‘No, just resting my eyes. I’ll do the canoe as well, please, should be fun. And wake me up when we’re there. Cheers. Night night.’
The group laughed, at me or with me, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t care. How hard could it be?
Half asleep I clambered off the bus, following everyone into a large wooden and concrete log cabin in the middle of a dull, cold, drizzly, green, barren landscape situated besides a slow, muddy, brown river. The room was full of damp-smelling wetsuits and puddles and industrial-sized hairdryers. Feeling weak, I changed into a soggy wetsuit. I tried to eat a chocolate bar I’d stashed in my pocket but felt sick straightaway. I ate an indigestion tablet instead and burped up a chalky gas bubble.
We had a brief safety talk. I tried to pay attention. I must remember to cross my arms over my chest and keep my toes pointing up should I fall out of the canoe, yada, yada, yada. I was switching off instead, concentrating on trying to get some heat into my freezing feet. It was all basic stuff apparently that everyone with any canoeing experience should know; unfortunately I had no experience. I was beyond novice. I’d been in a pedalo in Menorca. The beautiful Björk then spoke to me about how to get someone back in the boat should they happen to fall out. She recommended holding them close to the boat and then pushing them right under the water so the buoyancy in their life jacket forced them upwards – this would then give the would-be rescuer the necessary momentum to grab the person and pull him or her back to safety.
I broke myself from her Nordic spell and, with her words of wisdom ringing in my mind, I put on my helmet and fastened all the zips of my now cold and soggy wetsuit. I wasn’t feeling any better, I was feeling positively awful.
We were told to form two groups: those who wanted to do the rafting and those mental enough to do the canoeing. The rafts, of which there were four, took teams of twelve, and since leaving the coach our party had been joined by several other similar sized groups of likeminded people who were all excitedly getting themselves ready for the experience as well. The rafts were led by the instructors who said that those in the canoes were to follow them so they could watch out for us in case we paddled into any difficulties.
I was told to team up with another person as the canoes were two-people vessels and that way they could put someone with limited experience with someone who had substantial knowledge. I ended up with Mark again. He had managed to grab a couple more hours’ sleep than me. Although I had been a dick and left him in the middle of nowhere, he was still being alright with me, so I decided I thoroughly liked the cut of his jib. He was fully aware of my lack of experience, but was more than happy to risk life and limb in my company, so I was more than happy to have him as a shipmate, though I was unsure as to whether he had any boating experience either.
Mark suggested I sit at the front and just keep paddling and he’d sit at the back and try to steer. It all sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan, but as we edged out into the icy water following the instructor’s raft my feet turned to stone and every pebble and rock on the river bed seemed to find the arch of my foot. I was relieved to get out of the frozen river and onboard our vessel. The water was so cold I felt my brain rattle inside my head as my blood turned to ice. I jumped into the boat, feeling less human and more like someone living in a bad dream. The canoes were about ten to fifteen feet long and made out of an extremely tough inflatable material. Once you jumped in you sort of knelt in them like the native Indians.
Within twenty seconds of setting off and just about coming to terms with how to go in a straight line, I had cramp in both my knees and my hands felt like I was going to inevitably get blisters and my body felt like it wanted to be sick. I was tempted to piss myself in an attempt to warm up. I would have done it but I was afraid my penis, which was now so cold it would have resembled a button mushroom, had retreated to a safer haven along with my bollocks, which would now be situated somewhere around my neck! I was so cold. Mark behind me encouraged me on, as if sensing I was on the verge of slipping into hyperthermia. I don’t suppose he was feeling much better.
‘Just keep paddling, seriously, no matter what… you keep paddling,’ he shouted.
Like I have anything else to do, I mused to myself, unable to think of any witty reply.
‘Just leave the steering to me, you keep paddling,’ he continued.
