We Float Upon a Painted Sea

2066. Five months earlier

Bull stepped out of the driving rain and onto the narrowboat. He walked straight to the galley and opened the fridge door. He recoiled from the odour and the sight of a piece of meat, so rotten its original species was unidentifiable. From memory, he was almost certain it was pork. Moreover, to his horror, the bottles of beer were warm. He slammed the fridge door in disgust. He realised the electricity to the boat was out. He went up to the deck to check the connections to the wind turbine. The blades were spinning, but on closer inspection he found the power cable had been cut. The solar panels were also unresponsive, damaged by the wind no doubt. Another job for the new owners of the narrowboat, he thought. Tomorrow, he was setting off for Ullapool and from there, catching a ferry to St Kilda.

Bull returned to the galley. It was late afternoon, a time more suited to cold beer than hard liquor but nevertheless, he poured himself a glass of 30 year old Talisker. He heard a scuttling sound in the corner. There, on the galley worktop, was his new best friend, a mouse on his daily visit to the bread bin. Bull called him Musculus. He was rather large for a mouse, but this wasn’t surprising considering all the green mouldy ciabatta he had been consuming, he thought. Once he had finished munching on the bread he would normally move on to the rotting vegetables, and today was no exception. It was important, thought Bull, his new friend had a balanced diet. His only gripe was his presence on the vegetable rack disturbed the fruit flies. He didn’t know why he had presumed Musculus was a male mouse. The only way to be sure was to pick him up, turn him over and have a look at his genitalia. This, he decided, was an act far too early in their relationship to be considered appropriate behaviour. He wondered if it was conceivable to take Musculus to St Kilda. In the end he decided it was a terrible idea.

Bull’s train of thought was derailed when his shackle vibrated. Aisha’s face appeared on the display panel and she invited herself round for dinner. The internet outage made his normal method of ordering dinner or even groceries impossible, so Bull prepared for a rare trip to a local shop. He struggled against the wind and pummelling rain, but more than this, he was unnerved by how unusually dark it was for the time of day. He passed an elderly homeless man and his dog, sheltering in a bus stop. He stopped to chat and transfer a few credits to the man’s shackle. When he arrived at Maryhill Road, the street was deserted with the exception of the occasional emergency service vehicle speeding past, their sirens barely audible above the sound of the storm.

He found a mini-market with a light on. The shopkeeper mouthed through the grilled window that he was closed, but eventually taking pity on him, he let Bull come inside to buy two lab-free chicken breasts, a bunch of basil, a lemon and a bottle of Chinese wine. The shopkeeper pointed to the sky and said,

“There’s no such thing as bad weather son, only unsuitable clothing right? Bollocks to that!” He laughed and then pulled down the shutters to his shop window. As Bull walked the street he became aware of a strong vibration and then the lights from a hovering drone shone down upon him. There was a public address system attached to the underside of the craft. It stated he was in breach of the curfew order and was to return home immediately.

Bull started back up the hill, trampling over fallen masonry and broken glass. He held his hands out in front of him to prevent the needles of rain blinding his line of sight. He barely recognised the streets in the dark and for a brief moment he wondered if he was lost. Cars lining the street convulsed in the storm, the sound of their car alarms adding to the discordant caterwaul of the wind. At the entrance to Maryhill Locks, an uprooted tree had crashed through the bus stop where the homeless man and his dog had earlier taken shelter. There was no sign of them. Bull circumvented the tree, fighting to maintain his balance.

Bull finally reached the narrowboat and closing the hatch behind him, he felt a surge of relief. He dried himself down with a towel and changed his sodden clothes. After dumping the rotting food from the galley fridge, the mouldy ciabatta from the bread bin, the empty beer bottles from the living room and all the scrunched disposable handkerchiefs into a plastic bag, he looked out some of Saffron’s scented candles and placed them on the coffee table. He put on some ambient music and prepared the dinner; crushing garlic, squeezing lemon juice and chopping basil while his body swayed in time with the rocking boat. He fried the chicken and was making the sauce when he heard a knock at the door. When he opened the hatch, Aisha stood wearing an ankle length oilskin, raindrops clinging to her face.

“Do you fancy a bit of Alfresco?” She said, smiling. Bull grimaced,

“Alfresco? It’s a bit windy.”

“Come on, don’t be a big jessie all your life. Let’s sit out on the deck and watch Mother Nature reap her havoc upon the world.”

“Well, maybe for a little bit.”

“I brought you a bottle of Vodka. Real vodka, not moonshine. Have you got a towel and a bowl of beelin water?”

