Infested (2 page)

Three

The following morning was much like the first; still, misty and fresh.
For a while I lay in my sleeping bag, warm and snug, until the urge to urinate
forced me out of my cocoon and into the day. As I fried eggs for breakfast I
marvelled at the memory of the cosmic display I’d been treated to and wondered
what might have caused it, eventually coming to the conclusion that it must
have been an asteroid or something breaking up in the atmosphere.

Out of habit and curiosity, I dug my phone out of the bottom of the dry
bag and pressed the on button. Then I remembered I was a killer on the run and
before even the little start-up jingle had begun, I threw the phone as hard as
I could into the middle of the river. The tune had sounded the first two notes
before being silenced with a small ‘plop’ as the phone hit the water and sank
to its watery grave.

“Shit.” For the briefest of moments I fretted about the length of time
still on the contract, then I shook my head and giggled at the absurdity of
it. If I didn’t pay, it would hardly be the greatest of my crimes and it wasn’t
important in the slightest. Nothing mattered anymore, other than making the
most of, and enjoying, what I assumed would be my final days of freedom. In a weird
kind of way it was liberating; unbound of the chains of duty or commitment to
anybody or anything, other than myself. It was easy to tell myself that even a
few days really living, being me, was worth all the shit which was bound to
come afterwards. Or maybe they wouldn’t catch me? Maybe, when the dust
settled I might be able to assume a new identity and start a new life afresh?
I needed to think about what I’d do if and when the police did have me cornered
though: Would I go with them peacefully to spend a life behind bars or would it
be best to end it there and then, and die happy? It was all stuff I needed to
work out, but not just yet, there was plenty of time for that.

When I’d packed everything away and stowed it in the canoe, leaving my
sleeping bag and mat draped across the top to dry off in in the daytime sun, I
threw my muddy shoes just in front of the seat. Barefoot, I pushed the canoe
down the bank and nose first into the river before paddling out after it until
the water was half way up my shins. Mud squelched between my toes and when I
climbed into the canoe I tried to rinse it off as best I could before getting
comfortable and setting out for the day’s paddling.

The river was flat calm and nothing stirred in the morning mist, save for
the occasional reed waggling gently in the flow. I paddled quietly, savouring
the stillness and pausing occasionally to roll a cigarette or to take a drink.
Always I was on the lookout for wildlife, hoping beyond all hope to spy an
otter going about its early morning business. The river had widened further
and so, until the sun began to burn off the mist, I could hardly make out the
banks on either side. Swans came gliding silently out of the white toward me,
cygnets in tow. They reared up when I approached, only to settle down when I
showed them little interest and they figured out I wasn’t a threat. Sometimes
a bird would squawk from the margins, what type I didn’t know, and occasionally
a fish would rise and ripple the surface of the water. All these things only
added to the tranquillity of the morning.

As the day wore on and the mist had lifted, leaving the sun free to
warm my skin, I began to come across boats moored at the side of the river.
Most were motor-cruisers; sleek, pointed at the front and of various ages and
states of repair. Some were gleaming with polished chrome and colourful paint
whereas others could have been abandoned, green with algae and moss. Most, of
course, were somewhere in between, well used and well loved. On the small
decks of more than one, people sat out eating breakfast and reading the
morning’s papers. One or two looked up and waved good morning as I slid by but
as I passed, I pulled my hat low over my eyes, acutely aware they could well be
looking at a grainy photograph of me in the pages of their daily rags.

There was something satisfying about being up early and observing the
world wake around me, as if the early hours after dawn were a secret shared
between me and the creatures which inhabited the river. But now the river was
coming to life with human activity and the steady thrum of an engine from
around the next bend alerted me to an approaching boat. I moved over toward
the right bank to let it pass and it edged over to the opposite side. The
driver slowed and waved as he came by, shouting good morning and his wife –
wrinkled and brown, with bleach blonde curls – did the same, before he
increased the power to the engine, causing the pitch to rise, as the couple
continued up the river to enjoy their morning. The boat’s wake ruffled the
water, making reflections dance as I bounced over them, before the water once
again became flat and the noise of the engine gradually faded to silence behind
me.

Sometime later the river split into two channels. One had a wire rope
spanning the width, with orange floats threading along its length and signs warning
of danger. From beyond it could be heard the sound of rushing water. A white,
square and well battered sign pointed down the other channel, toward the lock. As
it was quite obvious which way to go, I headed the signed and safe way, where
river cruisers were moored bow to stern in long lines at either bank, jostling
for space. After the quiet of the river upstream, it was a strange sensation
to be surrounded by so much human traffic.

