by Julia Jones
“That’s…terrible,” breathed Mrs Vandervelde. “I’m so sorry.”
“But we can’t say it was directly Angela’s fault,” said her father. “Of course she shouldn’t have been there and I’m very, very disappointed. But it does sound as if it was one of the others who had the collision that brought the boat down. Not Angela.”
“That doesn’t exactly help my dad.”
Mr Vandervelde’s shoulders sagged. “No,” he agreed. “Though the question will have to be asked why he was running towards a toppling boat. If indeed there are any witness statements other than our daughter’s.”
“Haven’t heard of any. Derek from the yard said nobody was with Dad when the ambulance got there. They couldn’t even trace who made the call. Apparently someone broke the office window and used the yard phone to ring 999. Derek wants them for criminal damage, he says.”
“And there’ll be a big insurance claim.” Mr Vandervelde was watching his own hands, which had started twisting round and round each other, like two small struggling creatures. “Are we quite certain Angela was there, Nelly? This couldn’t be another of her stories, could it? She’s already said she lied about her movements. She’s only twelve.”
Ants shifted on the sofa and looked for her mum. Mrs Vander-velde was holding her close. Now she started stroking her cheek.
“There, there, darling. Better now.”
“Yeah, I’m only twelve an’ all. An’ my brother Liam he’s ten and Vicky, that’s the youngest, she’s three.”
“Three children and the father possibly incapacitated,” Mr Vandervelde informed his writhing hands. “Third party liability.”
“And your mother?” Mrs Vandervelde asked Luke again.
“Is dead. Mine and Liam’s. Vicky’s mum is Lottie. I reckon she’ll want to be in touch as soon as she gets back. Or Anna will. Anna’s a prefect at our school. She knows your daughter.”
Mrs Vandervelde was hanging onto Ants and blinking back what looked like tears. Mr Vandervelde’s hands were diving round each other like trapped rabbits. His mouth was hanging open as he stared at Luke.
Luke stood up and edged towards the door. He badly needed to get away from them. “Derek’s got the blazer, b.t.w. The one An-gela left behind with her name sewn on.”
“Noooo,” he heard Mr Vandervelde actually groan.
“YES!”
He let himself out and hurried down the gravel path between the gnomes. The whole front garden seethed with ornaments. There were hump-backed weasels and snuffling hedgehogs: birds poised to fly and cats to pounce.
Except they didn’t seethe. They were stone and pottery so they all held still. It made him think of the courtyard at Cair Paravel and the frozen victims of the White Witch of Narnia.
He wondered if his dad had meant Ants and her friends when he was babbling on about demons? Nah! Ants and her friends weren’t that smart. They were trolls if they were anything.
He checked the time on his phone as he headed for the bus stop. There was a text from Lottie: Coming home asap Thursday. Flights full but paying extra for first class. With you PM. Worried. Hospital not saying much and Bill nothing. You must tell us truth if needed any sooner xxxx
He’d tell anyone the truth, obviously. He discovered that he wasn’t quite so certain that he knew what it was.
Bill was dozing when Luke got there. It seemed like a healthier doze – more like proper sleep? There were still drips going in and some sort of drain coming out. (Luke sat the other side of the bed from that.)
Why did he feel that his dad was getting better? Was it only because that’s what he hoped or was it because Bill wasn’t ranting on about angels and demons? It could be something to do with the colour of his face. Because Luke had been thinking of pale stone creatures in the Narnian moonlight, it was easy to jump forward to that bit of the story where the magical lion had blown on the statues and the first tinges of colour had come licking in like flame round the edges of white paper. His dad’s face looked that bit more pinkish.
“How’s my dad getting on?” he asked a nurse.
She didn’t answer but a few moments later a more senior-looking one came into the room. He had a feeling that she was one of the ones he’d seen before. Could have been the sister even?
“How’s my dad getting on?” he asked again.
