Robbo grips the door handle and pulls. The door rattles slightly on its hinges but doesn’t move. He pushes. Same. He gets down on one knee and inspects the keyhole – it’s not locked. He tries the handle again, pushes it down hard, pulls back hard. The door opens a millimetre. He peers through the bright crack but it’s too small to see anything other than a sliver of light.
He walks to the other end of the small, narrow boat. In the cabin there’s a rusted shut skylight. He pushes up but to no avail. Probably too small anyway.
Robbo is stripped to his boxers and socks. His t-shirt and jeans have disappeared, but hanging on the back of a chair is a clean white shirt and a pair of Tweed trousers. He tries them on. The trousers are loose but tightening the belt to its furthest hole keeps them up.
He looks around. The cabin door is held open with a latch. There is an unmade double bed with a peeling plastic coated foam mattress. No bedding. A drawer beneath the bed is empty apart from a roll of kitchen paper and a dirty cloth.
Along with the pots of dry soil on the galley windowsill, is a small ringbound notebook and a pencil on a piece of string that is not tied to anything, and a handful of elastic bands.
A cupboard has a few cups, plates and glasses, and a dusty blue vase. Another cupboard has tea bags. There’s no milk in the fridge but there is a kettle on the stove. Robbo fills it up from the tap by the sink, takes a swig from it and gargles the water, hoping to flush away the putrid taste of last night. His mouth is dry, his tongue limp and heavy. He spits into the sink. And puts a teabag in a cup.
The lighter switch on the stove doesn’t work. A little gas is released before shutting off. Robbo sniffs the air and forces a small window, above the stove, open.
There are two drawers in the galley. One has cutlery. Robbo takes out a spoon. The other has string, scissors, a screwdriver and a box of matches. He lights the stove beneath the kettle.
While the water heats up, Robbo looks round for something to eat. He is not hungry yet but will be soon, he can feel the emptiness in his stomach. But there is nothing. Just a packet of paracetamol on the table.
Maybe he could kick the door in. The kettle starts to hiss. But unlike the rest of the boat, the door seems solid and new. The lid emits bubbles from around its base where it fits imperfectly onto the body of the kettle. He taps the door at various points, hoping for a hollow sound but it is solid, dense wood. The kettle lets out a long, moaning whistle.
Have a cup of tea first. A couple of paracetamols. And then decide what to do.
—
The young man releases the padlock, pushes the door open and stands on the threshold, silhouetted against the bright morning sun, “good day to you chief, you’re looking very well this fine summer day all things considered. You weren’t looking quite so great yesterday evening, old chap. But today you are cutting something of a dash in your fine tweed strides, like a country gentleman of ages past and, with any luck, of times to come.
“Although, really if truth be spoken, you do need to either grow that beard or shave it off. For the meantime, I would recommend shaving it off. I think there should be a razor by the toilet unless Madame has been on one of her cleaning sprees. I see you’ve worked out the kettle already. That’s good. There won’t be any hot water from the taps, the engine hasn’t run for over twenty-four hours you see.
“Anyway, glad you’re feeling better. I was quite worried but my good friends assured me you’d be alright and so it has proved. Bit of a strong brew, should’ve had some water instead of beer. But how many times have we all said that, eh old chap? You were doing so well up to that point as well, chief, really very well indeed. After tonight you’ll be an expert, a stepper of distinction. I’m sure of it.”
“You locked the door?”
“Security, chief, security. There has been a spate of thefts recently, most unpleasant.”
“Where’s my phone?”
“Oh, I’m sure it must be around here somewhere. What’s your number, I’ll give it a call, find it that way?”
“Battery’s gone.”
“Oh yes, I remember you saying. Anyway chief, I’ve brought food and medicine. You should eat.”
The young man empties a cloth bag onto the floor between him and Robbo – a pork pie, an apple, tea in a flask, an unmarked pot of honey, a chocolate brownie wrapped in foil and half a bottle of vodka.
He steps back and pushes the door half-closed behind him. But he leaves the padlock dangling unlocked. Whistling a vague, whimsical tune, he jumps back onto the bank and strolls away down the path.
—
Jak plods up the stairs of the bus, walks halfway to the back to find a free seat and plonks herself down. She scrolls through her phone, more to stop from falling asleep than because she is expecting a message.
But there is a message. A voice message. From Ali. Strange, he never calls.
“Jak, my friend, I do hope you are well. I am calling about your father. Have you seen him recently? I believe he went looking for his friend, Hank. But now I’m not sure where he is. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about but if either you or your mother hear from him, could you let me know. And of course, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know. I’m sure he’ll show up soon, don’t worry yourselves too much.”
