The Iceboat

The Iceboat

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***For a limited time, you can get THREE THRILLERS - FREE - click here to find out more g (just copy and paste the bold text link into your browser)*** The only reason anyone went out was to buy drinks in town. The tide of cans was always in on the studio floor. With plenty of drugs, sex and rock and roll; The Ice Boat is a modern pop-culture odyssey. Dave has almost got it all; with a rock star lifestyle, romance and a nice flat in London, he almost has the happiness he has worked for all his life. But his reluctance to compromise in love takes him away from London to disaster in Rio de Janeiro. Losing his identity, and his heart, to a scheming Brazilian siren, he manages to evade the corrupt music biz sharks and ends up living with three prostitutes in Amsterdam. This book navigates the seedy underbelly of the music world like a nuclear submarine; magic mushrooms, cocaine, romantic pornography, pop culture freaks, toilet sex, public sex and laughing in the face of death all put in a glimmering appearance in this edgy, international road thriller. Full of suspense and unresolved emotions, The Ice Boat is a real 20th Century odyssey that will have you laughing and crying. Somewhere between Ken Kesey or Jack Kerouaca€™s On the Road and Nick Kenta€™s Apathy for the Devil, ita€™s like a kind of two fingers up to those who mock real creativity and innocence in the performing arts. Includes Chapter One of both the occult thriller Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate AND Too Bright the Sun. Volume II is now available on Amazon. Buy Volume I and II together in one book, The Ice Boat 2 in 1, to make a great saving! Categories: fiction, thriller, pop culture, rock lifestyle, fun, comedy, racy, mountain, small town, suburban, urban. Sample Chapter One It would be another scorching hot day. Rio, close to the Equator has winters only about six degrees cooler than the summers and had been 36 degrees at noon the day before. Dave walked steadily forward towards a group of stevedores stacking crates near the edge of the quay. He called out, a€œQue sa la San Antonio?a€ the name on the ticket, and they pointed to the right, second pier along, with hand gestures. a€œObligado, a€ he said, and started walking. It took about half an hour to locate his ship. Carrying his guitar-case and bags, he was sweating when he finally saw her, stern first. She looked terrible. The name was the only bit of paint still properly sticking, the rest a mixture of rust, white undercoat and semi-matt or gloss black paint on the hull, rust and white above. Dave reached the area of the quay, fenced-off by the Bremen Ship Company. Three sides of a quadrangle were formed by a high, rusty white steel fence, with a gate and white steel office next to it inside the fencing. A white notice board on two metal poles advertised the name of the company. Layers of torn paper around the edges indicated many changes of name. He walked up to the gate and pushed it. There was was no one in the office so he walked towards the gangplank. Although the area was at least fifty metres wide, he walked as if on a tightrope, each step precise, so as not to stumble and draw attention to himself. He climbed the sloping plank and reached the deck. The acting Purser and another man were sitting at a desk, smiling. The Purser smiled at him. a€œYoua€™re early. Ticket please.a€ He held out his hand. Dave had it already in his hand and gave it to him. The Purser punched it and passed it back after glancing at it. a€œCabin Eight, down here, two doors on right, a€ he said, thumbing along the ship, over his shoulder. a€œThata€™s it, a€ Dave was saying to himself. He picked the bags up and walked down the deck in the direction indicated. As he stepped through the second door, over the ledge, he felt a huge rush of elation. a€œIa€™ve done it.a€ He saw a row of doors with numbers painted on them and walked along the corridor, across the ship, till he came to number eight. He pulled down the handle, no locks, and entered. It was on the forward side of the corridor at the base of the main superstructure, facing forward. a€˜At least Ia€™ve got a porthole, a€™ he thought. There was a made-up double-bed on the right side, a wooden chest of drawers next to it, and on the other side, a table, two chairs and a fridge. There was almost nothing else. He didna€™t waste too much time looking around. He took any important paperwork he had out of the bag, stuffed it in his pockets, picked up the guitar case, and went off to find somewhere isolated until the ship had left port. He found a quiet spot, well forward on the ship, on the opposite side of a cooling vent, where he thought he couldna€™t be seen from the main superstructure. He hoped that, if there was a problem with his paperwork, they wouldna€™t find him till the ship had left. He settled down to wait. At 1 pm, on time, he heard a whistle. A few minutes later he felt the slight vibration of the engines starting but it was about an hour before he finally could see that the ship was moving. As Rio floated away, his memory was of a city growing out of a rain-forest with its feet so thick with trees under the tall buildings that you believe a monkey, or a jaguar, could cross from one side to the other, without touching the ground. He had a receding feeling of dread, thinking about Rio and what had happened to him there. Now perhaps things could be alright again, in time. The last time he remembered feeling reasonably centred was in the flat with Sharon. *** Dave Deea€™s legs were getting pins and needles. He was leaning cross-legged against the front of the old chair. His girlfriend, Sharon, rested her head on his lap and his hands were resting on her wrists. The music and log fire cracking to their left had lulled them to that land on the edge of sleep, where imagination conjures up images cloaked in mysterious feelings. Suddenly, from the mist, a voice, his own inner voice started, saying, a€œGod, this is great. I really love Sharon. I think this is going to work. Ita€™s been six months now, I think.a€ Then another voice, louder than the first said, a€œWait a minute. Why am I