Canalside - Part 1 by Dave Rigby

A wisp of smoke from the barge chimney, soon lost in the mist above. Frost-scarred windows. The boat’s name partly obscured by the rime.

On the roof, a bike that’s seen better days, a stack of roughly-chopped logs, two solar panels, dead plants in red pots, coils of rope.

The young man’s fleece is far too thin for the cold early morning. He shivers. But if you’d asked him, he’d have told you it wasn’t the temperature that was giving him the shakes. The sight had affected him much more than he could have imagined. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be a hard nut? And with his record, going to the police wasn’t an option.

Hands deep in pockets, he crosses the old stone bridge and walks briskly away from the waterway.

Every winter Harrison wonders why he stays on the barge. Even with the blackened stove roaring, it’s difficult to keep warm. But he knows perfectly well there are no other options. And the life has two great advantages. It’s cheap and … as long as speed is not a requirement … he can move on at a moment’s notice.

Out with the dog, he tries running to generate some warmth, but the dodgy knee plays up again. Even brisk walking is difficult. The dog is pleased, hates moving at anything faster than a slow amble punctuated by frequent favourite-aroma stops.

But today, one of the dog’s calling points is covered… by a body.

Harrison almost decides to walk on. If he makes the phone call, he’ll be tied up for ages – might even be under suspicion! He hesitates and rubs his arms vigorously. Staring distractedly towards the opposite bank, his gaze is met by a heron, statuesque in the shallow water. With lazy movements the bird takes off and flies languorously towards the next lock.

Watching its flight, Harrison comes to a decision and searches for his very un-smart phone. Combat trousers and jacket present him with far too many choices of pocket. He’s almost disappointed when he finds it. Three digits. He tells the police about the body. They ask him to wait where he is. In the cold.

Two hours later, they finally leave him to thaw out in the Lock 7 café, hands clamped to a large Americano, the bacon roll a fleeting pleasure, the best bits of rasher snaffled by the dog.

Belligerent. That’s the word. A half-hearted attempt to cast him as a suspect. The DC worse than the DS. Trying to earn his spurs perhaps. Word in the café is that the dead man was in his fifties, had been lying there overnight, no obvious cause of death, no ID. Although the body has now been removed, Harrison knows he won’t be walking that way again for a while.

He'd told the coppers that, apart from the dead man, he’d seen nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? When he’d peered through the half-frosted barge window at first light – there’d been that lad. He’d forgotten all about him. Should he tell the police? No! They would think he’d been trying to hide something. Best keep it under his hat. It’s not as if he’d be able to give them much of a description. Late teens, medium height, medium build, dark clothing, a hoodie. Only a few hundred of them around locally.

A visit to May’s corner shop. Must be ninety if she’s a day, hairnet, housecoat, slippers, permanent cough. Stocks a bit of everything, over and under the counter. He puts the newspaper, the loaf and the soup tins into his rucksack and the medicinal-use-only substance into a zipped pocket.

It seems to have warmed up a bit and back on the barge the stove is coping well with the heat challenge. A bowl of tomato soup, two slices of toast and marg and a flick through the local rag. A pot of tea to follow. He can’t stand the teabag-in-the-mug routine.

Harrison looks up from the quick crossword, pen rattling against his teeth. A movement beyond the window catches his eye. That lad is back! How does he know it’s him out of a few hundred? Well, there’s something distinctive about the way he walks, a lope and a swinging of the arms.

Moving rapidly, Harrison puts on his own hoodie, the old biker jacket over the top, cap pulled firmly down and sets off in pursuit along the canalside, the dog on a tight lead.

Concentrating hard and struggling to keep up, he doesn’t notice the man in the grey overcoat following in his footsteps.