The Ice Boat: Boxed Set

By Lazlo Ferran

The Abba-like cleanness of Stockholm was getting to him. He wanted to piss against a wall.

With plenty of drugs, sex and rock and roll; The Ice Boat is a modern pop-culture odyssey.

David Dee has almost got it; with a solicitor girlfriend, a job, a flat and a band in London, he almost has the happiness he has worked for all his life. His reluctance to compromise takes him away from London to disaster in Rio de Janeiro and on to surreal adventure and self-discovery in Amsterdam.

Includes Chapter One of both the occult thriller Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate AND Too Bright the Sun.

Sample
A few days later Barbie told him the details about his meeting with the man for the passport. He was to go to a café, order a whisky and wait for a woman who would ask him for a light. He was to say, “I love you,” and she would reply, “I love you too.” He had to be there between eleven and twelve. He was to go alone. The ‘going alone’ bit worried him, especially as the bar was in an unfamiliar part of town but Barbie reassured him so he went.
He and the woman exchanged pass phrases and she told him to go to another bar a few blocks away, ask for an orange juice, and wait for a man. The man would say, “Aphrodisiac,” and he should say, “Only for monkeys.” He was amused by all this secrecy but understood its need and soon found himself talking to a neatly dressed business man with a suitcase, scarf and a silky-smooth voice.
“Hello. So what can I do for you?” He explained, and the man asked for the photograph which Barbie had told him to bring and half the money, 1300 Guilders, which he had also brought. Dave watched possessively when the money disappeared into the man’s pocket.
“Okay. This is no joke. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. The passport will be ready in two weeks’ time. You will have der rest of the money then?”
“No. Three weeks will be okay though.”
“Okay. Barbie will tell you where to go.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Order another drink, a pint, and drink it all slowly, before you leave.”
He got up and left.
Dave ordered the drink, drank it and went home nervous and apprehensive.
“How did it go,” asked Barbie, curiously.
“Oh okay. Thanks Barbie.”
“That’s okay.” She made no further effort to talk to him, but smiled sweetly.
The next two weeks were painful. The girls only spoke to him when necessary and it was quite clear that they had closed ranks against him. He was deeply angry at the injustice of it but also felt something like hatred for Barbie. He suspected she was to blame although he didn’t show it. He was starting to think about moving on. He hadn’t intended to, at least for the last couple of months.
“I never intended to stay anyway,” he told himself.
Dave made several attempts to establish himself independently of the girls and even to prove his worth to them and to himself.
He went to see another film, ‘Showgirls’, with the intention of chatting up the blonde girl who he guessed worked at the ticket office.
Dave smiled at her, and said, “Hi,” when he bought the ticket. He waited outside afterwards, sipping a plastic cup of coffee, waiting for her to have a break.
He had no idea if she’d remember him or not from the previous visits, but it seemed that she did. He knew that the film wasn’t a romantic one, and it would hardly look good. But since he hadn’t known if she’d be there he flattered himself that he thought it was more important to enjoy himself than to chat her up. He was lucky, and after his second coffee she came out for a fag. She smiled, and he smiled back. She said something in Dutch, which he didn’t understand.
“I’m English,” he replied.
“Ah. I asked if you were vating for someone.”
“No,” he said. He wondered if he should add, ‘Only you’, but felt it was too obvious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lazlo Ferran
• Release date: Aug 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310089947

Lazlo Ferran

Lazlo Ferran: Exploring the Landscapes of Truth. Educated near Oxford, during English author Lazlo Ferran's extraordinary life, he has been an aeronautical engineering student, dispatch rider, graphic designer, full-time busker, guitarist and singer, recording two albums. Having grown up in rural Buckinghamshire Lazlo says: "The beautiful Chiltern Hills offered the ideal playground for a child's mind, in contrast to the ultra-strict education system of Bucks." Brought up as a Buddhist, he has travelled widely, surviving a student uprising in Athens and living for a while in Cairo, just after Sadat's assassination. Later, he spent some time in Central Asia and was only a few blocks away from gunfire during an attempt to storm the government buildings of Bishkek in 2006. He has a keen interest in theologies and philosophies of the Far East, Middle East, Asia and Eastern Europe. After a long and successful career within the science industry, Lazlo Ferran left to concentrate on writing, to continue exploring the landscapes of truth.

