Peter got us away from the harbour and into open water, heading east towards Herm and Jethou, which protruded from the ocean, side by side, like the back of a petrified sea dragon. The waves were kind to us and the soothing motion of the dinghy, along with the slap of water on the hull and the plunging chomp of the oars was soporific. And everything else was so still that the busy gulls and graceful terns seemed like special effects, superimposed over a hazy photographed seascape. Even a distant tanker, denting the horizon to the north, was motionless, like a sleeping beast. I shook my head, feeling the afternoon heat even as a passenger, and took my jacket off. As I was doing so I felt a weight in the inside pocket and remembered something.
‘What you after?’ Pete said.
‘This.’ I brought out a pewter hip flask. It had been a present from him, and he’d had my initials engraved on the corner. I’d stowed it in that pocket the night before. I unscrewed the stopper and took a swig. The liquid burned my throat. ‘Ack! Here.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Guess.’ Peter shrugged, put down the oars and took the flask. His swig led to a grimace similar to the one I must have employed, followed by a change of expression and a nod of approval.
‘Peaty, I would say, so … Islay, right?’ I pulled a noncommittal face. ‘Lagavulin, I reckon.’
‘Close. Laphroaig. And it’s the fifteen-year-old. Costs a fortune. It was on customer tasting so I put it out for a day then swiped the rest.’
‘It’s gorgeous. May I?’
‘Go right ahead. You look like you need it.’
We sat there for five minutes, letting the sea bump us where it would and exchanging sips of whisky, the sun bright and fierce. Then we decided it was a good time to change over. I took charge.
‘Right, we’ll each go round to our right so we don’t unbalance the boat. And keep low.’
‘The boat will be fine. Just don’t make any sudden movements.’
‘Aye aye.’
I crawled forwards while Pete, ever sure of himself, took long, upright strides to the stern. I dragged myself into my seat, he lowered himself carefully, but with confidence.
Confronted by the oars, I felt insecure.
‘I haven’t done this for years, you know.’
‘Nor had I. It’s like riding a bike. You’ll pick it up in no time.’
‘If you say so,’ I said, not believing him. However, once I felt the oars in my hands I knew what to do, as if my arms had remembered what my brain had forgotten. I soon found that I had us moving along nicely. ‘Am I going the right way?’
‘Perfect. Just glance back every few strokes.’
While I puffed at the oars, Pete took the opportunity to lean back and take in the view. ‘Hey, look,’ he said. ‘Brehon Tower.’ He pointed to my left.
I craned my neck around, out of politeness because I’d been looking at it for ages before we swapped, its silhouette like a clean-cut tree stump poking from the water.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
‘What do I think what?’
‘Want to go investigate?’
‘It must be at least a mile away. You have to be kidding.’
‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘At home with my wife. She looks after it for me.’
‘Go on. Let’s give it a go.’
‘I’m knackered already, and I’ve only been rowing for thirty seconds.’
‘I’ll row if you don’t think you can make it.’
‘I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. It’s just … it’ll take fucking ages.’
‘How much whisky have you got?’
I shook the flask. ‘I guess it beats rooting through Grandpa’s underwear drawers.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
‘But look,’ I said, a thought having just occurred to me. ‘If we’re going that far out, shouldn’t we have, you know, lifejackets and stuff?’
‘You can swim, can’t you? You’re a good swimmer.’
‘I don’t know, Pete.’
‘Have a look under the seats if you’re worried.’
I did as he said. There was a tarpaulin tucked under the bows and, having laid down the oars and twisted myself astride my seat, I fished into what it was hiding. ‘Oh no, we’re all right, we’ve got a bucket. And–’ I sat up. ‘You see,’ I declared, with an expansive gesture. ‘That’s why you should never let yourself go and die.’
‘What? Why?’
I reached down again and yanked out what I’d found. ‘So your grandson doesn’t end up finding your copy of Big Natural Jugs in your rowing boat. Jesus.’
‘Oh my god.’ Pete looked horrified.
