Infested Read online

  Infested

  Mark R Faulkner

  ©2014 Mark R Faulkner

  Many thanks to Fay, Kath, Julie and Emma.

  Also to Dan Flew for the original cover photograph.

  One

  A light mist was gathered over the river, causing the willows which overhung the opposite bank to appear ghostlike. Above it, the sky was watery blue as the sun, not yet risen above the rolling hills, brightened the eastern horizon. A bittern boomed into the stillness of the morning and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I smiled.

  The bank was steep but not high and I pointed the canoe out over it, so it hung in the air before pivoting nose first into the water while I tried to steady it from the back. The canoe slid down in amongst the reeds, which were gently swaying in the current. I used the bright yellow, nylon painter to tie the canoe to a branch while I scrabbled back and forth up and down the muddy bank, loading it with all my gear for the week. Most of my things were already packed into two bright blue plastic barrels, each fitted with a screw-top lid to keep them water-tight. The tent, sleeping bag and all my other camping supplies were stowed in a bigger drum. All three had been acquired from the back of takeaway restaurants and one of them had originally contained capers, which left a lingering vinegary smell no matter how many times I’d scrubbed it out.

  My battered, blue Ford Fiesta was parked in a layby just on the other side of the field and before embarking on my journey I trudged back over to it and without opening the doors, cupped my hands to peer inside, checking nothing obvious had been left behind or on display for thieves. For the final time, I crossed the field to the river and slipped my keys into the dry-bag I’d left on the bank, along with my wallet and phone. They were all things I wouldn’t be needing for a while.

  I leaned out over the water’s edge and swung the dry bag into the canoe behind my seat, before untying the rope from the tree and pondering how I’d get in without wetting my feet. The only way I could see was to take one big stride and hope the canoe didn’t slide away and dump me comically into the river.

  Planting one foot as close to the middle of the boat as possible, I balanced as best I could before swinging the other leg in after it. The canoe rocked violently, but quickly settled as I planted both hands firmly on the gunwales and dropped to my knees, shuffling my backside onto the webbing seat with my legs tucked underneath it.

  The mist lent an ethereal stillness to the morning; nothing stirred until I lazily dipped the paddle. There is no sound more beautiful than the paddle entering the water on such a morning. Almost silent, it slips into the river followed by a faint gurgling as it breaks surface again; a soft flurry of dripping as water slides from the blade. Somewhere nearby a fish jumped; a dull thud and splash, a much louder noise than I was making, but no less pleasing to the ear.

  Within two strokes I was in the middle of the river and turning the canoe to point downstream. The flow was strong, yet gentle, and carried me along so all I needed to do was keep the boat pointing in a straight line by means of an occasional, lazy dip of the paddle. The blue barrels were stowed neatly in the middle of the canoe, leaving me enough room to stretch my legs out in front of me if I needed to shift position to make myself comfortable.

  From here on in there was no timetable, no deadlines, just me, the river and any passing wildlife which might happen to glance my way. I chuckled to myself. Already my face ached from smiling, a sure sign the muscles there hadn’t been used nearly enough for far too long.

  The stretch of river was by no means wide and was crowded on either side by thick reed beds where bulrushes grew tall. In parts where the current was slack, lilies grew in great swathes, leaving only a narrow channel, just wide enough to navigate. White and purple flowers, pastel in the mist, faced upward to catch the sun in their petal cups.

  I took a deep breath. The sun’s rays were already warming the top of my head, but the air was still cool and fresh. I held it in my lungs for as long as I could before slowly letting it out again. For a brief time the mist thickened as the morning warmed the river. The sky greyed and the sun shone through the fog as a pale white disk, but its heat soon won out and the mist quickly evaporated to leave the day bright and brimming with vivid colours.

  As the morning drew on, the heat of the sun grew more intense and so, rummaging behind me in the dry-bag, I fetched out my old battered and trusted, wide brimmed hat. It had been many years since I’d suffered sunstroke but it was not an experience I cared to repeat. Just in front of my knees, I’d put a big square water carrier and I drank straight from it, spilling a good mouthful down the front of my vest. After the initial shock, the coolness was welcome.

  For the next couple of hours, at a guess, I travelled lazily down the river, occasionally having to steer around sunken trees or rocks. Every now and again, the water sped up as it flowed over and around such obstacles, creating choppy riffles which accelerated me downstream before spitting me out into calmer waters below. In these places the sunlight danced on the tousled water, at times dazzling and full of colour, and then the surface was flat again and the dancing golden light became replaced with deep reflections of trees and reeds.

