Toby paused and thought about his dad’s likely reaction. He wouldn’t be too pleased, and what was the point of adding another worry?
After all, I might be imagining it — stress can do funny things to you …
Toby went back into the cabin, where Sylvie sat calmly stroking Henry and chattering away to the rabbit, who was happily chewing a tassel on the bedspread.
Toby went to put on the gas cooker at the back of the cabin. They had managed to find several large canisters of gas on an earlier foraging trip. An old croft down by the shore front, near Balmedie beach, had for some reason been full of them. Cooking on the solid fuel stove was tiresome and took ages. Toby much preferred the cooker, even though it meant him and his dad had had to lug the heavy canisters from the croft across the sands and down to the mooring, where they had struggled to lift them on to the Lucky Lady. It felt worth all that effort when they sat down to a hot meal together.
He made some noodles for Sylvie, boiling them up in a pan on the hob, and sprinkling the sachet of disgusting-smelling powder on to the wriggling white tubes. She had loved the sticky pasta when she was younger, and had eaten nothing else for months before their mum died. But since then she had eaten less and less.
Toby handed Sylvie the bowl of noodles.
“D’you want something with that? Might be able to rustle you up a wee drop of Heinz tomato ketchup. This is a classy restaurant. We only have the best here!”
Sylvie smiled and took the bowl, sniffing at its contents.
“And don’t go feeding it to that blinking rabbit, either,” Toby gently teased.
“No, sir!” replied Sylvie.
“I’m just going to have a quick nap. I’m knackered,” sighed Toby, lying down on his dad’s bunk. It smelt of his dad: a warm manly smell of old sweat mixed with diesel oil. Toby fell asleep before he heard Sylvie’s reply.
Toby woke with a start. Something was wrong. What was it?
The engine had stopped. The Lucky Lady was no longer powering forwards through the waves. She was sitting silently, bobbing in the choppy waters.
Suddenly his dad burst through the cabin door.
“Toby!” he shouted. “Come quickly! I need your help — the fuel line must be blocked. The engine’s stalled and I can’t restart it. Come on! Don’t just lie there!”
Toby swung his legs down over the bunk sides and stood up, rubbing the sleepy dust from his eyes. He felt like he’d been kicked by a mule.
“Er … yeah, Dad, I’m coming. Oh, my head’s so sore.” Toby rubbed his head with his good hand. The sore hand was too swollen to touch anything.
“It’s cold in here,” remarked his dad, moving over to Sylvie to tuck her in. She was fast asleep with Henry, fast asleep too, tucked under her chin. “Can’t I even trust you to keep the fire in the stove? You know that’s your job.”
“I did … I put some logs on earlier …” stuttered Toby, but he knew there was no point in saying anything. As far as his dad was concerned, he had let him down again. “Sorry …” Toby mumbled.
“Come on, get the stove cracking and then come up on deck and keep watch whilst I try to fix the fuel line,” commanded his dad. “That last lot of diesel we got from the croft in Balmedie must have been dirty. Some rubbish or other is bunging up the fuel line.” His dad bent over Sylvie, kissed her gently on the top of her head, and then left, yelling, “And put that darned rabbit back in its box while you’re at it!”
Within five minutes Toby had followed all his dad’s orders and joined him on the deck. The evening had crept up on them whilst he’d been sleeping and now the only light was the spotlight that hung off the deckhouse wall. It threw an eerie puddle of yellow on to the sea, which looked black and menacing in the darkness.
“Have we lost the pirates?” Toby asked his dad anxiously.
“Can’t be sure one way or the other. I can’t see anything out there but the wind has dropped again and there are banks of fog rolling in and out along the coastline just now, so they could easily be quite near us and we’d never know until they ran us down,” replied his dad.
“That doesn’t sound too cheery,” said Toby. “And now we’ve got engine problems. Great!”
