Drowned Lives

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First I see the animal. Its body is a hunched grey shape, outlined by the glow of a lantern and the shadows moving slowly on wet bricks. Billows of warm breath swirl in the fog as it trudges under a bridge to the clatter of its own hooves. Soon I hear the leather harness rustling on its flanks, the line of twisted hemp creaking and sighing as it tightens over the swingletree. I catch the scent of fresh manure, mingled with the tang of earth matted in the animal’s hair and the aroma of oats in its nose tin, moistened by its breath.

Thirty feet behind, the stem of a boat drifts into sight. It moves in silence, but for a murmur of water caressing the keel. A coating of coal dust clings to the oak boards, and the lantern light catches the roof of a squat cabin, where the arc of a tiller rears over the stern.

And then I notice the man. He’s a ghostly silhouette, staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the horse as he judges the curve of the bank and braces the tiller against the pressure of water. There’s a stillness in his manner, an air of concentration as he reads the motion of the boat. When his face emerges from the mist, I recognise the pain that deadens his eyes. It’s the look of a man who has faced betrayal, a man who knows all about fear.

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