First Low Water Thomas Flett relies upon the ebb tide for a living, but he knows the end is near. One day soon, there'll hardly be a morsel left for him to scrounge up from the beach that can't be got by quicker means at half the price. Demand for what he catches is already on the wane, and who's to say the sea will keep on yielding shrimp worth eating anyway. There's all sorts in the water now that wasn't there when he was just a lad. Strange chemicals and pesticides and sewage. Barely a few weeks ago, there was a putrid fatty sheen upon the sand from east to west; a month before, he waded in a residue of foam that reeked of curdled milk as he approached the shallows. Fleeting things, but if you're asking him, they augur trouble - it's been hard to sleep of late. His dreams are full of slag heaps made from rotten shrimp, and he's there in amongst them with a shovel, trying to clear a path. It's five o'clock or thereabouts. He rises with the sky half-dark between the junction of his curtains, weary with the aches of yesterday. The sea-clothes he peeled off when he came home are slung over the chair beside the open window for an airing: his wool jumper, oiled and mangy at the chest from the persistent wiping of his hands; his trousers patched up at the knees; a shirt gone vinegary beneath the armpits. But no matter. Who'll be sniffing him except his mother and the horse? Excerpted from Seascraper by Benjamin Wood All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
