Barging In Read online

  Dan muttered uncomplimentary things that were drowned out by the noise of the engine and took up the cream-and-green-striped bargepole. It was a surprise to discover it still had a use in this day and age. He’d assumed it was there simply to add to the authenticity of the experience, a relic of a bygone age like the traditional roses and castles painted on the door panels. This was good, though. This was one of those moments he could fashion into an interesting little anecdote for the magazine readers. If he left out Mr. Grumpy-pants, that was.

  As the bargepole made contact with the concrete lining of the canal, Dan pushed with as much strength as he could muster. The boat shifted a little, but they were still stuck.

  “Come on, you’ll need to push harder than that. Put a bit of muscle into it.”

  Dan gritted his teeth and strained until his arms began to shake with the effort but still couldn’t rock the boat free. He had a cyclist’s body, lean and toned, but built for endurance rather than brute force. He didn’t want to come across like some kind of wimp, though, so he gave another thrust, grunting with the effort. And this time he felt it move a little farther. He turned to his rescuer with a smug grin, then realised why. Tattoo-guy’s hands were on the end of the pole. Bugger.

  The Faerie Queen rocked free. Tattoo-guy grabbed hold of Dan’s hand and placed it on the tiller. “Right, then, once you’ve got the front in where you want it, you need to get into first gear and steer into the bank.”

  Dan watched the towpath bank getting closer, aware of the warmth of that strong hand covering his own. “But all day I’ve been steering the opposite way to where I wanted to go.” Who would have thought a boat with only three gears and two directions to steer in could be so complicated?

  “Yeah, but what you need to remember is that you steer in the direction that you want the back of the boat to go in. Going round a bend, that will be the opposite way to the direction you want to follow, but when you’re mooring up, you need to steer towards where you want to go.”

  Feeling his brain start to melt—physics never was his strong point—Dan decided to prove himself by some practical action. Once the boat made contact, he leapt onto the bank, grasped the front mooring rope and secured it through one of the steel rings set into the concrete edge. The effect was somewhat spoilt, however, by the way Tattoo-guy got his tied up first, then came along to tut at and retie Dan’s own knot. Dan watched his technique closely, determined to get it right next time.

  Tattoo-guy straightened.

  “Thanks,” Dan breathed, hyperaware that he was standing way too close to one of the most attractive men he’d met in a long time. One who not only hated his guts but was probably straight, he reminded himself, taking a step back. “Dan Taylor,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I owe you one.”

  After a long moment, Tattoo-guy shook his hand. “Robin Hamilton,” he said, his voice gruff. “I reckon you owe me two after today, but I don’t think you’ve got anything I’m interested in.”

  That dark blue gaze roamed over his body, and Dan drew in a sharp breath. Maybe not so straight after all, then. He decided to take a chance—he couldn’t likely make things any worse than they already were, could he? “How would you know if you’re interested or not if you don’t sample the goods?” He gave his cheekiest grin.

  Dan could have sworn Robin’s mouth twitched at the corner.

  A bicycle bell jangled loudly, breaking the moment.

  “Robin! I’ve been looking for you,” a deep voice called.

  Robin started guiltily, and Dan turned to discover a tiny woman on an old-fashioned bicycle. Dark, skinny limbs, flat chest and short black hair notwithstanding, she was most definitely female. The flowers wound around her wicker handlebar basket and pinned in her hair would give it away, even if her pretty face didn’t. She beamed at them, and Dan couldn’t help but return the smile.

  “Are you going to introduce me to your friend, then?” She had an amazingly throaty, mannish voice.

  Robin looked for a moment like he was going to object, and then he gestured to Dan. “Dan, this is Mel. Mel, Dan.”

  Dan stepped forward when he realised that was going to be it, his hand outstretched. She held him with a firm grip—considerable strength concealed in those delicate-looking fingers. “Dan Taylor, travelling scribe.” He looked down at her clunky, water-stained boots. Please don’t let her be Robin’s girlfriend. “And you must be a boater like Robin.”

  “That’s right. Melody Kumar. I’m on Galadriel, the little purple tug you must have passed, just before the last stone bridge.”

