“Yeah. ’Cos of Them.” The stranger looks blank. “Them. The people in the sea.”
“Ah, si si. Sirene.” He sounds like he understands.
“Why didn’t they kill you?”
“Hmm?”
“How come you’re here? They didn’t kill you?”
“Ha!” He thinks about an answer, drumming his fingers on Rory’s shoulders. “Listen. So, you help me, then you know. Next day. We say. We say all things to you.”
We? “Who’s we?”
Oochellino smiles a broad sly smile and taps the side of his bizarrely straight high nose with a finger. “You help, then you know.”
“It’s not just you?” This is another extraordinary thought. “There’s other people here?”
“Shh. Next day, you know. This night, bicicletta. OK?”
“So you want me to bring a bicycle to the Old Harbor tonight?”
“With light. Very important, light.”
“Why? What d’ya need a bike for?”
“Ah ah ah.” He taps Rory’s temples with a finger. “You think.” Work it out for yourself, he means. “Now. I, like this.” He closes his eyes on his imaginary pillow again. He takes hold of the rope and starts shinning up it, gripping with knees and ankles. He makes it look as easy as going up stairs. “This night!” he calls, his voice echoing around the tower. Absurdly soon he’s at the top. He disappears through the hole in the ceiling. There’s a bit of clattering around and then the rope whisks up as if it were alive and vanishes after him.
Rory realizes he’s still holding the matchbook. He shoves it back in his coat pocket as if it might burst into flame in his hands. He has no idea how much time has passed. He feels years older.
* * *
The rest of the day is a blur. He’d really like to get away from everyone and talk to Her. She knows a lot of things and likes answering questions. There’s no chance, though. Once his mother gets back and they start on their jobs he’s never out of her sight. The adults are talking about searching the island. He listens to Missus Shark guessing all the places someone could hide on Home. She never thinks of the belfry. Rory wonders whether he ought to find a way to warn Oochellino so he can tell the others to be careful, wherever they are. He can’t stop thinking about them. Are they all Italians? Are they gangsters? How’s he going to do what they want him to do tonight, fetch a bicycle with a dynamo and bring it to the Old Harbor quay? But the more he thinks about that the easier it seems. All he has to do is wait until everyone’s asleep.
His mother’s very preoccupied that evening, which is good since Rory is too. As they’re walking back from the Abbey after supper she says, “Don’t you want to know what we talked about at the Meeting this morning? After you left?”
“It’s OK, Mum,” he says. She’s more likely to settle to sleep quickly if she doesn’t get going on one of her conversations. He walks on a bit before he realizes she’s staring at him. It’s almost dark, the first evening of the autumn when it’s really felt dark after supper. Kate insisted they take one of the little night-light cubes back to Parson’s with them.
“Unless you want to say,” he adds, sensing rather than seeing the look on her face.
She turns away. “Never mind,” she says. “Tomorrow, why not.”
“OK.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been very quiet the last few days.”
He shrugs. He tries to walk a bit faster, to encourage her along.
“It’s Oliver, isn’t it,” she says.
“Yeah,” he lies.
“Have you been thinking about what happened to him?”
“A bit.”
She catches up. “I’m not going to let it happen to you. I promise. You know that, don’t you?”
“OK.”
“They won’t get you,” she says. “Not while I’m alive. Never.”
“Thanks, Mum,” he says.
Again they go on a while before he becomes aware that she’s looking at him peculiarly.
“You’re a funny one,” she says. It’s what Dad used to say too. They never said it to Jake or Scarlet. It means he’s not like his brother and sister, he likes the wrong kind of things, he’s not into what they were into. Now he’s feeling so much older the sting’s gone out of the words, though. There’s no pinch of shame anymore. He may be funny but it’s because he’s the only person in the world who talks to Them and knows there’re Italians hiding in the belfry.
