The Trawlerman

Curly asked.
‘Just the once. Zoë’s dad. You?’
‘Nobody wanted me,’ he said.
‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘Lovely girl, Tina,’ said Curly. ‘Known her since she was a baby. Worked with her dad on the trawlers. She deserves a little happiness.’
Squeezed on the end of the table, Alex looked up towards the two women. They were holding hands across the rickety table, smiling. It didn’t look like a little happiness to her; it looked like a lot of it. She felt that familiar pull in her guts; that something was wrong here. Nothing would make this feeling go away.
‘Not working today?’
‘Off sick,’ said Alex.
‘Oh. Nothing bad, I hope?’
Alex didn’t answer. She picked up the wine Curly had brought her and took a generous swig. The guests chattered. Everything was bright with summer sunshine. She took in every detail, as if looking for something out of place, something that could spoil this perfect day.
She looked at children playing tag in the car park. She looked at a kite shaped like a comma, dipping down over the flat ground, then soaring up again. She looked at lovers, holding hands as they walked by the tiny art gallery by the lighthouse.
And then she saw a woman, a long way off, striding with a sense of purpose.
As the guests chatted, she approached. She was walking towards them at speed.
‘Excuse me,’ Alex said to Curly. She untangled herself from the packed picnic table and stood. The woman was in her fifties or sixties, dressed in a plain grey mac, gloves still on, as if defying the summer.
Alex’s skin prickled. From a distance, Alex could see the sheen of unwiped tears that ran down her face; occasionally she gulped for breath.
By now Alex had left the group she had been with and was approaching the woman walking along the concrete track. Alex called out, ‘Is everything OK?’
The woman ignored her; strode up towards her, and then straight on past. Alex turned to look where she was heading and saw that she was unbuttoning her grey coat.
Nervous now, Alex ran back towards the group to get ahead of the crying woman, and as she did she saw, tucked into the belt of the woman’s dress beneath the open coat, a long, grey steel blade.
Ants were suddenly crawling all over Alex’s skin. ‘I’m a police officer,’ Alex said, voice as low as she could. ‘I can help.’
The woman paid no attention yet, grasped the handle with her right hand and pulled it out, holding it horizontally out in front of her.
‘Stop,’ said Alex, louder this time.
The woman blinked, twisted to her right to point the weapon straight at Alex’s midriff.
‘Shut up,’ the woman screamed.
The chatter and laughter stopped abruptly.
Alex stood, arms raised up, drawing her midriff back from the machete in front of her. The edge had been sharpened recently and glittered in the brightness. The woman shook.
‘Put it down. Let’s talk about this.’
One of the revellers saw the blade and screamed; the scream stopped as quickly as it started.
‘Put it down,’ pleaded Alex.
Everything was suddenly quiet. The wind seemed to drop. Gulls hung, stationary in solid air.
And to her surprise, the woman did as she had been told, dropping the weapon onto the ground where it clattered on the tarmac.
The woman in grey raised a finger of the hand that had dropped the weapon and pointed it at the red-haired bride.
‘Murderer!’ the woman screamed. ‘Bloody murderer.’
And the red-haired woman, open-mouthed, eyes huge, paled; her skin almost as white as the dress she was wearing.

Two
The wedding party broke up; most of the guests caught the next train back to Hythe, shaken by what had happened. Taxis arrived to collect others, who muttered apologies before they departed. Curly stayed behind with the two brides, who sat close on the bench, arms around each other, whispering together, shocked by what had happened.
The first police car to arrive was driven by a Civil Nuclear Constabulary officer. He was based at the nearby power station. He offered Alex handcuffs and started collecting names and addresses while the woman in the grey coat sat in his car waiting for someone from Kent Police to come and collect her.
‘You’re the police officer who lives round here, aren’t you?’ The young CNC officer was new. Alex didn’t recognise him.
Curly had brought Alex a fresh glass of wine because he said she looked like she needed one. ‘Yes.’
‘Weird place to live, isn’t it? Right next to that lot.’ He nodded at the power station.
‘Weird place to work, when there’s nothing for you to do,’ she answered.
The boy looked hurt; but it was true. The CNC were a heavily armed unit, guarding a nuclear facility that no one wanted to attack anyway. ‘You not at work today, then?’
‘I have been told to take a little time off for the good of my mental health,’ she said.
‘Sick leave?’
‘Yes.’ She held up the glass.
‘Unlucky for you; lucky for everyone else here, by the sound of it. Did you know the woman with the machete?’
‘Never seen her before in my life,’ said Alex.
‘Only, some of these people . . .’ He looked around. ‘They’re telling me you stood up and approached her well before she pulled out the weapon.’ He looked at his little dark-blue notebook. ‘And you had some words with her. Why did you approach her?’
‘I’ll be honest,’ said Alex, ‘I have been asking myself exactly the same thing.’
‘She was acting suspiciously?’
She had been dressed for the wrong weather, that’s all. ‘Not really. I just . . .’ She tried to think what had made her do it. ‘I just knew something really bad was going to happen,’ she said.
‘That’s a copper’s instinct, then. Seeing something out of place. Knowing that something was wrong.’
Alex shivered.
‘Pretty bloody impressive,’ said the copper. ‘I’d buy you a drink too, only some of us are still on duty.’
Back at the table, Curly lit a cigarette and said, ‘Poor cow.’
‘You know her?’ asked Alex.
‘Mandy. Tina’s mother-in-law. Ex-mother-in-law, I should say. She’s not right.’
‘Ex-mother-in-law? You mean .