Summerwater by Sarah Moss (top 10 motivational books .txt) 📕

what about the little girl, passive smoking? He’s old enough to remember all that, what it was like to be a kid in the back of a car with someone puffing away in the front, and also the way your clothes and hair used to stink after getting the bus with all the smokers in the back seat, as if that made any difference. He might not run all the time, might like the odd night down the pub and sugar in his tea, but at least Steve knows better than that. Never had a cigarette in his life, actually; after watching his mum nurse his grandad he wasn’t that stupid, and if he ever catches Noah or Eddie at it he’ll bloody murder them.

Why’s the daft cow standing in the door like that, just to make sure no one can miss a single yell and thud of her so-called music? Must be catching her death of cold and getting wet into the bargain, and with those windows open there’ll be rain getting onto the carpets. If he knew who owned the cabin, he’d be on the phone right now. Well, not right now, obviously, you can’t call from here, but he’d go up the road or out on the jetty even to let them know what’s going on, never mind the weather. It’s not right, to rent someone’s cabin that they’ve worked and saved for and then stink it out with cigarettes and ruin the carpet with rain and God knows what else they’ll be up to in there, filthy it is, probably, people like that. He drinks some tea. Maybe he will go round there. Who else is going to deal with it, the old bloke with the doddery wife? There’s the chap two doors along with the teenage son who was out in his kayak earlier, maybe Steve will call on him and they can go round together. Show the Bulgarians they’re pissing off everyone, not just one grumpy bloke. That lad could come too, he’s tall, towers over his dad. If they don’t turn that noise down in the next five minutes, Steve’s going to put his coat on.

Justine’s still staring at her laptop. God knows what’s going on there now, pervy shit he doesn’t even want to think about, she’s probably got that red dress off by now and maybe it’s her turn to kneel on her polished kitchen floor between the polished shoes of the man in the suit, not that that would be doing it for Justine, she’s never been— The Romanian woman’s taking out her phone now, he can see her face in its blue glow. Classy, fag in one hand, phone in the other. You can kind of see her cleavage too, and bits of a dark bra showing over her top. She won’t be calling anyone, that’s for sure, couldn’t make herself heard if she tried, but she’s not, just fiddling with it, swiping and tapping, messaging her dealer he’d think if they weren’t all the way out here. Wait, he thinks, how come she has reception? What’s she doing, must be on a different network but everyone has to go up the road or onto the jetty for two bars, whoever they’re with. Unless there’s some Romanian provider with better coverage, but that doesn’t make any sense, certainly not how it used to work, before. He can see her smiling, fat cow, and dark hair falling into those hoiked-up tits. Justine had long hair when they met and for years afterwards, until she got it all cut off so it was quicker to wash after running, didn’t even tell him she was going to do it. It’s her hair, of course, he knows that, but you’d think she might care what her husband likes. He’d ask her, if he wanted to grow a beard or shave his head or something. Not that he’s the type and that’s one thing at least, he’s not going bald yet, or barely, not like his dad who had this terrible comb-over that used to lift in a strong wind. Steve knows how to face facts better than that.

Headlights sweep the trees, make him jump. Of course he wouldn’t have heard an engine, would he, they could probably be breaking the sound barrier overhead and no one would notice. That used to happen up on the moors near home, before, when there were the Air Force bases up to the north, used to be exciting, the way the fighter jets would rip the sky and you’d look up and they’d be ninety degrees ahead of where you heard them. He’d have liked to go in one of those. It’s big, whatever it is, and here it comes, lurching and swaying, looks like one of those new Sasquatch Adventurers, white and shiny as ice and bloody hell it’s only stopping at the fucking Romanians’ place. Justine, he says, would you just come and look at this, but of course she doesn’t respond. There’s other music coming from the car as soon as they open the doors, two sets of drums now banging against each other, two voices howling. The engine stops and people get out, two men from the front and from the back two women in white trainers you can see in the dark and tight little pale dresses, and the men go round and get what look like boxes of beer out of the boot while the fat cow with the phone comes right out into the rain to hug the women and then the little girl appears in the doorway and all the time the music’s howling and thudding. Fucking hell, Steve thinks, we’re going to need a whole bloody army now.

drums

The sound waves pulse like the rings around a thrown stone, spreading out across the rainy night.

Music crosses raindrops, the air full of noises and riddled with movement. Sound waves travel through the cabin’s open door and through