We kept a steady distance from the raft in front. The space between our canoe and the raft we were following didn’t seem to change whether I paddled hard or allowed us to be pulled along by the current. Still I carried on the illusion of following Mark’s instructions and rowed away. I noticed my cousin and his fellow canoeist expertly ploughing alongside their companion vessel. The flash bastards, I thought. I momentarily lost my balance and bearings whilst I was busy watching them. I saw them respond to the instructor on the raft and drop back a little and then the raft they were following came alive with a chorus of excited whoops. I looked a little further along the river and noticed the white water disturbing the previously calm ebb of the river. The current seemed to pick up and my paddling seemed now to be forcing us on even quicker.
I stopped paddling for a second, taking stock of the situation. Surely this wasn’t right? We shouldn’t be here. Why was I here? What on earth was I doing? Should we turn around, make for the shore; carry the boats past this bit. That would be safer, right? I watched as the first raft and then the canoe were swallowed up by the rapids before being spat out once the river had tasted them and decided it didn’t like the taste of their morsels. The passengers bounced like a rodeo rider on a bull on water.
‘Don’t stop paddling. Really go for it. We need you to paddle to get us out the other end. I’ll watch the rocks and steer. Don’t stop till we clear the white stuff, right…’ Mark urged.
Fuck this, I thought. Far better to brace myself and hold on for dear life. We’re gonna fucking sink, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
‘Paddle,’ Mark urged, and my arms came to life like a jump-started engine. The beautiful Björk at the back of the raft we were following briefly caught my eye and I imagined she fleetingly gave me a little smile.
‘Charge,’ I shouted as we went in face first. The nose of the canoe went down into the depths of the river before reappearing again even quicker. I dug my feet into the side of the canoe to stop myself being buckarooed straight out of the boat. I spat out a mouthful of water and, listening to Mark’s encouragement, kept paddling. I couldn’t and wouldn’t stop now until we were well clear of this madness. We were being buffeted and chewed up and thrown around, enveloped in the frothing, freezing spray. I no longer cared. I was paddling.
Mark was screaming; he was laughing. Was he mad? I realised we were doing alright and began to relax and try to feel the current and understand the flow of the river; I wanted to learn to respect it. Was I bollocks? I concluded and concentrated on paddling as hard as I could until I was well clear of this utter lunacy. What sort of mad people enjoy this sort of thing? Seriously, you can die doing this shit… I cursed as we battled through a few more dips and swirls and came out the other side into calmer waters. Everyone was cheering and splashing the water with their paddles in their various vessels, and as we caught up with the raft we were following we realised we had survived and got caught up in the jubilation. We had survived. That was quite fun, I supposed. I guessed I felt slightly exhilarated and slightly less hungover, which was a massively welcome change.
I tried to stretch my knees and, turning around, said to Mark, ‘That wasn’t so bad, eh? I could do with a coffee now. How you doing?’
Mark just nodded towards the raft we were following as Björk beckoned for us to keep up, so we gradually started paddling again. I hoped we were going to be heading for the banks of the river; this was quite fun, but I’d had enough now. That’s when I noticed the current again seemingly gathering pace and the background din created by the next set of white waters angrily protesting at the rocks that were like teeth piercing their raging watery skin, j
utting out of the river like immoveable objects, pointing towards us, sucking us in, getting ready to scoff us down and tear us apart.
‘Start paddling!’ Mark shouted over the furore. This looked a lot busier; choppy even. I could see the raft we were following had kind of got wedged in a swell; it was slowly turning in on itself like an inflatable sandwich.
‘What do we do?’ I shouted to Mark. We couldn’t wait for them and I was worried we would smash into the back of them. Mark couldn’t hear me anyway. My job was to keep paddling; his was to steer. If we smashed into them it would be Mark’s fault. This is why it’s dangerous. I was getting angry. This was a silly idea. People could get hurt.
As we were buffeted around Mark’s voice seemed to be punctuated by the water swilling around my helmet, shooting in and around my ear holes. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Up and down we went. Occasionally I’d use a paddle to try to push us away from a rock, but it was no good: either our weight or the power of the river or the speed we were going at weren’t going to be altered by a plastic paddle. I did all I could do and that was to continue rowing and digging my knees into the side of the vessel for all my worth.
