Money. That was the reason behind my actions. Nothing else. I vomited after the first few deliveries. But now I know the requirements of the job, I can get home with nothing but a brief pang of queasiness.
We meet on a mucky beach composed of half sand, half pebbles. They told me not to use a torch, so I park up the top, and take my time pushing the wheelbarrow down an uneven path. From there I spend most of the evening waiting in the darkness.
The boat arrives with one weak light on the bow. I still worry every time about the coastguards. Even when the fishermen reveal their identity, this does not bring any relief to the situation. They are burly, and the larger one always rolls a cigarette. We do not talk much. I doubt they like me.
Their catch smells somewhere between fresh fish and perfume. This sets off the nausea. We need at least three pairs of hands to lift it into the wheelbarrow.
I prefer them dead on arrival. At least this means they form a malleable heap. But often gentle exhalation and the flapping of gills underscores our exertion.
The arms lock together across the chest. The red hair threaded with seaweed trails near the handles of the wheelbarrow. The tail dips over the front metal cusp.
In the back of my van is a coffin filled with ice. A second hand purchase. I drag the catch in headfirst, and shut the lid. Afterwards my hands smell of rockpools.
Sometimes the tail knocks against the mahogany like an insistent salesman. All it would take is one curious police officer. But every road is deserted at this hour.
Then at last my role is over. The fishmonger I drop off at is ready with four men and a trolley. I am back on the motorway within minutes. Unknown diners at exclusive restaurants are sated for another day.
I have started smoking again. My granddaughter's storybooks are a nightmare. But the money is unbeatable. I must consider myself a fisherman, and push on through the dark.
