Tim Parks - Rapids

When Vince went to the car for the inflatable mattress, she called, Vince! He already had it under his arm. You may as well sleep with me.

I told you— Vince began.

It’s not an invitation to have sex. She was giggling. It’s a big bed. Keep your clothes on if you like.

I’ll be waking you up. I always go to the loo a couple of times a night. He was pleased with himself for having admitted this.

I don’t think I’ll sleep anyway, she said.

And when Clive arrives …

He won’t. She seemed quite certain now.

But if he does.

You’re not doing anything wrong. You slept in the same tent as your daughter last week. Anyway, he doesn’t own me. He wasn’t even sleeping with me.

There were still cars pulling into the campsite from time to time. Headlights swung across the curtainless windows. The wooden walls whiten and spin. Vince had lain down on the bed fully clothed, his hands behind his head, his legs crossed. She had changed into pyjama shorts and top. She didn’t hide when she took off her clothes as his daughter did, and even his wife in her way, but she was quick and discreet. She got under the bedclothes. He glimpsed the long legs, the lithe stomach. She too turned on her back and lay still, listening to the last of the campsite noises, a tinkle of low music, a drunken voice. Vince’s mind had just begun to drift, when she said: I’m afraid. At once he was awake.

What of?

Afraid he’ll come back, afraid he won’t come back. She sighed. Afraid he’s dead. Afraid he just left me without even the courage to say so. She sighed again, turned and found Vince’s hand. Afraid in general. What will I do now? I was so sure of him, she whispered, so sure. It was like, everything was decided. Then first he cuts me off. He won’t sleep with me. Now he disappears, right when this group is arriving. I don’t even know if he has disappeared.

Again there came the sound of a distant car. They waited. Then a door slammed, there were low voices. She laughed softly. Her fingers squeezed his unresponding hand. When I heard you on the phone earlier, talking about your job— this, that, give precedence, we can rely on so and so— I felt so jealous, the way you know who you are. You have a place. Her voice was a thread now. I’m not even the romantic girl who killed herself. After all, if I’d really wanted to die, I wouldn’t have done something so useless as trying to drown myself within a hundred yards of a guy who’s spent his whole life teaching white — water rescues. She laughed. She is on the brink of tears.

Vince opened his hand and let hers slip into it.

I’m afraid of everything really. The dark and the intimacy had freed her to speak. I’m always afraid something won’t happen, you know, and at the same time I’m afraid it will. I was afraid Clive would want children right away, and afraid he would never want children. I’m afraid the planet will burn up and afraid they will prove us wrong, it won’t burn up, and we’ve wasted all our lives protesting for no reason. She paused. I’m afraid of being weak, and terrified what it would mean to be strong, to take the lead. Clive always said, Be strong. Be strong. But I was always following. I think that frightened him. When we were paddling he would invent little tricks to make me go up front and take a rapid first.

Again headlights crossed the room. This time they didn’t even listen carefully.

Maybe, in the end, we weren’t really that different. Again she laughed softly. She lifted her head from the pillow. You’re being very quiet, Mr Banker.

I’m listening, Vince said.

You’re dirtying my sheets with those jeans, she said. Take them off. What are you afraid of? It’s the woman’s supposed to be afraid. I know you’re not going to rape me.

I’m afraid of giving the wrong idea.

Take them off, she told him. Don’t be uncomfortable.

Vince let go of her hand, climbed out of bed, removed his jeans. She was curled towards him. It was disturbing. He climbed back in.

I think, she resumed, so many of these people who do dangerous things on rivers and mountains are afraid. It’s funny, but I’m pretty sure. Afraid of dying, afraid of settling down. Afraid of life beginning really, and afraid it will never begin. These sports are something you do instead of life. Suddenly, she propped herself up on an elbow. Do you see what I’m trying to say, Mr Banker? They’re things people do instead of living. Really, you should tell your bank to invest in all these high — risk sports because it’s what everyone really wants. Hang — gliding, deep — sea diving. To feel they’re really living, when they’re not in danger of living at all. She lay back on her pillow. Clive’s problem was, he had seen through it. It didn’t work anymore. That’s why he was so sad. But you should invest your money in these kinds of things, she finished. You could get rich. Now she was running a finger softly back and forth in the hair of his forearm.

Vince said: How would you like to run the upper Aurino with me. Just us two.

The finger stopped. You what?

Tomorrow We could run the upper Aurino again. You do the shopping early. I sort out the paddle and the guide at the rafting centre. We should have about four hours before the party arrives. If we don’t take any breaks, we can do it.

After a thunderstorm?

It can’t be any worse than it was last time.

She was intrigued. You have to drive to England, she reminded him.

If I drive through the night, tomorrow, I’ll still be back Saturday morning.

In fine condition for a sixteen — hour working day.

Right, Vince laughed. Let’s do it.

Suddenly, she threw an arm across his chest and snuggled towards him, her cheek was on his shoulder, her lips only inches away. My old banker wants to kill himself.

I want to run that river. With you. You lead.

You really don’t want to go back at all, do you?

Vince was silent.

At that point, we may as well just make love, she said. Her arm tightened round him.

No, Vince said.

Why not? It’s not so dangerous as running the upper Aurino, and it’ll eat up less of your precious time. You can leave as soon as we’ve finished.

I can’t.

She laughed. I know you’ve grown old counting all that money, but not that old.

I’m terrified, Vince said.

The girl’s grip softened a little, but the arm stayed where it was. After a minute or two, he said quietly, I would like to run that river again.

You can count me out, she whispered. I’ve chosen to live.

The minutes ticked by. The air coming through the window was chill now. Soon someone would have to close it.

Listen, Vince eventually said. Are you listening?

Ye — e—e — es.

If Clive doesn’t turn up, tonight, before lunch tomorrow …

Which he won’t.

I think he probably will.

Let’s say he might.

Well, if he doesn’t, what about …

Ye — e—e — es.

Vince hesitated.

Mr Banker will try to make love to me?

No. No. What about … if I stay. He stopped.

What do you mean?

I stay and run these summer courses with you. I phone the bank, tomorrow, and tell them I’m resigning.

Again she lifted herself on an elbow. She was looking down on him. You’re not serious.

I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. He smiled. I’m always serious.

Well, you’re mad then. You’re more suicidal than I am.

The only thing I want to know, he said, is whether you would like me to stay, or not.

Don’t make me responsible, she objected quickly.

It would always be my decision. You haven’t forced me to do anything. You haven’t even invited me.

Where would you stay? she asked.

I have my tent, Vince said. My airbed.