Chapter 1

One absolute rule on British motorways is, NO pedestrians. If your vehicle breaks down on a motorway, you’re supposed to pull onto the hard shoulder and then get out of the vehicle and get behind the safety rail. (What you do if the hard shoulder has been assimilated into the road has never been explained.) As it happens, the M11 between Cambridge and London still has its hard shoulder. But there I was, trundling along on Oscar, my motorbike, at a steady fifty-five, as the rest of the traffic hurtled by at well over the official speed limit of seventy. I’d passed the junction with the A11 some time before and was probably about eight miles from the next junction, number eight, with the A120.

I saw her – not that I knew it was a her – trudging along, head down – and, completely illegally, pulled in in front of her. I kicked the side-stand down, which stopped the motor, and climbed off. I suppose my hi-vis jacket may have misled her into thinking I was official, and she stopped in front of me.

“You’ll be in trouble if a Traffic Officer patrol comes by. Did you break down? You should have stayed with your vehicle.”

She shook her head. “Was hitching. Was pushed out a mile or so back.”

“Well, I can’t leave you like this. There’s a spare helmet in my top-box. Put it on and I’ll take you as far as Birchanger services, anyway.”

She followed me to Oscar. “There’s not room for me.”

I was wearing a big rucksack with my kit for the next few days, so she was right about that. “Don’t worry. I’ll put the ruck on my front. It’ll be a bit awkward, but not a problem.”

Reluctantly, she put my spare helmet on while I switched the ruck to my front and straddled Oscar, then she awkwardly stepped on the passenger foot peg and got astride the pillion seat. I kicked up the side stand and pressed the starter. Usually, I prefer to use the kick-start, but that’s not practical with a passenger on the back. Oscar fired up immediately, I blipped the throttle, kicked into first gear, and set off. As soon as I could, I merged into the nearside traffic and settled down to fifty-five again.

Usually, when someone is new to riding pillion, they panic the first time you corner and try to sit up straight. Where we were, there were no corners, of course ... at least, until we took the slip road off for the A120 junction. Initially, she just leaned against my back and held on tight. Actually, she was fine until I turned off the roundabout into Birchanger services. Then she reacted as I negotiated the tight bends leading to the car park.

I pulled in to a space and waited for her to dismount, got off myself once she was clear, dumped my ruck next to the bike, and set about securing Oscar. She stood nearby, watching uncertainly.

I finished what I was doing and looked at her. “Hungry? I’ll buy you something to eat.” I was assuming (you know what they say about that) that she was homeless or in some sort of trouble, and didn’t have much money, if any.

Her expression, which was solemn, didn’t change as she nodded. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

I took my helmet off and locked it in the top-box. She held the other, shifting it from one hand to the other. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hang on to that for the time being,” I told her. There isn’t room for two helmets in the box.”

She nodded again and I hefted my ruck and shrugged into it, then led the way into the food court. Once again, she jolted my assumptions by choosing fish’n’chips rather than pizza or a burger, we got food and tea, and found a table to sit at.

I don’t believe in talking while eating, so waited until we were sipping at mugs of tea before asking, “Where were you headed?”

She shrugged. “Away from Cambridge.”

Okay. Confession time. I’m a writer. I used to write as a hobby, but then started to sell my work. I’ve got a few novels in paperback, but more as e-books. I quit a career as a psychotherapist in order to write full-time, and I do okay. Not great, but okay. As long as I keep churning out stuff people want to read, I’m fine. I’ve always been fascinated by people, and people consistently provide material for a writer. I sensed a story in the girl.

“What’s your name? I’m Rob Bellamy.”

She frowned, hesitated, then, “How do you do, Rob. I’m Clara.” No surname at that point, you’ll notice.

“Happy to meet you, Clara. Do you have plans?”

She shrugged again. “Not really.” Long hesitation. “I was in rehab.” Pause. “Drugs, you know.” Long pause. “When I got out of rehab, I decided I had to get away from temptation. If I stayed where I was known, I’d get sucked back in.”

“I see.” I didn’t really. I mean, I could understand what she was saying, which made sense in a way, but she’d have been better off trying to get into some sort of rehab well away from where she lived before; supported living sort of thing. Of course, these days with all the cuts in health spending (whatever the Government claims, facilities, especially in mental health, are diminishing) there’s usually a long (often fatal) wait for places.

“Look, Clara. Don’t take this the wrong way – I’m a writer, and I’m heading for Maldon, where there’s a boat waiting for me to live in for a few weeks – if you want to come with me, you’d be in a different place, have time to think about what you want...”

There was a very long pause as we looked at each other.

“A boat? In November?”

“Just so. It’s a nice boat – belongs to a friend of mine – can be heated with a solid-fuel stove. I want to sail a bit, anchor in a quiet corner, listen to the birds, and write. There won’t be many people about this time of year. I like that.”

After a very long pause, she smiled a very small smile – the first I’d seen. “No-one to hear me if I scream.”

“This is true,” I said.

She cocked her head on one side. “Somehow I can’t imagine you doing anything I didn’t want.”

I pursed my lips thoughtfully and sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right. What is they say? Nice guys finish last?”

“But they finish,” she said, capping my axiom. “Yes please. If you really don’t mind, I’ll come with you.”

It’s only about thirty miles from Birchanger to Maldon, but by the time we were back on the road it was gathering dusk. The nearly twenty miles to Braintree is straightforward, though with the extra weight, fifty seemed more sensible than my usual fifty-five to sixty. Then the last twelve is much slower, twisting, narrow roads in the dark. My night-vision isn’t great, so thirty was much nearer the mark. I pulled onto the Hythe Quay just before seven. My friend’s yacht, ‘Eirene’, was moored at the visitor’s pontoon, a curl of coal smoke from the chimney, visible in the light from the pub.

By the time I got Oscar settled, locked and covered, my friend Jenni, Eirene’s owner, was standing by me.

“Hey, Rob. Good run down?”

“Good enough. Sorry to be a bit late, I picked up a stray. Jenni, meet Clara. Clara, meet my friend Doctor Jenni Peters. Jenni is a Board certified sailing barge Master, whom I met while I was experiencing life as a Thames barge Third Hand.”

“Hi, Clara. I don’t usually go by Doctor, as it’s Ph.D., not MD.”

“Nice to meet you, um, Jenni.”

“I’m going to see if I can get a hot meal in the Queen’s Head,” I told Jenni. “Like to join us?”

I could see a flash of curiosity in Jenni’s expression, but she suppressed it quickly. “Thanks, Rob, but no. I’m heading back to Felixstowe to Marty and little Davey. Are you intending to leave tonight? There’s basic provisions on board, including a couple of bags of Taybright*. I lit the fire a couple of hours ago, so the cabin’s nicely warmed up.”

*Taybright, commonly available, processed smokeless fuel in oval briquettes.

“Thanks for the loan of Eirene.”

“Any time. She doesn’t get out enough. But I’m off. Have a good, quiet time.”

I chuckled. “Take care, and thanks again.” I turned to Clara. “Come along. Let me show you to our resting place.”

It was easy to board from the pontoon, and I showed Clara in to the saloon, leaving my ruck in the cockpit. “Go forward,” I suggested. “On your left...” as she obeyed, “the sea toilet. I’ll explain that later. In front of you, the fore-cabin. That’s yours. I’ll take the master cabin, which is aft of the cockpit. Neither will be very warm, but yours should have some heat from the stove in the saloon. There should be some hot water in a tank above the stove, but there’s none too much for two if you want a bath. I’m going to unpack, then I suggest we go to the Porthole Restaurant for a bite to eat.”