The Last Summer of the Water Strider by Tim Lott Read Free Book Online Page B

and started striding across the gangplank. Ray and I followed him. On reaching the bank, instead of picking up any bags, he
immediately delved into my box of records. He flicked through them, nodding silently and occasionally tut-tutting. My father went towards the gangplank, carrying my suitcase and sports holdall.
    ‘Grim stuff here,’ Henry said. ‘Music to slit your wrists to. Or to listen to whilst strafing innocent passers-by. Shame we don’t have a record player.’
    Before I could tell him that I’d brought my own, he smiled.
    ‘Only kidding, stupid. We’ve got a hi-fi that can break the sound barrier. Fifty-watt Wharfedale speakers. Put your heavy-metal thrash on and see how that sounds. Different world
entirely. The bass can shatter tectonic plates.’
    He picked up the box of records and made his way towards the deck, while my father sat waiting with the rest of the luggage, unsure whether or not to enter. I slung my Slazenger bag over my
shoulder, balanced my revision materials on top of the record player, and followed Henry.
    ‘What shall I do with these?’ said Ray, brandishing my suitcase and sports holdall.
    ‘Put them in Adam’s room. It’s the one with the orange door decorated with crescent moons. Directly up the stairs and right in front of you.’
    Henry led us into the interior. I followed, close behind Henry’s naked brown back. His buttocks were clearly visible either side of the loincloth. They were as brown as the rest of
him.
    We entered the main cabin, which, to my surprise, was wall-to-wall carpeted with thick white pile, within the soiled forest of which I could see cigarette burns and several tea or coffee stains.
There was a slightly raised platform to the right of me, on which sat a small, unvarnished, rectangular wooden table with four battered iron folding chairs. On the table was a roughly cast
green-glazed ceramic tea set, which my father would have designated ‘ethnic’ since the cups had no handles or saucers and the glaze was unfinished. To the right of the table there was a
small galley area, which comprised a sink with a single tap, a draining-board and a Calor gas hob and grill. Under the portholes on the opposite side was a seating area, simply some low storage
cupboards with flat cushions placed on top of them. As Henry had promised, there was a music system in the far left-hand corner, with speakers the size of filing cabinets.
    There was an astonishing number of books piled into the space, some arrayed on makeshift bookshelves, others sitting in teetering piles on the floor. A brief inspection revealed few novels among
the collection. It was largely philosophy, psychology and anthropology. An orange-embroidered kilim hung across one of the walls, depicting, in stitch, an elephant and rider.
    Henry started fumbling with his loincloth, which was apparently in danger of coming undone. My father was breathing heavily. Instead of following Henry’s instructions to take my things
upstairs, he put the bags down, grunted and pointed to a paisley-patterned cotton robe that lay in a pile on the floor. Henry made a good-natured apology about losing track of ‘the way things
are done’, dropped the loincloth to reveal his genitals again, and put on the robe.
    Now he was decent, he tried to hug my father for a second time. Ray acceded, but remained stiff, his arms pressed against his sides, his eyes sliding from side to side in their sockets. Then he
pulled away.
    ‘Jesus, Henry. Why are you always grabbing people?’
    ‘Sorry, Raymond. You just seemed lonely.’
    ‘I’m not lonely.’
    ‘I’m sure the loss of Evie must still weigh on you very heavily.’
    ‘Why have you always got to talk that way? Like you were broadcasting on the wireless.’
    Henry shrugged, and his gaze alighted on me again. I somehow wished he would hug me too, but he simply held out a hand. I shook it.
    Ray busied himself with the bags again.
    ‘You’ve had a long journey. Settle