thinking? Shouldna€™t I just be relaxing and going with the flow? This always happens to me and Ia€™m sure ita€™s why I find happiness so difficult. Leta€™s just try to switch off.a€ The first voice could be heard softly humming to itself but there was still a silent presence floating above it, which must be the loud voice. This was just not saying anything. Dave was slightly annoyed and shifted his weight slightly, which drew a moan from Sharon. He really liked the feeling of her weight on him. It reassured him. He didna€™t want to disturb her but the slight movement just now had sent numbing waves down to his ankles and a tightening feeling was making him grit his teeth with pain. The last movement of Beethovena€™s Sixth Symphony gently wound to a close, making Dave thinking of sheep and fresh fields after rain, and then there was silence. He didna€™t think Sharon was asleep and hoped if he waited a few minutes, she would be the one to get up and then he wouldna€™t have to feel guilty. A few minutes had passed and Sharon hadna€™t moved so he decided to move his legs a bit. She moved her head slightly and then leaned forward, hung her head and shook it lazily. She put her hands on the floor, moaned and then smacked her lips, waking up. Then she turned and smiled a sleepy smile at him. a€œWhat time is it?a€ a€œTime you got up and put on another CD.a€ a€œOh no it isna€™t. Ita€™s time I made some coffee. You can put another track on darling.a€ She walked unsteadily into the kitchen. Dave could hear her moving around while he got up to stretch his legs. The room was about fifteen feet long and was fairly sparely furnished because they had only just moved in together and didna€™t have much money. The one door was on the right wall, looking from where Dave had been sitting. It lead to a small landing with the bathroom, shared with the bed sit on the mezzanine below, through a door to the left and stairs down beyond. To the right was the kitchen, and then the bedroom. Theirs was the top flat in the building. Dave walked down towards the front window to stretch his legs. To his right, only high enough to kneel at, was a small carved oak table with an angle-poise lamp, a writing pad, some pens, incense sticks and a dictionary on it. This was Sharona€™s writing table. He saw his new passport lying near the edge. Dave knew the working black fire place, tasteful modern furniture, beige carpet and white walls would impress Sharona€™s parents. The room was so hot that he felt like he had a second skin of something warm and furry but it felt nice. It wasna€™t like the furry skin that covers your eyes as well in a hot room with central heating. He took off his jumper leaving him wearing just his white T-shirt on top. He spun around and unselfconsciously started to dance but then stopped himself. He was too shy to let Sharon find him doing this when she came back into the room. The effects of the last spliff were wearing off and he suddenly remembered he was meant to be doing something. But what? He looked at his hands: a€˜Yup, feels right.a€™ he thought. a€˜Definitely something to do with them. Oh yeah. Ia€™ meant to be choosing some music.a€™ He walked back past the chair to the dining area and knelt down in front of the CD rack. He started flicking the CDs but then realised he knew what he wanted to put on. a€˜Was it what Sharon was in the mood for though?a€™ he wondered. He suddenly decided to take the risk: a€œSantana, Borboletta it is.a€ He took the Beethoven CD out and put in on top of the player on the pile of other CDs played tonight. He was too lazy to re-case them now. He put in the Santana just as the door opened and Sharon came back in, holding two mugs of coffee in her right hand and a digestive in her mouth. She had a self-satisfied, cheeky grin on her face. He pressed a€˜playa€™ and got up to join her. She handed him his favourite blue mug. Hehe asked, a€œIs any of that for me, looking at the biscuit?a€ She nodded and made an a€œAh, huha€ sound in her throat before breaking off the half of the biscuit not in her mouth and holding it out. He opened his mouth and she slid it in. He munched, almost contentedly, as the strange opening track, with its whirring sound, like a swarm of moths, started. He glanced at her slyly to see if she approved. She sat down, cross-legged, facing him on the other side of the glass ash-tray without showing a flicker of emotion. This made him slightly uncomfortable. She pulled out three Rizlas and started licking them. He decided he would close his eyes to concentrate on the music. Dave often felt she was more centred than he was and now was one of those times. He knew enough about people to know that people liked different amounts of control and he knew Sharon needed more control than he did. She was usually the one who instigated sex and she was the one who pretty much decided everything about the flat. In her job at the solicitors, she had quite a lot of control and he could see her excelling at any occupation about rules, which is what the law is. She was a strange mixture of sensuality and control. She was almost anal but not in the sexual sense although he wandered if she had tried that, or might, one day. The album went on about oneness and he did feel a oneness but with himself. He opened his eyes to see how she was getting on. She was just inserting the roach and was deep in concentration. She didna€™t look at him. He wondered if she was thinking anything. His normal level of paranoia was being heightened by the dope, but he was excited at the thought of another spliff. He glanced at his guitar, waiting ready on its stand on the other side of the fire, feeling that, at some point soon, he would feel like playing it. He put his hands behind him but realised that this probably looked like an invitation to hand him the spliff.Dave was in the music. The words and sounds danced around him like fireflies. ... Fast timbales followed by the frame-drum and then a weird sound of an alto-sax playing bizarre and haunting, descending scales. a#39;This is my favourite track, a#39;anbsp;...

Title:The Iceboat
Author: Lazlo Ferran
Publisher:Lazlo Ferran - 2010-04-16

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