—
Robbo walks quickly along the narrow strip of ground between the river and the electric fence. Every few seconds he glances over his shoulder.
If he keeps going then he can find the dry ditch and crawl under the fence. And get home, away from this mad place.
But there are figures coming towards him. The two men, in clean dinner suits, bow ties neatly in place.
Robbo turns and runs. But he only gets back to the boat. The young man is there, blocking his path with an apologetic smile. They stand and face each other.
How electric is the electric fence? Robbo takes a step towards it, grabs the thin wire mesh with both hands. And before he can start to haul himself up, the shock burns through him and knocks him to the ground.
The two men in dinner suits carry him aboard, lie him down, stunned but breathing, on the floor, and leave. They padlock the door behind them.
—
“So does Ali have any idea where your father has gone?” Sylvie continues peeling potatoes as she talks to Jak, “where did Hank go? Did he just wander off? Wouldn’t surprise me, he’s the most gormless of the lot of them.”
“He said he wasn’t sure. Do you want me to call Ali or go round to his shop,” Jak glances at the time on her phone, “it’ll be open for ages yet, could wait til after tea?”
“That’s my girl,” laughs Sylvie, “food first, worrying about your father later…”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” protests Jak, “I meant, well you know, you’re already making the tea aren’t you so might as well carry on and then I can go later. Maybe I should go to Ali’s now though?”
“I was only kidding, babe. Seriously, no. There’s no point chasing around after your father. He’ll come home, or to his own home, eventually. He always does. He might be drunk somewhere. Or took himself on a trip.
“He used to do that, you know, if he didn’t have a job on for a few days. He’d just vanish. And then reappear in time for the next job, unshaven, dirty clothes, stinking the place out, phone out of charge. He’d have gone into Oxford and got on a train, just the first one to arrive, and ended up wherever.
“He said he wanted to be an explorer when he was a kid, go somewhere not on Google maps as if there was anywhere like that. So I guess he was just playing out that fantasy by getting himself lost somewhere. Maybe he got on the Reading bus, who knows. So yeah, no need to miss your tea on his account.”
—
“Take your medicine, chief. It’s your friend.”
Robbo swallows the tab and waits.
The young man passes him a joint. He takes a draw on it, breathes it in deep and passes it back. A speck of lit ash falls to the ground and briefly flares before going out.
There are others there.
“Fancy a drink, old chap?” the young man holds out a shallow bowl, just like the one he’d offered him the night before, with thick red liquid in it, “to give you energy to dance?”
Robbo pushes the bowl away. The sight of the red liquid makes him feel nauseous. He remembers the taste of it, the feel of it filling his mouth.
“You should drink it, old chap. I would if I were you.”
Another voice over rules the young man, “time to get moving.”
Robbo senses himself rising to his feet like a marionette pulled into life. His shoulders are loose, his head droops like a thirsty leaf. His muscles burn with the memory of the electric shock.
“Come on! We’ve started. Come on!”
He brings his hands up to cover his face. He needs to hide from the shouting. But he can’t hold his arms up. They flop back down in front of him.
The drums are all around getting closer, hotter, louder. Angry then calm. Steady and unforgiving. A man scowls in his face then laughs then floats back into the trees. But his breath still licks the air and sucks it from his mouth.
“Spread your wings. Be butterfly, old chap. Then bee, real ying and yang.”
There’s a bird singing in a tree far, far above. What is it saying? He raises his head but it’s so high he can’t see a thing. It continues singing but now it’s got a woman’s voice. And the drums get faster and faster. They are spinning. They are so hot, too hot. The bird is flying around.
“Dancing monkey is so hippy.”
Robbo wants the bird to perch on his shoulder, to ask its name and give it a kiss. It’s still singing. And the sky is spinning. The sun is fierce. It spits with fury, turning him round and round. Where is the cool earth?
‘Need to lie down, just for a little while. Time to lie down.’
“Funny, like a squirrel falling out a tree.”
Ah, the grass and the twigs and the soil climbing over his face. Wrapping him up like a birthday present. Or is it Christmas and he’s a pine cone in a wreath? Walnuts and cinnamon and orange peel. Everything smells so nice. What’s for pudding? Where’s the brandy? Why is it so blue?
‘Don’t drop it whatever you do.’
“Tie him down or he’ll be fish food.”
Soft hands tucking him up in bed, ‘Night night Pauly Po. See you in the morning. Have you hung up your stocking?’