  When the time seemed fitting, I spied a place to pull over for a while, where the bank was not too steep, nor too muddy and I could easily disembark with minimal chance of falling into the river. After coaxing the life back into my legs - they’d been folded beneath the seat for too long - I scrambled up the bank to take a look at my surroundings. In a canoe you are often afforded the view of the river, its banks and the immediate landscape, but nothing of the wider country though which you are passing.

  Now I straightened and looked around, breathing a deep sigh of contentment. For as far as the eye could see there were only fields; yellow, green and brown, stretching to the horizon in all directions. A church steeple rose from behind a copse of trees and the sound of its bells, summoning folk to worship, carried softly to my ears. Other than that, there were no signs of human habitation; there were no roads and no people.

  I lunched on cheese and onion sandwiches, which were a little squashed but hadn’t fared too badly from being stuffed into the bottom of the bag. When I’d finished eating, and taken another few mouthfuls of water, I lay back on the edge of the cornfield I’d found myself in and gazed up at the sky. For a while I did nothing but watch rare clouds drift slowly across an expanse of blue, too insubstantial to diminish the sun’s rays. At the edge of the field a kestrel hovered for a few minutes before diving out of sight, taking back to the air some time later, presumably after also finishing its lunch.

  When it felt like I should, I headed back out onto the river. The afternoon sun was hot and despite the protection afforded me by factor thirty sun-cream and my hat, I could feel the skin on my arms and legs beginning to burn. Although the sensation wasn’t an unpleasant one, I feared it would be later that evening and so, as much as possible, I paddled close to the bank and in the shade of the trees which hung out over the river.

  At length I came across a place where a narrow, wooden footbridge arched overhead. The banks were high and I could see no road or dwellings but nonetheless, a dozen or more teenagers were gathered on the bridge – boys bare chested, wearing knee length shorts while the girls wore bikinis. All of them had their attention on the downstream side of the bridge, watching, egging each other on and laughing as one by one they climbed onto the balustrade and threw themselves into the water.

  “Coming through,” I shouted up to them, bringing the boat to a stop and holding it steady in the water. None of them had seen me approach and a handful turned to look my way before warning their friends. The warning came too late for a blonde-headed girl who was already about to jump. She tried to stop herself, wind-milling her arm
s for a few moments before plummeting with a splash.

  “Sorry,” she said as she surfaced.

  “No problem,” I laughed, half contemplating warning them of the dangers posed by jumping off bridges, but who was I to stop their fun?

  When there was no danger of some unfortunate child crippling themselves on the front of my canoe, I passed beneath them, looking up to shout my thanks as I appeared through the other side of the bridge. The next youth was already balanced on the rail, ready to leap the moment I was out of the way. I put some effort into paddling, not wanting to hold them up any longer, and the sounds of splashing, laughter and fun receded behind me. Two bends later and I was alone once again, accompanied only by the sounds of birdsong and the gentle splashing, gurgling of the paddle sliding in and out of the water.

  Two

  When the sun was sinking in the west and shade was offered more freely, I thought it would be a good idea to stop for the night. It was some considerable time later when I spotted a suitable place to pull the canoe out of the water, in the shape of a much trampled and muddy piece of ground leading down to the water’s edge where livestock came to drink. Not being the biggest fan of cows – having more than once being surrounded or chased by inquisitive bovines – I thought I’d get out first, to take a look around before going to the effort of dragging all my gear up the bank.

  The mud was thicker than I’d hoped and covered with a liberal smattering of goose droppings and, as my feet sank half way into the ooze, I found myself wishing I’d pressed on a little further to find a better spot. However, twilight was upon me and there wasn’t much hope of finding anywhere else in the dark. To my satisfaction though, the field was empty of livestock. There were cows grazing in a different field, almost on the horizon, and I could see no sign of the farmer or his house and so it was a safe bet I’d be able to spend the night undisturbed.

  Rather than traipsing back and forth through the mud, I decided to haul the fully laden canoe up the bank without emptying it first. The effort almost wasn’t worth keeping my feet dry for, but I put my back into it and heaved. Slowly the canoe inched up through the mud, listing to one side once it got half way out of the water and almost emptying itself, but my luggage miraculously stayed inside and was soon safe and dry in the field with me leaning on one of the barrels, panting. By now it was almost dark and my first task was to unscrew a barrel lid and rummage inside for a torch. The heat of the day had expanded the air inside and my nostrils were assaulted by the acrid aroma of capers as it hissed out, so I had to take a step backwards before returning to fully remove the lid. While I was rummaging, I fetched out the small camping cooker, a sleeping mat and sleeping bag. The torch had wormed its way into the bottom of the barrel but I managed to fish it out by feel, rather than removing anything else which I didn’t need, or poking my head in too deeply.

