The Ice Boat
Volume I
Lazlo Ferran
PRINTING HISTORY
Second Edition
To Ellen
Discover other titles by Lazlo Ferran at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LazloFerran
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
By the same Author
THE MAN WHO RECREATED HIMSELF
INFINITE BLUE HEAVEN – A KING AND A QUEEN
ORDO LUPUS AND THE TEMPLE GATE
Short stories
INCHOATE (VOLUME I)
EIGHTEEN, BLUE (VOLUME II)
Note: The working title of The Ice Boat was The Mazed and may be referred to as such in other first edition publications.
Chapter One
It would be another scorching hot day. Rio, close to the Equator has winters only about six degrees cooler than the summers, and it was 36 degrees at noon, the day before.
Dave walked steadily forward towards a group of stevedores stacking crates near the edge of the quay. He called out, “Que sa la San Antonio?” the name on the ticket, and they pointed to the right, second pier along, with hand gestures.
“Obligado,” he said, and started walking.
It took about half an hour to locate his ship, and, carrying his guitar-case and bags, he was sweating when he finally saw her, stern first.
She looked terrible. The name was the only bit of paint still properly sticking, the rest a mixture of rust, white undercoat and semi-matt or gloss black paint on the hull, and rust and white above.
Dave reached the area of the quay, fenced-off by the Bremen Ship Company.
Three sides of a quadrangle were formed by a high, rusty white steel fence, with a gate and white steel office next to it, inside the fencing. A white notice board on two metal poles advertised the name of the company. Layers of torn paper around the edges indicated many changes of name. He walked up to the gate and pushed it. It opened – there was no one in the office – and he walked towards the gangplank. Although the area was at least fifty metres wide, he walked as if on a tightrope, each step precise, so as not to stumble and draw attention to himself. He climbed the sloping plank and reached the deck.
The acting Purser and another hand were sitting at a desk, smiling. The Purser smiled at him.
“You’re early. Ticket please.” He held out his hand.
Dave had it already in his hand and gave it to him.
The Purser punched it and passed it back after glancing at it.
“Cabin Eight, down here, two doors on right,” he said, thumbing along the ship, over his shoulder.
“That’s it,” Dave was saying to himself. He picked the bags up and walked down the deck in the direction indicated. As he stepped through the second door, over the ledge, he felt a huge rush of elation.
“I’ve done it.”
He saw a row of doors with numbers painted on them, and walked along the corridor, across the ship, till he came to number eight.
He pulled down the handle – no locks – and entered. It was on the forward side of the corridor at the base of the main superstructure, facing forward.
‘At least I’ve got a porthole,’ he thought.
There was a made-up double-bed on the right side, a wooden chest of drawers next to it, and on the other side, a table, two chairs and a fridge. There was almost nothing else.
He didn’t waste too much time looking around. He took any important paperwork he had out of the bag, stuffed it in his pockets, picked up the guitar case, and went off to find somewhere quiet until the ship had left port.
He found a quiet spot, well forward on the ship, on the opposite side of a cooling vent, where he didn’t think he could be seen from the main superstructure. He thought that, if there was a problem with his paperwork, they wouldn’t find him till the ship had left. He settled down to wait.
At 1pm, on time, he heard a whistle. A few minutes later he felt the slight vibration of the engines starting but it seemed to be about an hour before he finally could see that the ship was moving.
As Rio floated away, his memory was of a city growing out of a rain-forest with its feet so thick with trees under the tall buildings, that you believe a monkey, or a jaguar could cross from one side to the other, without touching the ground.
He had a receding feeling of dread, thinking about Rio and what had happened to him there. Now perhaps things could be alright again, in time. The last time he remembered feeling reasonably centred was in the flat with Sharon.
Dave Dee's legs were getting pins and needles. He was leaning cross-legged against the front of the old chair, Sharon, his girlfriend's head rested on his lap and his hands were resting on her jumpered wrists. The music and log fire cracking to their left had lulled them to that land on the edge of sleep, where imagination conjures up images cloaked in mysterious feelings.
Suddenly, from the mist, a voice, his own inner voice started, saying, “God, this is great. I really love Sharon. I think this is going to work. It’s been six months now, I think (he mentally counted the months since April).” Then another voice, louder than the first said, “Wait a minute. Why am I thinking. Shouldn’t I just be relaxing and going with the flow? This always happens to me and I’m sure it’s why I find happiness so difficult. Let’s just try to switch off.” The first voice could be heard softly humming to itself but there was still a silent presence floating above it, which must be the loud voice – just not saying anything. Dave was slightly annoyed and shifted his weight slightly, which got a moan from Sharon. He really liked the feeling of her weight on him. It reassured him, and he didn’t want to disturb her, but the slight movement just now had sent numbing waves down to his ankles and a tightening feeling was making him grit his teeth with pain.
The last movement of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony gently wound to a close, with Dave thinking of sheep and fresh fields after rain, and then silence. He didn’t think she was asleep and hoped if he waited a few minutes, she would be the one to get up and then he wouldn’t have to feel guilty. A few minutes had passed and Sharon hadn’t moved so he decided to move his legs a bit. She moved her head slightly and then leaned forward, hung her head and shook it lazily. She put her hands on the floor, moaned and then smacked her lips, waking up. Then she turned and smiled a sleepy smile at him. “What time is it?”
“Time you got up and put on another CD.”
“Oh no it isn’t. It’s time I made some coffee. You can put another track on darling.”