Ahead of me were the lock gates, constructed out of thick, tar-coated
planks. They were closed, while the banks were now clear of boats and
constructed of tall concrete, with metal ladders set into the side at
intervals. On top of the gates stood the lock keeper, his back turned away
from me and deep in conversation with someone unseen. I pulled over to the
side and clung to one of the ladders, contemplating whether to empty the canoe
and try to haul it out of the water and carry it around when the lock-keeper
leaned his back onto one of the long handles at the top of the gate and pushed
it open, before leaping across the open gap to open the other side. It was
then he seemed to see me and waved, cheerily smiling. “Are you coming
through?” he shouted down.

“Yes, can I?” I hadn’t been sure whether or not canoes were allowed.

“No problem, just let this one out first,” he said as the front end of
a cruiser emerged from between the gates. He waved them off, obviously a man
who enjoyed his job, before beckoning me to enter.

I pushed myself away from the steps, relieved I wouldn’t have to empty
the canoe and carry it, and paddled slowly between the gates. “Where you off
to?” asked the lock-keeper in his soft Gloucestershire accent. I couldn’t help
thinking he looked the spitting image of Lee Van Cleef.

“Dunno,” I replied. “I’ve got a few days; I’ll see how far I get.

“Nice,” he said. “You got a licence?”

“No, can I get one for a week please?”

“No problem. Give me a minute to get the paperwork.” He went to the
gates at the other end of the lock and turned a wheel to begin letting the
water out before venturing into his small, brick hut.

When first entering the lock my eyes, with me kneeling in the canoe,
were about level with the lock keepers knees. While he was fetching the bits
of paper he needed, the level of the water had been steadily falling to expose
the slimy walls of the lock. Slick steps emerged from the water and I needed
to shift slightly backwards to prevent getting the front of the canoe caught on
them, which would have inevitably flipped me into the river.

When the lock keeper returned he needed to climb down the steps,
holding onto the algae-encrusted chain to stop himself slipping and still had
to bend down in order to speak to me without raising his voice. “Name?”

“Pardon,” I asked, having a sudden panic.

“What’s your name?” The lock keeper was still cheery, just going
through the motions. If I had his job I’d probably be cheerful too.

“Sorry… Bobby Jones.” It was the first name that came into my head.

The lock keeper raised an eyebrow but didn’t give voice to any
suspicions as he filled in the form. I was starting to become nervous and knew
I needed to play cool.

“Address?” he asked.

I made that up too and while he wrote it out I fetched my wallet from
the dry bag and counted out the correct money. “Here you go,” I said, handing
it over as he passed me the licence, almost fumbling it in the exchange and
dropping both licence and money into the river. We shared a small laugh before
he climbed back up the steps to open the gates which towered in front of me,
dripping and slick.

“Enjoy your trip,” he shouted as I passed through.

“I will.” I waved and left the lock keeper to prepare for the next
boat.

Four

On the other side of the lock I was doubly glad I’d been able to pass
through and didn’t have to carry the canoe around. The concrete banks were
straight and tall and the metal ladder set into it must have been fifteen rungs
high. It would have been a difficult undertaking to lower the canoe back into
the river and then load my gear before having to clamber down and in without tipping
myself overboard.

A hundred or so yards downstream, the channel coming from the weir re-joined
the river. I peered up to see there were many boats moored. I could still hear,
but not see, the weir itself and so out of curiosity, I paddled up. The flow
was not overly powerful at this point and it didn’t take much extra effort to
propel myself forward and as I did, the sound increased in volume and the
density of boats increased. A marina branched off from the main river,
bustling with topless men cleaning and maintaining their boats.

I continued past the mouth of the marina with all its hustle and bustle
and shortly after, the weir came into view; water cascading down over a flight
of concrete steps, rolling and foaming at the bottom before it continued down
the river in a flurry of bubbles. On the right bank, pub benches and
beer-branded parasols were spread about a large beer garden. It must have been
sometime after lunch because quite a few of the tables were occupied.

Being another hot and sunny day, the thought of a cool beer was
impossible to resist and I decided to take the calculated risk that no one
there would be interested enough in me for recognition. So I paddled to the
end of the garden, where a convenient concrete mooring would make it easy to
disembark and several metal hoops were set into the bank where I could tie up
the canoe.