9
He pulls the curtains open a crack to monitor the darkness. He was worried he’d get sleepy but he isn’t, not at all. As he came back down the twist of the Lane to Parson’s after his poo he looked at the silhouette of the church tower. That was all it took to set his heart thumping and his stomach tingling like he’ll never sleep again.
He waits. He mustn’t start too soon. The bikes are kept in an outside room near the arched entrance at the end of the Abbey road, so even if he makes a bit of noise they shouldn’t hear it inside the Abbey, but Kate is sharp-eared and pays attention, she doesn’t stumble in and out of sleep the way the old women do. He’s got to wait until he’s sure she’ll be fast asleep.
It’s agony. He tries counting to a hundred and then works out that even if he counts as fast as he walks that’s only a hundred steps, not even as far as the Club, which is no time at all. His mother’s rustling and huffing in bed next door. He can’t even think about starting until she’s completely quiet. He makes himself lie motionless, as if that’ll help her settle. The effort makes his legs ache.
Eventually he can’t stand it anymore. He pushes the blankets back and sits up. His mother’s breathing in long deep puffs. He counts twenty of them and then eases himself out of bed. He creeps downstairs as if the floor’s carpeted in nails, gritting his teeth each time he puts his foot down.
He can’t believe he’s doing this.
Yet when he makes it to the kitchen at last and starts pulling warm layers over his pajamas he’s overwhelmed by an ecstasy of exhilaration. It’s a hundred times more pure than anything he ever felt during one of Ol’s mildly naughty, not-quite-forbidden escapades. A grandeur’s descending on him. He’s stepped into the panes of the comics, among the superheroes and their exquisite perils.
He finds the night-light, checks its charge—it gleams cloudy warmth for an instant—and pockets it. He’s sure he can find his way to the Abbey under anything but the most absolutely black night sky, but it won’t hurt to have a tiny bit of extra light, especially in the bike shed.
Getting out the door is the hardest bit so far. The lock snaps and the hinges rattle. I’ll say I needed another poo, he’s thinking, convinced that every slither of the wind is actually the sound of his mother getting up and coming downstairs; but she doesn’t. It’s still hard to make himself go out. Once he’s started there’ll be no turning back. He’ll be doing something he’s never done before. An unimaginable line will have been crossed. If he gets caught everyone will know. He’s not even sure exactly what they’ll know: they’ll just know.
He counts as far as forty-one and then suddenly it’s too cold just standing there and he’s off, jogging up the bend in the Lane. The night’s immense and full of noise. He takes the night-light out straightaway. It’s no brighter than a candle but it’s something. When he gets to the crest of the Lane he can see a faint glow on the water of the Channel. It glistens even in the dark, like Her skin. All the distances stretch out. It feels like it’s taking twice as long to get to the Club as it ought to. The deep night changes everything, it’s not the same island. He’s not the same Rory. Everything has changed since Ol died.
At long last he catches the smell of the pines over the Abbey road. He’d like to hide the light entirely as he approaches the Abbey: what if someone’s looking out a bedroom window? But it’s far too dark under the trees. Now the arched gateway comes up too quickly. Everything’s suddenly happening too fast. Someone could easily be awake, l
istening. . . . He steers the night-light towards the screen of ivy opposite and jerks the shed door open in a clumsy rush. The wind catches it and it bangs against the wall, thwack. He jumps and swears. He pulls out a bike, knocking over the one next to it. The noise it makes is a metal shriek. Without stopping to close the door he jumps over the saddle. The light whirs into existence in front of him, quickly blazing white as he races away. He’s panting. It’s like swallowing ice in his lungs. He skids past the signpost at the bottom of the Abbey road, not expecting the turn: he’s panicking, he’s forgetting where he is, what he’s doing. By the Club he stops and holds his breath, looking over his shoulder, listening for the sounds of pursuit.
Nothing, though.
Oddly, it’s right then that he wonders for the first time what his mother was going to tell him. Up until now he hasn’t been able to see beyond tonight, but all of a sudden he can picture himself getting the bike over to the other side of the island, dropping it off for Oochellino, going back to bed, waking up the next day and then . . .
