An Open Swimmer Read Free Page A

but Jerra silenced him with a showing of teeth.
    Rims of water glistened in the old man’s eyes. His cheeks were red in the firelight.
    â€˜Smoke?’
    Sean shook his head ungraciously.
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Jerra. ‘Don’t smoke.’
    â€˜Gawd. Nothin’ to be sorry about, son. Bastards ’ave never done me any good. Jus’ more pins in the b’loon. Still, they’re somethink.’
    A doughy wad was rolled across the palms, fingers the colour of scorched twigs. A rolling tongue followed the movement.
    â€˜Put the billy on, Sean. We’ll have a brew.’
    Jerra watched the tobacco rolled into a brittle sliver of paper. There was print on both sides.
    â€˜How do you like your tea?’ asked Jerra.
    â€˜To chew, like real baccy. But as a bev’ridge – dark an’ black.’
    â€˜Sugar?’
    â€˜Nah. Rots yer guts.’
    Jerra smiled faintly, picking the black bits out of the powdered milk.
    â€˜Thought it was teeth.’
    â€˜No problem there.’
    Sean lowered the billy into the flames. Drops on the outside turned to steam.
    â€˜How long you been here?’
    â€˜Maybe twenty years, give or take a war.’
    â€˜In the shack all that time?’
    â€˜That an’ the shed on the beach.’
    â€˜On the beach?’ said Sean. ‘There isn’t one on the beach.’
    â€˜Gone.’
    â€˜Where?’ asked Sean.
    â€˜Burnt down. A long while back.’
    The old man was looking right into the orange twists. He drew out a stick, lit it, watching the flame all the way up to his face and back.
    â€˜What sort of paper is that?’ asked Jerra.
    â€˜Bible.’
    â€˜Eh?’
    â€˜Ran out of papers. Years ago. Still ’ad a couple of old Gideons we knocked off from a fancy motel. Last one, this. Only just warmin’ up on it. You cut ’em up the columns and whack off a few verses.’
    It stank. Jerra tried not to grimace.
    â€˜Where you up to?’ grinned Sean.
    The old man chuffed smoke. You could hear him suck on the paper.
    â€˜Deuteronomy. Eighteen? Nineteen. Tough goin’. Cities ’n rules. Verse thirteen: You shall be blameless before your God. Fourteen: For these nations . . .  er . . . bugger, I can’t remember.’ He kneaded the hard of his crusty hands. ‘What do you do for a livin’, son?’
    â€˜I’m a clerk,’ said Sean. ‘Of sorts.’
    â€˜For a company, eh?’
    â€˜Yeah, sort of.’
    Jerra made a face.
    â€˜School before that?’
    â€˜Uni, actually.’
    â€˜The Uni, eh?’ The old man grinned. ‘They tell yer anything at the Uni?’
    â€˜I majored in history.’
    â€˜History. Learn a pack from the past. Yer can too. Ever learn you anythink?’
    Sean looked into the fire, lips compressed. Heat ticked in the billy. Wisps weaved through holes in the lid. The old man looked at Jerra.
    â€˜I’m out of work.’
    â€˜Got a trade?’
    â€˜No. But I’ve worked on the fishing boats back along the coast, last year. Things got a bit rough. A tough season. I got laid off.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ sighed the old man. ‘Things’d be rough. Like the boats?’
    â€˜It was rough. But okay. I liked the fish.’
    Sean, perched on his log, rolled his eyes, scalloping a hole in the dirt with his heel.
    â€˜Ah, yeah,’ said the old man scuffing his hands together, little greenish flecks of tobacco catching in the hard cracks. He expanded a little. ‘Fish. The things a fish’d know, eh?’
    â€˜Yep.’
    â€˜Know anythink about fish?’
    â€˜â€™Bout all he does know,’ said Sean.
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Jerra, ignoring the sarcasm. After all, it was true enough.
    â€˜What about one f’every letter of the alphabet?’
    â€˜He can do two at least.’
    The old man looked at Sean.
    â€˜Can he