Book preview

The Ice Boat

Boxed Set

Lazlo Ferran

Published by Lazlo Ferran at Smashwords

PRINTING HISTORY

First Edition

To Ellen

Copyright © 2014 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved

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Chapter One

It would be another scorching hot day. Rio, close to the Equator has winters only about six degrees cooler than the summers and had been 36 degrees at noon the day before.

Dave walked steadily forward towards a group of stevedores stacking crates near the edge of the quay. He called out, Que sa la San Antonio? the name on the ticket, and they pointed to the right, second pier along, with hand gestures.

Obligado, he said, and started walking.

It took about half an hour to locate his ship. Carrying his guitar-case and bags, he was sweating when he finally saw her, stern first.

She looked terrible. The name was the only bit of paint still properly sticking, the rest a mixture of rust, white undercoat and semi-matt or gloss black paint on the hull, rust and white above.

Dave reached the area of the quay, fenced-off by the Bremen Ship Company.

Three sides of a quadrangle were formed by a high, rusty white steel fence, with a gate and white steel office next to it inside the fencing. A white notice board on two metal poles advertised the name of the company. Layers of torn paper around the edges indicated many changes of name. He walked up to the gate and pushed it. There was was no one in the office so he walked towards the gangplank. Although the area was at least fifty metres wide, he walked as if on a tightrope, each step precise, so as not to stumble and draw attention to himself. He climbed the sloping plank and reached the deck.

The acting Purser and another man were sitting at a desk, smiling. The Purser smiled at him.

You’re early. Ticket please. He held out his hand.

Dave had it already in his hand and gave it to him.

The Purser punched it and passed it back after glancing at it.

Cabin Eight, down here, two doors on right, he said, thumbing along the ship, over his shoulder.

That’s it, Dave was saying to himself. He picked the bags up and walked down the deck in the direction indicated. As he stepped through the second door, over the ledge, he felt a huge rush of elation.

I’ve done it.

He saw a row of doors with numbers painted on them and walked along the corridor, across the ship, till he came to number eight.

He pulled down the handle, no locks, and entered. It was on the forward side of the corridor at the base of the main superstructure, facing forward.

‘At least I’ve got a porthole,’ he thought.

There was a made-up double-bed on the right side, a wooden chest of drawers next to it, and on the other side, a table, two chairs and a fridge. There was almost nothing else.

He didn’t waste too much time looking around. He took any important paperwork he had out of the bag, stuffed it in his pockets, picked up the guitar case, and went off to find somewhere isolated until the ship had left port.

He found a quiet spot, well forward on the ship, on the opposite side of a cooling vent, where he thought he couldn’t be seen from the main superstructure. He hoped that, if there was a problem with his paperwork, they wouldn’t find him till the ship had left. He settled down to wait.

At 1 pm, on time, he heard a whistle. A few minutes later he felt the slight vibration of the engines starting but it was about an hour before he finally could see that the ship was moving.

As Rio floated away, his memory was of a city growing out of a rain-forest with its feet so thick with trees under the tall buildings that you believe a monkey, or a jaguar, could cross from one side to the other, without touching the ground.

He had a receding feeling of dread, thinking about Rio and what had happened to him there. Now perhaps things could be alright again, in time. The last time he remembered feeling reasonably centred was in the flat with Sharon.

***

Dave Dee’s legs were getting pins and needles. He was leaning cross-legged against the front of the old chair. His girlfriend, Sharon, rested her head on his lap and his hands were resting on her wrists. The music and log fire cracking to their left had lulled them to that land on the edge of sleep, where imagination conjures up images cloaked in mysterious feelings.

Suddenly, from the mist, a voice, his own inner voice started, saying, God, this is great. I really love Sharon. I think this is going to work. It’s been six months now, I think.

Then another voice, louder than the first said, Wait a minute. Why am I thinking? Shouldn’t I just be relaxing and going with the flow? This always happens to me and I’m sure it’s why I find happiness so difficult. Let’s just try to switch off.