I started flicking through the magazine. ‘Can you just imagine it? Our very own grandfather, crouched in his dinghy in the middle of the ocean, beating off like a monkey to these, fucking hell, these simply enormous puppies–’
I didn’t see Pete reach out and snatch the magazine from my hands, because I couldn’t tear my eyes from the page in front of me, but I saw him throw it into the sea and the ferocious, hurt look on his face.
‘Pete, what the fuck?’
‘Shut up! Just shut up!’
I watched the magazine drift away with a modicum of regret. ‘What? He was just a man, for fuck’s sake, like the rest of us. Hell, I’ll be disappointed if I’m not still cracking the odd one off when I’m a pensioner. I’ll have more time on my hands for one thing …’ I wouldn’t normally speak like that, but I’d seen an opportunity, because he had shown me a weakness. I could get one over on him. I could wind him up. I could feel like I was in control.
‘Shut it Simon.’
‘Stop being a dick. So Grandpa liked big boobs; for all we know Grandma spent her years in China getting fucked by the locals in opium dens. We don’t know, but we do fucking know that they were human like the rest of us. What do you think Mum and Dad were doing in the seventies when everyone else had discovered sex and acid? Drinking tea and tutting at the debauchery of it all? No. They were high as fucking barrage balloons, dancing naked at parties and humping anything with breath in its body. Or not, it doesn’t matter. People don’t save all their sexual urges for making babies, and they don’t stop feeling them the second they’ve had children. I suppose when you have kids you’ll tell them you were both virgins when you got married and only had sex the once for each of them?’
‘But they shouldn’t have to face it, should they? It’s just … wrong.’
‘No, I’ll agree it’s private, and that’s how perhaps it should be, but, Jesus, how old are you? If Grandpa wanted to look at a few tits in his old age who are we to say he shouldn’t?’
‘I just don’t like it. I don’t like it.’
We sat there for a moment or two, Peter looking into the boat, hunched like a chastised teenager, and I, big brother, realising that the twenty-eight year-old in front of me hadn’t grown up yet, still wanted the world to conform to his view of things, still wanted people to conform to the image he’d formed of them. It was a bizarre moment, because for the first time in my life I felt a kind of protective tenderness for him, and I regretted puncturing his bubble of idealism so harshly.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘Have a drink.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Look Pete, there’s no fucking lifejackets in here, and I’m going to get sunburn if we stay out too long. And we haven’t got any water. I think we should stick to the original plan.’
He looked deflated, but he nodded.
‘And, come to think of it,’ I said as he passed me back the whisky, ‘I might be a little pissed.’ Pete laughed, and I began to row once more, aiming the boat north and following the coast about half a mile out.
‘That’s it. I’m stopping. I’ve had it. And I’m sweating like a bastard.’
‘Nice.’ Pete was leaning with his elbows on the sides of the dinghy, face tilted backwards to the sun.
‘Pass the whisky, would you?’
‘Hey, look. The ferry.�
�
I looked where he was pointing and watched the poised white craft breasting the waves to the north-east.
‘Whisky, please.’
‘Yeah. Hang on.’ He pushed himself up and reached forwards with the flask, but kept his eyes on the ship which was already gliding into the distance, with the eagerness of a child watching the runway at an airport, while its bone-weary, hackneyed parents run for the bar. ‘Suppose it’s going to Southampton?’
‘Or Weymouth.’ I drained the last of the whisky. ‘That didn’t last long.’ I rested on my own elbows. ‘Hey Pete. How about we swap again?’
‘Yeah, ok.’ He turned to face me. ‘I’ll take us in.’
I wiped the sweat from my brows and away from my eyes with both hands, dried them on my trousers and gripped the sides of the boat. We stood in unison, and, watching where I was putting my hands, I began to edge forward along the right side of the boat. Then that I heard the noise.
clap clap clap clap clap
It was coming from my left, from the open sea.
clap clap clap clap clap
I looked up. Pete was picking his steps past me, in a slight crouch.
clap clap clap
And behind him …
clap clap clap
… was a wave. A big wave.
