Chris smiled. ‘Enough, and then some… shall we go and charter us a trawler, then?’ He headed across the diesel-stained concrete of the wharf towards the solitary light without waiting for an answer.

Mark watched him go. ‘Enough and then some, eh?’ he muttered, and then he found himself grinding his teeth. Chris could be an annoyingly cocky punk sometimes.

‘Come on, mate,’ Chris called back.

Chris approached the trawler’s stern. ‘What time do you make it?’

Mark pushed up a sleeve, revealing a Rolex nesting in a luxuriant bed of dark forearm hair. ‘Seven-thirty.’

Chris leaned over and rapped his knuckles against the hull. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ he shouted. They heard some movement from inside the boat.

‘Jeeeez, Chris! You know how rude that is?’ Mark said.

‘What?… knocking on the boat? It’s not as if it’s got a doorbell.’

‘She’s a “she” not an “it”. All sea-going vessels are “shes”, okay? You don’t want to get the owner pissed before you start your shmoozing, huh?’

They heard the clunk of a bolt sliding, and a crack of light appeared on the foredeck as a hatch lifted a few inches. They could just make out the shine of a balding head framed by a thatch of grey whiskers.

‘Yes?’

Chris absent-mindedly swung the torch on him.

‘Hey! Get that goddamn thing out of my eyes!’

‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly. He flicked it off.

‘Whad’ya want?’

‘Hi, we’re looking to hire a boat for a day, maybe two days. Yours looks like it won’t sink if we untie it.’

Chris’s laugh quickly died in his throat as the old man stared at him in silence.

Mark shook his head in the dark. Not the best start, Chris ol’ buddy.

The old man scowled and finally said something. ‘Are you Canadian? ’Cause if you are, you can get the fuck away from my boat.’

‘What? No! I’m English… I just — ’

‘Shine that torch of yours on yourself, so I can see you.’