What’s the point of his mother going to Maries to get a boat?
He doesn’t want to pass Parson’s so he turns off behind the Old Laundry and rides up past the Dump on the middle road instead, even though it’s broken and stony and clogged with twigs and leaves. As he comes down onto the ruined side he spots a small light off in the distance, on Martin. He stops to rub his eyes and confirm it’s really there. There’s no one left on Martin after the fire, that’s what he’s always been told.
There’s something odd about the light too, the way it’s bobbing around, winking brighter and dimmer.
With a delicious tangle of fear Rory realizes his mistake. The light’s not on Martin at all. It’s much closer. It’s the light of a torch, not a distant window. It’s on that wrecked boat.
It goes out. The blink of darkness sharpens his ears and he’s sure he hears the fragment of a voice across the water.
The other Italians aren’t in the belfry. They’re on the ghost ship. They’ve been there all day, probably, lying low, while Viola and Fi and everyone stood around on the quay and stared through binoculars and wondered what to do. All at once—and it’s so obvious he can’t believe the others don’t know this too—he understands the fire. Esme was right. The only reason to burn the shelter was to make a big fire. It wasn’t an offering, though, any more than it was teenagers from the other islands being vandals. It was a beacon.
He’s about to assist an invasion.
He stops. The headlight fades to nothing.
When Ol used to make him play games with forts and trenches and ammo they’d often pretend that someone was the Traitor. Usually it was Missus Anderson because she’s actually from Maries not Home, plus Ol didn’t like her. They’d sneak around looking for her and pretend to toss ammo if her back was turned.
It would never have occurred to Rory that the Traitor would turn out to be him.
Right now—at this exact moment: it’s the instant of choice—he should turn around, cross back to the Abbey, and wake everyone up, shouting, They’re coming! Invasion! Enemy alert! Kate would know what to do. They’d barricade the weak ones in the Abbey and the rest would go out on guerrilla warfare. He’d be the one who saved the island. He’d be the hero.
After a long moment he cycles on.
He’s not so sure of his route on this road. People only come here for wood and he’s too small for that job. He has to maneuver round holes and rubbish, and the dynamo almost goes dark when he does. It’s the noise that lets him know when he’s reached the small broken houses near the School and the Old Harbor bay. He’s closer to the sea here and the suck and push of waves abruptly sounds as if it’s right by his wheels. He dismounts and pulls out the night-light. There’s darkness in every direction. No one’s there.
“Good boy.”
He jumps out of his skin. “Who’s that?” he blurts stupidly.
Oochellino steps into the faint radiance. In the shadows he looks terrifying again, monstrous, like he’s wearing a strange round hood with blank holes for eyes.
“Verrry good. I know you do this. Now. Subito.” The man snatches the bike and vanishes with it. There’s a clattering, the rubbish in the road being kicked out of the way. “Here,” the man’s voice says. “With me.” Rory hears the bike clank down somewhere out near the water, on the quay where the fire was.
“Where . . . ?”
Oochellino reappears and grabs him. “Subito!” He tugs Rory away.
“What—”
“Hsss!” He turns to face the sea and whistles twice, sharp whooping whistles. “Go. Like this.” He beckons Rory to follow him.
The stranger steers him beside the ransacked houses and out onto the quay. He doesn’t hesitate. It’s like he can see in the dark, an animal. He whistles again. The offshore light reappears. It’s an electric torch, winking unsteadily towards them.
“Who’s that?”
“Hsss!” It’s like shh. He yanks Rory another step or two and there’s the bike, wonkily propped up on a sort of trestle made of bits of driftwood. “You.” He pulls Rory down to a crouch and places his hand on the pedal. “Like this. Go.” He starts spinning the pedal, still clasping Rory’s hand. The front wheel’s lifted off the ground and spins freely. A weak light appears, pointing out towards the shoals. “Ecco. Light. Go go go. No stop.”
“You want me to—”
“No stop!” Oochellino pumps his hand harder on the pedal. “Light!”