‘Shit. Pete–’
He’d seen it, and he froze. The wave was upon us, a dark, brutal hump in the water crested by a thread of white foam. It slammed into the stern of the boat on the starboard side, breaking on the battered wood and bashing out a shower of spume as it gathered us in its embrace. The combination of pitch and yaw threw me across as the bench supporting me fell away, and I thumped my ribs on the hull. We almost capsized before we were hurled with gut-tugging speed over the wave and down. We pitched back again and I rolled across the dinghy, banging my head on the other side. I remember shouting, ‘Fuck!’ and I remember the sound of it all, embodying the irrepressible force we’d been caught up in: a roar, the sea claiming us as its own, the lion reminding his handler that he’s only tame on his own terms. But amid the roar, there was a crack, an evil sound that made my stomach leap to my throat even as I was tumbling, but that I only diagnosed later. It was a fraction of a second when I realised what was wrong.
I was alone in the dinghy.
‘Jesus! Pete?’ I grabbed the hull and pulled myself up. ‘Pete? Fuck, are you all right?’
He was lying in the sea on his back, his arms bobbing by his sides, and his head had tilted backwards, like on the boat, pulling his mouth open. His wedding ring was catching the sun and his face was devoid of expression. I remember thinking his teeth looked very white, and that he should look more upset and be trying to get back in, before I noticed his eyes were closed.
‘Shit, Pete? What’s wrong? Pete?’ He was rotating anticlockwise, ever so slightly, and his feet were starting to sink, and then there was blood; a black cloud billowing like an inflatable pillow beneath his head. ‘Fuck! Pete!’
What could I do? I wanted to jump in, I wanted to fish him out, but I was afraid. I felt my mind sending signals to my limbs: ‘Do something! Do something!’ but I couldn’t. I was afraid. It’s not easy getting into a boat from the sea; how could I have been expected to get him in as well? I didn’t have a lifejacket. I was feeling dizzy. My ribs were hurting. I might not have made it back to shore. The riptides are savage, Dad always said.
And he looked peaceful enough, to me, Pete. I couldn’t even cry, I just sat, numb, and watched him drift away, maybe two feet a minute, always rotating, ever so slightly, and tilting upright around the pivot of his barrel chest.
And I watched him sink. It took longer than you might imagine. Because I’m pretty sure he was still breathing.
So there we have it. I could have saved his life, but I didn’t, so in essence I killed him. I’ve never looked at it that way before tonight but it must be the case. Inaction demands as much responsibility as action. Like not braking when a child runs in front of your car. My inaction was the reason he died. It may have been difficult to save him but it was possible so I’m a murderer, as much as if I’d gone through with it in the park today and hit that man with a hammer. I didn’t do it in the end. It was close but I found I lacked the incentive. That doesn’t mean I’m going to give up.
You see, now I know I can live with it.
Chapter twelve
‘What do I do?’ I say to Emily, deciding to intercept the embarrassment of how stupid I could look if I tried it without asking how. It seems obvious, but there must be pitfalls. I’ve seen Annie Hall. And I’m always concerned about looking foolish in front of Emily. Even for an eighteen year-old, she’s streetwise and knowing, sharp and cynical, and nothing like anyone I’ve been with before. Either of them. This time, though, I appear to have unearthed some maternal instinct. Either that or she’s taking the piss out of me: she actually ruffles my hair.
‘Cute, but it’s really simple: cover one nostril, snort it up with the other.’
‘All at once?’ I say, feeling foolish anyway.
‘You don’t have to. Some people swap nostrils. It’s up to you.’ She passes the mirror and I take it, staring at the squat little wormlike piles confronting me. She, meanwhile, takes a note from her purse (a fifty!) and begins to roll it up. This gives me ten seconds in which to realise the implications of what I’m about to do.