She walked unsteadily into the kitchen and Dave could hear her moving around while he got up to stretch his legs. The room was about fifteen feet long and was fairly sparely furnished because they had only just moved in together and didn’t have much money. The one door was on the right wall, looking from where Dave had been sitting, and lead to a small landing with the bathroom (shared with the bed sit on the mezzanine below) through a door to the left and stairs down beyond. To the right was the kitchen, and then the bedroom. Theirs was the top flat in the building.
Dave walked down towards the front window to stretch his legs. To his right, only high enough to kneel at, was a small carved oak table with an angle-poise lamp, a writing pad, some pens, incense sticks and a dictionary on it. This was Sharon’s writing table. He saw his new passport lying near the edge.
The working black iron, fire place, tasteful modern furniture, beige carpet and white walls would impress Sharon's parents, Dave thought.
The room was so hot, he felt like he had a second skin of something warm and furry but it felt nice. Not like the furry skin that covers your eyes as well in a hot room with central heating. He took off his jumper leaving him in just his white T-shirt. He spun around and unselfconsciously started to dance but then stopped himself. He was too shy to let Sharon find him doing this when she came back into the room. The effects of the last spliff were wearing off and he suddenly remembered he was meant to be doing something. But what? He looked at his hands. 'Yup, feels right.' he thought. 'Definitely something to do with them. Oh yeah. He was meant to be choosing some music. narrative?'
He walked back past the chair to the dining area and knelt down next to the bookcase in front of the CD rack. He started flicking the CDs but then realised he knew what he wanted to put on. 'Was it what Sharon was in the mood for though?' he wondered. He suddenly decided to take the risk. “Santana, Borboletta it is.” He took the Beethoven CD out and put in on top of the player on the pile of other CDs played tonight. He was too lazy to re-case them now. Then he put in the Santana just as the door opened and Sharon came back in, holding two mugs of coffee in her right hand and a digestive in her mouth. She had a self-satisfied, cheeky grin on her face meant for Dave to see as he glanced at her. He pressed ‘play’ and got up to join her. She handed him his favourite blue mug as he said, “Is any of that for me, looking at the biscuit?”
She nodded and made a “Ah, huh” sound in her throat before breaking of the half of the biscuit not in her mouth and holding it towards his mouth. He opened his mouth and she slid it in. He munched contentedly (well, almost) as the strange opening track with its whirring sound, – like a swarm of moths, started.
He glanced at her slyly to see if she approved. She sat down, cross-legged, facing him on the other side of the glass ash-tray without showing a flicker of recognition. This made him slightly uncomfortable. She pulled out three Rizlas and started licking them. He decided he would close his eyes to concentrate on the music. Dave often felt she was more centred than him and now was one of those times. He knew enough about people to know that people liked different amounts of control and he knew Sharon needed more control than he did. She was usually the one who instigated sex and she was the one who pretty much decided everything about the flat. In her job at the solicitors, she had quite a lot of control and he could see her excelling at any occupation about rules, which is what the law is. She was a strange mixture of sensuality and control – almost anal – not in the sexual sense, although he wandered if she had tried that, or might, one day. The album went on about oneness and he did feel a oneness, but with himself.
He opened his eyes to see how she was getting on. She was just inserting the roach and was deep in concentration. She didn’t look at him. He wondered if she was thinking anything. His normal level of paranoia was being heightened by the dope, but he was excited at the thought of another spliff. He glanced at his guitar, waiting ready on its stand on the other side of the fire, feeling that, at some point soon, he would feel like playing it. He put his hands behind him but realised that this probably looked like an invitation to hand him the spliff.
Sharon struck a match and lit the spliff, held away from her mouth, and then took the first, cautious drag. He watched her long, dark brown (he thought of it as black) hair framing her sensuous face in flowing waves. He eyes were often narrowed, as if slyly watching the world, her nose small and cute and her mouth was full, and red with lipstick although it was often tightly pursed in disapproval. Her neck disappeared into his roll-neck jumper, an Argyll patterned affair he’d got from his parents, probably chosen by his mother. Below her neck, he could see the bulge of her large, beautiful breasts. He didn’t know what size they were – he hadn’t asked, but they were larger than any other girl’s that he’d been out with and although they sagged a bit under their own weight, he loved them. He called them tits once but she’d corrected him “I prefer breasts.” she’d said. Below this (although you couldn’t tell now cos she was squatted cross-legged), her bum was full but not too big, but her legs he didn’t think about too much. When he did he knew they were fat, even rolling in fat, but he didn’t want to think about them. Nobody’s perfect, he often told himself, but then hated himself for settling for second best. In general she leaned towards the fat side, which extended to her face, wrist and ankles but he didn’t mind this as it gave her a sort of cuddliness.
She glanced at him and gave him a cheeky (but he thought, remote) smile. She knew what he was thinking. He was hoping she was in the mind for sex tonight. He checked between his legs mentally. 'Yup – all’s well there.' he thought. Her face disappeared in the slight gloom behind the red signal of another draw and the smoke that lifted lazily away from the draw. Her neck dimpled as she swallowed. She seemed to savour the feeling before reaching over him, her left hand to his right on the carpet, and reversing the spliff to place it in his open mouth.
She let go and he took a long draw. He knew Sharon’s spliff’s weren’t as strong as his. She was quite a tentative smoker, probably because she knew her parents wouldn’t approve, but also perhaps because she didn’t like losing control. He drew the sweet-tasting hot air down his throat and felt the something enter his brain. Like billions of tiny creatures lifting his brain, his normal rational thoughts just drifted away.
