by Tim Orchard
The two men smiled and laughed and shared a shot from the whiskey bottle lying on the grass between them.
Simp was on the beach too, feeling fine and happy, full of good food, good cider, good smoke, and a few dabs of that stuff D.C. had. What did he call it? Whatever. It was good, you couldn’t argue with it. Or maybe he was just happy because he’d got a new business and a new life, and also, he wanted to dance but there was no music, and he wanted to hug someone. For no reason he could think of, he stood up and stretched. It felt good. He felt good. Up in the high heavens the stars were twinkling, and the sparks from the fire were rushing up in a swirl of smoke and heat to meet them. Simp felt a sudden rush of joy. He looked about him at the people around the fire. There were no arguments, no rows, no fights, and no power plays, and he knew it wasn’t all quite real but it was, for the moment. Standing beside him was Henry Stick, his new partner. He couldn’t believe his luck. He turned and opened his big arms wide, encompassed Henry Stick, and hugged him. Henry drew back his head and looked at the big lunk holding him and couldn’t find anything to be annoyed about.
Phil Paloney came over and sat beside the fire. Newman passed him the joint and D.C. pulled a plastic bag from his combat jacket pocket. “Still got some of last year’s magic mushrooms here. Do you fancy a few?”
Both Paloney and Newman held out their hands: “Why not?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tim Orchard is a carpenter based in London. Stickle Island is his first novel.
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