Ben brought a gizmo out his pocket and held it up. A small red light flashed on the front as he looked at the digital display.

‘What’s that?’ Ellie shouted over the thrash of waves.

Ben waited a moment, taking a reading of some kind, then turned.

‘Measures air purity, amongst other things.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘There are websites.’

There are websites for everything, Ellie thought. That wasn’t the answer. None of this was the answer. She looked at the bridge leg. The cofferdam was fifty feet above sea level, the colour of rust. It was made of thick corrugated metal with a walkway round the top, a platform hanging over the side nearest them with four orange generators on it. Half a dozen men in hard hats and hi-vis jackets milled about on the walkway, and as the Porpoise got closer they all turned to watch.

Ellie waved to distract them from Ben taking pictures and holding the gizmo in the air. She was used to this, making excuses for her crazy husband. She knew what the guys on the cofferdam thought, wondering who this lunatic was, bringing his wife out to look at some anonymous piece of engineering. A nice, romantic day out.

A speedboat emerged from behind one of the barge-cranes and headed their way. The Porpoise was fifty yards from the cofferdam when Ellie cut the power, and the other boat continued straight for them. In the speedboat were two chunky guys in black waterproofs – bridge security. Ellie had seen them in Karinka’s before, private company logos on their jackets, crew-cut hair, chowing down on full Scottish breakfasts. Rumour had it they were ex-army and mercenaries, but they didn’t look like trained killers.

The guy at the bow of the speedboat had a loudhailer and was telling them not to get any closer.

‘No problem,’ Ellie shouted back, as Ben continued taking pictures. Was there a law against that? If so, what could the security guys do about it? If they really gave a shit they could follow them back to harbour and try to confiscate the phone, but by then Ben could’ve emailed the pictures to himself or posted them online.

‘Go round,’ Ben said, turning to her.

‘What?’

‘I want to see the other side.’

‘I’m sure it’s just the same as this side,’ Ellie said.

She started the engine and guided them round the south side, feeling the stares of the security guys as she steered. The guys in hard hats turned away and began chatting amongst themselves as the Porpoise did a slow circumnavigation. There was a big enough gap between the cofferdam and the barge for the Porpoise to slip through. Ellie looked at the crane above their heads and felt dizzy. It was lifting a grey concrete pipe across to the bridgeworks.

Ellie imagined the bridge collapsing on opening day. She’d seen footage of badly designed bridges, there was something about setting up resonances with the wind that could destroy a bridge in seconds if it got going. Did that still happen?

They were away from the crane now and round the other side, which was lower in the water. She could see inside because of the slope, pipe supports keeping the whole thing together, keeping the weight of the water out.

She heard shouts from the walkway and looked up to see two figures waving and pointing to the water next to the Porpoise. She looked and spotted a rock poking through the waves. She checked the depth gauge and it was almost at zero, stupid she hadn’t noticed earlier, she’d presumed the water was deep all the way round.

‘Hold on,’ she shouted at Ben, then swung the tiller hard to port to send the boat away from the rocks.

Ben was thrown to the deck with the sway of the boat as it pitched in the water. The hull was part way out the firth as they banked steeply, the other side of the deck almost under the surface. Ben was on the wrong side, hanging on. If they’d been sailing he should’ve been on the starboard side, feet over the edge for ballast and balance, arms wrapped around the guard rails. But as it was he was clinging on to the jib sheet for the smaller sail, and if they didn’t right themselves soon he’d be in the water.

Ellie kept turning the boat, leaning over the edge to see if she could spot rocks under the surface. She waited for the sound of ripping, the scream of stone through hull, but it didn’t come. She’d experienced it once before, a sickening lurch in her gut as her frame of reference got torn apart, but this time it didn’t happen and the Porpoise glided away past the outcrop.

Ellie straightened the steering and the boat righted itself. She turned and saw Ben holding the jib sheet, shaking his head and looking into the water.

‘You OK?’ Ellie said.

‘Lost my air monitor into the drink,’ he said.

It was a small price to pay for not being shipwrecked, but it was Ellie’s fault in the first place, she hadn’t checked the readings, hadn’t been watching things as closely as she should.

20

Ben was fumbling with his key in the front door when Ellie felt an overwhelming rush of sorrow wash over her. She reached for him as he pushed the door open and wrapped her arms around him from behind. The sudden hug threw his momentum, making him stumble and put an arm out against the door jamb to balance. She couldn’t even cuddle right.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She held on tight. He tried to turn and face her but she strengthened her grip. He squirmed round, keys still in his hand, and put his arms round her waist. She was surprised to hear sobs coming up her throat, then felt tears in her eyes.

‘It’s OK,’ Ben said, rubbing her back. ‘Shhh.’

He dropped his kit bag on the ground with a thud. Ellie buried her head into his chest, scared to look at him, afraid to let him see her crumpled face. She squeezed his body tight, trying to get comfort from the heft of him. He felt so solid compared to her, she was a ghost drifting through her own life, a lost spirit. Ben felt real, made of flesh and bone and muscle. She pictured him on the boat earlier, almost overboard because of her stupid mistake, because she wasn’t paying attention. But how could you pay attention to the world when you were barely in it?

She imagined Ben tipping over the side of the Porpoise into the same sea that took her son. But that was wrong, that’s not what happened, the water didn’t take Logan, he went willingly into it, gave himself to it.

She was aware of how awkward this was, standing in the doorway, hugging and crying. She sensed people walking past in the street, felt Ben acknowledge them with a look and a nod of the head. She didn’t care. Let them all see what the world can do to you. Eventually her crying began to subside. She felt like she wasn’t in possession of her own body, she’d lost all control.

Ben gave a final rub of her back then eased himself from her grasp.

‘You OK?’ he said.

‘Not really.’

‘Come inside, I’ll put the kettle on.’

In the kitchen, everything looked like it always did. Same scuffed table, same worn worktops, same bridges skulking outside the window. She felt like an impostor in her own house, like the real Ellie would ring the doorbell any minute and claim her house and husband and son back.

She scratched at her arm, that damn tattoo. She pulled the shoulder of her cardigan down, examined it. Red raw still, angry. Was that pus, was it getting infected? She dug her nails into the skin, felt relief with the pain, then covered her arm up.

They’d walked back from the marina in silence. They hadn’t spoken before that either as they brought the Porpoise back to berth, pressed the kill button on the outboard and switched on the bilge pump under the floorboards of the cabin. They’d taken on a fair amount of water but nothing too dangerous, the level was quickly down. After securing the boat they got changed out of their wet gear in the locker room, then began the walk back. Ellie glanced at the deserted warehouse and imagined what Sam was doing inside.