The first voice could be heard softly humming to itself but there was still a silent presence floating above it, which must be the loud voice. This was just not saying anything. Dave was slightly annoyed and shifted his weight slightly, which drew a moan from Sharon. He really liked the feeling of her weight on him. It reassured him. He didn’t want to disturb her but the slight movement just now had sent numbing waves down to his ankles and a tightening feeling was making him grit his teeth with pain.

The last movement of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony gently wound to a close, making Dave thinking of sheep and fresh fields after rain, and then there was silence. He didn’t think Sharon was asleep and hoped if he waited a few minutes, she would be the one to get up and then he wouldn’t have to feel guilty. A few minutes had passed and Sharon hadn’t moved so he decided to move his legs a bit. She moved her head slightly and then leaned forward, hung her head and shook it lazily. She put her hands on the floor, moaned and then smacked her lips, waking up. Then she turned and smiled a sleepy smile at him. What time is it?

Time you got up and put on another CD.

Oh no it isn’t. It’s time I made some coffee. You can put another track on darling.

She walked unsteadily into the kitchen. Dave could hear her moving around while he got up to stretch his legs. The room was about fifteen feet long and was fairly sparely furnished because they had only just moved in together and didn’t have much money. The one door was on the right wall, looking from where Dave had been sitting. It lead to a small landing with the bathroom, shared with the bed sit on the mezzanine below, through a door to the left and stairs down beyond. To the right was the kitchen, and then the bedroom. Theirs was the top flat in the building.

Dave walked down towards the front window to stretch his legs. To his right, only high enough to kneel at, was a small carved oak table with an angle-poise lamp, a writing pad, some pens, incense sticks and a dictionary on it. This was Sharon’s writing table. He saw his new passport lying near the edge.

Dave knew the working black fire place, tasteful modern furniture, beige carpet and white walls would impress Sharon’s parents.

The room was so hot that he felt like he had a second skin of something warm and furry but it felt nice. It wasn’t like the furry skin that covers your eyes as well in a hot room with central heating. He took off his jumper leaving him wearing just his white T-shirt on top. He spun around and unselfconsciously started to dance but then stopped himself. He was too shy to let Sharon find him doing this when she came back into the room. The effects of the last spliff were wearing off and he suddenly remembered he was meant to be doing something. But what? He looked at his hands:

‘Yup, feels right.’ he thought. ‘Definitely something to do with them. Oh yeah. I’ meant to be choosing some music.’

He walked back past the chair to the dining area and knelt down in front of the CD rack. He started flicking the CDs but then realised he knew what he wanted to put on.

‘Was it what Sharon was in the mood for though?’ he wondered.

He suddenly decided to take the risk:

Santana, Borboletta it is.

He took the Beethoven CD out and put in on top of the player on the pile of other CDs played tonight. He was too lazy to re-case them now.

He put in the Santana just as the door opened and Sharon came back in, holding two mugs of coffee in her right hand and a digestive in her mouth. She had a self-satisfied, cheeky grin on her face. He pressed ‘play’ and got up to join her. She handed him his favourite blue mug.

Hehe asked, Is any of that for me, looking at the biscuit?

She nodded and made an Ah, huh sound in her throat before breaking off the half of the biscuit not in her mouth and holding it out. He opened his mouth and she slid it in. He munched, almost contentedly, as the strange opening track, with its whirring sound, like a swarm of moths, started.

He glanced at her slyly to see if she approved. She sat down, cross-legged, facing him on the other side of the glass ash-tray without showing a flicker of emotion. This made him slightly uncomfortable. She pulled out three Rizlas and started licking them. He decided he would close his eyes to concentrate on the music. Dave often felt she was more centred than he was and now was one of those times. He knew enough about people to know that people liked different amounts of control and he knew Sharon needed more control than he did. She was usually the one who instigated sex and she was the one who pretty much decided everything about the flat. In her job at the solicitors, she had quite a lot of control and he could see her excelling at any occupation about rules, which is what the law is. She was a strange mixture of sensuality and control. She was almost anal but not in the sexual sense although he wandered if she had tried that, or might, one day. The album went on about oneness and he did feel a oneness but with himself.

