Water Rites

by Guy N Smith

  Joe had made up his mind to become a bargee; a youthful fantasy that was on the verge of becoming reality. He would enjoy the best of both worlds; the life of a canal boatman but without the heavy physical work of loading and unloading cargoes.

  With the coming of autumn he took to renovating the Narita in preparation for his new life the following spring. Some extensive interior work was necessary if the boat was to become his permanent home.

  He now took to sleeping on board every night.

  The prospect of flooding didn’t worry Joe Graham. Canal levels seldom rose noticeably; there was no current and, in any case, depth could always be regulated by the system of locks. A drought gave far more reason for concern when there wasn’t water available to release into the canals.

  He slept on the boat on the night of the big storm. He saw no reason to stay in the house; the boat was snug and warm, it was protected from the gales by Hopwas Wood to the west, the sides were well buffered against the brick towpath. Sleep soundly and be damned, he smoked a last pipe of strong shag tobacco before retiring. They had ceased production of Bargee shag a quarter of a century ago but Joe had come across one of the original two ounce tins, well rusted and dented but all the more authentic for it, at an antique bazaar. He used it to keep his tobacco in.

  His stubby, blackened pipe was the nearest he could find to the one smoked by the boatman in the picture on the tin. Sometimes Joe hand rolled cigarettes. The black tobacco had taken a lot of getting used to at first, but he had persevered and now he smoked a couple of ounces a week, he refused to acknowledge metric weights.

  He even had a red-and-white polka-dot scarf which he knotted around his neck. It had taken him a lifetime to achieve the status of bargee, but now he was within weeks of achieving his ambition. Mabel wouldn’t have approved, God rest her soul, but surely, wherever she was, she would wish him well so long as she didn’t have to live on a boat.

  He blew out the kerosene lamp and climbed into his bunk. The canal had a swell on it but that was an occupational hazard of barging.

  He was asleep within minutes.

  He slept late the following morning. He wasn’t a religious man, his only observance of the Sabbath was to lie in bed late on that day, a habit that came from a lifetime of working six days a week. Self-employment in light engineering had no time for holidays; Sundays were his only entitlement to laziness. He saw no reason to alter his routine now.

  He lay there in his bunk, a bed would have been sacrilege, listening to the storm buffeting the small craft. The elements had not relented overnight but they would surely blow themselves out soon.

  Something was different, he spent a long time in between drowsing trying to work out what it was. Then he realized; the Narita wasn’t bumping against the towpath the way it had been when he’d bunked. That was very strange, especially in this wind which shouldn’t have been as strong as it was in his sheltered mooring.

  Joe climbed down, pulled one of the curtains and stared out through the window in amazement and disbelief.

  His first thought was that somehow he had drifted on to the Norfolk Broads, those watery wastelands where boat leasing firms made a fortune in the holiday season. Joe had taken Mabel there once, they’d sailed for a whole week, putting ashore only twice. It was after that that she had voiced her dislike of vacations afloat.

  No, it was impossible, there was no way he could have drifted all the way from the Marina to the Broads. Wooded hills rose on the western skyline, he recognized the turret of the Wood House. In the opposite direction, across the water, he spied the familiar tower of Tamworth church. Somewhere in between the river flowed; it had burst its banks, flooded all the low lying ground, joined up with the canal.

  The Narita had somehow come adrift in the storm, floated away. The only reason it wasn’t moving now was because it was caught up in a patch of osiers. No problem, he had only to start up the engine and reverse out.

  He decided to eat breakfast first.

  He surveyed the waterscape as he drank his coffee. Some of the low lying houses were completely under water, a roof poking up here and there. The lower end of the village seemed to have fared worst, some of the dwellings were not visible at all. He fetched a pair of binoculars.

  He couldn’t see the Jacksons’ house at all. He was only too familiar with Mrs Jackson and her painting sessions along the canal side, a bad-tempered, vitriolic woman. Once she had asked him to turn the Narita round so that she could paint a picture of it from the other side; he had suggested that she walk back to the footbridge, cross the waterway and paint from the opposite bank. She had become quite abusive at his refusal to concede to her demand; they hadn’t spoken since. Well, maybe she’d like to paint her own bloody house when the floods receded!

  The wind had dropped and it had stopped raining. The clouds were broken, there might even be some sunshine later on. Joe decided he’d stay where he was for the time being, there was precious little to go back to the Marina for. Doubtless, his own cottage was flooded, pity it hadn’t been washed away then he could claim the insurance on it and not have to bother with selling it!

