A Distant Shore by Caryl Phillips Page B

Straight lines, no messing, keep walking. Unlike rivers, canals are all business, which makes it hard for me to relax by one. It’s late morning, which probably accounts for why there’s nobody around. Early in the morning or late in the afternoon, before or after work, people walk the dog or take a stroll to work up an appetite; these are canal times. But even then, there’s hardly ever anybody by this canal, which is why it doesn’t make any sense that Solomon should be down here by himself.
    The police haven’t a clue. They told me that there isn’t necessarily anything suspect, although they detected some evidence of bruising to the head. The truth is I’m not sure how hard they’re trying. I mean, there’s no yellow police tape, or signs asking for witnesses. It’s only two days ago that a man was drowned in this village, but everything is just going on as normal. I stop and peer over a hedgerow where a white-ankled horse stares back at me with that vacant quizzical look that they sometimes have. And your problem is? My problem is that my friend was found face down in this canal and nobody seems to care. I turn from the hedgerow, and the field’s curious occupant, and begin now to walk back in the direction of the village. Face down in a canal because he said something to somebody? I just don’t know. When I reach The Waterman’s Arms I turn from the towpath and cross the sodden garden, dodging the discarded children’s toys, until I come to the six stone steps that lead up to the public bar.
    Inside the pub it’s quiet. A few people have already settled in for a lunchtime pint, and they barely look up as I enter. As I walk to the bar the landlord surprises me by reaching for a half-pint glass. “Half of Guinness, isn’t it?” I smile and ease myself up and onto a stool. The landlord focuses on the drink, as people tend to when they’re pouring a Guinness, and then he looks up at me.
    “Friend of yours, wasn’t he?” The landlord hands me the Guinness and I remember to answer the question.
    “Yes,” I say. “He was a friend of mine.”
    “It’s a sad business, isn’t it? I’m sorry for him and I’m sorry for what it’s doing to our village.”
    I take the Guinness and wonder if I should leave this stool and go to the other side of the pub, but it’s too late. It would look as though I was running away from something, which would, of course, be the truth.
    “What it’s doing to the village?”
    “Well, it makes us look bad, doesn’t it?”
    “I still don’t understand,” I say. This time I take a drink and stare directly at him.
    “Well, it must have been an accident because there’s nobody in Weston who would do anything like that.”
    “I see.”
    He looks over my shoulder at the other men in the pub. Now I understand. This is not a private conversation.
    “If you’ve lived here as long as I have, love, and you’ve grown up with folks like these, you’d understand that there’s not one among them capable of harming anybody. That’s just how they are. Decent folk committed to their families and their community. We don’t have murderers here. A few villains, some with light fingers, and a few who are quick with their fists, but that’s about it. Nothing more than this.”
    I nod, for I have no desire to upset his sense of community. I’m not sure that I want the rest of the Guinness, but to leave at this point would be to admit defeat, and out of respect for my friend I won’t be doing that. Not with these people. And then the landlord suddenly reaches beneath the bar as though remembering something. He rips open a packet of crisps and offers the bag to me, but I shake my head.
    “No, thanks.”
    He withdraws the bag, and then thrusts his hand in and pulls out a half-dozen crisps at once. “I can’t help it,” he says, “I’m addicted to the beggars, but only Bovril and maybe prawn. The others I can let go, but I’m addicted to Bovril.”
    I watch this