“Talk about your woman.
Give her some respect.
She’ll give you her devotion.
Not just outside emotion.”
“Talk about your country.
Really no such thing for me.
Whole world, whole world.
Just one big family.”
Dave was in the music. The words and sounds danced around him like fireflies. All he could see was music. Carlos and the boys were just so good together.
“Da, -na, -na, -na, –Da nah.
He opened his eyes to see Sharon, rocking gently to the music. “That’s a good sign.” he thought. He held the spliff with his right hand, between second and third fingers, took another, much longer drag and held it ready, then rested his hand on his denimed knee. This time he really was leaving the known world.
Criss-cross patterns of music flew across his view, revealing sunsets and lapping waves on sandy shores. Some kind of gull swooped lazily over him. Everything seemed so peaceful and beautiful. Then, out of the mist, dancing up on the very edge of existence, is Carlos Santana, a white figure, small, moving so fast and enigmatically, one can hardly track him. Then, he’s off, climbing up, up, way up beyond the clouds to some further region of light, leading you on into some glimpsed paradise, like a painting without end. Lozenge colours burst and shapes clothed themselves in sound as the guitar solo spiraled down and down and then the singer continued.
Then, the track ended and the strange, next track began. Fast timbales followed by the frame-drum and then a weird sound of an alto-sax playing bizarre and haunting, descending scales. “This is my favourite track,” Dave thought. “I want to do something like this with the band.”
He started wondering how he could get such a sound from two guitars, bass and drums but then stopped himself. He was meant to be relaxing. He let the colours rush over him. Strange creatures came into being for the briefest moments. Dusky pink sank into a rising school of blue things like whales, only without limbs or form. He concentrated on one and it ducked and dived before winking at him and then the smile was a grin, then an evil grin and he looked away. A thing with weird, blue wings edged in crimson, the very edge a golden filigree, rose up and he heard a strange wailing sound, as of a great bird like the flying ring-wraith steeds in the book, 'Lord of the Rings'. Suddenly all was blackness, the wings like black leather, harnesses of steel. Shapes moved menacingly towards him and he thought. “Oh no. Negative thoughts.” He forced himself to think positive and just at that moment, the track faded and he involuntarily gasped as he opened his eyes.
Sharon was lying flat on her back, her arms outstretched, making a cross-shape with her body. She hadn’t heard his small gasp. He smiled. The spliff had gone out and he re-lit it, having to roll forward to reach the matches. He sneaked a quick drag before touching her knee to offer her the spliff. She sat up, saying “What?”
“Oh.” She took the spliff without acknowledging him, reaching for it with her purple nail-polished fingers.
‘Practice What you Preach’ started. He didn’t like it much but at least it calmed his nerves. He tapped his hands dutifully but was happy when the next track started.
“Oh yeah. This is cool.” he thought.
“I am just a Mirage.”
He remembered that for years he walked around mistakenly singing “I am just a Moonlight.” thinking these were the words. He had left the record behind when he left home and hadn’t heard it for years and when he was younger he had never listened that closely to the lyrics. Recently he had bought the CD and smiled to himself when he heard the correct words. The sensuous bass-line, like a snake, gave the track a pulse and he liked the track a lot. There was still one line he couldn’t get. It sounded like. “Dared and double-dyed.” He was quite proud of himself for finding out, once, that ‘double-dyed’ was an actual clothier's term meaning ‘dyed twice’. He wasn’t sure it was correct though. Each time he listened, he listened very closely, trying to tell, trying to decipher it.
The much safer track ‘Here and Now’ started. When the drum passage came, he found he had been looking forward to it and played along with it in his head. He had heard somewhere that this was the first time a phaser had been used on drums but he knew this couldn’t be true. He’d heard something similar on Axis: Bold as Love by Jimi Hendrix and that had been recorded six years earlier. When he heard this bit, it made him think of the programme ‘The Aeronauts’ when he was a kid. The phaser made the drums sound like a jet plane flying across from one side to the other.
At the end, the track dropped into ‘Promise of a Fisherman’. This was a long, fast fusion jam, mostly in a minor key but which resolved in two places into a major key. Dave thought, “No, this is my favourite track.” It was as if the musicians were fish swimming further and further up an ever-narrowing gully or pipe of water. As they went further, he felt sure they would each fall out and stop playing until there was only one left but they didn’t. They all kept going till the end. As the track goes on, each musician’s part becomes stripped down to its bare minimum and then beyond this to where it’s being clipped and then only a suggestion of itself – half finished phrases.
To Dave, Carlos and the bass player, Stanley Clarke, seemed to be pushing each other harder and harder. 'Stanley Clarke is a guest on this album and clearly feels inclined to push Carlos very hard, something Carlos’ own band doesn’t usually do.' he thought. 'They usually take his lead and he’s in control.' Here, though, at one point, the bass player, seemingly seeing where Carlos is going, started playing a riff which takes Carlos well out of control and, already on a high note, Carlos resorted to distortion and a violent tremolo effect to express how he felt. 'It’s as if he can’t keep up and is angry with himself. It’s his dark side showing up, which is unusual as he’s usually such a spiritual player. The guitar sounds like an anguished beast.' Dave conjectured, lost in his own thoughts. Carlos quickly regained his composure and soon the track resolves into the major key for a serene ending. The short percussion track which followed, finished the album.