“I might be able to fix the engine if it’s what I think it is,” said his dad, “but you need to keep an eye out for any lights, and listen carefully. You’ll be able to hear an outboard on an inflatable boat for miles. My guess is they won’t want to bring the warship too near this coast. It’s too rocky and dangerous for a big boat. No, I’m sure they’ll launch an attack by dinghy.”
His dad disappeared into the deckhouse and Toby could hear him descending the steep steps down to the engine room under the cabin. Toby decided to check the rope and anchor that were keeping them steady. His dad wouldn’t be pleased if there was too much movement when he was carrying out the delicate job of removing, cleaning and restoring the fuel line to the engine.
He went to the stern and tugged at the rope. Good, the boat felt firmly anchored, now all he had to do was keep a lookout.
Toby stood and stared out into the inky blackness of the night. How lonely it felt to be in the middle of the ocean when danger was just around the corner. Now there were no emergency services you could pick up the phone to and ring. There was no one to save you from the bad guys — no army, no police, not even paramedics or doctors. They had been the first to go when the red fever had swept like a bush fire across the world. Toby could understand why the doctors soon succumbed to the infection; after all, they were looking after the first wave of sick people that flooded the hospitals.
But the army and the navy and air forces? How come they didn’t withstand the onslaught? You’d think they would have had procedures in place to protect them from things like a virus. Toby had seen lots of films in which soldiers ran around in protective suits with breathing apparatus on, maintaining some degree of law and order. They were the ones that stopped civilisation imploding into mass panic and mob rule.
Without laws and people to enforce them, would mankind revert to behaving like animals? The survival of the fittest. Toby had learnt that theory at school. Wasn’t it Darwin who first put it forward? He couldn’t remember, but what did it matter now? The fittest had survived, and on land that had turned out to be the dogs.
Ha! thought Toby. They must be laughing now, after all those centuries of doing man’s bidding: fetching stupid balls and chasing sticks, rounding up sheep and digging out lost climbers. The boot is on the other paw now!
“Toby!” His dad’s shout jolted him from his wandering thoughts.
“Yes?” he replied.
“Can you go into my small tool bag in the wheelhouse and bring me an adjustable spanner?”
“Going!” Toby sped as fast as he could to find the tool his father wanted, returning with it clasped in his hand. “Here you are …” He held it out to his dad who had surfaced from the engine room, wiping his oily hands on a rag.
“D’you hear that?” said his dad in a quiet voice. “Listen.”
Toby stopped in his tracks and listened.
There it was — the distant rising and falling whine of an outboard motor attached to an inflatable dinghy that was bouncing off and on the waves.
His father flung himself at the light switch for the deck light and they were plunged into darkness.
“They’re coming!” his dad whispered fiercely. “We must hide!”
“Hide? Where? It won’t take long to find us on this little boat,” Toby whispered back.
“Not us! Hide the Lucky Lady! We must hide her!” said his dad, turning to release the anchor rope and tugging up the anchor.
“Where?” asked Toby.
“I stopped here for a reason. We’re near the Bullers of Buchan. There are loads of caves around here. We just need to get her into one.”
“Dad, the Bullers of Buchan — isn’t that a very dangerous bit of rocky shore for a boat to be near, especially in the dark?”
“All the be
tter then — the pirates won’t want to risk
“And how are we going to get her into a cave?”
“You steer her, and I’ll use the dinghy to pull her. I won’t use the outboard motor; I’ll row. I don’t want them to hear us. The tide’s coming in; she’ll only need guiding once we get going.”
“You sure about this?” Toby asked anxiously.
“Toby, we’ve no choice. Now let’s get on with it.” With that, his dad hoisted himself over the side and into the small rubber dinghy which sat tied at the back of the Lucky Lady.
OK, Toby, time to focus. Go to the wheelhouse and steer. That’s all you have to do. It’s that easy. Now go! His heart was thumping loudly as he pulled himself up the steps and into the wheelhouse.
5. Hide and Seek
Standing in the wheelhouse with his hands on the wheel, Toby didn’t feel tired any more. He felt as if someone had peeled back his skin and exposed every nerve in his body. Every sinew felt taut and wired, as if he was about to go twang like an overstretched guitar string.
