Infested Page 2

  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.

  Five

  By the time I returned to the grassy bank the man had gone and I saw him standing some way off, peering at a particularly neat cruiser which was moored near the marina. Sirens split the tranquillity of the day wide open, getting louder as they approached. I tensed and edged as casually as I could toward the river and started to untie the knots holding the canoe to the metal rings. A small bead of perspiration formed on my brow. I was not ready for capture, not yet.

  All heads turned to watch as two police cars came racing along the road, revving their engines hard and almost gaining air-time as they raced across the humped bridge in front of the pub. Until they’d passed I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath, but as the wail of sirens receded along the road toward the village, I let it out slowly from between my teeth. My heart was beating hard in my chest and the tremble in my hand caused a little beer to slosh over the side of the glass and trickle down my leg.

  The sirens stopped before they’d faded to silence, so I figured wherever they were heading to, wasn’t far away. Without tying the canoe back up, I sat back down and put my foot on the rope while I rolled another cigarette and tried to calm myself. Time to be moving soon, I thought. Still, I didn’t want to be rushed and have my day spoiled, and so I took time over my drink and only took small sips, glancing often over my shoulder toward the road, ready to leave at the first sign of the police.

  I was beginning to feel morose, regret nibbling at the edge of my senses. Would it be like this forever, entering a state of panic whenever the police were within sniffing distance? I hoped not and just then my heart skipped another beat as a policeman, a big man, came running from the road toward the beer garden. Even at a distance I could see he was red in the face and he leaned one hand against the corner of the pub, breathing hard.

  Discreetly, I climbed into the canoe, with haste but not enough to draw suspicion to myself. From my seat I was mostly hidden behind the concrete bank, and I kept myself steady by holding onto it with one hand, my eyes just peering over the top so they were on a level with the pub-goers’ feet. I hesitated out of curiosity, for it was quite disconcerting to see the officer so obviously flustered, panicked even.

  “Go,” he shouted, waving his arms. “Everybody run.” His terror was obvious, the cause for it was not. Everyone in the beer garden stared at him, then at each other and back to him: All unsure what to do, all waiting for someone else to move first. I was no exception, lightly bobbing in the wake of the weir when the policeman started to scream, tearing at his clothes, slapping himself and stamping his feet. By the time he’d managed to remove his stab vest he was writhing on the ground, having convulsions which gradually became less violent until there was only the odd spasm and twitch.

  A man ran to him - in his mid-fifties, greying on top and wearing an argyle tank-top and beige trousers - with the intention of offering assistance, while the rest of the patrons became agit
ated. Without knowing where the danger lay, they didn’t know where to run. Parents shouted their children from where they were playing by the stream who, sensing the urgency, came without argument.

  The man going to the aid of the policeman pulled up short when he was still within a few paces and without pause, he let go a scream of his own, turned on his heels and ran back the way he’d come, waving his arms at everyone to save themselves. He fell and just like the policeman had, started to slap at his body and attempt to rip away his clothes but soon he too was writhing on the ground, gasping for air like a fish.

  Everyone ran toward the water and at the same time I let go of the bank, letting myself drift a few yards out into the river. I looked hard toward the fallen men, and could vaguely make out movement over their bodies which seemed to be spreading into the beer garden almost like an inkblot, but still I didn’t know what I was looking at. The men on the floor were slowly taking on a whitish appearance, as if being wrapped in some kind of cocoon, or web.

  There were people at the water’s edge now, teetering, trying to decide whether to jump into the river or not, jostling for position. I was transfixed, peering at the small, unremarkable looking spiders which had begun to appear around their feet, easily visible on the concrete bank. Their shouts and shrieks blended into a constant din of background noise. They were appealing to me to save them but I knew I couldn’t. They’d noticed the spiders too, and were stamping their feet, squashing many but becoming overwhelmed as the black tide flowed around them, over them and brought them down.