While this was playing, he opened his eyes and took in the room. He noticed that the fire was low, the dancing shapes flickering fainter on the walls now. The CD ended.
“Wow. That was something else.”
“Hmm.” she said, half like a moan of pleasure.
He kinda wished he didn’t say things like “That was something else.” But he knew he did and that was that.
“Need another log.”
“Do we?”
He knew this meant ‘you do it’. He didn’t enjoy the unsteady feeling in his legs and the rushing feeling in his head as he stood up and prodded the fire back into life. He guessed this would be the last log – it was 12.30 – so he put the guard noisily in front of the fire and lined it up.
“Why have you done that. It’s early.”
“It’s 12.30.” he said, pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Well. Neither of us have to work tomorrow.”
‘That’s true’ he thought and cursed him self for being so, what was the word? Organised? Precipitate?
“A log lasts an hour anyway.” He said. “We can always put another one on.”
“How right you are, Dr. Dee.”
She seemed in a playful mood, which was good. She was still lying down (had been for some time, though not in the cross-position).
“Is there any of that left?” he asked.
“Don’t think so. I lit it again in that last track.”
‘How did she do that’ he thought. ‘I was well away.’
“How did you do that?” He put a polite up-tilt at the end of the sentence.
“Oh. Carlos helped me.” she said to the ceiling.
She held the spliff up above her face. “Yup. All gone.” she said in a mock child’s voice.
He sat down on the floor with his back to the chair again.
“I’d love to do something like that with the band. I don’t think I’m a good enough player though.”
“You could do it. You put yourself down. Maybe not so fast but you can do it.”
“Yeah – that’s the point. It is fast and fluid and I don’t think I can do that.”
She seemed to think for a moment. “I like your guitar playing.”
This was like a non-move. She was waiting to see what he’d say. There was a silence hanging in the air.
He almost didn’t care. Music was his passion though and he wanted to involve her.
“Even if I was good enough, I’m not the band leader so the others wouldn't do it. Phm. You usually have to lead from the front, I would have to say, which would probably mean singing.”
“Why not? I’d say you’ve got a good voice.”
He was about to say the word, “But” without even thinking before realising that he was starting to make excuses. He knew the real reason was because he didn’t think he could control something like a band. He knew you needed great powers of control or large amounts of wisdom, neither of which he had. He liked to go with the flow. He had a slight feeling of desperation – that he would disappoint her – if he admitted he couldn’t do it. Further more, the feeling of losing what little control he had of the conversation was making him feel slightly lost. He wanted to run or make her stop. He was frustrated and angry. She seemed so in-control. He felt vulnerable.
“I’m going to the loo.” he said as he left the room.
As he turned and opened the bathroom door, he said to himself 'She’s making plans for me I just can’t live up to.' Then, 'Why’s she doing this? Is she enjoying it?' He pulled the cord to turn on the light and closed the door. The cold brightness in the bathroom was startling. As he pulled down his zip and pulled it out, he tried to steady himself. 'Maybe she’s got a point.' He placed his feet wide apart and crouched slightly to make the target bigger. It often didn’t come out straight when he was pissed off. He aimed and fired.
He flushed the loo, turned round, opened the door, pulled the toggle and walked out without washing his hands. He couldn’t be bothered tonight.
As he shut the lounge door, she said, “Brrrr. It’s cold. Put another log on the fire and I’ll roll another one.” She may not have being trying to help him but this small task and the promise of another spliff calmed him. After putting another log on, he noticed his mug was still full. He laughed.
He noticed she’d emptied hers. This might be another reason he wasn’t thinking straight. He needed caffeine. He picked up the mug and started gulping. He stopped. “Euch. It’s cold.”
He drank it anyway. Then, on impulse, he picked up his acoustic and started checking to see if it was tuned. He didn’t really feel like playing anything. He just wanted to hear its sound. The magical tones of harmonics, played with the tips of the fingers of the left hand just momentarily touching the strings, lifted from the guitar and spun around the room. After only a moment, Sharon said, “You know that album ‘Sir John, A Lot Of’ you’re listening to a lot?”
He immediately put his guitar down.
“Oh yeah. You know how you say one track is really like the inside of a castle – sounds like it was made inside a castle?”
“Yeah. Can’t remember the name of the track.”
“Why don’t we visit a castle, Leeds Castle isn’t far. Or Windsor Castle.”
“Oooh. Yeah. Next Saturday maybe?” They were planning to see a movie the next day and go shopping on Sunday.
“Okay.”
He laid down next to the fire on the white rug and then rolled over on his back. He looked at the moving patterns.
Out of the bottom of his eyes he saw Sharon moving towards him. She got on top of him and then laid down on him full length, her shining eyes facing his, and as she did so, she pushed his hands out to his side so that his body formed a cross-shape with her forming the same shape on top of him. He liked the feeling of her weight on top of him, not too heavy, just warm and comfortable. She rested her mouth on his and they played a brief game of teasing each other with their lips and eyes, neither fully kissing the other but making brief little kisses, before Sharon made a sigh and laid the side of her face contentedly on his neck. He carried on watching the shadows on the ceiling as the rhythm and melodies of ‘I am just a Mirage’ played on in his head.
After a few minutes he started consciously singing ‘I am just a Mirage’ to her gently. She hummed along for a few moments.
“I like it when you sing. The vibration from you sounds so good.”
After a few more minutes she said, “I think I’m going to bed darling.”
“Okay.”
