Heading Inland by Nicola Barker Read Free Book Online Page A

front of Wesley’s unfocused eyes when he didn’t respond.
    ‘I’m thinking of my dad,’ Wesley said. ‘Don’t ask me why.’
    ‘Why?’ said Trevor, who was in a fine good-humour considering his tyre hold-up.
    ‘I was just in the pie and mash shop getting the extension lead for the lights. Out the back. And then I was suddenly thinking about my dad. You know, the navy and the sea and all the stuff we used to talk about when I was a kid.’
    ‘Your dad still in the navy?’ Trevor asked.
    Wesley shook his head. ‘Desk job,’ he said.
    ‘Probably those bloody eels,’ Trevor said, bending down and picking up a crate of Coxes.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Those eels out the back. Making you think of the sea.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘In the fridges. He keeps the eels in there.’
    ‘How’s that?’ Wesley’s voice dipped by half an octave. Trevor didn’t notice. He was wondering whether he could interest Wesley in selling flowers every Sunday as a side-interest. A stall was up for grabs on the Mile End Road close to the tube station. Sundays only.
    ‘You’re telling me he keeps live eels in those fridges?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Live eels?’ Wesley asked, with emphasis.
    ‘In the fridges, yeah.’ Trevor stopped what he was doing, straightened up, warned by the tone of Wesley’s voice.
    ‘What, like . . .’ Wesley said, breathing deeply, ‘swimming around in a big tank?’
    ‘Nope.’ Trevor scratched his head. ‘Uh . . . like five or six long metal drawers, horizontal, yeah? And when you pull the drawers open they’re all in there. Noses at one end and tails at the other. Big fuckers, though. I mean, five foot each or something.’
    A woman came up to the stall and wanted to buy a lemon and two bananas. She asked Wesley for what she needed but Wesley paid her no heed.
    ‘Hang on a second,’ he said gruffly, holding up his flat hand, ‘just shut up for a minute.’
    He turned to Trevor. ‘You know anything about eels?’ he asked. Trevor knew enough about wild creatures to know that if Wesley had been a dog or a coyote his ears would be prickling, his ruff swelling.
    ‘Not to speak of . . .’ he said.
    ‘Excuse me.’ Wesley said to the customer, ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ and off he went.
    Wesley strolled into the pie and mash shop. Fred was serving. Wesley waited patiently in line until it was his turn to be served.
    ‘What can I get you, Wesley?’ Fred asked, all jovial.
    Wesley smiled back at him. ‘Having a few problems with the lights on the stall,’ he said. ‘Could I just pop out the back and see if the plug’s come loose or something?’
    ‘Surely,’ Fred said, thumbing over his shoulder. ‘You know the lie of the land out there.’
    Wesley went into the back room and up to one of the fridges. He took hold of the top drawer and pulled it open. The drawer contained water, and, just as Trevor had described, was crammed full of large, grey eels, all wriggling, eyes open, noses touching steel, tails touching steel. Skin rubbing skin rubbing skin.
    Held in limbo, Wesley thought, in this black, dark space. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Nowhere to go. Like prison. Like purgatory.
    Wesley closed the drawer. He shuddered. He covered his face with his soft hands. He breathed deeply. He hadn’t been all that honest. What he’d said about his dad and everything. True enough, his dad had been in the navy, he’d travelled on ships the world over, to India and Egypt and Hong Kong. Only he never came back from the sea. Never came back home. Sort of lost interest in them all. Only sent a card once, a while after . . . a while after . . . to say he wouldn’t ever be back again.
    Wesley knew all about the sea, though. Knew all about fishes and currents and stingrays and everything. His mum had bought him a book about it. For his birthday when he was six. And so he knew about eels and how they all travelled from that one special place in the Sargasso Sea. Near the West Indies. That’s