He opened his eyes to see how she was getting on. She was just inserting the roach and was deep in concentration. She didn’t look at him. He wondered if she was thinking anything. His normal level of paranoia was being heightened by the dope, but he was excited at the thought of another spliff. He glanced at his guitar, waiting ready on its stand on the other side of the fire, feeling that, at some point soon, he would feel like playing it. He put his hands behind him but realised that this probably looked like an invitation to hand him the spliff.

Sharon struck a match and lit the spliff, held away from her mouth. Then she took the first, cautious drag. He watched her long, dark brown, almost black, hair framing her sensuous face in cascades. Her eyes were often narrowed, as if slyly watching the world, her nose small and cute and her mouth was full, and red with lipstick although it was often tightly pursed in disapproval. Her neck disappeared into his roll-neck jumper, an Argyll patterned affair he’d received from his parents. It was probably chosen by his mother. Below her neck, he could see the bulge of her large, beautiful breasts. He didn’t know what size they were, he hadn’t asked, but they were larger than any other girl’s that he’d been out with and although they sagged a bit under their own weight, he loved them. He called them tits once but she’d corrected him:

I prefer breasts. she’d said.

Below this, although you couldn’t tell now because she was squatting cross-legged, her bum was full but not too big. But her legs he didn’t think about, too much. When he did he knew they were fat, even rolling in fat, but he tried not to think about them.

Nobody’s perfect, he often told himself.

But then hated himself for settling for second best. In general she leaned towards the fat side, which extended to her face, wrist and ankles but he didn’t mind these as they gave her a sort of cuddliness.

She glanced at him and gave him a cheeky but remote smile. She knew what he was thinking. He was hoping she was in the mind for sex tonight. He checked between his legs mentally.

‘Yup, all’s well there.’ he thought.

Her face disappeared behind the red signal of another draw and the subsequent smoke that lifted lazily away from her mouth. Her neck rippled as she swallowed. She savoured the feeling before reaching over him, her left hand to his right on the carpet, and reversing the spliff to place it in his open mouth.

She let go and he took a long draw. He knew Sharon’s spliff’s weren’t as strong as his. She was quite a tentative smoker, probably because she knew her parents wouldn’t approve but also perhaps because she didn’t like losing control. He drew the sweet-tasting hot air down his throat and felt the something enter his brain. Like billions of tiny creatures lifting his brain, his normal rational thoughts just drifted away.

Talk about your woman.

Give her some respect.

She’ll give you her devotion.

Not just outside emotion.

Talk about your country.

Really no such thing for me.

Whole world, whole world.

Just one big family.

Dave was in the music. The words and sounds danced around him like fireflies. All he could see was music. Carlos and the boys were just so good together.

Da, -na, -na, -na, –Da nah.

He opened his eyes to see Sharon, rocking gently to the music.

‘That’s a good sign.’ he thought.

He took a much longer drag and held the spliff ready by resting his hand on his denim-coered knee. This time he really was leaving the known world.

Crisscross patterns of music flew across his view, revealing sunsets and lapping waves on sandy shores. Some kind of gull swooped lazily over him. Everything seemed so peaceful and beautiful. Then, out of the mist, dancing up on the very edge of existence, was Carlos Santana, a white figure, small, moving so fast and enigmatically, one could hardly track him. Then, he was off, climbing up, up, way up beyond the clouds to some further region of light, leading you on into some glimpsed paradise, like a painting without end. Lozenge colours burst and shapes clothed themselves in sound as the guitar solo spiraled down and down and then the singer continued.

Then, the track ended and the next, strange, track began. Fast timbales followed by the frame-drum and then a weird sound of an alto-sax playing bizarre and haunting, descending scales.

‘This is my favourite track,’ Dave thought. ‘I want to do something like this with the band.’

He started wondering how he could get such a sound from two guitars, bass and drums but then stopped himself. He was meant to be relaxing. He let the colours rush over him. Strange creatures came into being for the briefest moments. Dusky pink sank into a rising school of blue things like whales, only without limbs or form. He concentrated on one and it ducked and dived before winking at him and then the smile was a grin, then an evil grin and he looked away. A thing with weird, blue wings edged in crimson, the very edge a golden filigree, rose up and he heard a strange wailing sound, as of a great bird like the flying ring-wraith steeds in the book, ‘Lord of the Rings’. Suddenly all was blackness, the wings like black leather, harnesses of steel. Shapes moved menacingly towards him and he thought:

‘Oh no. Negative thoughts.’