The fire was getting low and the room was getting cold. She lazily got up and left the room. He could soon hear her moving about in the bathroom next door. He laid there for a few more minutes before checking the fire, opening the door, switching the lights out and leaving. He went into the kitchen carrying the two mugs and left them in the bowl in the sink. Humming to himself, he made two mugs of Bolivian Drinking Chocolate from a tin he’d bought in Oxfam. He really loved the stuff, rich dark chocolate – much better than Cadbury’s and Bourneville. Carrying the mugs in his right hand he turned off the kitchen light and went towards the bedroom. When he got to the door he pushed it and heard the dull thud of it hitting something. He pushed harder and it opened with some resistance.
He stepped in, looking at the base of the door and saw that Sharon had kicked off her slippers and they were jamming the door. “Must be really tired.” he thought.
The bedroom floor was littered with clothes. There was hardly a bit of carpet visible. On the opposite side of the room was the small window, almost always covered completely with a thick curtain and to his right was a large fitted cupboard, left door slid open with a poster of the film ‘Casablanca’ on the right door. To his left, right next to the bed (there wasn’t space for a chair) was the dressing table and mirror with all Sharon’s stuff on it and a small tape player. The only light came from a table-lamp on the back of the dresser. Stepping carefully, Dave put the two mugs on the mat on the corner of the dressing table and then pulled off his jumper and jeans, and got under the dark blue duvet. She was facing away from him, curled up. He gave her covered shoulders a gentle nudge as he handed her one of the mugs. She didn’t respond.
“Hey, I’ve got you some hot chocolate.” he said. No reaction.
Dave shrugged and put her mug back on the dressing table. He sat, sipping his chocolate, looking vaguely ahead at the fitted cupboard, resigned but slightly disappointed.
On the Saturday, they went to see the new film ‘Terminator’. It wasn’t really his sort of thing and they were both disappointed. On the way home they picked up an Indian Takeaway and laid it all out on the table in the ‘dining' area.
By candlelight, after dinner, and with a glass of red wine each, they played chess. He had been teaching her although he wasn’t a particularly good player himself. They both suffered from the malaise that they enjoyed the opening game and middle game but didn’t enjoy that peculiar process of getting checkmate at the end. It required a certain manipulative mode of thought and led to no real satisfaction, they thought. As usual, the game fizzled out towards the end of the middle game with the red wine helping to move their attention away.
“Shall I read you my new poem?” she said
“Okay. You mean 'Autumn Leaves'?”
“Umm hmmm.” She got up and walked to the front of the room to pick up her notebook. She brought it back, sat down and opened it at the right place before flattening it in front of her at the table. The candlelight, up-lighting her face gave the poem a more sombre feel than usual.
“Autumn Leaves. .” she started.
Dave was transported by the words, as he usually was. It was an atmospheric soliloquy, whose individual words escaped him, but it communicated well her sadness at losing her ex, Sean from New Zealand.
“Autumn leaves are falling.
As I watch them fall, they speak
Saying to me,
Never again, never again.”
These were the final words of the poem and Dave had always felt they were disappointing. Not communicating disappointment but actually disappointing from a writing point of view.
“Hmm. Don’t you think ‘As they fall, they speak’ is better? Also it sounds like you are trying to draw it to a conclusion rather than letting it conclude.” He knew there was an element of cruelty in him saying this because she was even more sensitive about her writing than he was, and it's really not easy bringing any prose to a conclusion. He said it anyway.
She was silent. She looked concerned for a moment.
“Hmm. Yes I think those words could . . . . be better. I know what you mean about the conclusion but no other words have come to me.” She did sound slightly frustrated. She seemed to take it on board however and the conversation continued about writing in general before eventually, they went to bed.
Monday 7.23am. On the Piccadilly line. Dave was slouched against the glass partition at the end of the seats, next to the doors, his right hand gripping the handrail above him. He wouldn’t have said he was really good looking but he did get women looking at him occasionally. About five feet, eleven inches (near enough six feet) and of broad, if not muscular, build, he had short, light brown hair, a wide, round – almost baby face, that often broke into a broad grin from ear to ear, and freckles. He was wearing a brown pullover and jeans and was on his way to work. For some reason an image of himself at six months old, seated at the end of the garden eating chocolate buttons, the chocolate smeared all around his plump face, so confident, and looking like Winston Churchill’s, came into his mind. It was from a photograph that his parents had, although he was sure he could remember eating the chocolate buttons. The image brought a smile to his face but it was tinged with consternation. He remembered and felt all too well, the feelings of confusion as his mother slipped away from him. As he grew, she was always just beyond reach, always manipulating him, and deceiving him. He got the feeling that, if you really pinned her down on it, she would say she wanted to make him strong. The fact that she often admitted, when he was little, that she’d never wanted kids and she “wished she’d never had him” belied this.
He remembered one incident in particular – the only time be could ever remember her hugging him. She was teaching him to read at three years old – very early, and before he’d even been to Nursery School. She had flashcards – cards with single words in large letters, about six inches long – in a stack, and was passing them in front of his eyes, with him sitting on her lap. He could get the simple words like ‘cat’ and ‘sat’ but was stuck when it came to the word ‘mother’. He tried and tried but it wouldn’t come. She started shaking him, and in a furious rage, she thrashed him with her bare hands.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.” she screamed, her teeth clenched. He was totally disorientated, being aware of his own crying, but being more aware, in the distance, of dizziness and pain in his hands and face. Suddenly, as if realising how close she had come to killing him, she dragged him back onto her knees and hugged him.