“Beelin?” Aisha affected Received Pronunciation and said tartly, “Sorry, Faerrleah, do you have a bowl of boiling water.”

“Why are we going to deliver a baby?”

“Is this the famous sense of humour Saffron warned me about?”

Walking into the Galley, they found a steaming frying pan lying upturned on the floor. Bull crouched down and tried to scoop the chicken back into the pan, burning his fingers in the process. Aisha said,

“Never mind, I’m a vegetarian anyway. Sorry, I should have said. Vodka, out on the roof, watching the forces of nature it is then?”

“Are you sure you’re not hungry? I could make something else,” pleaded Bull pitifully, still on his knees.

“You could get on with fixing the hot water so we can make a cocktail?”

“I’ll need to do it the slow way on the gas hob. The storm damaged the turbine, so the electrics are off, hence all the candles.” Aisha sniffed the sandalwood scented air and said,

“And there’s me thinking you were trying to impress me.” Bull almost blushed and averted his eyes from Aisha’s gaze. He filled a steel kettle with water and walked towards the cooker.

“The stove was one of Saffron’s ideas. It uses bio-methane linked to the chemical toilet. Who would have thought you could help save the planet by just taking a…” Aisha’s top lip curled. She held up her hand and drew him a look of disgust. She walked out and up onto the deck.

In the galley, Bull waited for the water to boil. Through the porthole, he watched Aisha sitting cross legged on the deck, her hair blowing in the wind. In some ways she reminded him of Saffron. She was of comparable build, he thought and the dreadlocks no doubt added to the similarity, but she lacked Saffron’s beguiling eyes and playful smirk. Bull was overcome with a pang of awkwardness. Something felt wrong about inviting a woman into the home he had shared with Saffron. He poured the boiled water from the kettle into a glass bowl, fetched a towel, a bottle of warm beer and went out on to the upper deck. He found a place to sit by Aisha.

Aisha decanted most of the vodka into the bowl of hot water. She took out a small bottle which she said was Ylang-Ylang and added a few drops to the water. Putting the towel over her head, she breathed deeply and inhaled the hot vapours.

“Oh I needed that. It clears the sinuses and slows down the heart-rate. Your turn.” Bull gave her a perplexing look.

“If it’s all the same, I’ll give it a miss. I’m fine with my warm beer.”

Aisha pleaded with Bull to try the nasal cocktail.

“You like to sniff things don’t you? Saffron told me about your wee habit. You even sniffed me when we met on the street. I noticed but didn’t let on. What’s that all about?” Bull grimaced and said,

“You can tell a great deal by someone’s odour.”

“It’s kind of weird.”

“It’s scientific. Pheromones, released by the body, each carry its own signature. You can detect people’s feelings and changes in behaviour. Stuff like that.”

“So you could read my mind by sniffing my odour?”

“You can’t read minds but with training you can recognise different emotional strains, like aggression, anxiety, sexual arousal and bonds like empathy or trust.”

“So what do you get from me Faerrleah?”

“You’re a strange one, I can’t detect much from you. It must be your perfume or deodorant.” Aisha laughed,

“I’m a strange one! That’s rich coming from you. Anyway, come on, what do you say, will you try my cocktail?”

“I’m old fashioned. I like to drink my beverages, not sniff them.”

“You only inhale it until the cocktail goes cold, you big fud,” pleaded Aisha, “And then you drink it.”

“Is that after everyone has secreted their mucous into it?” Aisha ignored the taunts and slipped her head under the towel once more. Bull looked on with a look of bewilderment. She inhaled and exhaled under her flapping vapour tent as Bull drunk the rest of the bottle of vodka.

When the subject got round to Saffron, Aisha listened attentively until she was taken by the sedative influence of her vapour cocktail. To Bull’s annoyance, she talked of her own grief when her own relationship ended and how she had spent a small fortune removing the tattoos devoted to Frankie. Bull attempted to steer the conversation back to his own plight. Aisha laughed when he mentioned Maurice’s name as a figure of Saffron’s desire. Bull was upset at her candidness and wondered if her cruel cackling was on account of the nasal cocktail.

The storm continued to rage, and Bull suggested they go inside to finish the last of their drinks. They descended the steps and staggered into the living area. Bull was glad to be back indoors and retrieved another towel from his bedroom to dry them off. Aisha sat on the sofa. He put the towel around her neck and pulled Aisha towards him, simultaneously stooping to receive the anticipated kiss. Bull closed his eyes but instead of a kiss he felt a fist in his chest.

“You’ve had way too much to drink, Faerrleah,” exclaimed Aisha in a sobering voice.

“Sorry Aisha, I must have misread…” Bull’s protests were cut off.

