Infested Read Free Page A

on and the mist had lifted, leaving the sun free to
warm my skin, I began to come across boats moored at the side of the river.
Most were motor-cruisers; sleek, pointed at the front and of various ages and
states of repair. Some were gleaming with polished chrome and colourful paint
whereas others could have been abandoned, green with algae and moss. Most, of
course, were somewhere in between, well used and well loved. On the small
decks of more than one, people sat out eating breakfast and reading the
morning’s papers. One or two looked up and waved good morning as I slid by but
as I passed, I pulled my hat low over my eyes, acutely aware they could well be
looking at a grainy photograph of me in the pages of their daily rags.
    There was something satisfying about being up early and observing the
world wake around me, as if the early hours after dawn were a secret shared
between me and the creatures which inhabited the river. But now the river was
coming to life with human activity and the steady thrum of an engine from
around the next bend alerted me to an approaching boat. I moved over toward
the right bank to let it pass and it edged over to the opposite side. The
driver slowed and waved as he came by, shouting good morning and his wife –
wrinkled and brown, with bleach blonde curls – did the same, before he
increased the power to the engine, causing the pitch to rise, as the couple
continued up the river to enjoy their morning. The boat’s wake ruffled the
water, making reflections dance as I bounced over them, before the water once
again became flat and the noise of the engine gradually faded to silence behind
me.
     
    Sometime later the river split into two channels. One had a wire rope
spanning the width, with orange floats threading along its length and signs warning
of danger. From beyond it could be heard the sound of rushing water. A white,
square and well battered sign pointed down the other channel, toward the lock. As
it was quite obvious which way to go, I headed the signed and safe way, where
river cruisers were moored bow to stern in long lines at either bank, jostling
for space. After the quiet of the river upstream, it was a strange sensation
to be surrounded by so much human traffic.
    Ahead of me were the lock gates, constructed out of thick, tar-coated
planks. They were closed, while the banks were now clear of boats and
constructed of tall concrete, with metal ladders set into the side at
intervals. On top of the gates stood the lock keeper, his back turned away
from me and deep in conversation with someone unseen. I pulled over to the
side and clung to one of the ladders, contemplating whether to empty the canoe
and try to haul it out of the water and carry it around when the lock-keeper
leaned his back onto one of the long handles at the top of the gate and pushed
it open, before leaping across the open gap to open the other side. It was
then he seemed to see me and waved, cheerily smiling. “Are you coming
through?” he shouted down.
    “Yes, can I?” I hadn’t been sure whether or not canoes were allowed.
    “No problem, just let this one out first,” he said as the front end of
a cruiser emerged from between the gates. He waved them off, obviously a man
who enjoyed his job, before beckoning me to enter.
    I pushed myself away from the steps, relieved I wouldn’t have to empty
the canoe and carry it, and paddled slowly between the gates. “Where you off
to?” asked the lock-keeper in his soft Gloucestershire accent. I couldn’t help
thinking he looked the spitting image of Lee Van Cleef.
    “Dunno,” I replied. “I’ve got a few days; I’ll see how far I get.
    “Nice,” he said. “You got a licence?”
    “No, can I get one for a week please?”
    “No problem. Give me a minute to get the paperwork.” He went to the
gates at the other end of the lock and turned a wheel to begin letting the
water out before venturing into his small, brick hut.
    When first entering the lock my