We hit the next fall straight on like a pole vaulter. I thought at any minute I’d see Mark sailing over the top of me as we seemed to grind to a sudden halt in the river. I waited for a moment and half, expecting Mark to shout, ‘Keep paddling!’ I started up again, paddling as hard as I could. He didn’t say a word.
We pulled clear of the whirlpool I was worried we were going to disappear into, so I turned round to check on him. He had gone. I kept paddling for a second more and then looked back again, hoping my mind was playing tricks. Nope, he had definitely gone.
I pulled my paddle into the boat and looked around the river. ‘Fuck!’ I shouted, thinking I didn’t want to be involved with a death like this. Not with a hangover. Not now.
Then he popped up a little way from the boat, desperately clawing his way in my direction. I used my paddle to try to pull him closer but we were entering another set of rapids and all I was doing was hindering him, so I dropped the paddle back in the canoe and grabbed hold of his life jacket. He clung on to the canoe’s bindings and we were again tossed down another set of waterfalls. I held his arm over the side of the boat and hoped to God he didn’t get trapped between the rocks, the boat and me. As we came through the first set of rapids I was relieved to see his body and head still attached to his arm.
We entered a brief calm section, which led to another white water section. I was feeling it was only a matter of time before I lost Mark, and noticed the instructors noticing our man overboard. But they couldn’t do anything to help us. They were entering the next set of falls.
I shuffled back to the middle of the boat and grabbed Mark’s shoulders, pulling him parallel with the canoe. I shouted, ‘On the count of three.’ As I counted out the numbers I pushed him up and down a little, getting ready for the third final big push. ‘One, two, three.’ On three I pushed down with all my weight, hoping he’d hit the river bed and be able to bounce back like a salmon in a stream. I nearly toppled in after him but somehow righted myself as he popped back up like a cork, and using his momentum I half hauled him back into our canoe. I reached down, grabbing between his legs, hoping to grab a limb. The wetsuit made him feel like I was wrestling with a slippery seal and I was dangerously close to using his bum crack as the only point to get a decent grip. He was totally shattered and lay limp, half sprawled across the side of the boat. I used all my remaining strength to tug on his life jacket until he slumped into the bottom of the canoe. He lay still for a second, I guessed in shock.
‘Are you alright, mate?’ I said, feeling a nervous, excited smirk grow across my face. I wanted to laugh. I always wanted to laugh at moments like this.
I looked around for the paddle; it must fallen out when I was trying to pull Mark back in. We were slowly rotating towards the next of rapids and were already floating sideways down the river. I then saw one of the paddles in the water not far from the boat, a little over arm’s reach away. I splashed and clawed at the water, desperately trying to get it back.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Mark asked, shivering from the bowels of the boat.
‘Trying to get a flipping paddle back,’ I replied desperately.
Mark looked up and over the edge of the boat, immediately understanding our predicament. It looked increasingly likely that he was going to be back in the water very soon. To make matters worse, we were now going down the river backwards and we had run out of time to retrieve the paddle.
I stuck my feet and knees as deep into the side of the canoe as possible, grabbed the bindings, looked at Mark and said, ‘Here we go again.’ I then realised I’d forgotten about my hangover.
56 – Jealous Hater – 5.45pm
‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ Mason said.
‘No, you won’t. You’re a fucking pussy,’ I said. ‘You’re acting all hard but you’re a bottle job!’
He didn’t like that. ‘No, I ain’t,’ he replied. ‘I ain’t scared of you, or any of the others. You’re nothing. You and the others thought you were all that and so hard and cool, but you weren’t nothing. You were just the same as all the others I’ve met over the years. You didn’t give a fuck about anyone else either. All you cared about was going out and meeting girls and getting off your tits.’
I could see tears welling up in his eyes.
‘You weren’t part of our group, Mason. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You would have brought us down if we’d allowed you to hang out with us, and you were an embarrassment,’ I said.