  “With the mural on the side?” Dan remembered that one; he’d noticed it not long after his first encounter with Robin. The elf mural had been executed with more enthusiasm than talent, but the boat would make a great subject for a photograph. It had been covered in plant pots, with a line of brightly coloured laundry stretching across between the roof and the bank.

  “Hang on, what do you mean, ‘travelling scribe?’” Robin demanded. “Are you a bloody journalist or something?”

  Dan drew himself up to full height and stared Robin down. “I’m a travel writer, here to write up a boating holiday for the Observer. Is that okay, or do I need to get permission from the self-appointed canal police now?”

  “So long as you’re not sticking your nose into other people’s business. We keep to ourselves down here, all right? We don’t need outsiders poking around.”

  Mel rolled her eyes. “Ignore him, Dan. He’s not usually quite this grumpy. I’m happy to help you out if you need any information for your article.”

  “Thanks.” Dan smiled at her. “You can start by telling me if there’s anywhere around here I can get a decent pub lunch. I’m absolutely starving. It’s hungry work, this boating lark.”

  “Yeah, there’s the Queen’s Head in Bathampton. It’s just half a mile or so that way.” She waved in the direction Dan’s boat was facing. “It’s a bit pricey and stuck up, but I’m sure you’ll like it.” Dan wondered if that was meant to sound offensive or just came out that way. “Us boaters tend to go to the Hat and Feather, but that’s all the way into Bath, a couple of miles further on.”

  “Maybe I’ll give it a go later,” Dan said. “Will you be there?” he asked Robin, trying to sound casual.

  Robin gave a noncommittal grunt, and Mel shot him an exasperated look. “You’re not still moping, are you? I told you, he’ll come back to you when he’s ready.”

  Dan wanted to ask who “he” was, but the look on Robin’s face warned him to keep his trap shut.

  “Okay, well, thanks for the rec. I might see you later.”

  “Cool. Come find me if you need anything, okay?” She grabbed hold of Robin’s arm. “Now I’ve got to steal this man away from you. Take care, Dan.” She beamed at him, flashing teeth that stood out a brilliant white against her dark skin.

  Dan watched them walking away, pushing their bikes and deep in intense conversation. So the boaters weren’t all surly gits who hated outsiders, then. That was encouraging.

  Chapter Two

  “Nice place you have here,” Dan told the saggy-faced landlord. Looked like he’d frowned and the wind changed direction, condemning him to a lifelong grimace. Then again, maybe it was because he was such a miserable bastard.

  “It would be, if it weren’t for all those gyppos out there.” The landlord scowled in earnest, creasing a deep furrow between his brows. “Bad for business, they are. Driving the locals away. Never used to be like this. Used to be a respectable village. They’re a bloody menace.”

  “They seem harmless enough. Looked like a bunch of hippies to me. One guy just helped me moor up the boat.”

  The landlord stared like he thought Dan was a bit simple. “Oh, they’ve got your number, all right. Putting on that salt-of-the-earth act, was he?” He snorted. “Degenerates, they are. Pagans, criminals and deviants, every last one of them. You want to watch your step along there at nighttime. Little fella like you could easily be taken
advantage of by one of those thugs. You’d be shoved on your knees and buggered before you knew what was happening.”

  Dan blinked, swallowed his beer and tried to keep a straight face. Chance would be a fine thing!

  He looked around the Queen’s Head instead. Despite the evil menace of the boaters, trade didn’t seem to be suffering. The place was packed with diners, and the waiting staff moved between the tables with practised ease. It was one of those traditional pubs that had been recently tarted up. Old wooden beams, brick walls and flagstones co-existed uneasily with the blond-wood tables, faux-continental menu boards and tasteful recessed lighting. Even the customers seemed fake—their sham country tweeds far too clean to convince him they were real farmers. Mind you, the rows of shiny 4x4s and Jaguars in the car park had already dispelled that illusion.

  “You seem busy enough.”

