Tom looked up and saw the first seagull, black against the brightening sky. It was wheeling in a wide circle high above the water. He scanned the air to his left and saw another join it from the eastern shore, gliding in a straight line, and then turn sharply to join the circuit. Then, appearing overhead, came the third, joining from the north. Now all three seagulls were locked in sync, gliding at equal distance from each other, circling down. With robotic precision they came together into a tight circle, wing tips almost touching, and spiralled towards the Teal.
When he was close enough to the flotilla to be able to make eye contact with some of the boaters, Tom pushed the tiller and Maggot curved away to port. He had to get himself noticed as a threat. Then, if he could draw some police boats away from the security cordon, he hoped that would create an opening for him to get to the Teal.
He swerved between boats at full speed, soaking a couple in a rowing boat with spray. People began to shout at him, but he kept the throttle on full. He could see the line of police launches, wardens and black RIBs guarding the rim of the cordon at the front. At last one of them noticed him and he heard the wail of a siren. A police launch, blue lights flashing, was pushing through the boats from the cordon towards him, opening a strip of clear water. He cut the throttle, turned round and waited. As the police launch came level he twisted the throttle, gunned Maggot through the corridor of clear water and broke through the security cordon. He now had a clear view of the Teal, steaming out into the lake, and above were the three black shapes of the seagull drones, corkscrewing down on their prey.
It was 3.02 p.m. and all he had to do was hold his course at this speed and head straight for the Teal, forcing her to change her own course, and causing the drones to miss their target. Ignoring shouts and sirens behind him, Tom kept his eyes on the Teal and pushed towards her. There was the sound of a ship’s horn, five quick blasts for danger. The Teal shuddered and belched black smoke from the funnels as the engines were rammed astern. He broke into a smile as he realized she was changing course.
But suddenly there was another boat cutting across his bow, making him change direction. He tried to swerve around it but it was faster and he had to slow down. It had no police markings or lights, though it was forcing him to stop, and was now heading towards him, matching his turns, like a game of chicken. In the confusion of boats and noise and water Tom could hardly take it in, but as they came closer together he could see that it was Stingray. Snakey was at the wheel, jaw locked in defiance, and for a moment their eyes met. Tom cut the engine and slammed the tiller away, sending spray ripping into Snakey’s face as Maggot came to a shuddering stop pressed up against Stingray’s sides.
Everyone was looking at him. Another boat was coming alongside. Someone was climbing into Maggot and putting a hand on his shoulder.
Tom was still watching the Teal. He could see Jim Rothwell now, wearing a suit, hands on the railings looking at him. The Queen was nowhere to be seen on deck, but he saw a scrum of people inside the cabin. He searched the air above, and just off the Teal’s port bow three white-and-grey shapes, wings folded into a dive, plunged into the water.
Jim smiled, and, without moving his hands from the railings, raised his thumbs in the air. Mission accomplished.
An armed policeman, his gloved hand gripping Tom’s shoulder, lifted the visor of his combat helmet. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
Tom’s throat was dry. Guns were pointing at him from a RIB, police in full-body armour, radios squawking. He swallowed hard.
‘Just tell me your name, please.’
‘Thomas Hopkins.’
‘Thomas Hopkins, I’m arresting you on suspicion of terrorism offences. Please put your hands on your head and lie on the floor of the boat.’
CHAPTER 23
Dinner was nearly over by the time Maggie realized that her parents did not believe them. Her mum had cheerfully made Maggie’s favourite meal, but she could barely taste the prawn laksa in front of her.
She had been in turmoil since Tom’s arrest. Joel had been infuriatingly silent. She knew his mind was racing too but she could get nothing out of him. They had sat miserably in the workshop to analyse the footage Joel had taken from Skylark, starting from when they heard Maggot’s roaring engine disappear round the bend in the river.
And there they were: three streaks of white over the glittering water. Pure as doves, soaring on the afternoon thermals, wings stretched out, heads still, eyes on the prey below.
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Maggie, shaking her head. ‘They just blend in like real seagulls. No one would even know what had hit them.’
‘No,’ said Joel.
‘Just as Tom said.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Unbelievable.’
‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘It is.’
‘Look, there he is,’ she said, as Maggot emerged into view and they watched it all again: the reckless rip through the flotilla, the corridor opening up, the police launch surging behind, the black speedboat barring the way.
‘Watch.’ Joel manually slowed the replay of the film. They focused on each jerky moment, frame by frame, with a terrible fascination: they saw the Teal go into reverse, foam billowing behind like suds from a demented washing machine; the figures on deck bundle towards the cabin, dark suits surrounding a lilac hat; then the armed RIBs tilting in towards a single small boat, like iron filings to a magnet, then the arrest, a circle of guns, a tightening ring of spectators. And as the Teal began to reverse, three bird-like weapons, in perfect formation, folded their wings, and sliced into the water no more than fifteen feet away from the bow, with barely a splash.
‘This is so annoying!’ said Maggie. ‘It looks like a scene from a wildlife documentary, not a terrorist attack. No one will believe this is anything.’
‘No,’ Joel had said again. ‘No, they won’t.’
Now, around the scrubbed pine table in River’s Edge, Maggie was all too aware of how unbelievable it sounded. Her parents listened to their story without saying a word. Maggie’s dad leant across the table and helped himself – a little too cheerfully, Maggie thought – to another ladle of soup. ‘Now Tom’s being questioned by the authorities, I’m sure they’ll be able to get to the bottom of it all.’
Maggie placed her chopsticks on the table with infinite care. Joel did his rotating-turret look, moving his gaze from his dad to his sister.
‘What do you mean, “get to the bottom of it all”?’ she said.
Her mum interjected. ‘He just means, Maggie, they’ll try and help him.’
‘Help him?’
‘Yes,’ said her mum. ‘That’s what the boy needs. Help.’
‘Help for what? Help investigating a terrorist attack that has been wrongly pinned on him, you mean?’
Maggie’s dad’s face darkened. ‘Now, Maggie, there’s no need to be sarcastic. Anyone can see that Tom has had a difficult few years. He’s been left parentless, moved home, moved schools, then suffered some sort of injury, and who knows what else? These things traumatize people and when people are traumatized their grasp on reality is sometimes damaged. It could happen to anyone.’
‘Are you saying we’ve imagined all this as well?’ asked Maggie.
‘I’m not making any judgment about anyone. But let’s think about what it looks like from the outside. What exactly have you seen or heard yourselves that convinced you the Queen was going to be attacked by terrorists on a boat trip? Is it not possible that you all got carried away with Tom’s theory?’
‘Theory? Dad, we’ve seen things, heard things! We haven’t just made this all up. And –’ Maggie inhaled deeply and looked squarely at her dad – ‘you’ll just have to take our word for it.’
Her mum stood up and began to clear the table. ‘Even if you’re right, Maggie, we’re not going to help him by falling out about it.’
The only sound for some time was the clink of bowls and cutlery.
‘At least the terrorists can’t get to hi
m while he’s locked up,’ Joel said at last.
Their mum let out a sigh. ‘Stop being melodramatic, Joel. He’s just being assessed. He’s not in prison.’
‘And who are these terrorists?’ asked their dad, palms open. ‘All that actually took place, as far as anyone can see, is that a troubled teenage boy went berserk and tried to ram his boat into the steamer with the Queen on board. That’s what it looks like, and that’s how the police will have to treat it. They have nothing else to go on.’
‘We know that’s how it looks, Dad,’ said Maggie. ‘But things aren’t always the way they look. Tom was trying to save the boat, not ram it.’
Her dad stood up and picked up an iPad from the kitchen side.
‘Here it is: Youth Foils Royal Attack.’
‘Oh!’ said Maggie, brightening.
‘Listen,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘A quick-thinking youth is being praised by police after his courageous intervention prevented an alleged attempt to attack a vessel with Her Majesty the Queen on board. The incident occurred in the Lake District at the beginning of a Royal Tour, earlier today. After opening the new Freshwater Biology Study Centre at Dowthwaite Bay, the Queen was travelling on board the historic boat, MV Teal, accompanied by a variety of special guests, including local celebrity chef, Brian Wilkins. The incident occurred three minutes into the cruise. Thirteen-year-old Ryan Snaith spotted a fast-moving motorboat breaching the security cordon and intercepted it—’
‘No way!’ Maggie banged her hand on the table. ‘This is unbelievable.’
Her dad glanced at her over the tablet, and carried on. ‘Thirteen-year-old Ryan Snaith spotted a fast-moving motorboat breaching the security cordon and intercepted it, preventing an alleged attempt to ram the royal vessel. The driver of the motorboat, another local youth, who can’t be named for legal reasons, was apprehended by waterborne royal protection officers.
‘Deputy Chief Constable Mark Robertson told the BBC that the attack was believed to be a one-off incident. “The boy claimed he was preventing some sort of terrorist plot. But he was unable to provide any evidence for this,” Robertson explained. “The youth is being detained under anti-terror laws, until we have ruled out possible extremist connections.”’
He closed the tablet and looked at Maggie. ‘We want to believe you, Maggie. But do you have any hard evidence?’
Maggie’s mum stopped clearing the table. In the silence Maggie’s mind ran over everything that had happened in the past week: from Mike McCain selling ice creams in the car park at Dowthwaite Bay, to her close escape on Benson Isle, to the attack itself. But what would count as proof? It boiled down to two things. There was the chip with photographs clearly showing criminal activity – which Snakey had stolen from the kitchen windowsill. And there was the video that Joel had taken from Skylark showing three seagulls diving into the water – which is what seagulls did.
Her mum walked the pile of bowls over to the sideboard. She returned to the table and looked at Maggie, eyebrows arched, echoing her husband’s question.
‘No, we don’t,’ said Maggie. ‘Not yet.’
CHAPTER 24
After dinner Maggie rowed out in Bobalong to the spot where the seagull-drones had nosedived. She stretched out with each stroke, a cleansing breeze in her hair. The rhythm of the effort began to unclutter her mind, though she was still fuming about the injustice of it all. She looked at the sky pensively, but there was just the dome of pale blue and a band of high clouds bottom-lit by the evening sun. She was about to turn for home when she saw Jim Rothwell coming towards her in Swallow, the blades of his oars scooping up shavings of light. He looked over his shoulder and nodded, unsurprised, pipe in his mouth. He was still three or four strokes away when she caught the aromatic trail of smoke: a mix of fresh straw, cloves, burnt toast. The grown-up scent reached out to her on the evening breeze like an invisible arm of kindness.
‘Lovely evening for a row,’ he said, coming alongside. ‘Sometimes you just need to clear your head, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, grabbing hold of Swallow’s gunwale. ‘It’s so unfair, Jim. If it weren’t for Tom, the Queen would be dead and the Teal would be at the bottom of the lake. But who gets praised from the rooftops?’
‘I know. I’ve seen the news.’ He let the smoke curl around him. Behind, the hills were glowing in the evening sun.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Do?’
‘About the terrorists, Snakey, Tom being treated like a criminal!’
‘We could start by being thankful, I suppose.’
‘Thankful?’
‘Don’t forget, Maggie, you achieved what you set out to do. As you said yourself, the Queen is alive and well, and the Teal is still sailing these tranquil waters as if nothing happened. Mission accomplished. I presume you didn’t do it to be “praised from the rooftops”?’
‘No, but—’
‘You know, Maggie, saving other people usually comes at a price. Tom may have made himself look a bit daft for now. But, as I always say, “the truth will out in the end”. You’ll see.’
‘And I guess he’s in a safe place.’
‘I’m told that he is being well cared for, yes. But I intend to see for myself. I have an appointment with the Deputy Chief Constable first thing in the morning and I’m going to see if I can vouch for Tom’s character and get him back home. I need to be careful, though. If – and I think it’s a big if – the authorities are mixed up in this, then there’s always a danger that saying too much will alert the terrorists that we’re on to them. As for that Snaith lad, don’t worry about him. His day will come.’
Maggie looked across the lake to the summit of Raven Howe. ‘Why does he hate Tom so much anyway, Jim?’
‘Hurt people, hurt people,’ he said simply, raising an eyebrow to check she understood.
Maggie shook her head, bewildered.
He pointed the tip of his pipe towards her and began to chuckle. ‘You see, Maggie, Tom Hopkins and Ryan Snaith have more in common than you might think. When I first met Tom, he was a strange, damaged creature. I took it as coldness at first but then I realized that he was like . . . like an egg. A hollow shell that could crack at any moment. After some time, he told me why. And there was a time when Ryan Snaith was like that too. On the brink, trying to work out who he was. Sadly, he chose the wrong path. But Tom could easily have lost his way too.’
‘But he hasn’t, has he?’
‘No, Maggie, and in part, that’s thanks to this whole business, and to you and your brother turning up at just the right time. In a strange kind of way this little escapade is exactly the jolt he needed to stop brooding on his own problems and think about someone else. Which he did, I might add, spectacularly!’
He slotted the pipe back in his mouth with a clash of teeth, and looked at her.
It was true that Tom had risked himself to save others. They had not had time to discuss it. But, Snakey or no Snakey, he would still have looked like a lunatic breaking through the cordon and charging towards the Teal. He’d counted the cost.
A lawnmower-like hum made them look up. A micro-light, gossamer wings backlit in the last rays, was drifting overhead.
‘I saw those birds hit the water a few yards off the port bow and it all made perfect sense. No one else had worked it out – all these police and MI5 and who knows what else, with millions of pounds in resources and access to global intelligence, and they completely missed what a thirteen-year-old boy saw from his garden shed. So cheer up.’
Maggie pushed the fringe out of her eyes and looked straight at Jim. ‘The problem is no one believes us and we have no proof.’
He looked at the bowl of his pipe, where the little bed of embers was fading, and reached into a pocket for a box of matches. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘A bit of digging, before the trail goes cold.’
‘Where will you start?’
Maggie shrugged, and pulled one of the oars further into t
he boat before it slipped out of its rowlock. ‘What do you know about Hollowdale?’
‘It’s very remote. The Thirlmere Aqueduct passes right under the fellside there. But why do you ask? If that’s where you think these people are, I’d advise you to stay well away!’
‘What’s the Thirlmere Aqueduct?’
He gestured to the north with a nod. ‘There’s an enormous man-made reservoir up the valley there. Thirlmere. The Victorians built it to provide Manchester with water almost one hundred miles away, which it still does. The water flows downhill through the longest man-made underground aqueduct in the world. Did you know that? Amazing, those Victorians.’
‘I had no idea. And we live in Manchester too.’
‘Yes. “You never miss the water till the well runs dry,” as the saying goes.’ Jim pulled a match out of the box, struck it and relit his pipe, cupping his hands against the dying breeze. ‘But listen to me, Maggie. Whatever else you do to help Tom, don’t go walking into the lion’s den!’
After getting ready for bed, Maggie sat on the balcony of River’s Edge, the mellow evening air clinging to her skin. She sat with her book unopened on her lap and listened to the river sighing softly below, as if getting ready for sleep.
She thought about what Jim had said about not going to Hollowdale. He was right, of course. And yet, if no one ever went near the lion’s den, as he called it, those people would get away with everything.
A female goosander with some newly hatched chicks was labouring upstream, orange tufts glistening with jewels of water from a recent dive. Maggie counted the chicks. There were eight, or possibly nine or even ten. It was impossible to be sure because they were all following the mother so closely, in a tightly packed clump, legs beating twice as fast as hers to keep up.
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