Hidden River (Five Star Paperback) Read Free Page B

hell.”
    I grabbed her by the arm as she desperately tried to get her trousers and T-shirt on at the same time. I fumbled into my jacket, scrambled on deck. The guard probably thought it was routine. Just starting down the ramp, not exactly racing, eating crisps, but regardless we were screwed because there was only one way in and out of the marina—past him. We would have to hide in another boat, or swim to the jetty wall, or walk by him and brazen it out.
    “Look respectable,” I said, helping her on with her sweater.
    “Ha, coming from you—”
    “Shut it, he hasn’t seen us, come on.”
    We climbed over the safety rail and stepped onto the wooden dock. The guard two aisles over, munching his crisps, lost in thought. We began walking casually.
    “Talk to me,” I said.
    “So Mother and I decided to go to the same psychiatrist but he said—”
    “Talk sensible,” I interrupted.
    “In English I have to write an essay on a personal hell. We’re reading No Exit, the Sartre play. You know—hell is other people,” she said.
    “Other French people, certainly,” I said.
    “Well, yes, so, what’s your personal hell?” she asked.
    “I don’t know. Um, being trapped in a lift with Robin Williams?”
    We turned the curve on the dock, past the guard. He gave us a look, but one of relative unconcern. We hastened our pace and walked fast to the exit. We were nearly at the turnstile when the guard yelled at us to stop. Or at least our translation of a strangled “Hey, youse, get back harble garble, trabba dap.”
    We ducked through the turnstile.
    “This is where we split,” I said.
    “Sex, drugs, a brush with the law—you certainly know how to show a girl a good time. How can I get in contact with—”
    “You don’t until you turn eighteen,” I said.
    “What’s your name at least?” she began to say but I was already jogging across the park.
    “Wanker,” she called after me.
    I didn’t reply.
    I realized what I’d forgotten. I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket. I had left one of my baggies of ketch on the boat. It had gotten wet in last night’s downpour and I’d left it somewhere on that bloody chart table to dry. Now I had only one small bag left. Damn it. And I had been trying to avoid Spider. Just enough now for a couple of days: I’d have to go crawling to him. Have to get some money somehow. Have to show up at that pub quiz and of course Spider would be there too.
    Bugger. I cursed myself for five minutes. Finally calmed down.
    Take care of the day at hand, Alex, I told myself. First things first. I had to get my free supply of needles, using John’s dad’s diabetic prescription. A different drugstore every week just to erase suspicion.
    Today: Smith’s Chemist. Ok, do that. I went in with my prescription, browsed the newspapers while they took their sweet time filling it.
    “Hello, Alex, how’s your dad?” a voice behind me said. Mr. Patawasti.
    “Oh, he’s fine, how are you?”
    “I’m fine, the knees, you know, but still have to get out. I’m just getting the papers, The Times for me, Guardian for the wife. Poison and antidote, I like to call them. Though I never let on which is which,” Mr. Patawasti said in that upper-class Indian accent of his.
    I laughed but before I could reply the clerk said that my prescription was ready.
    “See you another time, Mr. P.,” I said.
    “Another time, Alex,” Mr. Patawasti said.
    I walked out of the drugstore, satisfied that at least I had needles for another week. I suppose I should have asked Mr. Patawasti about Victoria. The last I’d heard, she had some new job in America. Still, it would keep. I’d see him around.
    I walked home. I had things to do. Plans for the coming day or days. But no further than that. I couldn’t live further than that. A sensible policy, for I didn’t know that it was done now. Done. Events set in motion that would carry me away from this depressing little scene, to Belfast Airport, Heathrow