“He’s making progress. The sensation’s certainly back in his legs and he managed a little movement when the surgeon examined him this morning. That’s one big area of worry ruled out. The ability to move has brought an increase in pain which is why we’ve rigged up an epidural. It’s a mix of steroids and anaesthetic and it’s made him much more comfortable, as you can see. He’s sleeping off a sedative now. He still needs rest so we’ll keep him out of the main ward as long as possible. You can tell your family that they’re not doing any harm by staying away. Your mum’s been ringing a lot, worrying about flying back.”
“Step-mum, not mum.”
“Step-mum then.” The nurse looked at Luke as if she was wondering whether she needed to re-assess his family situation.
He didn’t like that look.
“She’s nice, my step-mum, I like her. And she’s very sensible. It’s just she’s got the others to think of as well, my brother and sisters. It’s their holiday and they’d been looking forward to it ages. She’s doing a recording and my brother’s got tickets for the San Siro.”
“It must be difficult, I see that. There’s someone looking after you isn’t there? An adult, I mean?”
“I’m with neighbours,” Luke replied. It was obviously the right answer.
“Then you can help us reassure your step-mum that rest is the best thing for your dad right now and he’ll be glad to see them later in the week. Or whenever it is.”
The nurse had been talking in a normal voice, not whispering. That was because of the sedation. She didn’t expect Bill to wake up so she didn’t have to bother being quiet. It was a bit like sitting with Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, Luke thought when she left them alone again. He and his dad didn’t usually touch but after a while Luke discovered that he wanted to hold Bill’s hand. Mainly to be sure that he wasn’t either a statue or an enchanted princess.
It was a hard-working hand, rough skin and a bit paint-stained with dark hairs on the back of it. Not stone. Not Snow White. Bill’s hand was warm and alive and Luke carried on holding it. He didn’t bother with drawing or anything. His dad’s hand felt so comfortable, so…familiar. He must have held it quite a lot, he supposed, when he and Liam had been kids.
“That’s what my angel did,” said Bill unexpectedly. His voice was okay.
Luke dropped his dad’s hand as if it was a witch’s comb. Not that friggin’ angel again.
“Sorry, Dad. Thought you were asleep.”
“Mmm, probably was. Think they gave me something. Been sitting here long have you?”
“A while. Probably have to go soon. Lottie’n’them coming back late on Thursday.”
Bill didn’t look either pleased or un-pleased.
“Y’lose track of time here. What’s today then?”
“Tuesday. Afternoon.”
“Liam’ll have been to his big match, will he? Wouldn’t want him to miss that.”
“That’s tomorrow night. You can’t blame them for wanting to come back. They’re worried about you.”
“I’ve got you, haven’t I? Though it’s not exactly the week we’d planned.”
“Long as you’re okay, Dad.”
Bill was quiet for a bit. Then he started to talk as if he was repeating his thoughts out loud. “Shouldn’t have run at that boat. Saw she were coming down. Trying to be some sort of have-a-go hero was I?”
“I wasn’t there, Dad. I dunno what happened.”
“Not entirely clear meself. There were some kids on bikes. Going under the boats. D
angerous it was. Could’ve hurt ’emselves.”
That would have been Ants and her gang.
“They didn’t though, did they? You were the one who got hurt.”
Something of Luke’s anger must have come through in his voice.
Bill frowned. Stared at that ceiling again. Eyes a bit narrow; worry-lines getting deeper. “There was a littl’un – proper little zinger. He weren’t the one that brought the boat down though. That were the one behind. Then they shoved ’im off his bike and the boat was still coming down. I thought it’d get him.”
“You sure he was a boy?”
Bill frowned again. “It was getting dark. I was finishing-up. Maybe I only thought he were a boy. Bent right down on that little bike. Going like merry hell. Lotsa hair. Could’ve been a girl…”
He sounded uncertain. Luke didn’t feel so sure either. Then the nurse was back in telling him that visiting time finished twenty minutes ago.