It’s obvious what he’s supposed to do. The bike’s headlamp is aiming straight out towards the wreck, where the other light is.
The unmistakable bumping and rattling of a boat comes out of the darkness offshore. Someone there calls out Hoi! It’s hard to make out among the thumping and scratching of the invisible waves, but it’s another man’s voice.
“Good! Like this!” Oochellino bobs down and pushes Rory’s hand faster. His arm’s tired already. It’s an awkward way to crank the pedals. He understands why he can’t stop, though. Out there in the dark someone’s taken the dinghy off the wrecked fishing boat and is lowering it into the shallow waters. They need a light to aim at or they’ll never find the Old Harbor beach through the shoals and sandbars and tiny reefs. Really what they need—Rory remembers his father explaining this to him, trying to get him interested in sailing by talking about navigation—is two lights, one above the other, so they can line them up and stop themselves drifting to one side or the other.
Something big swishes in the trees behind him. He jerks around, startled.
“Not stop,” Oochellino calls from high up. He was right beside Rory a moment ago. It’s like he’s floated into the air. The branches shake again. It must be him. He’s climbing a tree, in the dark.
Up there, a tiny light flares.
“Via via via! Go!” Rory’s let the headlight run dim and wan, a harvest moon. He sets to the pedal again but keeps an eye over his shoulder. Perched in the branches, Oochellino has struck a match. He pulls a candle from one of Ol’s pockets and tries to light it, cursing in Italian as the wind blows it out. From offshore comes a familiar muffled creak. Oars.
They’re coming.
On his third try Oochellino coaxes the candle flame into life, sheltering it between his palms. He holds it up. By its light Rory can see his weird face nodding. “Good!” he calls, half a shout and half a whisper. Crrrk, the oars say. Is he imagining it or do they sound closer already?
He grits his teeth against the soreness spreading over his shoulder and keeps turning the pedal. He doesn’t ask himself why he’s doing it anymore. He looks back to see how Oochellino’s managing with the second light.
There’s another light. A yellowy elegant one, wobbling among the hedges up towards the top of the Lane.
Someone’s coming. With a flashlight.
An instant later he hears a shout, a woman’s voice. Kate’s voice: even muffled and at a distance, it’s her, he can tell. Oochellino hisses something angry and brief
. His candle snuffs out. The new light wobbles faster. Kate’s running now, down the Lane, towards the Old Harbor: towards them. She must have seen something.
Rory seizes up in complete terror. He jams the wheel to a stop. The light dies.
“Who’s there?”
It’s Kate. Of course it’s Kate. She always knows what’s going on. She’s going to find him, all of them. Rory’s mind has gone blank except for the one word, Traitor.
“We saw you!” And it’s Fi too. Both of them are coming, shouting from a distance but approaching quickly. Fi doesn’t anger easily but when she does she goes crazy, he’s seen it. Their torchlight reappears as a glow behind him, screened by the trees behind the quay but making a segment of the sky above flicker in and out of darkness. The noise of the oars has stopped. The Italians are out there, completely benighted. Oochellino’s gone invisible and silent. He could be anywhere but they’ll never find him. Only Rory’s stuck. If he tries to squeeze back past the ruins to the road they’ll hear him. They’ll turn their torch towards the noise and they’ll spot him straightaway.
He’s trapped.
He can hear Fi’s and Kate’s feet now, running past the church. They slow down as they approach the Old Harbor.
“It was just down here.” That’s Fi, talking to Kate. They’re on the shore road, on the far side of the broken fence and the trees, barely twenty steps away.
“Who is it?” Kate shouts. “Don’t be silly. We just want to know what you’re doing. No one wants any trouble.” The torchlight swings into the trees. It’s too feeble to reach through them to the quay but it almost makes Rory’s heart stop. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened. He doesn’t care what he has to deal with for the whole rest of his life if only this could somehow not be happening, if he could be back in bed where he’s supposed to be—
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