Free The Cormorant by Stephen Gregory Page B

railings above. But below the water, a boiling of currents gripped at my boots. The rest of the line was fast. And Archie was down there, with the rope around its ankle, among the netted cord.
    I began suddenly to shake with the cold. In front of my face, I saw my own hands, blue and bruised, somehow distant, like someone else’s hands. The knife dropped from my fingers, sank into the sea. I felt that I could only stay there, chest deep in the water, that I would be content to wait there, it was too much trouble to raise my heavy boots, the wood and the iron were too cold, I could not make the effort to shift my grip, it was all too complicated, too difficult . . . But, in spite of myself, my knees came up and my feet searched for a higher step. The blue hands went like spiders up the column and found a hold on the jutting bolts. When my waist was clear of the surface, the wind attacked me, seeing me exposed in my streaming clothes. The green boots emerged, glistening, slow, sea-slugs. I crooked my knees to let the water pour out, continued climbing. My eyes came level with the planks of the pier. A few more steps and I was there, leaning on the railing before swinging myself over and collapsing in a heap by the jacket I had left behind. And there I lay, with my eyes shut, with the water running from me, with the grey light of a raw afternoon draining to the gloom of evening.
    I must have passed out, exhausted.
    For when I awoke, it was twilight. The wind had dropped. I stood up and felt the excruciating ache of cold through my body. Everything was still, the tide had turned and the surface of the water was silken black. There was no disturbance of the inky river. It was a clear, starlit evening. I knew that I must quickly get home and out of the wet clothes, into the bath. Throwing on my jacket, I trudged to the end of the jetty and painfully heaved myself over the gate. The path along the sea wall was deserted. There was nobody on the bridge as I crossed over. Hardly any cars were parked on the quayside, the castle was not lit. It seemed that the town was empty. It was a place of silence. My own footsteps, the squelching of water in my boots, were the only sound beneath the towering walls of the castle. I shuddered and walked on, spotting the van near the edge of the harbour, leaving my trail of wet footprints and sea water dripping from my clothes. The keys were in my pocket. The blue fingers felt for them, still numb from the touch of the sea-smooth wood and the iron bolts. I took out the keys. The jangling of metal broke the silence.
    At the sound, Archie stepped from the other side of the van.
    I halted. For a moment, the bird stood still, its wings folded. The cormorant and I waited in the twilight. Neither of us moved.
    ‘Archie?’
    And the bird came forward.
    It waddled at first, then it stretched the black wings and sprang along on slapping feet. Archie covered the yards in a series of flaps and leaps, stopped in front of me, beat a pair of damp wings, croaked once, and dropped some twitching thing by my green boots. It was a fish.
    My voice was trembling.
    ‘Thank you, Archie, thank you. Where the hell did you get to, you daft bugger?’
    The cormorant croaked again and folded its wings. When I reached out and touched its head, I felt it was wet. Archie nuzzled my hand, as affectionate as a dog. In a spasm, the fish arched at my feet. I bent down, picked it up and put it in my pocket.
    ‘Good lad . . .’
    There was no rope around the bird’s ankle. The collar was there on its throat. We started towards the van.
    And from somewhere in the dark sky, there came a little dry applause. Someone, some spectator, was clapping, slow, sarcastic applause, increasing in speed and intensity, slowing, stopping. The clapping stopped.
    I craned my neck and looked up at the castle. My head swam. Among the battlements, leaning over and applauding the reunion of man and cormorant, celebrating the gift of the fish, the