He forced himself to think positive and just at that moment the track faded. He involuntarily gasped as he opened his eyes.

Sharon was lying flat on her back, her arms outstretched, making a cross-shape with her body. She hadn’t heard his small gasp. He smiled. The spliff had gone out and he re-lit it, having to roll forward to reach the matches. He sneaked a quick drag before touching her knee to offer her the spliff.

She sat up, saying What? Oh.

She took the spliff without acknowledging him, reaching for it with her purple nail-polished fingers.

‘Practice what you Preach’ started. Dave didn’t like it so much but at least it calmed his nerves. He tapped his hands dutifully but was happy when the next track started.

‘Oh yeah,’ he thought. This is cool; ‘I am just a Mirage.’’

He remembered that for years he walked around mistakenly singing I am just a Moonlight. thinking these were the words. He had left the record behind when he left home and hadn’t heard it for years and when he was younger he had never listened that closely to the lyrics. Recently he had bought the CD and smiled to himself when he discovered the correct words. The sensuous bass-line, like a snake, gave the track a pulse; he loved it. There was still one line he couldn’t get. It sounded like; Dared and double-dyed. He was quite proud of himself for finding out that ‘double-dyed’ was an actual clothier’s term meaning ‘dyed twice’. He wasn’t sure it was correct though. Each time he listened, he listened very closely, trying to tell, trying to decipher it.

The much safer track, ‘Here and Now’, started. When the drum passage came, he knew he had been looking forward to it and played along with it in his head. He had heard somewhere that this was the first time a phaser had been used on drums but he knew this couldn’t be true. He’d heard something similar on ‘Axis: Bold as Love’ by Jimi Hendrix and that had been recorded six years earlier. When he heard this bit, it made him think of the programme ‘The Aeronauts’ when he was a kid. The phaser made the drums sound like a jet plane flying from one side of him to the other.

At the end, the track dropped into ‘Promise of a Fisherman’. This was a long, fast fusion jam, mostly in a minor key but which resolved in two places into a major key.

Dave thought, ‘No, this is my favourite track.’

It was as if the musicians were fish swimming further and further up an ever-narrowing gully or pipe of water. As they went further, he felt sure they would each fall out and stop playing until there was only one left but they didn’t. They all kept going till the end. As the track went on, each musician’s part became stripped down to its bare minimum and then beyond this to where it’s being clipped and then only a suggestion of itself; half-finished phrases.

To Dave, Carlos and the bass player, Stanley Clarke, seemed to be pushing each other harder and harder.

‘Stanley Clarke is a guest on this album and clearly feels inclined to push Carlos very hard, something Carlos’ own band doesn’t usually do.’ he thought. ‘They usually take his lead and he’s in control.’

Here, though, at one point, the bass player, seemingly seeing where Carlos is going, started playing a riff which took Carlos well out of control and, already on a high note, Carlos resorted to distortion and a violent tremolo effect to express how he felt.

‘It’s as if he can’t keep up and is angry with himself. It’s his dark side showing up, which is unusual as he’s usually such a spiritual player. The guitar sounds like an anguished beast,’ Dave conjectured, lost in his own thoughts.

Carlos quickly regained his composure and soon the track resolved into the major key for a serene ending. The short percussion track which followed, finished the album.

While this was playing, he opened his eyes and took in the room. He noticed that the fire was low, the dancing shapes flickering fainter on the walls now. The album ended.

Wow. That was something else, he exclaimed.

Hmm. she said, half like a moan of pleasure.

Dave wished he didn’t say things like That was something else. But he did and that was that.

Need another log, he added.

Do we?

He knew this meant you do it. He didn’t enjoy the unsteady feeling in his legs and the rushing feeling in his head when he stood up to prod the fire back into life. He guessed this would be the last log, it was 12.30, so he put the guard noisily in front of the fire and lined it up.

Why have you done that? It’s early.

It’s 12.30. he said, pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece.

Well. Neither of us have to work tomorrow.

‘That’s true’ he thought. ‘Why am I so… what was the word; organized; precipitate?’

