Read The Fish Kisser for Free Online Page B

either,” replied the officer.
    Roger was definitely not feeling great, he really wasn’t feeling much at all. Numb from the cold, abandoned, hopeless, he’d retreated to his inner world and more or less made up his mind to die. Drifting into unconsciousness had been easy—managed without even trying—but the fierce winds and wild sea conspired to keep him alive, flinging him around like flotsam in the surf. The wind was his lifesaver, tearing apart the waves that bore him, surrounding him with fizzing foam—more air than water—penetrating every crevice in his coat, turning it into a balloon.
    A heavy weight crashed on his head and sent him under for the umpteenth time. This is it. I’ll go quietly, he decided, then fell out of the side of the wave as it exploded into a billion droplets and tumbled into the gulley below. He surfaced back to consciousness in time to feel the following wave pick him up—the uphill climb at the start of yet another roller coaster—and he’d almost reached the top when he felt the heavy weight crushing him down again.
    â€œGet it over with,” he shouted, but no words came as he slid back down; this time the weight stayed with him, pressing firmly against his left shoulder.
    What’s happening? he was yelling inside. What’s happening to me? Look. But his eyes, stung once too often by the lashing salt spray, wouldn’t open. Fearand the absolute blackness spun his thoughts back to his teenage years. He was fifteen or sixteen playing with himself in the bathroom with the curtains drawn, lights off, eyes shut tight, sitting on his hand until it went numb, then pretending it belonged to another—a girl perhaps.
    â€œWhat’ye doing in there, our Roger?” she called, creeping up to the door unheard.
    Oh shit! “Nothing, Mum.”
    â€œLiar! What are you doing? Open this door now.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œD’ye wanna clout?”
    Tears welled. “No, Mum—please don’t.”
    â€œCome on out then—hurry up.”
    â€œI love you, Mum,” he cried, opening the door.
    â€œHumph,” she grunted, going back downstairs to
Dynasty.
“You’ll go blind.”
    He stood at the top, pants round his ankles, watching her, hating her. Why had he said that? Why had he said, “I love you?”
    â€œI hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” he screamed inside. “I bloody hate you.”
    The painful memory reminded him he was still alive and he forced apart his eyelids, but a wash of blue-black Indian ink had painted the sea and sky into one. Then the huge weight shoved again and, spinning his head, he saw a phantom—a large patch of lighter coloured space, twisting and turning right behind him. The ghostly patch was misty, indistinct, but it had substance, he could feel it nudging and bumping into him. Intrigue overcame fear and he timidly reached out. “It’s solid,” he said to himself in disbelief, feeling resistance against his hypothermic fingers.
    The ghost was tugging at his sleeve. This must be Death, he thought, trying again to get free, feeling hisarm being pulled once more; Death’s spectre coming to carry me off.
    â€œStop it,” he yelled. “Stop it. I don’t want to die— I’m sorry Mum. I’m sorry. I love you.” But the ghost kept pulling, dragging him through the water, dancing in the wind, skipping over the waves.
    Then, in an instant something changed—logic took control, as the spectre smacked him heavily, bringing him to his senses. Suddenly conscious it was real, not part of some elaborate nightmare, he grasped for the smooth, slippery object. Understanding slowly filtered through his doziness. It’s a life raft, he realized, amazed, as he was flung repeatedly against it, the sleeve of his left arm trapped by one of the many ropes looped along its side.
    A hundred or more times, Roger and the life-raft