  I had beans for tea, but before I even thought about heating them I took off my socks and shoes. My toes were wrinkled from being wet. I dried them on the grass and cleaned off most of the mud, first from my feet and then my shoes before squatting on my haunches and lighting the stove. I ate the beans on their own, straight from the pan. In the cooling summer evening air, on my own with stars beginning to manifest in the heavens, it was possibly the best meal I’d ever tasted.

  With the necessity of food dealt with, it was time to sort out my sleeping arrangements. I had a tarp with me – a large square of tent fabric used to make a shelter, often using paddles for poles, or strung out between trees - in case of rain but the evening was fine and I wanted to be able to see the stars. So, I spread the mat on a relatively flat piece of ground near my feet and lay my sleeping bag on top. Then, rolling a cigarette, I sat quietly for a while, listening to the evening sounds while sipping on a bottle of cider from the stash I’d thoughtfully packed.

  The crickets were loud and something was rustling in the bushes near the river bank. An owl called out, and received a response from a stand of trees a few hundred yards away, now only visible in silhouette, soon to be erased altogether by the fast encroaching dark.

  In the middle of nowhere and alone with my thoughts, anxiety began to sink its teeth into my serenity. There was guilt too, just a little. I wondered whether they’d found the bodies yet. Funny, how life can change in such a short time; one small lapse in self-control overriding what we know as right and civilised. Had the car been discovered? Was there already a large scale manhunt underway, searching for me? Tempting as it was to fetch my phone from the bag and check the news, I resisted, realising that if I turned it on the signal could be traced.

  I tried to push the worries from my mind, determined to enjoy the last piece of freedom I was ever likely to know. It was new moon and by now completely dark, so I needed the torch to roll another cigarette and open another bottle. For a while I just sat, my eyes finding nothing to focus on other than the glowing tip of the cigarette which floated bright where I could barely see my hand. In between each inhalation of smoke I filled my lungs with clean night air, which carried the faint, muddy - but not unpleasantly so - odours of the river and cows.

  A heavy dew was settling and I could feel it damp on my hair, so I crawled into the sleeping bag and pulled the hood tight over my head. Lying on my back I gazed up at the stars, of which there were many more than I could ever see from the city. The Milky Way cut a hazy swathe through the sky, from Cassiopeia, through Cygnus until sinking down to where I knew the teapot of Sagittarius lay, too low on the horizon to be easily seen. Looking up toward the centre of the galaxy, hidden behind millions of faint stars, my troubles seemed insignificant. My deeds and my life would have no impact on the grand scheme of the universe; everything was spiralling toward its doom in the supermassive black hole which lurks deep within the nebulous veil of our galaxy. These thoughts, instead of depressing me, placed my mind at ease.

  Faint movement at the edge of my vision caused me to peer at another part of the sky, where the pin-prick light of a satellite tracked steadily overhead, looking just like a star but for its movement. I watched as it grew bright and then faded again, so it had all but disappeared from view long before it completed its trip across the horizon, and I imagined it, miles above in space, rotating and catching the glare of the sun with splayed solar panels, which the round bulk of Earth now shielded me from.

  A shooting star bisected the arc of the satellite, fast moving before it burned up. I wish I could be left alone to live my life in peace. I knew it was too late for that, but it didn’t stop me making the wish. Just as I was lamenting what I’d lost, another meteor streaked across the sky, much brighter than the first and with a bright tail. I imagined I heard a faint whoosh as it passed overhead. “Wow,” I muttered out loud, scanning the sky in the hope of seeing more like it.

  I didn’t have to wait long before they started coming fast. I’d never seen, or heard about, anything like it and as I lay on my back, my mouth opened in awe. One shot directly above me and this time there was a definite noise to accompany the meteor as it lit the black sky around it green and blue. And it was not alone. In the space of a few minutes I must have seen over fifty streak overhead, some breaking up into fragments which fanned out toward the ground, and I was only looking at a small piece of sky. Some of those must have landed, I deduced. I‘d love to find a meteorite. And although I had no intention of deviating from my canoeing trip, I vouched to keep a vigilant eye, in case I happened to spy one which had landed along the riverbank.

  The unprecedented meteor shower - or was it a storm? – distracted my mind enough to put the smile back on my face and my eyes drifted shut as I was lulled to sleep by the sound of something, fowl or fish, sploshing in the margins.

  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 an
d 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.