A log lasts an hour anyway. He said. We can always put another one on.

How right you are, Doctor Dee.

She seemed in a playful mood, which was good. She was still lying down and had been for some time, though no longer in the cruciform position.

Is there any of that left? he asked.

Don’t think so. I lit it again in that last track.

‘How did she do that’ he thought. ‘I was well away.’

How did you do that? He put a polite up-tilt at the end of the sentence.

Oh. Carlos helped me. she said to the ceiling.

She held the spliff up above her face. Yup. All gone. she said in a mock child’s voice.

He sat down on the floor with his back to the chair again.

"I’d love to do something like that with the band. I don’t think I’m a good enough player though."

"You could do it. You put yourself down. Maybe not so fast but you can do it."

"Yeah, that’s the point. It’s fast and fluid and I don’t think I can do that."

She seemed to think for a moment. I like your guitar playing.

This was like a non-move. She was waiting to see what he’d say. There was a silence hanging in the air.

He almost didn’t care. But music was his passion and he wanted to involve her.

Even if I was good enough, I’m not the band leader so the others wouldn’t do it. Ph! You usually have to lead from the front, I would have to say, which would probably mean singing.

Why not? I’d say you’ve got a good voice.

He was about to say the word, But without even thinking before realising that he was starting to make excuses. He knew the real reason was because he didn’t think he could control something like a band. He knew you needed great powers of control or large amounts of wisdom, neither of which he had. He liked to go with the flow. He had a slight feeling of desperation, that he would disappoint her, if he admitted he couldn’t do it. Furthermore, the feeling of losing what little control he had of the conversation was making him feel slightly lost. He wanted to run or make her stop. He was frustrated and angry. She seemed so in-control. He felt vulnerable.

I’m going to the loo. he said as he left the room.

As he opened the bathroom door, he said to himself She’s making plans for me I just can’t live up to. Then, Why’s she doing this? Is she enjoying it?

He pulled the cord to turn on the light and closed the door. The cold brightness in the bathroom was startling. As he pulled down his zip and pulled it out, he tried to steady himself.

‘Maybe she’s got a point.’

He placed his feet wide apart and crouched slightly to make the target bigger. His piss often didn’t come out straight when he was pissed off. He aimed and fired.

He flushed the loo, turned round, opened the door, pulled the toggle and walked out without washing his hands. He couldn’t be bothered tonight.

As he shut the lounge door, she said, Brr. It’s cold. Put another log on the fire and I’ll roll another one.

She may not have being trying to help him but this small task and the promise of another spliff calmed him. After putting another log on, he noticed his mug was still full. He laughed.

He noticed she’d emptied hers. This might be another reason he wasn’t thinking straight. He needed caffeine. He picked up the mug and started gulping. He stopped.

Euch. It’s cold.

He drank it anyway. Then, on impulse, he picked up his acoustic and started checking to see if it was tuned. He didn’t really feel like playing anything; he just wanted to hear its sound. The magical tones of harmonics, played with the tips of the fingers of the left hand just momentarily touching the strings, lifted from the guitar and spun around the room.

After only a moment, Sharon said, You know that album ‘Sir John, A Lot Of’ you’re listening to a lot?

He immediately put his guitar down.

Oh yeah.

You know how you say one track is really like the inside of a castle, sounds like it was made inside a castle?

Yeah. Can’t remember the name of the track.

Why don’t we visit a castle; Leeds Castle isn’t far. Or Windsor Castle.

Oooh. Yeah. Next Saturday maybe? They were planning to see a movie the next day and go shopping on Sunday.

Okay.

He laid down next to the fire on the white rug and then rolled over on his back. He looked at the moving patterns.

Out of the bottom of his eyes he saw Sharon moving towards him. She climbed on top of him and then lay down on him full length with her shining eyes facing his. As she did so she pushed his hands out to his side so that both their bodies formed cruciform shapes. He liked the feeling of her weight on top of him, not too heavy, just warm and comfortable. She rested her mouth on his and they played a brief game of teasing each other with their lips and eyes, neither fully kissing the other but making brief little kisses, before Sharon made a sigh and laid the side of her face contentedly on his neck. He carried on watching the shadows on the ceiling as the rhythm and melodies of ‘I am just a Mirage’ played on in his head.

