long. The boy laughing, as Ed brought out his scraps of Bengali.

‘He’ll do it,’ Ed triumphed in the end. ‘Although I have no idea how many taka I have just agreed to pay him.’

A few minutes later, the boy’s little boat was grumbling its way down the coastline. The smell of sewage was sharp in the air. It seemed to take hours to manoeuvre past dozens of beached ships, the outboard motor puttering like a sewing machine.