Red Fever

by Caroline Clough

  Toby wiped the filthy hankie on his hand across his dirt-streaked face and sniffed loudly.

  Come on, Sylvie. Come on and wake up for your Tobes. PLEASE.

  He willed her to wake up, but the pale face lying on the pillow showed no sign of life. The only way he knew she was still alive was by the shallow rise and fall of her skinny chest inside the pink fluffy pyjamas.

  He pulled the duvet up close round her neck. Her hand felt cold. Toby decided to stoke the stove to warm up the cabin. Had he read somewhere that a person in shock could die from loss of body heat? He went to the lobby to fetch some logs to build up a good fire. After he had got a blaze going he went to get Sylvie a bottle of water. Had he also read that dehydration could be a problem? But how was he going to get her to drink when she was unconscious?

  “Hiya, Henry,” he greeted the fluffy rabbit who was sitting cleaning himself in his hutch on top of the bottles of water.

  Ah, thought Toby, I remember hearing that someone in a hospital somewhere was once woken up by a famous footballer talking to them, even though they had been in a coma for months. I wonder if Henry could work his usual magic?

  Excitedly, Toby pulled the surprised rabbit from his hutch.

  “Come on, Henry. You’ve got a job to do.” Toby took the rabbit and laid him carefully on the bed next to Sylvie. Then he took her hand and, holding it gently, stroked Henry’s soft fur. Nothing happened at first but Toby kept on going. Then he started to sing the lullaby that his mum had made up for them.

  “Go to sleepy, go to sleepy, go to slee-ee-py-byes …”

  I don’t know why I’m singing a lullaby. I want her to wake up, not go to sleep!

  But he found singing the lullaby, his mum’s lullaby, to be soothing. He felt the tensions of the night slipping away. He would have loved to crawl into his own little nest and drift into a peaceful sleep. His eyes grew heavy and the words of the song became slower and slower until …

  “Dad? Is that you?” A wee voice mumbled from the pillow.

  “No, it’s Toby. I’m right beside you, Sylvie.”

  “Was that you singing?” the sleepy voice asked. “I’ve never heard you singing that song before, Tobes.”

  “No? Well, I’m not a good singer, that’s why. Not nearly as good as Mu— Look, Sylvie, I’ve brought Henry to see you.”

  Sylvie propped herself up on one elbow and smiled at the sight of the small rabbit sitting up on his back legs, busily washing his ears.

  “What happened?” she asked, rubbing the back of her head. “I’ve got a bump. Feel it.” She stuck her head towards Toby to feel. He rubbed his hand gingerly over it.

  “Yep! You’ve got a right lump there. It’s the size of an egg!” he joked.

  “So how did I get that?” she quizzed.

  “Oh, it was my fault. I was playing too rough on the deck and knocked you down by accident. But you’re OK now, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I just feel a little sore, but y’know what? I’m really hungry!” said Sylvie.

  “Great! I’ll make us some dinner.” Toby smiled with intense relief.

  6. The Boat Graveyard

  Toby was woken by his dad shaking him. “Toby!” he hissed in his ear. “Wake up! It’s your turn to keep watch. I must get some sleep. Wake me up at three; we need to get going before the sun comes up. We’re not far from Peterhead here. We must try and get into the harbour before daylight.”

  “Huh?” Toby sat up and rubbed his eyes. He had fallen asleep on his dad’s bunk after eating a dinner of porridge, crackers and peanut butter.

  “Come on, up you get,” commanded his dad. “I’ve cleaned out and fixed the fuel line, but I can’t take the risk of using that diesel again. It’s dirty. I’ve found a small can of clean fuel but it’s only enough to get us into Peterhead. We must look for more fuel there.”

  “Isn’t that risky?” asked Toby, pulling on a thick jumper.

  “We’ve no choice,” stated his dad. “Now, don’t forget, set your alarm for three AM.”

  Toby nodded and sleepily went through to the lobby to put on his oilskins. Up on deck it was eerily dark and still. A bank of fog had rolled in and the air in the cave hung heavy with dampness. A disgusting smell of rotting seaweed filled Toby’s nostrils and he gagged as he took a deep breath.