  The landlord sniffed. “It’s not too bad today, but trade really suffered over the summer. There were hardly any spots left for the tourists to moor up. Every last one of them hogged by some crusty git in a floating rust bucket. And they empty their waste out into the canal. It’s a health hazard. I’ve been onto British Waterways about it, but they’re bloody useless. Say they can only move them on every two weeks. Two weeks! Think of all the trade I can lose in two weeks.”

  Dan kept his mouth closed, scanning the pub. He was pleasantly sated by the huge roast dinner he’d just finished, but there was another appetite that still needed filling, and the grumpy landlord couldn’t help him with this one.

  A cute waiter dashed past, his hair a bright enough blond to make Dan’s look almost ginger in comparison. The ties of his apron accentuated the curve of his buttocks. Okay, he wasn’t as devastatingly gorgeous as Robin, but at least he knew how to smile. Dan tried to catch the waiter’s eye and failed. Blondie headed out the back door. Dan mumbled something to the landlord about needing to visit the gents and dashed off after Blondie.

  The back of the pub was a labyrinth of crates, barrels and mysterious outbuildings. Dan poked his head around a few corners, hoping he might find the lad having a sneaky cigarette, but there was no sign of him. Sighing, he headed back inside. He’d catch him later. Or maybe just wait until this evening and hit a pub where he could guarantee the guys would be into other guys.

  A pillar blocked his view of the bar, but Dan picked up a familiar sound. A rich voice, low but bristling with restrained fury. Fury he’d had directed at him only an hour or two previously.

  “What do you mean? You’ve got other notices up there. What exactly is it that makes mine unsuitable?”

  Dan couldn’t hear the landlord’s reply, but Robin’s response certainly carried. “Well fuck you, then, you arrogant cunt!”

  Dan stepped around the pillar just in time to see Robin storming out the door, slamming it shut behind him so that the glass rattled in the panes. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground, and Dan picked it up, burning with curiosity. At the top, in careful lettering, handwritten yet set out like type, it said: Missing: have you seen Morris? There was a photograph of a cat underneath. Morris had a huge mane around his serene face, the white nose and bib striking against the dark tabby markings of his body. A beautiful creature—and enormous too—but what really caught Dan’s attention was the pair of arms encircling him. The head of the figure might have been cropped out of the photo, but there was no mistaking those tattooed arms. At the bottom of the page there was a plea for anyone with information on the whereabouts of Morris to call Robin on his mobile.

  So this was the mysterious missing “he”! Dan folded up the notice and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Turning to the grim-faced landlord, he gave a smile. “I don’t know, some people,” he offered, shaking his head.

  “They should know better than to try and put their notices up in here. I won’t have it. I’ve told them before. They’re not getting any favours from me after they drive away my summer trade by mooring their scummy boats outside and letting their dogs run wild. Probably one of them that ate his precious cat.”

  “No, Nige, it was probably one of the other vagrants. They either ate it or stole it and sold it on. Them pedigree cats are worth a few bob, you know.” The old man at the bar leaned towards Dan with a conspiratorial leer. “That lot are bad news, you know. Better steer clear of ’em, if I were you. Nice young lad like you could get led astray.”

  The mocking laughter followed Dan out of the pub as he made a dash for the fresh air. He ran up the steps to the towpath and looked in both directions, but there was no sign of Robin. Bugger. Still, he had his mobile number, which wasn’t bad work considering they hadn’t exactly hit it off. He meandered back to the Faerie Queen, pondering the tensions he’d just witnessed between the boaters and the local community. There was a story here. He was sure of it.

  Now he just needed to get an insider’s account of what was going on.

  Dan waited until early evening but then couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. He cycled out to Mel’s boat, relieved to see the lights on inside and her flower-bedecked bicycle resting on the roof. Although the boat was a couple of feet wider than his narrowboat, it was much shorter. He found it hard to imagine how anyone could contain their whole life in such a tiny space.

  “You going to stand out there all day or come on in to the warm?”

  Dan grinned at Mel, who had stuck her head out of the hatch on the side of her boat. “Wasn’t sure if I was meant to knock on the side or if I should climb onto the deck and knock on the door.”

