The Watcher in the Shadows (Niebla 3)

‘That’s what I mean,’ Ismael cut in. ‘It would probably be better off in a museum than on a boat.’

‘Amen.’

‘I’m right, and you know it.’

With the possible exception of sailing, teasing his uncle was Ismael’s favourite pastime.

‘I’m not willing to discuss the matter. Full stop. The end.’

In case he hadn’t made himself clear enough, Hupert finished off his pronouncement with an energetic and decisive turn of the spanner.

Suddenly a suspicious crunch was heard inside the bilge pump. Hupert smiled at the boy. Two seconds later, the screw of the clamping ring he had just secured was catapulted into the air, arcing above their heads, followed by what looked like a piston, a set of nuts and some unidentifiable pieces of metal. Uncle and nephew followed the flight of the debris until it landed, indiscreetly, on the deck of the neighbouring vessel – Gerard Picaud’s boat. Picaud, an ex-boxer who was built like a bull and had the brain of a barnacle, examined the detritus and then looked up at the sky. Hupert and Ismael looked at one another.

‘I don’t think we’ll notice the difference,’ Ismael remarked.

‘If I ever need your opinion . . .’

‘You’ll ask for it. Fine. By the way, I was wondering whether you’d mind if I took next Saturday off. I’d like to do some repair work on my own boat . . .’

‘Might these repair works, perchance, be blonde, about five foot five, with green eyes?’ Hupert asked casually. He smiled mischievously at his nephew.

‘News spreads fast,’ said Ismael.

‘When it comes to your cousin, news flies, dear nephew. What’s the lady’s name?’

‘Irene.’

‘I see.’

‘There’s nothing to see. She’s nice, that’s all.’

‘“She’s nice, that’s all,”’ Hupert echoed, imitating Ismael’s indifferent tone.

‘OK , forget it. It’s not a good idea. I’ll work on Saturday,’ Ismael snapped.

‘We need to clean out the bilge. There’s rotten fish in there and it stinks.’

‘Fine.’

Hupert burst out laughing.

‘You’re as stubborn as your father. Do you like the girl or don’t you?’

‘Mm . . . well . . .’

‘Don’t give me monosyllables, Romeo. I’m three times your age. Do you like her or don’t you?’

Ismael shrugged. His cheeks were as bright as ripe peaches. Finally he mumbled something unintelligible.

‘Translate,’ his uncle insisted.

‘I said yes, I think so. Although I hardly know her.’

‘Good. That’s more than I could say the first time I met your aunt. And I swear by heaven above she’s a saint.’

‘What was she like when she was young?’

‘Let’s not get started on that or you’ll be cleaning the bilge next Saturday,’ Hupert threatened.