  He thought he heard the sound of an approaching engine, went up on deck. It wouldn’t be a bloody car, for sure.

  It was one of the boats from the Marina. Jim Sturgess, bald headed and wearing the same grey rolled-neck sweater that he’d worn ever since Joe had known him. The Canal Queen was the largest craft at the Marina, Jim was at the helm, there were three or four other men with him.

  “Want a tow out, Joe?” Sturgess let the engine idle.

  “Tow, be buggered! I can back out when I’ve a mind to.”

  “We could use a hand, most of the boats are out. Rescue work, though mostly it’s bringing in dead bodies. The lower end of the village caught the brunt of the flooding. There’s about a dozen folks missing. The reservoir burst, came straight down the hillside.”

  Joe licked his lips, saw a pair of feet sticking out from under a tarpaulin on the other boat.

  “Take Frank on board to help you, Joe,” Sturgess eased nearer. “They’re sending out helicopters as spotters. Mind you, there’s parts of the country a lot worse off than us. We’re lucky.”

  Joe didn’t like Frank Teale any more than he liked the brash Jim Sturgess. Teale was a technical nutcase, all he talked about was engine capacities and fuel consumption and the like, he wasn’t a true boatman. And damned if he was going to let the bugger take the helm, he could fish the corpses out. He’d need a hand, though, and that wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  “There’s sommat over there!” Teale shouted. “Hard down to your left, Joe.”

  A false alarm, Teale was miffed. Joe was relieved. He wished the other would stop giving a running commentary. Joe heard the helicopter long before his companion announced its arrival. And, anyway, they’d have to wait until the floods went down before they found most of the bodies. It was the sensible thing to do, Joe couldn’t understand the urgency. If you were bloody dead, a day or two didn’t make any difference.

  “Hey, just a minute. Slow ’er.”

  Christ, not again! Frank was seeing corpses every hundred yards, the last had turned out to be a piece of flotsam.

  Nevertheless, Joe eased the throttle down, let the Narita drift.

  “Circle round, Joe, come in a bit.”

  Reluctantly, Sturgess did as he was told. It probably wasn’t anything. Thank God!

  “There’s somethin’ down here,” Teale was leaning over the side.

  “Like what?”

  “Dunno, for sure. There it is, now it’s gone again. Keep yer eyes peeled, it comes and goes.”

  Joe watched. Frank wanted them to find a corpse, he maybe felt cheated if they didn’t. It was ghoulish.

  “It’s probably nothing, Frank.”

  “I tell you it bloody is! Look, there it goes again!”

  This time Joe saw it. A shape just below the surface, a head and shoulders, arms moving like whoever it was swam, deliberate
ly didn’t come up. A weak ray of sunshine glinted on the water, something scintillated for perhaps a second. Like a big fish’s tail except that it was damaged and sort of trailed behind. It dived.

  Then it was gone.

  “Christ, what d’you make o’ that, Joe? Bloody strange. Watch carefully, it’ll come up close to the surface again. I’ve spotted it three times already.”

  They waited. Watched. The helicopter came back, circled. Hovered. It went away again.

  Frank Teale shook his head in bewilderment.

  “Some kind o’ fish,” Joe returned to the helm. “Water can sometimes distort things, make ’em seem bigger than they really are. Or even look different.”

  They waited another five minutes but there was no further sign of whatever they had glimpsed in the depths.

  Whatever it was, it had gone.

  Thirty-two

  At least three hundred seventy-six people were feared dead on Sunday night and hundreds more injured after the most violent storm to hit the United States this century.

  Hurricane force winds lashed the country leaving a vast trail of destruction.

  All airports had been closed for more than twenty-four hours and a state of emergency was declared.

  There was an extended news program for the benefit of those fortunate enough still to have television reception.

  Reports of extensive flooding throughout the country were still coming in. The first storm had torn across from west to east, headed on across the Atlantic and battered Britain. Now a second, and larger, followed, completing the destruction. Flooding was widespread.

  In Britain reports were still coming in, too. Mostly, though, the news program was devoted to the capital.

  The Thames Barrier had collapsed, much of London was under water. At this stage it was impossible even to estimate the death toll. It would probably run into thousands nationwide.

  There were weather updates every hour.