“I’m sorry darling. I’m sorry.”
He remembered being more convinced by the guilt and fear in her eyes than the remorse in her words. They meant nothing to him.
On the way home he met Sue on the train. He often did as they both used the end carriage to escape the worst of the crowding and went home at the same time. Sue lived in the mezzanine bed-sit. She was a translator (German – English) and was usually away in Europe somewhere. She was going out with James, a huge Englishman of six feet seven inches or more.
In the evening, Sharon reheated the leftovers from the large kedgeree she had cooked on Sunday and sprinkled cheese on top. There was still some red wine left from Saturday so they finished this. They were eating on the wooden table in the kitchen. Even with a hatch, eating in the dining area was too much effort. During conversation she made several comments which appeared out of context to Dave. He was still feeling horny from Friday (he hadn’t fallen asleep for several hours that night) and while they were talking, he was wondering hopefully if this was a good sign. He wasn’t sure though. When they finished eating and talking, he stepped up to the washing-up bowl. They took in turns washing and drying and tonight was his turn to wash. Suddenly she pulled him around and was kissing him. Her breath was hot and there was no doubt she was in the mood. He wasn’t very vocal, but she was always showering him with words.
“Darling, sugar. Ummm. Yes. I like that.”
With a conspiratorial smile she said, “Let’s go into the bedroom.”
She held his hand as they entered the bedroom. “Close the door.” she said. She got on the bed and knelt facing him. He cupped her large breasts and leaned forward to kiss her. His head was slightly higher than hers, even bending down and she turned her head back so he could kiss her warm lips. He was filled with the thrill of anticipation, thinking of her naked body. The first time he had seen her at a party, he had wanted to hold her body. There had seemed to be a yellow light around her with all the rest of the party fading into the shadows. He felt like he was looking down a long tunnel as her eyes set on him. Tonight she had on a woolly purple jumper and jeans. They both took their tops off and he, his T-shirt. He watched her smiling as she reached behind her and undid her purple bra. He felt himself getting harder as he saw it loosen at the front and then she drooped her shoulders while she let it slip off. Her beautiful big breasts were released dropping ever so slightly and forming that lovely set of shapes with her nipples just getting a bit hard. She rumpled her hair up over her head into a mock bun and then higher so her hair looked like a waterfall, flowing from her hands, her face turned to the side, enjoying his attention. He reached towards her hips and put his thumbs inside the thongs of her knickers. She moaned slightly and raised herself up on her knees so he could pull he knickers down, which he did, slowly, making a shhhhing sound as the silk slid down her smooth legs. The hair between her legs made a neat triangle and she looked so beautiful. She put her hands around his to steady herself and then leaned back, moving her legs around so she was laying back on the bed, her legs hanging over the edge slightly and he on top of her, kissing her neck and her breasts and pushing his right hand between her legs. He still had his pants on and quickly stood up and pulled them off. He also pulled off his socks and she flicked hers off at the same time. He noticed now that she had turned the radiator on in the room before they had eaten so now it was nice and warm.
They made love slowly and in several stages. At one point, she performed fellatio on him, without him asking, which was unusual. He thought she was trying to get him to say something like “Baby.” or “Darling.” That’s why she was reluctant to stop. Sharon was aware she was falling for him and she wanted him to feel the same for her. The fact that he didn’t use many affectionate terms meant to her that he didn’t care. At another point they both reached some sort of plateau, with him feeling a kind of edgy peacefulness, like suspense, although in the back of her mind, she was feeling a sense of anxiety. She felt as if here was a small, dark shape moving around the back of her mind, like an irritating insect. They both laid there, time suspended, on the edge of ecstasy, talking. She could see the ‘Casablanca’ poster over his arm.
“Don’t you think Rick should have got together with Ilsa?”
He hadn’t seen the whole film in one go but saw the beginning once and the ending the second time. He thought it was weird that Rick put her feeling before his own.
“Hmm, I guess he really loved her. Or he couldn’t bring himself to be happy. Had too much pain inside.” He licked one of her nipples and then around it. It was really hard and looked beautiful. Her breast sagged lazily and he had to reach down slightly to lick it.
She was absently touching his erection, affectionately.
“Well, you would think that. At least you think he'd be happy with her. Do you think she’s beautiful?”
“It’s hard to say with all that soft focus. But yeah. I think if she was in a bar, every bloke there would be looking at her.”
“Trying to think how he could get off with her.” she said cheekily, following it with a giggle and then, “Do you think they’d all want to be inside her?”
“Yeah. I s’pose.” He was now starting to think of just one thing.
She sat up and swung her right leg over him and then held his erection up before sliding down onto it.
“How does that feel?”
“Hmm nice. You look so good.”
He held both her breasts for a few moments as she started moving up and down slowly. He was seeing different aspects of her as he watched, as if the light was showing her face and body in different ways and the images were flashing faster and faster. For a moment he wondered what she was thinking. Then he just concentrated on how it felt and how it looked, having this beautiful woman rocking on top of him. He was hoping she would come at the same time as him and he could see her panting harder and harder and then making “Grr.” sounds which got louder and louder. The bed was moving and squeaking and he had trouble not thinking about the people in the flat below and what they might think. He was getting a bit dizzy from being moved back and forth so fast and he felt the pause before the warm rush of himself coming inside her and the steady pulsing that following. He made an “Urgh” sound and then concentrated on staying hard while she came to her orgasm. She came after a short while of frantic “Hmphs” and “Grrs.” with her hands pushing on his chest now. Then he felt her shivering spasmodically as she went through the bliss of her own orgasm. This went on for several minutes and he loved watching this. Seeing her satisfied. When it finished, she slumped forward on top of him and he held her, his hands on her back. She was hot and flushed. He found himself wondering if she really had come. He knew most women could fake this really well and he worried that she hadn’t come. She was usually honest enough to tell him and several times he had to bring her off using his fingers or tongue.
