The Boat Read Online Free PDF

getting out his notepad.
    ‘Name?’ he said.
    Johnny wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t going to give his name – that was for sure. He looked about him for inspiration.
    ‘Hood,’ he said. The policeman started writing it down. ‘Robin Hood.’
    He felt Clem give him a little pinch on his waist, but she didn’t say anything. The policeman’s upper lip curled as he looked up suddenly from his pad. But Johnny could see that he’d already written HOO…
    ‘Don’t you waste my time, you little jerk.’
    ‘Honest,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s my name. Robin Hood.’
    The policemen looked at each other. ‘Are you fucking deaf?’ That was the tall one.
    ‘That’s my name, sir,’ Johnny said, all meek and humble.
    ‘Well, you can come down the station and write it out for us then.’
    ‘OK,’ he said, weighty with emotion now. ‘Look, I can’t help it if my parents were jokers. I’ve had to take grief all my life and I swear I’m going to change it soon as I get the chance but what can I do? Robin Hood is my name. I’ll get my birth certificate if you want.’
    Johnny could see a little chink; the short-arse was wondering if he was full of shit after all.
    ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’ the short-arse said, but he was definitely wondering.
    Johnny shrugged, depressed by his life’s burden. ‘It’s the truth.’
    The copper glared at Johnny and then turned to his mate. Eventually he wrote it down in his little pad before turning his attention to Clem. ‘And you, love?’ he asked. ‘What’s your name?’
    She leant forward, peering at his jottings. ‘Marion,’ she said clearly. ‘Maid Marion.’

2
The Honeymoon
    It was quite chilly now that the sun was sinking down behind the mountains. It was the end of March and the evenings were cool. Johnny was on the upper deck looking back across the fishing boats out to sea to where they had just come from: Turkey. The land was no longer visible; it had merged with the royal blue of the horizon. He stepped up on to the wooden guard rail for a higher angle but there was still no sign – visibility had been poor all day. He looked back along the Old Rangoon and marvelled at her ugliness. She was a hundred feet of quite spectacular bad taste, a millionaire’s plaything, a floating tower block of unseaworthiness, a flash pile of plastic made for sipping cocktails in some poncey harbour. He had never imagined himself aboard such a monstrous vessel. But then again, there were lots of things he had never seriously imagined – like being married to Clemency Bailey, for one, and having the world unfurl before them.
    He got down from the guard rail and rolled himself a cigarette. Down on the pontoon some young Greek boys were standing about transfixed by the Old Rangoon ’s British skipper, Charlie, who was busy folding out a portable bicycle beside them with the curt efficiency of a man accustomed to being stared at. The bike was comically small and Charlie was unusually tall and as he clicked things into place undoing various bolts and locks he seemed to be giving the impression that he was about to start some kind of circus act. A small but keen audience was gathering, watching expectantly for the juggling or sword-swallowing to commence atop his strange little bicycle. Instead, with an unnecessary scissor- jump manoeuvre, Charlie mounted the bike, nodded a cursory farewell to his fans and peddled off with out-turned knees towards Kos customs house. The boys looked up at Johnny questioningly as if he were somehow responsible for Charlie and his lack of derring-do. Johnny shrugged his shoulders and lit his fag.
    Johnny himself had only met Charlie six hours earlier when scouting for work along the quayside in Bodrum harbour. He’d come across him standing on the stern deck of the Old Rangoon involved in a discussion with the fat man from the marina who they often used to see parading about in his shiny uniform being important. The fat man had been posing