After about an hour, they saw the lake below them, away to their left. From above, it looked circular, and hard as well, somehow. Like a lid. A path curved steeply down through dusty woods. At the top two cars were parked side by side. One had its headlights on, which Billy found slightly sinister.
Raymond set off down the path, and Billy followed, the trees offering some welcome coolness. Billy paused to remove his shoes and socks. After taking a few steps in bare feet, he called out to Raymond.
“It’s so soft, like powder. You should try it.”
Raymond glanced at him over his shoulder, but kept going.
At the bottom of the hill they came out on to a wide, pale-yellow beach. They appeared to be the only people there. Perhaps the weather was too cloudy for the locals, Billy thought — or perhaps they were all indoors, having siestas. He could see no houses, though, not even one. The place excited him, and he was glad Raymond had suggested it.
“This is great,” he shouted.
He rolled up his trousers and walked slowly into the lake. The water seemed sensitive, as if every movement that he made could be felt out in the middle, and on the far shore too. At the same time, it had a stealthy quality, a kind of silkiness. Something to do with volcanic ash, no doubt. Or lava. Hearing a cry, he turned round. Raymond was waving from further along the beach. He was trying to drag a boat down to the water and needed Billy’s help.
The boat was a miniature catamaran, with two moulded plastic seats and two sets of pedals. Though rusty, it looked as if it might still work. Taking one side each, they pushed it into the lake, then scrambled on board and started pedalling. The sky seemed lower now, and strangely green; the day had darkened. Billy wondered whether there was going to be a storm. What if lightning struck the water? Would they be killed? He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“It’s hot, isn’t it?” he said.
Raymond took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his seat. “Why don’t you have a dip?”
Billy eyed the surface of the lake, opaque, impenetrable. They were a long way from the shore. Though he was still sweating, a shiver passed through him. “I don’t really like deep water,” he said. “I never have.”
“Just lower yourself over the side,” Raymond said, “and then hold on. You’ll be fine.”
Billy wasn’t sure.
“It’ll cool you down, won’t it?” Raymond said. “And when you’ve had enough, you can climb back into the boat.”
Billy nodded slowly. “I suppose so.”
As he undressed, he was aware of Raymond watching, and he felt embarrassed by his body, so big and white and clumsy. He hurriedly stowed his T-shirt and jeans behind his seat, then, wearing nothing but a pair of Y-fronts, lowered himself backwards into the lake. He gasped with shock and pleasure as the water took hold of him. It was colder out here in the middle, far colder than he’d imagined.
He gripped the side of the boat with both hands, as Raymond had suggested. It wasn’t easy. The wet plastic was smooth, slippery.
“It’s fantastic, Raymond,” he said in a voice made thin and breathy by the cold. “You should come in too.”
“Why don’t you swim?” Raymond said. “That’s what the Roman emperors did.”
“All right.”
As soon as Billy let go, Raymond began to pedal away from him.
“Raymond?” he called out. “What are you doing?” The gap between Billy and the pedalo was widening, and he knew he had no chance of closing it. He’d never been much of a swimmer. “Come back.”
Raymond was looking at him over his shoulder, but he was still pedalling.
“Please,” Billy said. “I’m not joking.”
The water in front of him had a terrible blackness to it, and he couldn’t allow himself to think about what might be under there, or how deep the lake might be. His chest had tightened: he couldn’t breathe properly. He stopped trying to swim, but treading water felt worse. He saw his body dangling, as if from below. It was the point of view of something that lived on the bottom — or something that had died.
His legs were moving in slow-motion; they were slender, feeble, pale as roots.
“Raymond! Please!”
Water poured into his mouth.
Gradually, the pedalo swung round until Raymond was facing him again, but Raymond’s eyes had no light in them, no feeling. They looked flat, like bits of paper; if you poked one with a finger it would tear, and there’d be nothing behind the hole, just darkness.
Choking, Billy sank below the surface, then rose again and found some air. Thirty feet away, the boat sat on the lake. It seemed higher than Billy, as if the water had a gradient to it, as if it sloped uphill. The splashing sounds that he was making took place in a vast, bored silence, and would soon be swallowed by it.
Then, with a certain reluctance, Raymond started pedalling towards him. At last, Billy was able to grab hold of the side and haul himself back into the boat. Wrapping his arms around himself, he hunched over in the seat. Despite the heat, he was shivering.
“You bastard,” he said in a low voice.
But Raymond was staring at the trees on the far shore. He appeared not to have heard.
“Bastard,” Billy said again.
Raymond reached behind the seat for Billy’s T-shirt. “Here. Put this on.”
“What did you do that for?” Billy said. “I could have drowned.”
Raymond smiled. “Let’s go and get something to drink.” He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the beach. “There was a little bar there. Did you see?”
The moment when Billy could have hit him was already gone. Instead, he lapsed into a sullen silence, hardly bothering to pedal, which meant that Raymond had to do most of the work. After a while, Billy began to feel as if he was the one in the wrong. That was the thing about Raymond. He had this uncanny knack of turning everything on its head. And before Billy knew it, gratitude was lifting through him. He was grateful to have been included in Raymond’s new initiative, and for the hint of affection that he had detected in Raymond’s voice. Did you see?
Looking at the shore, he noticed a wooden hut or kiosk set back in the shadow of the trees. Above the open hatch was a faded Campari sign. At the front, on the sand, were several benches and trestle tables, the wood buckled, silver-grey. Once they had hauled the pedalo out of the water, Raymond and Billy walked over to the hut where a man in a soiled white vest sold them two bottles of lemon soda. They both drank thirstily.
When they turned to go, three other men were standing on the beach, no more than fifteen feet away. They wore shabby, colourless clothing, and their faces were dark from the sun.
Raymond started speaking in Italian, but one of the men talked over him. He kept his eyes fixed on Raymond, though he seemed to be addressing the men behind him, and his voice sounded dismissive, contemptuous. Every now and then, he would punctuate his speech with abrupt, violent gestures that Billy didn’t understand. Perhaps he and Raymond were trespassing — or perhaps the men owned that little boat…Though the man was still talking, Raymond had moved off along the beach, making for the path that led back up the hill. He kept his head down and walked quickly. Billy took one last look at the three men, then hurried after him.
Halfway to the path, Billy heard a sound behind him and turned round.
“Raymond?” he said in a shaky voice.
The three men had surrounded the man in the dirty vest, and they were punching him. Though it was happening about a hundred yards away, Billy could hear the blows — solid, weighty, dull, like somebody beating a carpet. As he watched, the man in the vest dropped to his knees, but the other men kept hitting him, taking it in turns. It was all amazingly slow and deliberate.