  He made his way to the bow where his dad had spread an old tarpaulin on which to sit and keep watch. Toby sat down and pulled it around himself. Keeping watch was the worst duty on the boat. He had to keep awake with nothing to do but stare at the black water licking at the sides of the boat, and listen to the constant drip, drip, drip of water falling from the wet roof of the cave. He could vaguely make out the entrance to the cave, where the waves picked up and crashed against the rocky hole. He snuggled down and tried to think of something positive that would keep him awake.

  I need to invent something. What about an alarm that’s triggered by the scent of a dog? That would be useful. Would have to work from batteries though. No, that’s no good. We’ve almost run out of batteries and we might never find any more. What we really need is a wind turbine to generate electricity without fuel. Our old generator uses far too much diesel and we might be short of that soon. Yes, a wind turbine, that’s what we need …

  Toby remembered how his mum had fought the development of wind farms near their village. She was really scary when she got fired up about something she felt strongly about. Toby smiled to himself. He had felt so proud of his mum. She’d been so brave to stand up to “those suits” as she called them. She wasn’t like the other boys’ mums at school. She was …

  NO! How many times must I say this? Toby told himself. Don’t go there! It hurts!

  Toby tried to concentrate on the design of the wind turbine. They would need some metal posting, something to make blades out of, and …

  The drip, drip, drip of the water in the cave filled his head, and he felt it getting heavier and heavier.

  Must stay awake, mustn’t fall …

  The black dog was massive. It stood in front of him, a thick stream of slobber drooling from its open jaws. Toby could see the sharp teeth glinting in the blood-red lining of its enormous mouth. It was staring straight at him. Its eyes had a curious opaque look to them, giving the dog an air of other-worldliness. The thick black hairs on its shoulders were standing up, making the dog look even bigger and more ferocious. It was growling, a low angry vibration coming from deep within its chest.

  “Don’t come near my family!” Toby heard his mum’s voice say. “Go, and don’t return here!” she commanded the dog.

  But it didn’t move; it was watching Toby with those pale, unblinking eyes.

  “Run, Toby! Run!” his mum shouted. He couldn’t see her; he could only see the dog. “Run!” she screamed.

  But Toby couldn’t move his feet. They were stuck in glue.

  The dog started to advance slowly, foam and spit flying through the air as it turned its huge head from side to side.

  Toby could smell its foul, pungent breath. He tried to move his arms but they, too, were stuck to his sides.

  The beast got nearer and nearer. Toby opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out …

  “Toby! What did I tell you?” It was his dad’s voice, shouting at him. “Can’t I trust you to do anything? You were supposed to wake me an hour ago!”

  “What?” mumbled Toby. “Have they gone? The dogs? Where am I?”

  “Toby, you’ve been having bad dreams again. You fell asleep.”

  “Sorry, Dad, the alarm can’t have gone off.”

  “Well, it would help if you had set it in the first place!” His dad shoved the alarm clock under Toby’s nose. “See — you forgot to wind it up!”

  “Sorry, Dad, I …” Toby could say nothing. He knew it was his fault. He had forgotten all about the alarm.

  “And as for falling asleep on watch. Come on, Toby! I can’t do everything all the time!” His dad stormed off to pick up the anchor.

  There w
as a stony silence between them as they set about preparing the boat for the next leg of their journey. Toby battened down the loose hatches and tidied away ropes and tools. The boat was ready just as the water in the cave started to turn a rich pinkie-red from the sun slowly emerging over the horizon. The fog had cleared and the day promised to be clear and sunny. There was no sign of the pirates from the night before. Toby hoped they were still sleeping. The early morning sea air was cold and crisp, biting against Toby’s face in a slight breeze as the Lucky Lady scraped carefully through the cave mouth and on to the open seas.

  They couldn’t travel too fast. The small amount of fuel they had left would be enough for them to crawl around the jagged coastline at the Bullers of Buchan, past the long-since derelict RAF station near Boddam and the tumbling-down power station that stood on the headland near Peterhead. Once in the harbour they would have to find more fuel.

