SMASHWORDS EDITION
©2011 Richard F Jones. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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BEN’S BOAT
BY
RICHARD F JONES
It was a clear Andalucian night. A southerly from Africa had blown away the rain. Wood smoke from my neighbours’ fires scented the damp air. I was on my balcony watching the lights of the fishing boats out at sea when a strong beam, like a spotlight, searched across the water about a mile out.
I thought nothing more above it until the following morning. I was on my dawn walk with Ben; the southerly was still behind the breakers. He had gone ahead, to explore, see what he could find from last night’s tide. I heard him bark. At that moment he was out of sight beyond the rocky point. When I caught up I saw an open wooden boat, about fifteen feet long, beached on the shoreline.
‘What have we got here old boy,’ I said. The boat had either been abandoned or become adrift in the previous day’s storm. I doubted the latter, there was no mooring rope trailing loose; an outboard motor was still clamped to its stern.
The section of coastline I live on is notorious for the trafficking of illegal immigrants from Africa. At night their assorted craft linger out amongst the fishing boats, then drift in ashore before dawn.
I spotted the girl later on in the morning when I was shopping. A rampant bougainvillia covers the archway into the square; moisture from the previous day’s rain dripped from its foliage when we both walked underneath. An hourglass figure forced me to stare. Long legs, straight jet black hair down to her waist, she certainly wasn’t Spanish. Moroccan perhaps? A dusky complexion couldn’t conceal a shining black eye.
I completed my shopping and made my way to the bar. In the corner three men were sitting huddled together by themselves. They had rugged features and unkempt clothes and, like the girl, North African colouring.
While sipping at my cognac I tried to listen in but it was language I didn’t understand. They appeared to be arguing; their hands wildly gesticulating.
Later, when Ben and I were on the beach I saw the girl again, idly kicking her feet at the incoming waves. Ben’s bounding activity caught her eye. She stopped to stroke him.
‘The sea looks inviting,’ I said. She was wearing shorts. Without shoes her legs looked even longer.
‘It’s nice to swim when the tide comes in over the warm sand,’ she replied.
‘Are you on holiday? I asked. Our eyes met, the black eye was recent, there were also bruises on both arms.
‘No, we’re just passing through,’ she said, and turned her head away.
For a while we walked together. She splayed with Ben; her movements were lithe and supple. Eventually we parted and I headed for home. At the tope of the dunes I looked back. She was making for the old derelict bungalow at the end of the bay.
That evening I couldn’t relax. I kept thinking about the girl. Unable to stand it anymore, I put on my shoes and called Ben. Outside it was dark as I strode out purposefully across the beach for the old bungalow. Ben was puffing behind, trying to keep up.
When I got near I slowed, there was a light, and I could hear music, gypsy music. A swirling violin and a guitar produced a compelling rhythm. I crept closer and peered in through a cracked window pane. A fire inside created dancing shadows on the crusted walls. Then I saw the girl’s body hurtle past the window.
Salt spray had left a film of grime on the glass. Straining to get a better look I rubbed on the cracked pane. The glass was weak, my hand broke through and protruded into the room.
The music stopped, Ben barked, loud voices echoed from inside. In panic I dragged my hand back through the aperture, slashing my wrist on the fractured glass. Blood gushed out, preventing any thought of running away.
‘What do you want Señor?’ A huge rough looking man said. He was one of the men in the bar; tall and thickset with wild black hair just like the girl. His shirt was open to the waist, a dangling medallion hovered in a chest of curly dark hair.
‘I was worried about the girl,’ I replied. ‘I saw her today, she had such bruises, now you seem to be throwing her around.’
‘Señor, she is my daughter.’
‘But that’s no way to treat her.’
He stared at me.
‘Iolanthe,’ he called inside. She emerged looking amazing in a white halter top and black tights. ‘Iolanthe, this man thinks we are treating you badly.’
She looked at me knowingly. ‘Señor, they are not harming me,’ she said awkwardly. ‘We are acrobats, from a circus in northern Spain. I am injured.’ She pointed to her face. ‘I misjudged one of my turns and crashed into the bandstand.’
‘We had better see to your wrist my friend,’ the big one said. They took me inside. The girl bathed my cut, smiling at me all the time. I felt foolish.
‘We have come south, to find a little warmth, to help with my injuries,’ she said while dabbing iodine. It hurt, I jumped, and she laughed. ‘You see my shoulder is strained too but I have to keep my legs in training. This cut is going to need stitching.’
The big man drove me to the hospital in a battered camper van. I needed six stitches; they kept me in for the night. Ben remained with the girl in the bungalow at the beach.
When I awoke I heard two Spanish men on the other side of the ward talking. It seems that they had been thrown from the boat in the storm. They were rescued but their boat had been washed ashore.
THE END
ABOUT RICHARD F JONES
If you have enjoyed this short story Richard has other published novels and ebooks, A FLIGHT HOME, WAR TO THE DEATH, DANCING WITH THE DEVIL and TIME ON THEIR HANDS. Details can be obtained on his web site: