by Wilbur Smith
‘You expect us to believe you learned to speak fluent English by watching a few action films?’ Xander laughed. ‘That’s totally likely.’
Mo just shrugged.
Amelia, hunched uncomfortably because of her bound hands, was looking at Mo strangely. I’d seen the look before, but only once or twice. There was this time a kid two years younger than her beat her in a massive chess competition in London. I’d gone along to support her. Halfway through the match she realised she’d been outplayed, and when that realisation dawned on her she looked both stunned and strangely pleased, her annoyance blindsided by admiration. Now, out of nowhere, she asked, ‘What colour is anhydrous copper sulphate?’
‘White.’
‘What colour does it go when you hydrate it?’
‘Blue.’
‘And what’s the chemical formula for hydrated copper sulphate?’
‘CuSO4.5H2O.’
Without missing a beat Amelia went on, ‘Who was Hitler’s minister for propaganda?’
‘Joseph Goebbels.’
‘What month did he die?’
‘He died the day after Hitler, on May 1st 1945.’
‘What’s the relationship between the pressure and temperature of a gas in a rigid container?’
‘Constant,’ Mo said quietly.
‘Assuming what?’
‘Assuming that temperature is measured in Kelvin,’ Mo added without looking up.
Amelia drew breath to fire another question at Mo, and I reckon she’d have stumped him eventually if she’d kept going, but she let the breath out without trying.
Xander, who’d been listening quietly, said, ‘Do you speak any more languages, other than Somali and English?’
Mo nodded. ‘A few.’
Xander puffed out his cheeks. ‘And you learned all this how again?’
‘I just sort of picked it up.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Xander. I felt the same way. I’d been learning French for six years, could barely ask the way to the shops, and definitely wouldn’t understand the answer. But I was watching Amelia, and everything about her face said she believed this boy, Mo. She’d know, I suppose. If it was possible, my hatred of him ratcheted up another notch. Xander hadn’t clocked Amelia’s reaction. He said, ‘You really expect us to believe that?’
Mo shrugged again.
‘Where’d you learn it all really?’
‘Here and there, like I said.’
‘The chemical formula for whatever just hopped into your head, did it?’
He rolled his scrawny shoulders and looked away uncomfortably. ‘What does it matter? I know stuff. Most of it’s useless. But some of it helps me, and if you let me I can use it to help you.’
I realised I’d been clenching my fists together, pumping them full of blood within their gaffer-tape manacles. They hurt. All the same, if they’d been taped together in front of me, then even despite my taped ankles I’d have risked toppling flat on my face to lurch in the boy’s direction, use them like a club, and see whether I could whack him out of the boat with them. I wasn’t falling for this ‘let me help you’ stuff, not at all. But my hands were behind my back and anyway, Mo had scuttled off to the speedboat’s prow, called there by the captain, who’d descended to the rear platform of the battered cruiser to have a word with him. What he was ordering the boy to do now, God alone knew.
15.
‘What’s the plan?’ Xander asked once Mo was out of earshot.
I didn’t have one, but I couldn’t tell him that. ‘I’ll think of something. For now we sit tight and –’
‘We don’t have much choice about that,’ muttered Amelia.
‘– and observe things,’ I went on. ‘Let’s see what these guys do and work out their weak link. One thing is for sure, I’m not putting my trust in that Mo.’
‘Why not?’ asked Amelia.
‘The fact that he knows the chemical formula for Hitler’s propagandist, or whatever, doesn’t impress me. They’re just using him to keep us quiet. I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him.’
Xander shifted beside me. He didn’t say anything, but the way he didn’t meet my eye made it clear enough that Mo seemed all right to him. Normally I’d have been swayed by that; Xander has amazing instincts around people. But today I felt myself tense up defiantly. ‘He did nothing to help Pete,’ I said under my breath.
‘What could he have done?’ said Amelia.
‘Objected! Got in the way! Pulled the guy off him!’
‘None of us did any of those things,’ she pointed out.
‘We had a gun pointed at us,’ said Xander, trying to keep the peace.
‘True,’ replied Amelia. ‘But if what he says is true, then logical extrapolation means he did too.’
‘Big “if”,’ I said.
Amelia’s face made it clear she thought I had no idea.
‘What do you think of Pete’s chances … out there?’ said Xander.
‘He’s a strong swimmer and he knows the currents.’ My heart wasn’t in this reply.
Amelia didn’t exactly make matters better with her own answer to Xander’s question: ‘Impossible to gauge the probability of him making a successful sea swim without more detail.’ Seeing my head drop she continued, ‘Although you’re right that his swimming prowess increases the chance of a positive outcome.’
‘Poor guy,’ said Xander quietly.
I shook my head but it did nothing to dislodge the worry. ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Poor guy.’
A gentle breeze had sprung up, drawing ripples across the slow-moving sea. The water wasn’t turquoise any more, but indigo cut with orange. The sun had dipped below the horizon and now the sky above us loomed very empty indeed. It would be dark soon.
Where were they taking us? I had no idea. And why tow the boat when it was perfectly capable of propelling itself? I was annoyed by the realisation that there was only one person I could ask, namely Mo. He’d disappeared into the wheelhouse of the cabin cruiser with the captain, and now emerged wearing a battered backpack. The cruiser slowed. In no time he’d hauled in the line and skipped between the two boats again.
He ran the length of the hood and jumped lightly down onto the bench, nimbly sidestepping the dive gear strapped in the hold. When he reached us, he sat down. He was smiling. I glowered back. He swung his rucksack into his lap and opened it up, asking, ‘Are you thirsty? Hungry? Here, the captain sends you some food and drinks.’
I turned away from him, but Amelia said, ‘What sort of food?’
He was rummaging about in his bag and spoke into it. ‘Kimis, a flat type of bread, and here, some mukmaad, which is dried-out beef.’
‘Jerky,’ said Xander.
Mo broke the word in half, trying it out: ‘Jerk key. Also, mango,’ he said, holding one up.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I told him.
‘Drink though,’ he said, holding up a plastic bottle beaded with droplets. It looked like it had come out of a fridge.
In silence I let him hold the bottle to my lips, knowing that without water I’d weaken in a matter of hours. The instant before he tilted the bottle, I realised I was parched, but when I took the first gulp I almost spat it out in surprise. The clear, bubbly liquid wasn’t water but lemonade. It felt like a trick. I couldn’t stop myself drinking some more all the same.
‘It’s good, yes?’ he said.
I turned away from him again.
He helped the others to drink and fed them as well, tearing off chunks of the flatbread and jerky and posting the pieces into Amelia and Xander’s open mouths. How demeaning, to be fed like a baby. I was glad I’d refused, but knowing they had eaten I immediately felt horribly hungry. I’d have to cave in soon, I supposed, but for now it felt good to have taken a stand.
Mo was apologising for the fact we were tied up. ‘It’s just until they can trust you,’ he said. ‘I will try to convince them, first thing in the morning, when it’s light.’
‘But where a
re we sleeping?’ asked Amelia.
The whites of Mo’s eyes were bright in the gloom. He looked apologetically into the hold. ‘We can use the life jackets to make things a little more comfortable,’ he said. ‘And there are blankets on the big boat. I will ask for some. I can’t promise, but let’s see.’
Without waiting for a response, he set off. The speed at which he left did make it look like he felt guilty and genuinely wanted to help, but it could have been an act. And again, when he returned with the promised blankets under his arm, he seemed proud to have negotiated them for us successfully, but for all I knew the captain had already told him to give them to us. I wasn’t about to follow Xander’s ever-so-grateful act, though I had to admit that keeping the boy onside was probably a good thing.
Now Mo was pulling out the life jackets and spreading them across the bottom of the boat. It wouldn’t make much difference. None of us would get any sleep with our hands tied behind our backs. Still, Amelia was shuffling herself into a more comfortable position, evidently ready to make the most of Mo’s efforts, and Xander allowed him to drape a blanket over his shoulders.
The dark came so quickly. What was left of the sunset drained away and the cloudbank became a black lid that slowly slid to one side over the next hour or so, revealing a night sky stabbed full of more stars than I’d seen before in my life. Unlike at home, where even the most starlit night sky looks like a single black sheet full of pinpricks of light, the sky above the boat was full of depth, with some stars so distant they were barely visible and others seemingly near enough to touch.
Barrel-man had his feet up on the boat’s dashboard, to one side of the steering wheel. He was leaning back in Pete’s chair, dozing. Astonishingly, Mo’s efforts to make things tolerable for us seemed to have paid off for Amelia. She was curled up on her side at my feet, breathing in the steady rhythm of sleep. And before long Mo, cocooned in his blanket, seemed to have drifted off as well. But I was still electrically awake, and though his back was turned to me I could sense that Xander, like me, either didn’t want to give in to sleep, or couldn’t.
The burbling of the cruiser’s motor, together with the slap and splash of water beneath our hull, was enough to mask a little noise, so I decided to risk it.
‘Xander,’ I whispered.
‘Yes,’ he breathed.
‘Keep an eye on the pirate. If he stirs, do something to distract him. OK?’
‘Sure.’
Very slowly indeed I twisted from a sitting position until I was curled on my side among the life jackets. Then, over the course of about fifteen minutes, I inched my way along the bottom of the boat towards the raised platform that supported Pete’s chair. Not because I wanted to get at Barrel-man – what could I do with my hands bound? – but because I needed to reach the starboard bulwark behind his seat. Our dry-bags were hung on hooks there.
Fortunately, the closer I got to Barrel-man the less likely he was to see me; by the time I was pressed up behind the forward platform he would have had to turn right round and lean over his chair-back to spot me.
Still, I had the problem of unhitching my bag without it thumping down into the hold. The best I could think to do was to try and lift it from its hook with my feet and let it flop down onto my midriff, cushioning the bag’s fall with my body.
That was the plan, but for long moments I couldn’t manage it. To stop things bouncing off them in rough seas, the hooks had barbed lips. Try as I might, I couldn’t manipulate the bag finely enough with my feet. A howl of frustration welled up within me. I fought to keep my cool, took a deep breath, tried for the bag again. There was a strange squeaking in my ears as I struggled with it, a noise I realised was coming from me, ferociously grinding my teeth.
Could I time it so that the bag fell when we hit a wave? No: there was no pattern to the background boat noise. Just get on with it, I told myself. What’s the worst Barrel-man might do if he caught me? Trying to reassure myself with that question was pointless. He could chuck me overboard like Pete. Well, that was a risk I’d have to take. Holding my breath again, I finally levered the dry-bag clear of its hook, and let it slide-tumble down my leg and onto my chest.
Nothing happened. Specifically, no head appeared over the seat-back. I glanced across at Xander, plainly visible in the starlight. He nodded at me almost imperceptibly. So far, so good. The boat rose and fell to the same gentle soundtrack, the stars rocking from side to side above it.
With my back to the bulwark I eased myself up into a sitting position and shifted the dry-bag to my side. I had to strain to reach the clasp fastening its neck, but once I had hold of it I managed to pinch the thing apart easily enough. It didn’t take me long to fish out my phone. Once I had it, I fastened the bag shut again and, lying on my back, I pushed it up to the bulwark again with my feet.
That part wasn’t as tricky as it sounds. The carry handle slipped over the hook easily enough. Inching my way back to the stern was agony though. The night sky seemed to have grown brighter still. If Barrel-man had thought to check he would definitely have spotted me out of place. But he didn’t, and soon enough I’d made it back to my slot between Amelia and Xander. She was still sleeping, but he was very much awake.
‘What are you up to?’ he whispered.
‘I need to send a message,’ I replied.
‘To who? Saying what?’
‘I’m going to tell Mum to blank these guys when they make contact asking for money.’
Xander shifted so that he could see my face close-up. ‘You’re going to do what?!’
‘Trust me,’ I whispered.