“Was that nice?” he asked her. He wanted her to look at him so he could see in her eyes whether she had or not. She seemed to be snuggled up comfortably on top of him so he decided he would accept that she had. They laid there for some time before climbing under the duvet and falling asleep.
On Thursday he finished slightly earlier than expected and when he got home he decided to take a bath before dinner rather than after, which is what he normally did. He shut the door, dropped the towel and stepped into the steaming water.
“Ouch. Ooh. Eih.”
Slowly he inched himself down into the fog. He was thinking about the band, and vistas of songs yet to be completed, when there was a quiet knock on the door. For a moment he didn’t believe it. There it was again.
“Yes?” he said, a question written all over his face.
The door opened and in stepped Sue.
Dave hadn’t seen her for at least a week and, since she usually only got in late, he had assumed she wasn’t in.
He was so surprised, he didn’t move. She went to the sink and busied herself with lipstick and the mirror.
“We’re going out in a minute and I just needed to tidy up.
'We!' he thought. 'Oh no! That means James is in too.'
This made him even more excited but the situation was incredibly dangerous. James could walk in at any moment. She obviously knew this.
Sue was a very confident, assertive woman, about five feet six inches, beautiful with very short, black (probably dyed) hair, dressed in black of a smart French style to match her hair, and a direct gaze. She turned and he realised she was coolly studying his huge erection. “That’s impressive.”
He rolled over, embarrassed, but also wishing to be modest.
Suddenly, he was caught up in the mock-closeness of the situation.
“I presume I can come in and watch you when you’re in the bath?” he said.
She looked at the water.
“Not now. I have to go soon.”
“Sue.” He could hear James, in her room, calling.
“Got to go.” she said.
With one, last, critical look in the mirror and a smack of her lips, she sheathed the lipstick, turned and left, closing the door.
Dave immediately felt guilty but he also felt flushed and excited and hummed to himself for some time before the cold water made him wash himself. He still had an erection when he got out of the bath. As he dried himself he felt pangs of guilt and then panic at the thought of Sharon coming home. He realised he shouldn’t have said those things and that he should have immediately asked Sue to leave. He wondered what part of him was it that liked these sort of things?
Saturday came and they woke up, looking forward to visiting Leeds Castle, which confusingly isn’t near Leeds but near Maidstone in Kent. The plan had been to catch the 9.16 from Waterloo but before they even got out of bed, they could hear the patter of rain on the window ledge. They discussed irritably what to do and eventually made their mind up to risk Windsor. Dave was particularly morose because when they got into bed the previous night, Sharon had broken the news to him that she had invited Manny to go on the Castle trip with them. Manny was gay but Dave still resented him – he thought this was to be a special trip for just Sharon and he. She explained that Manny was a bit depressed, had kinda invited himself and Sharon hadn’t felt able to refuse. Dave grabbed his old camera as they left and they reached Waterloo through the rain at 11.30. They had met Manny there and when they finally arrived, after several delays at Windsor, it was 1.30 and they were really hungry. There was a brief discussion before they hurriedly searched for and found a Tea Shop in the town. Dave had told Sharon he was going to have loads of scones and cream when they had talked about the visit during the week. He loved scones and cream and this would make his day. He had three rounds, each of three scones with jam and cream, while Sharon and Manny, more sensibly, had fish and chips. His indulgence would make him very hungry indeed by the end of the trip but for now, he was happy. They wondered up to the castle and as they did so, the sky cleared and the sun came out. Manny proved a lively talker and Dave soon found himself liking him. Manny was a keen photographer and the discussion about photography was quite lively when they reached the entrance under the high walls. For some reason, none of them any more felt that they wanted to pay the fee to go in. Either through apathy or simply because the town itself had fulfilled their expectations, they turned around and walked down to the river.
On a bridge next to a busker, playing a lute, Dave produced his surprise. He had been taking some pictures and had guessed before the trip that Manny, a keen photographer, would get jealous. Now, he produced, from his pocket a tiny reusable camera. It was a gimmick, only about 2 inches long, with a tiny pinhole sized lens and a fold-up, plastic frame for a viewfinder. It did work however. Dave passed it to Manny, who held it protectively in the palm of his hand. He beamed, partly at the joke and partly with relief that he would have something to take pictures with. His was being repaired. Dave thought it would offer a challenge, and sure enough, within minutes, Manny had rushed off, bought some film, and was back framing scenes enthusiastically. Dave grinned like an idiot watching him. When they had the film processed they found that Manny’s shots were really well composed although the little camera had given grainy results. There were several really nice shots of Sharon and Dave holding each other.
Wondering over the other side of the bridge they noticed people in T-shirts sitting on their coats in a meadow by the river. It was quite warm now and they settled down on their own macs and chatted for a while. About 4.00pm, the sky was dimming and they walked into town. They found an antiques market and a stall with hundreds of old Dinky Toys. Dave circled around the stall like a bird of prey and several times swooped away before returning for a closer look. Sharon and Manny realised they wouldn’t prise him away for some time and suggested they did a bit of shopping on their own.