After a few minutes he started consciously singing, I am just a Mirage… to her gently. She hummed along for a few moments.

I like it when you sing. The vibration from you sounds so good, she murmured. After a few more minutes she announced, I think I’m going to bed darling.

Okay.

The fire was getting low and the room was getting cold. She lazily got up and left the room. He could soon hear her moving about in the bathroom next door. He laid still for a few more minutes before checking the fire, opening the door and switching the lights. He carryied the two mugs into the kitchen and left them in the bowl in the sink. Humming to himself, he made two mugs of Bolivian Drinking Chocolate from a tin he’d bought in Oxfam. He really loved the stuff; rich dark chocolate, much better than Cadbury’s and Bourneville. Carrying the mugs in his right hand he turned off the kitchen light and went towards the bedroom. When he got to the door he pushed it and heard the dull thud of it hitting something. He pushed harder and it opened with some resistance.

He stepped in, looking at the base of the door and saw that Sharon had kicked off her slippers and they were jamming the door.

Must be really tired. he thought.

The bedroom floor was littered with clothes. There was hardly a bit of carpet visible. On the opposite side of the room was the small window, almost always covered completely with a thick curtain and to his right was a large fitted cupboard, left door slid open and with a poster of the film ‘Casablanca’ on the right door. To his left, right next to the bed – there wasn’t space for a chair – was the dressing table and mirror with all Sharon’s stuff on it and a small tape player. The only light came from a table-lamp on the back of the dresser. Stepping carefully, Dave put the two mugs on the mat on the corner of the dressing table and then pulled off his jumper and jeans and got under the dark blue duvet. Sharon was facing away from him, curled up. He gave her shoulders a gentle nudge as he handed her one of the mugs. She didn’t respond.

Hey, I’ve got you some hot chocolate. he said. No reaction.

Dave shrugged and put her mug back on the dressing table. He sat sipping his chocolate, looking vaguely ahead at the fitted cupboard. He was resigned but slightly disappointed.

***

On the Saturday they went to see the new film ‘Terminator’. It wasn’t really his sort of thing and they were both disappointed. On the way home they picked up an Indian takeaway and laid it all out on the table in the dining area.

By candlelight, after dinner, and with a glass of red wine each, they played chess. He had been teaching her although he wasn’t a particularly good player himself. They both suffered from the malaise that they enjoyed the opening game and middle game but didn’t enjoy that peculiar process of achieving checkmate at the end. They both agreed that it required a certain manipulative mode of thought and led to no real satisfaction. As usual, the game fizzled out towards the end of the middle game with the red wine helping to move their attention away.

Shall I read you my new poem? she asked.

Okay. You mean ‘Autumn Leaves’?

Um hm. She stood up and walked to the front of the room to pick up her notebook. She sat down and opened it at the right place before flattening it in front of her at the table. The up-lighting on her face from the candle gave the reading a more sombre feel than usual.

Autumn Leaves… she started.

Dave was transported by the words, as he usually was. It was an atmospheric soliloquy, whose individual words escaped him, but it communicated well her sadness at losing her ex, Sean, from New Zealand.

Autumn leaves are falling.

As I watch them fall, they speak

Saying to me,

Never again, never again.

These were the final words of the poem and Dave had always felt they were disappointing, not communicating disappointment but actually disappointing from a literary point of view.

Hmm. Don’t you think ‘As they fall, they speak’ is better? Also it sounds like you are trying to draw it to a conclusion rather than letting it conclude.

He knew there was an element of cruelty in saying this because she was even more sensitive about her writing than he was and it’s really not easy bringing any prose to a conclusion. He said it anyway.

She was silent. She looked concerned for a moment.

Hm. Yes I think those words could… be better. I know what you mean about the conclusion but no other words have come to me. She did sound slightly frustrated. She seemed to take it on board however and the conversation continued about writing in general before eventually, they went to bed.

***

It was Monday 7.23am, on the Piccadilly line. Dave was slouched against the glass partition at the end of the seats next to the doors with his right hand gripping the handrail above him. He wouldn’t have said he was really good looking but he did get women staring at him occasionally. About five feet, eleven inches and of broad, if not muscular, build, he had short, light brown hair, a wide, round, almost baby face which often broke into a broad grin from ear to ear, and freckles. He was wearing a brown pullover and jeans and was on his way to work.

