Westway is never deserted,
even at three-fifteen in the morning. I’ve driven up from the coast, two hours
on empty motorways, but London roads are never empty. The squad cars are bored,
one has decided to tail me.
The ice is melting.
I’m travelling at a steady
thirty-eight, the limit is forty. My lights work, other things don’t, including
the refrigeration. That shouldn’t interest the police. But the blue light
flashes in my wing mirrors.
Weeeooooooow,
weeeeoooow.
The ice is
melting.
The
Atlantic Ocean surrendered their lithe, goggle eyed grace to the net, the gaff,
the ice packed hold. Trawlers gathered around the jetty like remora around a
welcoming shark, unloaded their cargo. Trays of dead and dying fish surged
along the rollers, a mechanical death rattle to agonised gills fighting for
water in the cold, arid air.
Weeeooooooow,
weeeeoooow.
They are so
beautiful, these fish. Mackerel glisten, shimmer in a hundred shades of green
and gold between gloss black stripes. Herring pour from tray to tray, a
priceless cascade of silver, tainted gut red, some crushed by the weight of
tons of their companions in the bowels of the ship. The majestic cod flicks its
huge head feebly, in death its silvery sheen and snow white belly will bland to
grey.
‘Is this
your van, sir?’ Menacing tone, a torch deliberately shone in my eyes.
‘Yes,
officer.’
The ice is
melting.
‘Going
somewhere nice are we, sir, at three o’clock in the morning?’
‘Billingsgate.’
If
the ice melts too fast, these exquisitely streamlined creatures will not be
fresh. They’ll be rejected by fishmongers, restaurateurs and go for cat food; all
that beauty and death for the delectation of the city’s pampered moggies.
‘So
your van is full of fish fingers, is it?’
‘Just
fresh fish.’
‘Yeah
right! Have you got sole, or are you floundering?’ He’s a joker, this cop.
The
ice is melting.
‘Would
you like to take a look, officer?’
I
open the back of the van. Semi-frozen water slops onto the policeman’s feet as
he stands too close to the rubber seal when it sucks free of the door. He steps
back, swears. The second policeman shines a torch in. A thousand
golden, alien eyes glint, a million perfect scales glimmer.
Striped
Mackerel, they have clouds named after them, the mackerel sky you see at the
end of a long, clear day. The humble herring, destined for kippers, rollmops
and fertiliser, swirl in the water like smoke, the seals and whales make no
impression on their numbers. Codfish were the kings of the northern oceans, once.
‘Just
fucking fish,’ says the cop with cold, wet feet.
‘Yes,
officer. Just fish.’
The other cop likes fish. He gets
three glossy mackerel, wrapped in yesterday’s Express. I get on to Billingsgate. The cats will go
hungry tonight.
*
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