He concentrated his mind on the task. He must help his dad steer the boat to safety. A calmness came over him and he knew what he had to do.
The boat lurched forward as he felt a slight tug on the bow. That must be Dad.
Toby swung the wheel over to the left, pointing the bow in the direction that the tug came from.
His dad must have taken compass readings; he must know what direction to row in order to reach the Bullers of Buchan. But how far were they from the huge granite towers that arched from the jagged shore?
Toby remembered childhood picnics on the grassy tops of the cliffs there. He and Sylvie had lain on their bellies to crane their necks over the lip of the precipice, and watched the screaming gulls, cormorants, shags and guillemots wheeling and diving from their nests. The din was unbelievable as thousands of birds screeched and squawked at one another, each defending their territory. Toby had pointed out to Sylvie the squat puffins with their funny striped faces, perched higher up on tiny ledges. Monty, their collie, had had to stay in the car, as Toby’s mum had been scared he would chase the birds and fall over the edge.
The boat suddenly lurched forward again — another tug on the bow. His dad must be a lot stronger than Toby had thought. Slowly the Lucky Lady began to move forwards, dipping gracefully into the black waters.
Toby kept his eyes straining ahead. He could make out nothing in the dark, but he’d left the doors to the wheelhouse open so that he could hear if his dad shouted any instructions.
The Lucky Lady’s progress was slow and painful. Toby daren’t step outside to look behind in case he saw the pirates catching up. The only noises were the slow breaking of the waves on the sides of the boat, and the occasional grunt from his father as he leant all his weight on the oars of the little dinghy. Maybe the pirates had got lost in the fog and turned round and gone back to the warship.
The boat glided on. Toby could now hear the sound of waves crashing on rocks. These were treacherous waters, with hidden rocks and boulders under the water, and the pull and swirl of a rising tide to fight. Toby felt his hands sticky with sweat against the warm wood of the wheel. Surely his dad wouldn’t attempt this without knowing these waters? Perhaps as a teenager he had fished here from his sailing dinghy? Perhaps when his parents were young, they had spent Sundays exploring the caves along this coast? Toby fervently hoped so.
Just then he had the feeling of a shadow passing over the boat, and the world suddenly got darker. They were passing under an overhanging piece of cliff and into a cave. The left-hand side of the boat thudded into something solid and immovable.
“Drop anchor!” his dad shouted hoarsely.
Toby ran to the stern and, picking up the heavy iron anchor, threw it into the water.
The boat skidded along the cave wall to a halt. His father appeared at the stern.
“Not bad for an old sailor, eh?” he said. Toby could feel his dad’s smile in the dark. It had been some feat of sailing.
Toby sighed with relief. He couldn’t believe his dad had just towed a fishing boat into a cave in the dark. Toby wanted to reach out and hug him, to put his arms around him and say, “Thank you, Dad!” But somehow he couldn’t. Because he knew what his dad’s response would be. It would be what it always was when Toby tried to get close to him. Rejection.
Instead, Toby got on with busying himself, coiling up the spare anchor rope, checking the dinghy was tied up. It was difficult in the dark but a weak moon was peeping through a band of cloud, throwing a milky white light into the cave. He could just make out the outline of things on the deck. His dad sat rubbing his arms and stretching his neck muscles as if he was sore.
They both heard it at the same time. This time the noise of the motor was accompanied by the sound of men’s voices — deep, gruff voices, shouting out into the night.
“Where’ve they gone? I’m sure they came this way,” came one voice.
“Get a bit further in, Jim,” came another.
They were getting nearer.
Toby dropped to his knees and, crouching low, made his way to his dad, who was now lying down in the prow, peering over the front of the boat.
His father motioned with his finger to his mouth for Toby to keep quiet.
They both listened and waited.
“They couldn’t have steered that boat into these caves; they’d be barmy — the rocks are far too dangerous,” yelled Jim.
