Infested by Mark R Faulkner Read Free Book Online Page A

It came into view, visible as a stark line where the
river disappeared over the lip of the concrete ramp. I held us as still as I
possibly could, sitting upright to get a better look at the weir and to figure
out the best line of attack and to see if there were any obstructions such as
rocks, trees or general detritus.
    The flow of water caught us and I could feel the canoe accelerating; we
were past the point of no return, where the power of the water was greater than
my ability to paddle against it. Usually, on a natural rapid, I’d steer the
canoe as slowly as possible through the tumultuous water, to give me a chance
of steering out of harm’s way but this time my main concern was to punch
through the stopper wave at the bottom and not let it trap us into a watery
grave.
    “Hold on tight,” I shouted and at the same time paddled hard, building
as much speed as I could before making the descent. For a split second the
front of the boat seemed to hang in mid-air over the weir before we tipped
forward and entered the cascade. For the first time, I caught sight of the
wave at the bottom; looming tall and rolling back on itself toward us. All I
could do was hold my nerve and pray as we plummeted, like the log flume at the
fair, and hit the bottom with a splash which drenched Lindsey and sprayed my
bare chest with icy cold droplets.
     
    We were on flat water again and in one piece, although there was an
extra inch of water in the bottom of the canoe. Lindsey spun around on her
seat to face me, giggling. “Can we do it again?” she asked.
    I was giggling too, it must have been the combination of adrenaline and
relief. “We might have to,” I replied, uncertain how far it was to the next
lock.
    “That was fun,” she stated, water dripping from her nose and hair and
then a curious expression came over her. “What are they?” she asked.
    “What are what?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
    “On you?” She pointed to my chest.
    I didn’t need to look down to visualise the scars; round, white-ish
dots which never tanned, crinkled at the edges. There were a lot of those, and
to set them off was a three inch, ugly, jagged scar, not far north-west of my
navel, which was put there with a carving knife of the serrated variety, the
kind with an integral fork at the end. She’d been using it to carve roast chicken just before she stuck it in me. I’d only
gone into the kitchen to see if she needed a helping hand but she was in a bad
mood, an empty wine bottle sat on the counter next to her.
    I reigned my thoughts back in and I might have even blinked before
answering. “Scars.”
    “How’d you get ‘em?”
    Under Lindsey’s enquiring gaze, I felt ashamed. “Someone put them
there.”
    “Who?”
    “It’s not important.”
    “A girl at my school had scars like that. I saw in PE.”
    I cringed.
    “She’s probably dead now isn’t she?” asked Lindsey, swinging the
conversation away from my past to our present situation.
    I shrugged, to give myself time to think of an answer, but she spoke
before me. “Just like Mum and Dad.”
    “I wouldn’t have thought so,” I said, “She wasn’t at the pub was she?”
    “No.” She said it slowly, giving me a sullen look which said there was
something still on her mind.
    I waited for her to speak, processing the thought which I’d been
denying myself to even entertain.
    “What about the people at the lock?”
    “Well, that was still quite close to the pub, it might be the same
thing?”
    “So the spiders aren’t everywhere then?”
    I didn’t want to lie, but I needed to reassure myself as much as her. “Probably
not,” I said in as cheerful a voice as I could muster.
    She didn’t look convinced but thankfully she changed the subject by
declaring she was hungry in a slightly whining child voice.
    “We’ll be in Oxford soon,” I said, although I didn’t really have much
of an idea how close we were.
    “And I need a drink.”
    “I know.” I