Chapters (45)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Contents
- Prologue
- 2046
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- About the Author
He is a good yachtsman. Experienced and risk averse, but lately his mind has been unsettled and gradually getting worse. Forgetful sometimes, absent-minded often. Recognising faces but unable to recall the name of the person. Older in years, with a bald head framed by salt-and-pepper-streaked hair and a beard to match. His lined face makes him look older, but that’s what booze does to you. Wine at dinner and whisky for supper and so his nights passed pleasantly, but then she died and those nights were not pleasant. They were long and lonely and soon the whisky was being taken at dinner, then at lunch, and so a drop of whisky for breakfast wasn’t that much of a step to take.
Alone now and nothing makes sense any more. Confusion at everything. The world moves too fast for him to keep up. New technology, new rules, new laws, new faces, new everything.
The sea will always be the sea and to this place he goes when the demons threaten to take over, but now, staring death in the face, surrounded by walls of water looming overhead, he should be quietly accepting that fate. But he doesn’t. In that second as the yacht lifts he wants life. As the boat rallies to surge up the near-vertical wall, so he wishes to reach the top and sail safely down the other side.
For over an hour now he has kept the boat facing into the waves. Climbing and dropping, rising and falling. His hands making deft adjustments to the wheel, causing the rudder to turn here, slack there and the half-empty whisky bottle rolls forgotten in the well by his feet.
He grins wide and full of terror, but feels more alive than he has done in years. His old face shedding the years of stress and depression and those lines now speak of experience and wisdom instead of worry and alcohol. Regret is there too. Regret that he has thrown the skills of his trade away to lapse into a luxury lifestyle in which he has greater concern for his social standing than for the people he could help. He wasn’t born rich and this was never the plan, but he was gifted and that gift was recognised, and only a fool turns down such a high salary, and with that salary came the perks. The house, the cars, the beautiful wife. The holidays and restaurants.
A vow is made, a prayer to the gods above and one that is as foolhardy as it is impotent. I will go back to my trade. If I survive I will work to be the man I dreamt of being. An offering, a sacrifice, and in his mind the lifestyle can go to hell.