“Misread? You must be fucking dyslexic. I thought you loved Saffron?”

“I did, but she’s with someone else now.”

“Who is she with? Please, enlighten me or are you just looking for someone else to blame rather than yourself?”

“Maurice.” Aisha cackled.

“Maurice? I hardly think so. Maurice isn’t interested in Saffron you big daft fud. Not like that anyway.”

“Why do folk up here persist in calling me a big daft fud?”

“Because that’s what you are, Faerrleah.” Aisha picked her coat up and headed to the hatch door. Turning to Bull she said sarcastically,

“I can’t understand for the life of me why Saffron left you. I’m at a total loss.”

“What about the storm? What about the curfew? Let me walk you home.”

“I’ll be fine, you needn’t bother. And not that it would’ve made a difference, but Frankie’s wasn’t a man, you just presumed she was.” The door opened, there was a gust of wind and Aisha was gone.

Bull stood transfixed to the floor. When the last candle flickered out, he picked up the glasses and poured Aisha’s leftovers into his. He gulped back the contents and walked into the kitchen. He placed the glasses in the sink and then slumped to the floor. In the darkness he would most likely have slipped into an alcohol induced sleep but the sound of the glass bowl rolling from one side of the boat to the other, disturbed him. He could take no more of the irritating sound and ventured onto the upper deck to remove the offending item. He searched by sound like a nocturnal hunter. His eyes adjusted to the gloom, and then he saw it, the bowl spinning around the wooden planks beneath the solar panels. On the moorings he saw two figures approach the narrowboat, but his mind was fixed on his purpose.

As he stood upright with the glass bowl in his hand, Bull’s foot became entangled in the electric cable. He tripped forward and shunted towards the edge of the boat. He lost his grip on the gunnels and fell into the canal, bashing his head against the hull as he went. For an instant his world went dark. Visions flashed and swirled across his mind. He felt his body sink and curiously, he was overcome with a brief sensation of weightlessness and serenity. Then, like waking from a dream, Bull’s consciousness switched back on. He felt a stabbing pain in his lungs and panic rise from within. Instinctively, he kicked back his feet but he was overcome by an unbearable feeling of suffocation. His acute stress response was to thrash his arms and legs until his head was above water. He felt the wind and rain on his face and stretched out his hands to feel the rough stone of the tow path. Curiously, he felt a large hand. It hauled him out of the water. He rolled over on his back. His eyes were stinging and blurred but he could detect two masked faces in the dark. He could hear them breathe but they made no other sounds. The wound on his head throbbed and trickles of blood slithered down his face and into his mouth. He tried to speak to the figures standing over him, but his mind was a void and then he passed out.

When Bull regained consciousness he was back in the narrowboat, lying on the living room sofa. It was still dark but he could hear no sound of wind or rain from outside. His head throbbed. He felt disorientated and then a wave of dejection washed over him. He sat up and noticed a framed picture of Saffron lying on the coffee table. He reached out and ran his fingers down the image of her face. He was overcome with grief. Memories of her jumped out at him from every corner of the room. He held the frame aloft and looked into her familiar dark eyes. To his horror, the eyes in the photograph blinked. Bull dropped the photograph, span off the sofa and sprang backwards into the galley. He didn’t stop back pedalling until his back crashed against the cupboard. Cooking utensils rained down on him. His breathing shortened. Finally, he gathered up enough courage to creep towards the photo-frame and using a metal kitchen tong, he turned it over. The photograph of Saffron appeared normal.

Bull retreated to the toilet and examined his head injury in the bathroom mirror by candle light. Curiously, the blood from the cut had congealed and scabbed over, almost healed and his customary bruise from repeatedly banging his head on the companionway, had disappeared. For a while, he stared at his face in the mirror, checking for unseen wounds. He stiffened. Behind the shoulder of his own reflection there stood another image of himself. He dropped the candle and the flame snuffed out as it hit the floor. Bull groped around the floor for the candle. When he found it, he lit it again with shaking hands and stared towards where he saw the apparition. Nothing. He fumbled in the dark towards his bedroom. He put on a housecoat, slumped on his bed and stared briefly at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the narrowboat creaking in the still waters of the canal. The storm was over. No howling wind, or pounding rain, or glass bowl rolling around on the deck outside. Within seconds he was asleep.

Bull woke to the sound of knocking. When he opened the hatch door he was greeted by Saffron’s mother. She critically viewed the man who was wearing her daughter’s silk housecoat.

“You must be Faerrleah. I’m here to arrange collecting Saffron’s things. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“No, sorry, come in. Good to finally meet you, Mrs Wilton.” Bull looked down at his robes and offered a painful smile.