  Toby felt bad. He had let his dad down again. He had let himself and Sylvie down too. It was the worst sin ever to fall asleep on duty. All sailors knew that. In the old days he would have been made to walk the plank, shot or thrown overboard. Toby tried to think of a way to make it up to his dad but nothing came into his head. Perhaps he should just keep quiet and get on with his jobs.

  He went below and saw to Sylvie, getting her a bowl of hot water so that she could have a wash, and fetching her toothbrush and toothpaste. He cleaned out Henry’s hutch, rinsed the chemical toilet and changed the sheets on Sylvie’s bed. Then he washed up the pots left lying in the sink, wiped down the table and gave Sylvie a beaker of juice. He still felt bad, but at least all the chores were done now.

  “Toby! Come and look!” His dad was calling him from above deck. Toby went to see what it was.

  “Look, Tobes.” He sounded in a better mood. The sun was bouncing off the dancing waves, reflecting the bright light upwards, making it difficult to see in the wheelhouse. His dad had his favourite aviator shades on. He turned to smile at Toby.

  “Up there is Peterhead prison,” he said, pointing to the top of a cliff as they rounded the headland. “In the nineteenth century, the prisoners were made to build those magnificent breakwaters out of granite blocks. Can you imagine that? Look at the size of those breakwaters.” He pointed ahead to where two tall, long walls stuck out into the sea, creating an enormous sheltered area for ships to anchor.

  “They didn’t have diggers or cranes in those days. It would have been all horse and cart for transport and then just hard physical labour.” His dad paused, thoughtfully.

  Toby squinted up at the tall bleak prison sitting high above them. Dark shadows were flitting across the base of its white walls. “Dogs,” he muttered uneasily. “There are dogs watching us.” After last night’s dream, they were the last thing he wanted to see.

  “We’ll be all right once we’re in the harbour. There’s a ten foot security fence; they won’t get over that in a hurry,” reassured his father. “That’s if it hasn’t corroded and fallen down. It’s like everything else, Toby — there’s no one left to look after anything. I mean, who’s going to maintain the breakwaters now?”

  The good mood had gone as quickly as it had come.

  Toby glanced at his dad, he couldn’t see his eyes, hidden as they were by the dark glasses. “It’ll get better, Dad. We’ve got to believe that, or else …”

  “Yeah, I know.” His father tried hard to sound cheery. “Bit of a thought, though, eh? Everything we’ve ever known — roads, cities, harbours — all left to just fall into decay …” He coughed and turned away.

  Toby decided to leave his dad to do his emotional stuff on his own. But as he turned to leave, his dad placed his hand on his sleeve. “Give us a hand tying up, will you, Tobes?”

  Toby nodded and stood quietly at his father’s side as the Lucky Lady sailed into Peterhead harbour.

  The main sheltered area that lay in the massive arms of the north and south breakwaters was for the really big ships that needed deep anchorage. Two of these were still tied up to the north wall, their bright red paint faded and rusted to a strange pale pink colour. As the diminutive Lucky Lady chugged on by, Toby could make out the names of the ships, Seven Seas and Seven Atlantic, painted on their bows, which towered above him.

  Toby wondered if there had been many more ships here during the epidemic. Had the men on them all become sick at the same time, and the ships had to limp into harbour with a dying crew on board? Or had the men decided that they needed to get home to their loved ones before they all got sick and died? What had happened to the rest of the ships?

  Most likely got smashed up by storms, thought Toby. Once the mooring chains broke, even a big ship would be swept away by the sort of storms the north-east has in winter. There must loads of wrecks up and down the coast.

  Toby and his dad had only seen one wreck. That had been at Balmedie beach, not far down the coast from their village. The shipwreck had sat upright on the long expanse of sand like a huge metal dog waiting for someone to throw it a stick into the sea. They had climbed on it. It had still been safe in those days to go on the beach. They couldn’t go there any more. The dogs would get them.