  “Either way’s fine with me, sweetie. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. Just hop onboard.”

  But before Dan had a chance to climb up, Robin pushed his way out of the doors and onto the deck. He gave Dan a curt nod of recognition. “I’ll be off, then,” he called back to Mel.

  “No, sweetie, you should stay. Get to know Dan.”

  Robin gave Dan a look he couldn’t interpret. Dark and complicated and downright intimidating.

  “I’m going out, remember? Besides, I’ve got posters to put up first.”

  Mel huffed, but she didn’t argue. They both watched as Robin cycled off into the gloaming. “Come on in, then. See what a real boat’s like on the inside. Bet it’s nothing like your hire boat.”

  It certainly wasn’t. Dark was the first word that sprang to Dan’s mind. Closely followed by warm. No, make that sweltering. And cluttered followed rapidly on as he looked for somewhere to put his jacket.

  “Here, let me. The bed’s about the only place to throw it.” Mel walked the few paces through the crowded living area and pulled back a curtain. A rumpled pile of bedding filled up the tiny bed cabin. It was a totally different layout to his hire boat, where the bed was open to a corridor along the side so it didn’t seem too cramped, although maybe he’d feel differently tonight when he actually slept in it. Mel’s bed took up the width of the boat and had only a small entryway to climb up onto it—God, it must be like sleeping in a cupboard.

  A cupboard that smelled of damp, overlaid with the reek of incense.

  “Want something to drink? I’ve got herbal tea or vodka.”

  What a choice! Dan eyed the state of Mel’s tiny galley. It looked like a crockery and food bomb had exploded all over the narrow strip of worktop and sink. You could catch something nasty just by looking at those mugs.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Just popped by to ask you about something.” Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dim light, he could make out the knickknacks that encrusted every surface like bohemian barnacles. Was there anything here that wasn’t covered in beads and baubles? Mind you, if he could get the lighting right, it would make a great backdrop for a portrait shot.

  “Okay. Come on, sit.” Mel patted the sofa beside her. There wasn’t much room, so Dan would have to squeeze up tight. He hesitated a moment, caught a sharp gaze that made him feel strangely inadequate, and resigned himself to getting up close and personal with Mel.

  “So, are you going to tell me what thi
s is about?”

  “Right, yes. I was wondering if any of the boaters might be interested in having their photographs taken. On their boats, I mean. Like a portrait of them and their home.”

  She screwed up her forehead in thought. “Maybe. Depends what it’s for and how you approach them.”

  “I’m trying to break into photojournalism, and it struck me that I could write a social interest piece to go with the portraits. Something about poverty and prejudice on the waterways.”

  “Interesting.” Mel narrowed her eyes, and Dan put on his best earnest face. It usually worked well for him, but Mel seemed impervious to his charms. “I like the idea, but I wouldn’t want to sell it to them like that. We’re a proud lot. We chose this lifestyle, and you could say we’re rich in many ways.”

  Dan glanced around the claustrophobic space. He wasn’t going to argue if Mel thought this heap of junk represented riches, but she was clearly deluded.

  “Some of the boats aren’t as well kept as yours, though, are they? What about the ones that are like tents on the top?” He’d passed one like that with a crumbling wooden hull and a black tarpaulin stretched out over a central beam. There were a few plastic windows set into the canvas, and the air above the stovepipe rippled with heat, but the sight still made Dan shudder. “Do people actually live on those during the winter? They must freeze.”

  “Nah, what d’you think stoves are for? If anything, you end up getting too stuffy and have to open the hatches.”

  “But they’ve only got a bit of canvas between them and the elements.”

  “So? Our ancestors used to live in caves. You’d be surprised what your body can take when you put it to the test. But maybe you’re too used to your central heating and electrical appliances.” Mel gave a mischievous smile. “You’ve gone soft.”

  “I bloody well haven’t! I cover cycling holidays all the time. They’re tough work, especially when you have to camp as well.” Dan had once been sent on a gay cycling holiday which was great fun, despite having to get his sore arse back on the saddle each day. He smiled to himself. “That’s just once in a while, though, I suppose. What made you choose to live this way?”