“It’s not how it looks Mrs Wilton.”

“Faerrleah, what you do in the privacy of your home is your concern. However, if you want my opinion, the kimono style isn’t you. The housecoat belonged to Saffron’s grandmother. She was bigger than Saffron.” Saffron’s mother looked at the bump on Bull’s head.

Saffron’s Mother went into the Galley and put the kettle on. Bull followed her. She said,

“I wanted to phone but the network service is still down. It was a frightful storm Faerrleah? There’s been damage to property, we lost thousands of trees, and the power lines were cut. The country has come to a complete standstill. There are lots of roads still closed off, even the TEV network, and they’re only running a skeleton train service, but you would hardly notice the difference in that respect.” Bull nodded in agreement. He stood in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the opportunity to arrive where he could take his leave, and change out of Saffron’s silk housecoat. Saffron’s mother made a pot of tea while Bull went to shower and change into his own clothes.

When he returned, Mrs Wilton was picking up Saffron’s belongings from the floor and piling them into a box. She turned to Bull, looking at the empty bottle of vodka and said,

“Did you have a little party on your own last night?”

A cold shiver came over him. It occurred to him if he didn’t sit down, he might faint in front of his guest. Mrs Wilton grimaced and then said, “You don’t look too good Faerrleah. Go and sit down and I’ll get you that drink.”

They sat drinking tea and talked about the riots, the national curfew and Bull’s plans to move to St Kilda. He had planned to leave for Ullapool in the afternoon, but considering the state of his mind, he would now leave it until tomorrow.

Mrs Wilton said she would send a van later in the day to collect her daughter’s belongings to take to her new house in the countryside. Curiously, she asked if Bull knew the whereabouts of her daughter. She hadn’t heard from her in a while. Bull shook his head and changed the subject, mentioning his father being made homeless after the river Irwell burst its banks, and described the devastation to his home town. He was cheered by their conversation but saddened he hadn’t had the chance to meet her before his split with Saffron. As she left, she put both hands on Bull’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

“It was lovely meeting you at last. I’m sure everything will work out for you in the end. You just need to find your path first. Look after yourself, Faerrleah. It’s a changing world out there. To be honest, I don’t recognise it anymore. You seem like a good man, if only slightly troubled.”

“I promise. I’m not myself today Mrs Wilton.”

Later in the day, Bull went for a walk. The streets were filled with army and emergency service personnel. He passed a 3D street projection reporting stories concerning the storm and the rising death toll across the British Isles. Bull strode by, ignoring the news reader’s emergency donations plea. He entered the quiet of the Kelvin walkway and after traversing several fallen trees, arrived at Kelvin Park to find it was closed to the public.

The following day, Bull looked at the bare interior of the narrowboat. He didn’t recognise it in its current state, since Mrs Wilton removed the rest of her daughter’s belongings. He allowed himself one memory, recalling a childish game he and Saffron would play when they would take turns throwing Saffron’s large floppy hat, trying to land it on each other’s head. He smiled thinly, remembering the laughter it would cause. He shut the hatch door for the last time and locked it behind him. He rubbed the wooden companionway with the palm of his hand, expecting to feel the curved groove where he and previous owners had bumped his head so many times. There was nothing.

Bull walked along the moorings in the late summer warmth and away from the narrowboat. His arms were weighted down by his two large suitcases, acting like anchors, dragging him back as he shuffled along. He refused to look behind, aware every step was tearing him away from the past and from the memory of Saffron. When he noticed the cab pulling up and waiting on the bridge above the canal, his knees wobbled. As though snatched by a serpents jaw, he was overcome with a feeling of emptiness and loss. A protracted ascent of the stairs brought him face to face with the taxi driver who helped him load his baggage into the taxi. He had expected the more phlegmatic experience of an autonomous taxi, but nevertheless he confirmed she was taking him to Ullapool.

He promised himself he would not look back, but Bull couldn’t resist one last farewell. As he turned his head to face the canal, a slow trickle of tears glided down his sullen face. He stepped out of the taxi and walked towards the bridge wall and gripped the metal balustrades. He looked down at the narrowboat. The taxi driver appeared at his shoulder, attempting to persuade Bull to return to the cab. Her sage counsel failed. She resorted to peeling Bull’s fingers one by one from the railings then she bundled him into the back of the cab. Finally, she thought. When she looked in her mirror she found the back seat empty again. Bull was back on the bridge, sobbing uncontrollably. After a few maternal embraces, the driver motioned him back into the cab and applied the child locks to the cabin door.