“See you tomorrow, Dad. That’s our last day. You save your strength up. Liam’ll be full of it!”
“Keeping busy in the evenings?”
He’d gone to the farm to collect Ben. Miss Grace was doing her cows so he’d offered to help. He’d been promoted to spreading clean straw then, afterwards, she offered a cup of tea and some cake in her kitchen. Luke had never drunk so much tea in his life as he’d drunk this week. He supposed he’d get to like it in the end.
“I’ve been going to sleep mainly. And drawing. I suppose I could have asked Dad for some jobs.”
“I like to read a bit before I go to sleep. Just a chapter or two. Find it sends me off.”
“I’ve got books on my Nintendo as well as games. But I didn’t bring it. Books keep me awake if they’re any good.”
“Old Peter’s got books. Piles of ’em. And more soaking on Ra’.”
Once adults started going on about books…you’d think they were the only ones who’d ever read anything.
“What’s Ra’?”
“His boat – whatever’s left of her. Drop him in some pie on your way home, would you? Dog knows the way.”
She had a big pork pie on the table and was cutting it into quarters. Put one on her own plate then wrapped one on its own and two together.
“That’s for you and t’dog. He’s a beggar for pie.”
Oh, okay. There was a lot of Lottie’s shopping still to eat but he wasn’t sure it had included pie.
“Guy Fawkes tomorrow. Creekies light a bonfire and let off fireworks. Dog doesn’t care for them. He’ll need to stay here. There’ll be a bed for you if you change your mind. You won’t be any trouble.”
The hut was so covered with ivy that it looked like a bush. All the cracks between the roof tiles had been stuffed with moss. There was a pile of logs and a brick- built chimney. The chimney was smoking therefore the werewolf was at home.
Luke’s heart sank.
Ben was straining at his lead so hard that he could hardly breathe. It was surprising how heavy he was for a not-very-big dog. He was on his hind legs, scrabbling at the door. Then he burst in, panting with excitement. The werewolf looked bewildered before that sudden change like sunlight came across his face.
“Bayan!”
It was a funny way of saying Ben but the old man’s accent was odd anyway. Miss Grace had said he was from Russia.
The extendible lead was jerked out of Luke’s hand. It rattled across the threshold and past the old man’s legs. He looked confused again.
“Hi, it’s Luke. Bill Whiting’s son. From the fishing boat. Miss Grace wanted me to drop you in some pie.”
“Vanya?”
“Luke.”
“Come intside. You must have tea.”
“No. No thanks. I’ve had tea. Lots of tea.”
The werewolf didn’t seem to understand. He was beckoning Luke into his hut. Luke shoved the wrapped pie at him and looked round urgently for Ben.
The hut was tiny and very warm. You couldn’t hardly see the stone walls because they were all covered with books. It was clever really. Someone had sawn cross sections of logs and laid them on their side with planks on top. That made the bookshelves and the books were heaped on them as tight as they could go. There must have been hundreds of books crammed into the hut – they were like its insulation.
There was a black metal stove with an odd sort of kettle. It had a tap and the werewolf was filling a mug. Two mugs. A small table with the lamp and a single chair. The bed was more planks on top of logs with a heap of plain grey blankets and a mattress that looked like it had come off a boat. Ben was already on there, looking quite at home, next to a large brown cat.
“Genia,” said the old man handing Luke a cup of tea. It didn’t have milk and the old man didn’t offer any.
“Thanks,” he said, trying a cautious sip. It wasn’t like any tea he had ever tasted but it didn’t feel poisonous. The cat was watching him with round, unblinking eyes. It had a broad face, almost like an owl.
“Won’t you sit, Vanya?”
Luke sat on the bed next to Ben and away from the cat who fluffed out her mottled fur and growled deep in the back of her throat.
“My Genia will haf no liberties,” said the old man, moving the single chair closer to Luke.
“No,” said Luke, wondering why he hadn’t simply handed over the pie and left. Because of Ben, of course.