I never take drugs. I’ve spent a lifetime refusing drugs in situations when I’ve felt accepting them might bring about the kind of social inclusion that was otherwise off-limits. Even Julia smokes pot sometimes (albeit usually when she’s pissed, which means it often turns out with me holding her hair while she pukes); I know of teachers who smoke it; accountants who smoke it; you can usually smell it on the High Street in broad daylight and it attracts less attention than swigging from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. This makes me feel like some sort of social outcast, living in a bygone century. And I don’t approve of drugs, if truth be told. I think they’re a danger to society and the government has been moving in the wrong direction with the whole thing. And cocaine? That means hard drugs: I could be locked up. I don’t care if well-adjusted middle-class couples bring it out at dinner parties after the children have gone to bed. That doesn’t make it right.
So why am I doing it? Simple: Emily said we could ‘bang a few lines and then fuck for hours.’ It turns out all I needed was a really good reason.
Ok, here goes. I take the note, put it to my nostril and bend down.
For hours: that’s got to be worth it.
I treat the note to a prodigious sniff, all the way. Nothing happens. I let my breath out.
Coke flies everywhere.
‘Bollocks!’
‘God, Simon, be careful!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Here, give me that.’ I give the paraphernalia back to her and she tidies up the redistributed powder with her credit card. Without looking up she snorts her line, to be on the safe side, I suppose, then gives it back to me. There’s less there than there was before.
‘Look. Do it properly this time. You have to have it right up to the note, and you don’t have to sniff that hard. Take it a little bit at a time.’
‘Righto.’ I look up at her. Her face has changed. Her eyes have loosened a little and her mouth is open. She then blocks her left nostril and snorts like a sailor through the other. Not her most attractive moment.
‘That got it. That’s … just … peachy.’
Ok. Here we go again. Don’t do a Woody. Don’t sneeze. Up it goes.
I lean backwards, sniff, and cough. Then I sniff again, and again. Emily is watching me with what looks like amused pride. I don’t feel dignified, but I am starting to tingle. I sniff once more, hard, and a clump of something bitter shoots to the back of my throat.
Now I feel great.
She’s draped topless along the sofa, snatching at her cigarette and talking.
‘That’s what we are, you know? That’s all we are: the
script to Hamlet typed out by that one monkey in infinity. None of it means anything, not in the long run. Come here and kiss my neck. I mean, take my parents … that’s nice … my parents think they have some God-given hold on me, just because we’re related. How can … that’s enough … how can you claim to love somebody you fight with all the time or just ignore? My father tells me he loves me all the time, all the time he’s around that is – he spends hardly any time at home after all, no wonder Mama gets around like she does; what she’s brilliant at, by the way, and don’t think I didn’t notice she’d worked on you, the way you were looking at her that night; but what she’s brilliant at is seeming available. Every man she meets instantly assumes she fancies him because she practically throws herself at them, that way she gets to pick whoever she wants, more or less, use them for a week or two and then … although I’ve only caught her the once, mind, but you just know, you know?
‘Anyway, where was I?’
‘Erm. Parents.’
‘Parents … oh yes, Daddy. He doesn’t love me. The feelings he has for me, other than that overprotective streak–’
‘Overprotective?’
‘You’ve no idea. He actually thinks I shouldn’t have sex before I’m married. As if! God, I couldn’t cope! It brings out the worst in him.’
‘Oh joy.’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t find out. Although I’d love to see his face. He’s so funny when he’s angry. It would almost be worth it.’
‘Who for?’
‘Don’t panic. I’ll keep quiet. But … where was I?’
‘Overprotectivity.’
‘Yes. What about it?’
‘Your father’s feelings?’
‘Good boy. His only feelings for me are foisted on him by convention and familiarity. We don’t get on at all so there’s no genuine affection, but what he is is used to me. You know that feeling of loss when you change schools, the sense of dislocation you get, and that inexplicable sadness, even though you never really liked the place you were leaving? Well, that’s how he’d feel if I left home never to return. Pass my fags, would you? Thanks. Those feelings are engendered by familiarity, and the subconscious pressure that society puts on you to love your family because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Me? I know better. I don’t mind my sister when she’s not being such a daddy’s girl, but I don’t love her. I don’t love my parents, my brother, although at least he’s funny. I don’t love anyone. I’m not sure there’s any such thing.’
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