  Sailing on through the outer harbour, they were channelled by the walls of the inner harbour into a smaller area. They didn’t get far. The fishing harbour was a graveyard of boats, big and little. It looked like a giant hand had scooped up all the boats and thrown them up into the air to land higgledy-piggledy back into the basin of the harbour. Everywhere there were boats thrown topsy-turvy all over the place. Boats sat on top of other boats, boats leant drunkenly against each other as if, like dominoes, one push and they would all fall over. There were old fishing boats, like the Lucky Lady, in many sizes and shapes — some modern, some old-fashioned. There were pleasure boats, large fibreglass-hulled catamarans, gin palaces with sun decks, and speedboats with huge outboard motors at their sterns. Toby had never seen so many different types and sizes of boats in his life.

  “Why haven’t we been here before?” he asked his dad. “This is amazing! We could have got ourselves a much better boat than the poor old Lucky Lady here.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” replied his dad. “But, anyway, the Lucky Lady has been good to us. We were lucky to find her — just sitting there on her own in that tiny harbour at Newburgh. D’you remember?”

  “Yeah, how could I forget? She was full of rats. Lucky we still had Monty then. He made short work of them!” Toby laughed. His dad’s mood had swung upbeat again. The early summer sunshine warming their backs was making them both feel better.

  “Right, let’s go and find some fuel. I’ve got the siphon. It’ll be nice to get home tonight and have a proper sleep for a change,” remarked his dad, swinging the boat slowly over to the quayside. “Actually, you’d better stay here and keep an eye on Sylvie. We don’t want her waking up and panicking,” said his dad, leaping from the deck on to a rusted ladder on the wall of the quay. “Hand me those jerrycans, can you, Tobes?”

  “D’you think we’re safe here?” Toby asked as he passed up the metal jerrycans to his dad on the quay.

  “What? Oh, I should think they’ve moved on by now. Pirates don’t hang around as a rule,” replied his dad.

  “You think?” said Toby. “I wouldn’t think you could apply rules to pirates.”

  “Keep your eye open for anything, just in case. This place gives me the creeps,” said his dad, setting off towards the harbour depot carrying four of the jerrycans.

  A small, dishevelled, pyjama-clad person appeared on deck. She looked hot and clammy as she stood scratching at a red blotchy rash which was spreading up from her neck and across her face. Toby gulped.

  “Are you OK, Sylvie? Coming sunbathing?” he called to her from the wheelhouse.

  “It’s really hot down there,” said Sylvie. “I need some fresh air … Poo!” she cried. “It really pongs out here!” She sat down shakily on a metal storage box in the bow.

  “Don’t worry, you soon get used to it,�
� remarked Toby. Filling the air was a rich odour of oil-stained water, decaying fish spoil, litter and the odd dead seagull. As the sun baked down the smell intensified, and a hazy layer of putrefying gas hung over the oily patches in the harbour waters.

  “I’ll go and get you a rug to sit on,” said Toby, disappearing into the deckhouse. He gathered up an old tartan blanket and a beaker of juice for her. When he came back on deck, Sylvie was nowhere to be seen.

  “Sylvie?” he called out.

  Where’s she gone to now? Hang on, what’s that?

  Across the wall of the fishing harbour in the bigger bay, something moving caught his eye. He snatched up the telescope from the counter in the wheelhouse and, running to the bow, put it to his eye.

  “Oh no! They’re back!” he yelled.

  Even though the sun was burning down, Toby felt a cold wave of sheer terror wash over him. It seemed to stop his heart beating, and paralyse him with fear.

  Think! What to do? Must get Sylvie! Where is she? Where’s Dad? What should I do first? Look for them?

  He took a deep breath and then swung into action, racing to the top of the ladder and scanning the long quayside for his father and Sylvie. He saw his dad first, coming out of a semi-derelict shed carrying two heavy-looking jerrycans. Then he saw Sylvie who was stumbling along the quay, picking up small pebbles from the ground and stuffing them into her pyjama pockets.

  Toby waved frantically. He didn’t dare shout. The pirates’ inflatable dinghy was some way away but he couldn’t take a chance. He bobbed down behind a large buoy that sat crookedly on the concrete, and then signalled to his dad.

  Luckily, just at the right moment, his dad looked up and saw him. Toby gesticulated towards the harbour. His dad understood immediately and dropped to his knees. He started to whistle quietly. It was the whistle he always used to get their attention when they were playing outside. It was only four notes but whistled in a way that they knew it was him.