For some reason an image of himself at six months old, seated at the end of the garden eating chocolate buttons came into his mind. With the chocolate smeared all around his plump face, he looked so confident; looked like Winston Churchill. It was from a photograph that his parents had but he was sure he could remember eating the chocolate buttons. The image brought a smile to his face but it was tinged with consternation. He remembered and felt all too well the feelings of confusion as his mother slipped away from him. As he grew, she was always just beyond reach, always manipulating him, and deceiving him. He had the feeling that if you really pinned her down on it she would say she wanted to make him strong. The fact that she often admitted, when he was little, that she’d never wanted kids and she wished she’d never had him belied this.

He remembered one incident in particular, the only time he could ever remember her hugging him. She was teaching him to read at three years old which was very early and before he’d even been to Nursery School. She had some flashcards, cards with single words in large letters, about six inches long. She passed them in front of his eyes while he sat on her lap. He could read the simple words like ‘cat’ and ‘sat’ but was stuck when it came to the two-syllable word ‘mother’. He tried and tried but it wouldn’t come. She started shaking him and in a furious rage she thrashed him with her bare hands.

I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, she screamed, her teeth clenched. He was totally disorientated. He was aware of his own crying but more aware of dizziness and pain in his hands and face. Suddenly, as if realising how close she had come to killing him, she dragged him back onto her knees and hugged him.

I’m sorry darling. I’m sorry.

He remembered being more convinced by the guilt and fear in her eyes than the remorse in her words. They meant nothing to him.

On the way home he met Sue on the train. He often did as they both used the end carriage to escape the worst of the crowding and went home at the same time. Sue lived in the mezzanine bed-sit. She was a translator of German and English and was usually away in Europe somewhere. She was going out with James, a huge Englishman of six feet seven inches or more.

In the evening, Sharon reheated the leftovers from the large kedgeree she had cooked on Sunday and sprinkled cheese on top. There was still some red wine left from Saturday so they finished this. They were eating on the wooden table in the kitchen. Even with a hatch, eating in the dining area was too much effort. During conversation she made several comments which appeared out of context to Dave. He was still feeling horny from Friday; he hadn’t fallen asleep for several hours that night. While they were talking he wondered hopefully if she was in the mood. When they finished eating and talking he stepped up to the washing-up bowl. They took in turns washing and drying and tonight was his turn to wash. Suddenly she pulled him around and kissed him. Her breath was hot and there was no doubt now that she was in the mood.

Dave wasn’t very vocal but she often showered him with words; Sugar. Darling. Yes! I like that!

With a conspiratorial smile she said, Let’s go into the bedroom.

She held his hand as they entered the bedroom.

She said, Close the door.

Sharon climbed on the bed and knelt facing him. He cupped her large breasts and leaned forward to kiss her. His head was slightly higher than hers, even bending down so she turned her head back so he could kiss her warm lips. He was filled with the thrill of anticipation, thinking of her naked body. The first time he had seen her at a party he had wanted to hold her body. There had seemed to be a yellow light around her with all the rest of the party fading into the shadows. He felt like he was looking down a long tunnel as her eyes set on him. Tonight she was only wearing a woolly purple jumper and jeans. They both took their jumpers off. He took off his T-shirt as well. He watched her smiling as she reached behind her and undid her purple bra. He felt himself getting harder as he saw it loosen at the front and then she drooped her shoulders while she let it slip off. Her beautiful big breasts were released and dropped ever so slightly and forming that lovely set of shapes with her nipples getting a harder. She rumpled her hair up over her head into a mock bun and then higher so her hair looked like a waterfall flowing from her hands. She turned her face to the side, enjoying his attention. Reaching towards her hips. He put his thumbs inside the thongs of her knickers. She moaned slightly and raised herself up on her knees so he could pull he knickers down, which he did, slowly. The silk made a ‘shh’ sound as it slid down her smooth legs. The hair between her legs made a neat triangle. To Dave she looked incredibly beautiful. She clasped his hands