Free The Last Summer of the Water Strider by Tim Lott Page B

lessons.
    ‘Actually, chemically, honey is more or less the same as sugar.’
    ‘That’s what they teach you in school, right?’
    ‘Well, yes.’
    ‘Yeah. And who pays the schoolteachers? The government, right? And who controls the government?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘Think about it.’
    Strawberry stood up, smiled at me and held out her hand for my empty cup. ‘How was the coffee?’
    ‘OK. Not great.’
    ‘Shit. You really are Henry’s nephew, aren’t you? You like your poison pure. Intense. Well, maybe that’s why he’s so fucked up. All those toxins.’
    ‘Henry’s fucked up?’
    ‘Everyone’s fucked up.’
    She paused, and her face changed again, as if her internal self was resetting in the space of a moment. Having been playful, she looked sad again.
    ‘You’ll let me know if anything happens, won’t you? I mean, if he stops being . . . all right.’
    I nodded as if I understood her completely. She seemed to take my acknowledgement as confirmation that I had fully appreciated her concerns. Her sadness slipped away again, and she smiled
gratefully.
    ‘He’s been good to me.’
    ‘Has he?’
    Now she leaned forward. What followed came out in a torrent.
    ‘I was so strung out. Everything you could name. Coke, hash, DMT, acid. Not to mention sex. Can you believe it? That’s pollution, right there. That’s
right
. You know?
He took me in. Came and got me out of the Valley. Once they got me back here – him and Troy, between them, they put me straight. Henry doesn’t like Troy – of course he
doesn’t. Perhaps he’s jealous, I guess. But Troy taught me where else to go after I’d left where I was. What I’m into now is such a positive place. I’m working on art.
Not figurative, you know. It comes from the inside. It’s like feeling on paper. Like giving form to thought. Like Pollock, you know? I’m teaching myself yoga. Yeah. Shows you how to
breathe.’
    ‘I already know how to breathe.’
    She ignored me.
    ‘I’ve started this macrobiotic diet. I found out about it in LA. I met the guy who devised it. Kenzaburo Suzuki? You know about macrobiotics? Amazing. Really. It’s helping me.
I got this book,
Macrobiotics and the Zen Way
. Grains and green tea. That was it for me. Some raw vegetables. Fruit, if it’s properly grown and properly washed. Really clean. It has
to be clean.’
    ‘Who’s Troy?’
    ‘Yeah, right, he’s this guy. Lives in Bristol. I hang at his place sometimes. That’s why I haven’t seen you before.’
    ‘Where are you when you’re not at Troy’s?’
    ‘I have a little place further down the reach. A few hundred yards away.’
    ‘You
live
here?’
    ‘On Henry’s land. Like I say, he’s very kind to me. You should come visit.’
    ‘Sure. Nothing else to do.’
    ‘Anyway. Thank you. No, really. Thank you, Adam. You’re a beautiful person. I think you could really hear what I was saying. People speak but they don’t hear. You’re
different. Open.’
    She bent and kissed me on the cheek, close to the mouth. Her breath was acidic.
    ‘I should be going home. Well, I call it home. It’s . . . Henry calls it a shed, but I like to think of it as a cabin. You know he wanted me to move in here? On the boat? Yeah. You
got my room. He’s worried about me. I guess we worry about each other. But I need my freedom. “The refuge of the roads”. You know? Or of the fields, or something. Well anyway . .
.’
    She seemed to have finally run out of words. She gave a little bow and left the room.
    The fragrance of patchouli oil and cloves dissipated. I breathed in the air deeply, as if to retain a few particles of her within myself.
    The other smell – the iron/old-penny trace – lingered. It was, it then occurred to me, the smell of blood.

Seven
    O ver the following days, I saw little of Henry. Strawberry did not reappear. I was continuing to feel bored and restless. My lack of interest in
anything at all did not even feel like a weight. A weight would