One or two of the patrons eyed me with curiosity as I climbed out onto
the short mown grass and, trying to push any paranoia aside, I smiled and
nodded my greetings. My legs had gone numb from being folded under the seat
for so long and while I coaxed the blood back into them, I looked around the
beer garden. At the bench closest to me was a pair of young lovers, gazing
into each other’s eyes across a half full bottle of white wine. Further over
were a small group of elderlies in straw sun hats and at another bench a couple
were relaxing over a pint, with only half an eye on their children who were
playing in a small stream which ran into the river at the end of the garden.

The pub was obviously of some antiquity, constructed out of large stone
blocks with a heavy, wooden lintel over the door. I pressed the latch down
with my thumb and it opened with a clunk. The door creaked open and I almost
needed to duck as I walked inside. The ceiling was low, with ancient oak
beams, decorated with antique beermats, amusing anecdotes and with tankards
swinging from brass hooks. A bookshelf jutted out from the bar, into the
middle of the room, and I casually flipped through its offerings while waiting
for service. An old man was sitting in the corner reading, while sipping
slowly from a dimpled half-pint pot with a handle on the side, and hardly gave
me a second glance.

“What can I do you for?” A jolly woman, presumably the publican,
appeared from a door behind the bar wearing a cook’s apron. Her hair was tied
back in a tight bun, dark but flecked with grey.

“What would you recommend?” I asked, trying to decide between the four different
ales they had on tap.

“Landlord’s not bad.”

“Okay, a pint of Landlord then please?”

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see she had a bulging bicep on one arm,
owing to the effort she put into pulling the beer. She placed it to one side
to settle while I paid, and then topped it up before handing it over.

“Thanks,” I said, making my way to the door, trying, but failing, to
stop a small amount of beer sloshing over the side of the glass and onto the
uneven stone floor.

I hadn’t realised how dim it had been inside the pub, until I pulled
open the door and momentarily, almost became blinded. I paused on the
threshold, blinking, before making my way across the beer garden to find an
empty table near the water’s edge.

All the benches near where I’d moored the canoe were taken and so I sat
on the grass, which was dry with the sun and more comfortable than any wooden
seat. The beer was indeed delicious and I fetched out my tobacco and rolled a
cigarette before reclining on my elbow to savour the moment.

The rushing noise of the weir was so constant it faded into the
background until I hardly noticed it at all. However, as I relaxed on the
grass with my pint I watched the river tumbling down the concrete steps. It
had an almost hypnotic effect and I stared to where the deluge rolled back on
itself at the bottom, forming a sort of wave which went nowhere. I have heard
of canoeists being caught up in – if not this weir, at others – this wet
maelstrom, stopped by the wave and trapped in the tumbling water, spinning
around and around, unable to escape the buffeting until they drowned.

I was dwelling on this, staring at the churning water, when I sensed
the presence of someone moving into my sunshine. “This your canoe?” The man
was wearing a khaki shirt, beige shorts and had a sunburnt face. He seemed
friendly enough and had a full pint of lager in his hand.

“Uh-huh,” I nodded.

“Nice,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “I’ve always fancied a go at
that. You come far?”

“A fair way, I set out yesterday and I’ll see how far I get toward
London.”

“Did you camp out last night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you see the meteors?” He became slightly animated, as if it were
big news.

“I did yes, does anybody know what they were?”

“They think it was an asteroid which broke up in the atmosphere.”

“Thought so,” I said. “It was a pretty spectacular show.”

“I bet it was. I missed it, as usual. First thing I heard was when it
was all over the news this morning. Caused a bit of damage they did. A lot
people been hurt too.”

“Oh no,” was the best I could muster, not immediately appreciating the
gravity of the situation. “Probably a lucky escape though, I mean if an
asteroid didn’t break up it could be an end to all of us. It put an end to the
dinosaurs.”

The man was enjoying telling the story, especially to someone who
didn’t already know all about it. “It’s not only here, they’ve had it bad all
over Europe and in America too.”

“Bloody hell. It’s really that bad?”

“That’s what they’re saying. One demolished a house just up the
road.” He nodded over his shoulder.

“Really? Whereabouts?” If it was within walking distance I considered
going to see.

“Just up in the village, the police have got the whole street cordoned
off. I think they must be a bit busy at the minute.”

“Fucking hell,” I shook my head and finished my drink, thinking better
of going to investigate the meteorite. “Well,” I said, “I think I need another
pint.” And with that I clambered back to my feet and headed back toward the
pub, leaving the sunburned man to admire my canoe.