  The 10:30 p.m. chart showed a series of sunshine and showers symbols. Mostly showers. Heavy ones.

  “Temperatures will be average for the time of year,” the met office’s TV front man smiled weakly. A glimmer of consolation for those still mopping up or baling out. That was the good news; he took his time, made the most of it.

  He tapped the map nervously in the Atlantic. “The systems which brought the recent torrential rain and gales are now affecting everyone, battering France and Belgium.” It’s always some consolation to know you aren’t the only country being flooded. So we’ve got rid of that lot, another piece of good news. He paused, smiled again.

  The smile faded, his lower lip appeared to tremble slightly, it might have been the flickering of the screen.

  “However,” and now comes the really bad news. He poked at a symbolic cloud mass in the Atlantic, “these systems …” a pause like he was scared of them. A nervous cough. “These systems are part of those which are currently affecting the United States. The first of them will move into Northern Ireland late tomorrow afternoon. Then into southwest Scotland, before moving south to spread across the whole country by Tuesday.”

  He drew a deep breath, winced as though he sensed the anger of his viewers. The bearer of bad tidings is always the scapegoat. A squaring of his shoulders, there was still more to come.

  “Now, look at these isobars, see how close they are together. That means more gales, even stronger than the last lot, storm force winds … structural damage is expected in exposed areas. And behind these systems, yet still more deepening areas of low pressure.”

  He turned to face the cameras, his voice was scarcely audible as if he was afraid to read the words on the monitor in front of him.

  “More severe flooding is expected.”

  The End

  Thank you for purchasing this ebook.

  I hope you enjoyed the read!.

  Guy.

  This ebook is the sixty-fourth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the mid 2013.

  The list of books so far published is :

  1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

  2. The Sucking Pit.

  3. The Slime Beast.

  4. Night of the Crabs.

  5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

  6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

  7. Return of the Werewolf.

  8. Bamboo Guerillas.

  9. Killer Crabs.

  10. Bats Out of Hell.

  11. The Son of the Werewolf.

  12. Locusts.

  13. The Origin of the Crabs.

  14. Caracal.

  15. Thirst.

  16. Deathbell.

  17. Satan's Snowdrop.

  18. Doomflight.

  19. Warhead.

  20. Manitou Doll.

  21. Wolfcurse.

  22. Crabs On The Rampage.

  23. The Pluto Pact.

  24. Entombed.

  25. The Lurkers.

  26. Sabat 1: The Graveyard Vultures.

  27. Sabat 2: The Blood Merchants.

  28. Sabat 3: Cannibal Cult.

  29. Blood Circuit.

  30. Accursed.

  31. Sabat 4: The Druid Connection.

  32. The Undead.

  33. Crabs' Moon.

  34. The Walking Dead.

  35. Throwback.

  36. The Wood.

  37. The Neophyte.

  38. Abomination.

  39. Snakes.

  40. Cannibals.

  41. Alligators.

  42. Bloodshow.

  43. Thirst II: The Plague.

  44. Demons.

  45. Crabs: The Human Sacrifice.

  46. Fiend.

  47. The Island.

  48. Mania.

  49. The Master.

  50. The Camp.

  51. The Festering.

  52. Phobia.

  53. The Unseen.

  54. Carnivore.

  55. The Black Fedora.

  56. The Resurrected.

  57. The Knighton Vampires.

  58. Witch Spell.

  59. The Plague Chronicles.

  60. The Hangman.

  61. The Dark One.

  62. Dead End.

  63. Dead Meat.

  64. Water Rites.

  The next book will be :

  65. The Pony Riders.

  "Among the unique breed of daring young men known as Pony Express riders was 18-year-old Ben Hollister. He'd come West with his family and a trade. A savage Indian attack changed all that. With his parents dead and his sisters abducted, Ben has become known to the Indians as Slayer Who Rides Like the Wind. Fired by recklessness and his skill with horses and guns, Ben allies himself with legendary Express boss - and killer - Joseph Slade. Now, as he rides closer to a final reckoning with the murderous Paiute, Blood Arrow, Ben is willing to sacrifice everything - including the woman he loves - for one perfect moment of revenge..."

  Recently published (but not part of back catalogue conversion) :-

  Night of the Werewolf

  The Eighth Day.

  Killer Crabs: The Return.

  To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.

  View Ebook Catalogue

  Best regards,

  Guy and all at Black Hill Books.