“Capt’n said not to come back without them,” barked another voice. “He was well mad — blighters making off like that. Lucky for them our radar was out. We’d have had ’em no bother. One shot to the rudder and they’d have been ours.”
As the sounds came closer, the mouth of the cave was lit with a dancing spotlight from the pirates’ craft.
Toby grabbed his dad’s arm and clung on to it. His dad for once left it there. Toby felt both his and his father’s breath stop, as if by not breathing they could make themselves disappear.
The light swept across the first ten metres of the overhang but then swept away again. Toby and his dad quickly lowered their heads under the parapet of the prow so they could only hear what was going on.
“Nah, there’s nothing here. We can’t take ’em back if they’re not here, can we?” an angry voice called out.
“Time to get back to the ship, eh?” said Jim
“Aye, about time,” the second voice agreed.
The whine of the outboard dropped to a chug, chug noise and then there was silence.
The walls of the cave echoed with the gruff voices of the three men in the dinghy as it sat just outside the cave, blocking the moonlight.
“Are you sure you checked good and proper?” yelled a new voice.
“Aye, nothing there, pal. Let’s head back to the ship,” said Jim.
The shouts fell to a grumble, and they heard someone trying to start the motor again. Toby heard the pull of the cord ripping the engine into life. It stuttered and failed.
Don’t say we’re going to be trapped in here with them adrift out there, thought Toby.
“Toby? What’s happening? What’s all the noise?”
Toby turned towards the voice. It was coming from the door of the deckhouse. It was Sylvie. Toby didn’t have time to think what to do. He just did it.
He threw himself down the boat on his stomach, sliding down the wet deck on his front, slithering to a halt at Sylvie’s feet. He half rose and then rugby-tackled her around the legs, pulling her down towards him.
As she hit the deck, he placed his hankie-wrapped hand over her mouth and forced it shut. There he lay, half on top of her, half choking her, while she writhed and tried to scream underneath him.
Toby heard the men’s voices raised once more. Had they heard Sylvie?
“Sylvie!” he whispered frantically in her ear. “Sylvie, stop struggling! You must keep quiet now! Our lives depend on it, Sylvie.”
As she stopped struggling and went limp underneath him, he
relaxed the hold on her mouth. He felt her spit out the blood-tasting cotton of the hankie. At that moment the pirates’ motor sprang into life. The dinghy accelerated fast away from the mouth of the cave. They were gone.
“Sorry, Sylvie. Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Toby crouched over the rag-doll form of his sister on the deck. She didn’t move.
“Sylvie?” His dad had joined him and was bending over the still body. In one movement he scooped her up into his arms and swung through the door of the deckhouse. Toby followed him into the cabin.
“Is she OK, Dad?” asked Toby, his voice cracking with concern.
His father didn’t reply. He gently laid Sylvie on the pile of blankets and pulled some around her.
“I’m really sorry …” stuttered Toby. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t think, I was just trying to …”
His dad looked at him. “You did the right thing, Toby. If they’d heard her we might all be dead by now. She’s probably shocked more than anything. Did she bang her head?”
“I can’t remember. It all happened so fast,” Toby replied. He sat down on the edge of Sylvie’s bed and took hold of her small white hand that was drooping over the side.
“Sylvie? Talk to me, Sylve,” he begged, sniffing back tears.
“You sit here and keep an eye on her,” said his Dad. “We can’t stay here long; they may be back. I need to get on with fixing that fuel line. If I rig the spotlight up in the engine room, no one should see it from outside the cave. But we need to be gone before daylight in case they come back for a closer look.”
Toby nodded. How could his dad be so calm with Sylvie lying unconscious on the bed? How could he get on with things as if nothing had happened? What if Sylvie didn’t wake up? What then?
Toby felt red-hot tears trickling down his grimy face. He hated crying. That was for girls. He hadn’t cried since his mum died. There wasn’t time for all that emotional stuff. You only got all choked up with tears and snot and your eyes went sore and gritty and red. Then people knew you’d been crying, and you didn’t want anyone to see that.
Red Fever Page 3