Dancing With Angels and Other Short Stories by Gary Morecambe

Author:Gary Morecambe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: short stories, fiction, war, morecombe and wise, eric morecombe, angela rippon, obsession, revenge, betrayal, dark, funny, humour, weird
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2011
Published: 2011-06-30T00:00:00+00:00

Reckless

The midday sun collided with the flat water of the Mediterranean, transforming it into a sea of liquid steel. What little breeze existed infiltrated from North Africa in a slow, hot, southerly stream, wafting heat upon the already scorched southern coast of France. Barometers were stuck on ‘fine’, and the high pressure was due to last a few days yet.

Between 1.00 and 4.00 in the afternoon, people cleared the streets of such notable spots as Nice, St Tropez, Juan-les-Pins and even the usually active Principality, Monaco. It was too hot to be away from air conditioning - unless you had a yacht.

Mark Gant was stretched out on a large cushion aboard his fifty-foot yacht Pyrotechnics.

From his semi-reclined position on the top deck, he gazed with disinterest upon a scattering of tourists. He guessed they were English, because it was too hot to be out for those used to extreme warm weather spells. And now, he saw, they too were feeling it. A large parasol was suddenly exploding into colour on the beach, and they were snuggling beneath its protection like chicks around a mother hen.

Mark Gant stretched and wiped down his body with a thick towel. It was too hot to remain at Cap d’Ail. He’d leave the marina and cruise up the coast towards Cap Ferrat. He could anchor off the shore and then swim and relax in near perfect isolation. And Gant enjoyed isolation. He spent the summer in Monaco - he owned a penthouse apartment overlooking his yacht and the marina, and the winters were passed in Switzerland - a modest chalet near Gstaad.

The twin engines burst into life, the fenders were hoisted in, and Gant skilfully manoeuvred his large vessel around both larger and smaller vessels to the mouth of the marina. Once beyond the modern concrete bastion, he accelerated with undisguised enthusiasm. The motors whined as they bit harder into the water, and the craft, like an obedient animal, stood on her haunches in immediate response. Then this motorised white arrow flew towards Cap Ferrat, intermittently pounding the water with a painful thwack.

The warm wind rushed through Gant’s silver hair. It was good to be rich and alive. Without the former, thought Gant, the latter would be inconsequential.

The boat slowed as it approached the long promontory which formed Cap Ferrat. This finger of land had once been a sanctuary to such international names as Charles Chaplin and David Niven. Gant had no interest in the film business, but loved the idea of living in proximity to hallowed names of the silver screen. That way, he could live their dream but retain his privacy - and sanity.

Gant anchored some fifty metres from the rocks, cut the engines and took a swim. He swam towards the rocks with an easy style that belied his fifty years. A quick scramble out of the water and he was upon them, clawing his way across their spiky surface with the deliberation and purpose of a giant pink crab.

He came to a wooden fence, which he hopped over without a second thought.

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