The Beach Hut Next Door Read Free

part of the coast. The ozone-rich breeze ruffled Vince’s shoulder-length hair, bleached almost white by the sun and the salt. Only his semi-permanent stubble gave away his true hair colour, an indeterminate brown. He shaved it off once a week, on a Saturday night, because after six days he couldn’t bear the itching. His face was tanned to a light brown by the elements, and in the midst of it ice-blue eyes analysed everything with a thoughtful, perspicacious gaze.
    Someone once said Vince’s eyes spoke more than he did.
    He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He thought about ignoring it. Now they were on their way, there was nothing much he could do if it was Chris either grovelling or demanding a lift from wherever it was he’d ended up.
    Curiosity got the better of him and he pulled out his phone.
    It wasn’t Chris. It was his mate, Murphy. He often phoned at this time, when he stopped off for his morning latte and almond croissant in Chiswick High Street. Their worlds, which had once been the same, were now a universe apart.
    ‘Vince. It’s Murph, man. Meet me in Everdene tonight.’
    ‘On a Monday? At this time of year?’ Vince was puzzled.
    ‘I’ve had a tip-off. I’ve got a proposition for you.’
    ‘Why does that make my heart sink?’
    ‘Come on – where’s your entrepreneurial spirit?’
    ‘I’m a fisherman, Murph. Not Alan Sugar.’
    ‘Don’t give me that. You haven’t kept that business going without having your head screwed on. Most people would have gone under by now. Come on – six o’clock in the Ship Aground. You know you want to.’
    Vince smiled to himself.
    Murphy could talk anyone into anything. It was part of his charm. He was so utterly plausible and convincing. A born salesman. Even Vince, who was by nature cautious, even cynical, could already feel himself beguiled by Murphy’s enthusiasm, just as he had been at school.
    They were Tawcombe boys, the two of them. They spent their youth bunking off school, kicking around the harbour or grabbing the bus to Everdene or Mariscombe, the nearest beaches, where they’d spend the day surfing then finish off by building a campfire. They’d been carefree times, thought Vince. Neither of them had had a thought for the future and what it might bring.
    Of course, Vince’s future had already been mapped out for him. He’d known from birth that he would join his father in the fishing business. It was unspoken. There was simply no point in him thinking about going to college or having any other kind of career. He was born to it. It was as simple as that.
    His acceptance of his fate had driven Murphy insane: he saw it as lack of ambition. Murphy couldn’t wait to get out and see the big wide world. His mum and dad weren’t indigenous to Tawcombe like Vince’s. They’d moved down from Birmingham after the IRA pub bombings, when there was a wave of anti-Irish sentiment in the city and it all got too much for them. They’d bought the run-down café by the bus station, where Vince had bought his bacon roll that morning, thinking it would be a better life for them and their five children, and it was. Murphy had been a fat, laughing baby in a pram who became a fixture in the café, spoiled and cossetted by every customer who walked through the door.
    His name was Sean, but everyone called him by his last name, because it suited him better. And he and Vince had been firm friends since the day they first met at primary school, where Murphy made a profit selling blackjacks he’d stolen from one of the jars behind the counter at the café, and Vince tried to buy the lot off him in return for a ride on his BMX.
    Vince had admired Murphy’s entrepreneurial spirit even then. And Murphy had admired Vince’s quiet practicality; his skill with tools and engines and knives and knots; his knowledge of wildlife and the sea. And, as they grew older, his magnetic pull where women were concerned. Murphy was no slouch in the looks department, with his