Tear rolled down his cheeks. ‘You think you know me?’ he screamed. Real emotion in his voice. ‘You don’t know me! I was the geezer you all left behind. You all moved on with your new girlfriends and cosy little in-group. Happy because you were all sorted. You were all allowed to stay out late, had the cool clothes, and when you went anywhere all you talked about were the things you and your girlfriends and you all did at parties and things without me. I wasn’t even allowed to stay out late. I sometimes snuck out late to see if I could find you. All you ever did was go on about the fucking girls. Fucking girls. It was all I ever heard. They were all so sexy. And I just had to take it. Me, Mason! The ugly ginger kid no girls fancied. My life was hell, but you lot didn’t give a shit. You even took the mickey out of me dancing on my own at the school discos ’cause no one would dance with me. I occasionally chatted with a few of them. I don’t know what you had said because as soon as I said my name they all ran off.
‘Years passed and I wondered what was wrong with me. My brother had girlfriends and all you lot had girlfriends. That’s what I didn’t understand. You must have been the reason. You and James: you two must have turned them all against me. But why? Why did you fuck my life up? Eh? So that’s why I moved away. I left the country and started again in Jersey. Even then I occasionally bumped into people who’d say, “Do you know James or his mate? You know, what’s his name...” Of course I knew they meant you; everyone knew you two. No one knew me. They were always talking about you. You, you cunt. No matter where I went in the world you were hanging over me like a horrible ghost that had to ruin my life. I hate you. I fucking hate you.’
With that Mason huffed and stared at me with nothing but anger and hatred in his eyes.
‘You have issues,’ I said.
He hit the top of the chair and sort of roared at me in frustration. Spit formed in the corners of his mouth.
57 – A Pilot Light goes out in Paris
I’d been out all afternoon with some of my designer clients in the Soho. We’d drunk and eaten in the Masonic pub near the grand lodge in Covent Garden before hitting a titty bar in Holborn. My clients had decided they were as drunk as they could get on my expenses and called it a night, leaving me to return to work to grab my bag before deciding what to do next. I gave Georgee Paris a call to see if he was still around and wheth
er he fancied a few drinks and perhaps a smidgen of mischief. We were supposed to be meeting up on Saturday for the football but nevertheless arranged to hook up. He had already organised the mischief by the time I’d got back to meet him. I left him in the pub next door as I nipped back into work to sort myself out.
I ran up to my desk to get my bag and check my computer for any emails. There was nothing of interest on my computer; well, at least nothing that couldn’t wait till Monday. I thought I’d take advantage of the peace and quiet to rack up a couple of lines at my desk while I had the chance. It would be far easier here than in the toilets of some bar or club later and I hadn’t seen anyone on the stairs up to my floor so no one knew I was at my desk. The floor was empty and the coast was clear. I set up two lines using my Oyster card, rolled a twenty and hoovered up the first. Then the toilet door opened and the phantom shitter, the bastard everyone hated, appeared. What the fuck was he doing on my floor at this time of the evening using my toilet?
If I didn’t move he might not notice me. I cupped a hand over the gear on the desk. I was desperate to sniff my nose. I could feel crumbs of Charlie falling out every time I breathed. He noticed me.
‘What you doing here, Pilot Light?’ he said, coming over.
I swept my right hand across the table, hopefully removing any evidence, and in one movement tried to stand up, pinching my nostrils together like I had the sniffles before saying, ‘Nothing, I just come back to grab my bag. Been out all afternoon with TGS Agency.’ I bent down and grabbed my bag.
‘Are you pissed?’ he said.
‘Probably,’ I replied.
‘Don’t forget your twenty pound note or your Oyster card,’ he snapped back.
Checkmate, hung drawn and quartered, busted, hung out to dry, good night Vienna, hello you must be the fat lady, will you sing me a tune? My eyes focused on the rolled note sitting next to the Oyster card with lumps of half-crushed powder embedded against the dark blue plastic.