“Okay. I’ll see you back here at 5.45.”
While kissing Sharon, and with Manny some distance away, Dave suggested they each buy each other a present. Sharon agreed that it was a nice idea. Dave spent a lot of time looking affectionately at the tiny cars, some he had owned and some he had wanted. Eventually he managed to walk away without buying one although he had been very tempted. He found a small shop nearby which had a lot of small items in the window and he pored over these, choosing something for Sharon. It was nearly 5.45 when he bought an Egyptian, brass ash-tray.
Sharon and Manny had wondered around the town for a while, talking about Manny’s relationships and then they had strolled into an arcade between two rows of shops. While talking Sharon had spotted a brown, dog-eared guide to Windsor from the 1930’s. It had some lovely black and white pictures in it and she knew Dave would love it. She paid for it and they carried on talking.
“Shall we just have a coffee before we go back?” she said.
“Okay. Yes Sharon. That would be nice.”
“Sharon, what would you do if you just arguing ALL THE TIME with each other?” He emphasized key phrases with arms flung wide and a very loud voice. I am so, I donnoo, so exhausted with telling Armand that he is too intense about our life together. Last night he even called me to see if I was lone – sorry alone? CAN YOU BELEVE IT!”
“Hm. Well it sounds like he is feeling insecure at the moment. You said he is looking for work?
“Yeassss?”
“Well maybe it is just temporary. Wouldn't you feel a little insecu.. nervous if you were not working/”
“Oh but I am always working because I am so talented!” He said this with a smile to convey a slight charade, but Sharon let it go and he silently mused as they walked together, her arm linked in his.
While they had been walking, Manny had been carrying the brown paper bag with the 1930s guide in and he placed it on the floor by the feet of his chair. When they left, he forgot it and although the waitress rushed after them, they had already turned a corner and she couldn’t see them.
Just before 5.45 Sharon was thinking about Dave and then looked at Manny before realising they hadn’t got the paper bag. Manny was full of remorse and couldn’t remember where he had last seen it. Sharon didn’t think Dave would mind if she explained to him and so they continued on to meet him. He was full of smiles as he presented Sharon with her present and she kissed him on the cheek.
“Thanks darling. We had a slight problem with yours. We bought you something but we lost it!”
Dave looked at her slightly harder than she had expected and was silent.
“Okay. I believe you. It doesn’t matter.”
At first she took him at his word but as they walked back to the station, his quietness made her wonder.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Uh huh.”
Sharon thought this wasn’t good but decided to leave it till they got home. Manny was invited back but, sensitive to the situation, he made his excuses and left them at Waterloo.
When they got home, Dave went round the Indian Take-Away and came back with a carrier bag full of food to satisfy his rumbling stomach. He was aware he didn’t believe Sharon’s story about the present and how petit this was. And also that he didn’t want to feel this but he just couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. If he let it go it would mean accepting that maybe Sharon didn’t always tell the truth. If he pressed her, she would either admit not having bought him anything or stick to her story, which she couldn’t prove and he couldn’t disprove. Neither of those two options were something he wanted. He was dismayed at how small an event could trip him into these feelings of suspicion.
When he got home he found Sharon had gone in the bath. She called out “If you want to discuss it, I don’t Dave. If you don’t believe me about the present, that’s too bad.”
He ate his Indian in silence and then sat blankly staring at the wall.
On a warm July evening and Dave met the singer Stewart, and Bass player Tom in Kentish town for a gig.
They set up the gear on stage and then left for something to eat.
The other two bought sausages and chips and Dave had Fish and Chips, all wrapped to take away.
They sat outside the pub, eating and talking as the sun started to set.
“Stewart giggled at his hands dripping with grease as they all crumpled up the newspaper and he disappeared inside to buy three lagers.
Paul, the laconic drummer had arrived later and as the evening progressed they gradually coalesced into a tight unit, laughing and joking and moving into a highly focussed state of mind. They were mildly drunk and had spliffed-up a few times in the Transit already as their slot on stage moved closer.
Suddenly the last band had finished and they were on stage, each going about his business, automatically falling into the routine which would bring it all together when they started playing. Dave thought it always felt as if everyone is watching you as you are setting up, and this was an awkward moment which just has to be got through. Then, they were all ready. Stewart shouted out, “One, two, three, four.” and then they were off. The first two songs usually didn’t sound that great as everybody was getting their bearings and feeling out the acoustics of the room. At first, all Dave was aware of was the space around him, his hands on the guitar, where he was in the song and vaguely, what the others sounded like. There was no whole. It was a collection of parts and sounded a bit awkward. Nothing was automatic yet and he occasionally miss-struck a string. His nerves were a bit jangled and, when a sustained chord allowed, he bent down and fiddled with the delay pedal to get the right length of echo. This was always tricky because, no matter how many times they rehearsed and wrote down the appropriate echo delay, on the night, the band would always play quicker and he had to start from scratch. He finally got it right and things started to flow. The third track was one of his favourites. During a long rehearsal weekend, working out this song which the singer and bass player had played for years, he stumbled on this 5/4 riff, which when played over the song, which was 4/4 made the whole song float in a kind of swirl of different rhythms. Added to this, was a beautiful effect the band achieved when the end of the chorus seemed to drop half an octave into the beginning of the next verse although in fact each verse started in the same register. This made it seem like the whole song was gradually descending and lent a powerful effect to the end of each chorus.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-28 show above.)