The Shadowy Horses

David stood and flexed his shoulders. "Want to walk around and take a look? I don't ken whether any of the lads are working on the boat the day, but..."

"Brian might be there himself," I told him. "He and Fabia were coming down to unload some things from the boat, I think."

"Is that why she wanted the Range Rover, then? She came and got the keys a while back, but she didn't tell me what for." Whistling a snatch of some unrecognizable tune, he shortened his stride to match mine, and put out a hand to steer me around a thick black cable coiled like a snake upon the quayside. I shot him a questioning glance.

"He smuggles, I take it?"

The whistling died as David grinned. "D'ye work for the Customs and Excise?"

"No."

"Well, then, it's best to keep your head tucked down, lass, in a place like this." But he yielded to my curiosity, nonetheless. "He has a friend of sorts, does Brian, in one of the Baltic ports. Poland, maybe. I'm not sure. Since the Berlin Wall came down it's not so hard to get things from that corner of the world."

"Like Peter's vodka," I suggested.

"Aye. It's what our Brian carries, mostly. Peter lets him use the cellars at Rosehill for storage, till Brian's mate comes through with his lorry. So Peter gets a bottle or two every month, in return."

"It doesn't bother Peter?" I asked. "That it's illegal, I mean."

"Och, no, a wee bit of free trading never bothered him, so long as it's not in drugs or guns. Vodka," David said, "is hardly something Peter would turn out of his house."

I looked with interest at the little harbor, peaceful in the sunshine with the water lapping smooth and innocent against its walls. "Is there much smuggling goes on here, now?"

David shook his dark head. "Only Brian, that I ken about. In the old days, though—and I do mean the old days, back afore my grandad's time—nearly everyone had a hand in the business. That's why they built the old town like they did, all wynds and vennels, twisting lanes. It's fair impossible to chase a smuggler when the streets don't run straight. And that house over there," he told me, warming to his subject, "Gunsgreen, that was a smuggler's paradise. It's got tunnels and storage dens built underneath, and every room has two doors—one to the corridor, and one leading into the next room along. So you could leave an exciseman standing in the hallway, pounding at the one door, while you took off through the other rooms, and made a clean escape. It's magic."

I'd noticed Gunsgreen House, earlier. It was a landmark, difficult to miss, set just above the harbor opposite the Ship Hotel. It reminded me of the houses I used to build with my blocks, when I was young—a tall square solid structure with no softness anywhere, its yellow walls and gray roof outwardly respectable.

"Mind how you go," David warned, putting out a hand to stop me tripping on another cable. "You'll not cheer me up if you land in the water."

I cast a dubious eye at the cold gray surface that, in spite of the fact that the tide was in, still shimmered some distance below us. Stepping cautiously over the cable, I let David shepherd me the few yards across the harbor road and onto the pavement, where walking was safer. A little further on, I paused for a better view of the long fish market building that hugged the harbor's edge. It was open to the air, most of it, paved like a car park and sheltered by a sturdy roof that rested on squared wooden posts. Open markets never had looked finished to me—as a child, I'd always assumed that the builders had simply forgotten the walls—but at the nearest end of this one, painted metal sheeting closed off one large section. Outside the market, a lorry blocked most of the road, and the driver, leaning up against his cab and smoking a cigarette, nodded politely and said, "Heyah" as we passed.

"He's waiting for the auction," David told me, when I asked. "It doesn't start till four o'clock."

"What sort of auction?"

He sent me a patient look, such as a teacher might send a rather thick student. "A fish auction, lass."

"Oh." I twisted my wrist to check the time on my watch. "But it's nearly a quarter-past three."

"So?"

"Well, there aren't any boats around, are there? And I don't see any fish."

In truth, the fish market was completely empty; so empty I could see clean through it, between the posts and across the harbor to where Brian's boat was moored. But David refused to tell me how the miracle of the fishes was to be achieved. Instead he led me past the market, close against the buildings to our right, which opened up from time to time in narrow arching alleyways that offered glimpses of deserted packing yards of brick and concrete, slick with moisture.

"Right," he said, "now we can cross back over, here ... hang on, you might want to wait for this lorry." One strong arm held me back when I would have stepped into the street. "You're an accident waiting to happen, you are. Did your mother not teach you to look both ways?" Another lorry rattled past us, squeezing through the street, and David relaxed his hold on my shoulder. "All right, come on."

The throbbing of the unseen engine was loudest here, at the bottom edge of the harbor. "The ice plant," David told me, as we turned our backs to the sound and started up along the middle pier.

I was forced to admit that, in spite of my former skepticism, the term "middle pier" was, in fact, wholly appropriate. It was indeed a true pier, with water on both sides. To the left of us, the harbor lay serene and almost empty, while on my right a mud-walled channel carried what David assured me was the same river that I'd walked along from Rosehill. I didn't believe him, at first. Down here, within the confines of the narrow channel, the water looked different, its current faintly sluggish, more sedate.