‘You know I trust you, but …’ He tailed off.
It was impossible to use my phone behind my back. No matter how much I strained, I couldn’t see the screen while I was holding it. But I managed to ignite the thing blind and, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Xander, with him angling it my way, I could see it.
I always keep my phone on silent: only an idiot wants to be interrupted by constant notifications. That’s why none of the rash of messages spread across its screen had made it beep or buzz. All of the messages were from Mum. The first, casual and breezy, asked when we expected to be back at the resort. When she’d received no reply, she’d sent further pleas for an update. Mum always punctuates and proofreads her texts carefully, but the last message she’d sent was a frantic Please Jack pick up or reply I’m really so worried without commas or a full stop at the end.
My heartbeat had slowed down since I’d retrieved the phone. Now it felt dead in my chest, a plodding boom of sadness for poor, poor Mum.
I knew what I wanted to tell Mum, and I knew how upset she’d be to hear it, but thinking up the right – few – words was nowhere near as hard as getting them typed. Very slowly indeed, I managed to write the message. There were two bars of signal when I started, but they had flickered down to one by the time I’d pecked out my simple we’re OK – don’t pay ransom – trust me – i’ve got this – message.
I was worried we’d slip out of range entirely if I went on any longer so I just added – love j – and hit send. The delivered confirmation seemed to take an age to come through, but it was probably just my imagination. Either way, I deleted the sent message, killed the phone screen and gave Xander a thank-you nod before rolling back onto my side with the phone clamped tight in my hand.
I’d been keeping an eye on both Barrel-man and Mo as I’d gone through this laborious process. Neither had moved. And yet, as I slid the phone under my life-jacket mattress, Mo, who had been lying on his back, shifted up onto one elbow. He didn’t say anything, but in that moment he was definitely looking my way.
16.
Against all the odds I did sleep that night eventually. I don’t remember drifting off but I must have because the next thing I knew I was coming to, plucking up the courage to open one eye, knowing exactly where I was and yet hoping I was mistaken and it had all been a bad dream.
No such luck.
Dawn was just about
to break: the stars above me had faded as the deep black sky bleached to grey. I tried to lever myself upright but my arms were having none of it. They were beyond numb. When I tried to lean on my left elbow, I felt nothing at all.
Mo spotted me trying to wriggle some feeling back into myself. The boy was bouncing on his heels before us in a matter of seconds. I wouldn’t have called on him, but I wasn’t about to stand in the way of his help.
‘I’ll ask if we can untie you,’ he said. ‘One minute.’
With that he skipped forward to whisper in Barrel-man’s ear. When he returned his smile made me momentarily hopeful he’d got permission to unbind us completely, but all he’d managed was to convince Barrel-man that we could be trusted to have our wrists taped together in front of us.
This he did, to Xander first. When my shoulders rolled forward for the first time in roughly half a day it felt like they were being ripped out of their sockets. I couldn’t hold back a grunt of pain. Amelia, who had been asleep up until that moment, sat up. ‘What’s going on? Someone’s hurt?’ she asked.
I waited for the pain to kick in for her too, but amazingly she simply stretched her arms out behind her as if performing some sort of swimmer’s warm-up exercise instead. She looked almost comfortable. When Mo redid her binding with her hands in her lap she seemed more confused than relieved. ‘If it makes you happy,’ she said.
While Mo had been attending to us I’d kept my position on top of the life jackets. Beneath them was my mobile phone. I hadn’t risked trying to return it to my bag the night before. Now I realised I’d have to do so in broad daylight. But try as I might I couldn’t find the phone. It wasn’t under the life jacket I was sitting on, or – I realised with a rising sense of panic – the ones near it.
I had that feeling that always lands on me when I’ve lost something, anger that it’s gone cut with annoying certainty that it can’t have disappeared entirely: the phone had to be somewhere. I would have preferred it to be at the bottom of the sea rather than incriminatingly nearby. Was I misremembering where I’d put it? No! Perhaps I’d slept more restlessly than I realised and had dislodged it somehow, thrashing about.