“Have you been here for long?” he asked, trying to break the silence.
“I came on my boat but she is old and wet. Now I am in this house with my books.”
There was another silence. Luke stroked Ben. The werewolf drank his tea. The cat sat still and stared.
“I can’t read my books any more.”
Surely he should be in a Home or something? He was older than old: he was Ancient.
“But I help Maroosia with her cows and I tell stories to my Genia. And stories to Bayan when he comes. Would you like a story, Vanya?”
Old Peter’s eyes looked bright. He pulled his chair closer. “I can tell you about the woman who has crossed the sea. I can tell you about the good wheat that she threw into the water and how the harbour was choked and the people starved. The name of the town has gone from my head.”
He stopped for a moment and Luke tried to stand up. The tea was scalding hot; he’d be here all night if he stayed until he’d finished it.
Old Peter leaned towards him, breathing fast. “She means harm and the girl is her apprentice. I hear them from Ra’ when they walk at night. A dark sorcerer has arrived to make them three. Now they will have power. I can tell you stories you haf never heard.”
His long hair straggled beside his face, his pale eye dribbled. Luke could see inside the werewolf’s mouth. He didn’t have fangs; he had stumps.
The old man’s face was sort of glittering with excitement. He touched Luke’s arm with his bony hand.
Luke leapt up from the bed and grabbed Ben’s lead. Genia sprang away and sat underneath the metal stove, glaring and yowling.
“Sorry. It’s time I went. I’ll be expected.”
Peter was panic-stricken by this lie. “You haf family? I am so sorry. You must run with both your legs. Your mother she will be out of her mind.”
He was pulling Luke towards the door, pushing him out into the wood. Luke tried to explain that he’d got it wrong and there wasn’t anyone. Then he said he’d come another day but the old man couldn’t understand. He was weeping with distress. Luke had never seen anyone so upset.
“Run, Vanya, run. My story is a bad mushroom and your mother will be counting her lost chickens.”
He hurried back into his hut and Luke could hear him: “Oh, oh, oh”.
He knew he should have stayed and listened to the old man’s spooky tale. How hard would that have been?
The Dutch girl was hanging around near the shower block.
Same as yesterday. At least he had something to tell her.
“I talked to my dad. His accident happened when he was finishing work. Sort of five-ish on Friday. He said it were getting dark. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Certainly not later? Not, for instance, at nine or ten pm?”
“Deffo. He was in hospital by then. He had to have scans and stuff. And, now I think of it…”
He’d heard the sirens himself when he’d been up there at the top of the slope. That must have been the ambulance going for his dad. It had taken him this long to make the connection. Slow or what!
The girl looked as if she’d made a connection too. She flung her head and her arms back and let out a huge sigh of relief. Her face went rosy and it was the first time he’d seen her smile.
“What did you think?” he asked her.
“I thought…” Then she stopped. Clearly she wasn’t going to tell him. “I thought it was something different. I’m glad that I was wrong.”
Her mother didn’t have the power to harm people. It was okay to go along with her and Elsevier. They’d take the prize and leave. It was only a thing. No-one would get hurt or even mind very much.
At last she could go home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bonfire Night I
Wednesday 5 November, fifth of the waning moon
Helen, Luke
Helen was out of her berth and into the forepeak almost before Leo’s first crow. She pushed an empty wheat sack over the cockerel’s head and tied string round the open end. Then she took the direct route up through the forehatch and ran, holding him (not too tightly) in her arms. There was no need to pause and shut the hatch as there were no birds left. Her mother had killed the last of the hens to make a feast for Elsevier.
Both adults were asleep, she hoped. They had all been out after midnight and into the early hours, showing their Kapitein what they’d achieved. The escape channel had been inspected; the sluice gate mechanisms greased and tested; a trailer had been requisitioned (stolen) and parked near the pub for so long that it must by now have become invisible. There was a (stolen) punt moored under the bridge.