Arcadia

by James Treadwell

  He’s got the bike. His hands are on the bike.

  “Was it on the quay?” Fi says. “I thought it was here somewhere.”

  “Please!” Kate shouts. “Just talk to us!”

  Rory hears Fi’s snort. “I don’t think they want to be friendly,” she mutters.

  “Let’s check the quay,” Kate says. Their torch swings away from the trees and picks out the overgrown ruins. This is it. They’re going to come out by the water and they’ll see him. He’s done for, unless someone does something.

  The heap of driftwood Oochellino used to build his trestle is right by his hand. He grabs a loose stick, stands up, reaches back, and hurls it as far as he can in the direction of the abandoned houses. There’s an instant of terrible silent suspense and then—

  “Who’s there?”

  The stick has thunked against something, roof or wall or window. It rolls down, clattering, and goes still.

  The torch has swung away in that direction. Carefully, infinitely carefully—if he knocks the bike it’s game over—Rory gets hold of another stick.

  “Hello?”

  “In the houses somewhere,” Fi mutters quietly. Rory lobs the second stick, as far as he can. It thuds, quieter than the first, but hard enough.

  “We can hear you!” Kate shouts. “We saw your light!”

  They’re moving that way. They’re not coming out onto the quay anymore.

  “Careful,” Fi says.

  Rory finds a couple of small stones. He flings them in a handful. Rat-a-tat: they patter against slate or stone.

  “Please don’t try and hide!” Kate says. They’re both definitely moving away, down the road, towards the sounds. “It’s dangerous in there!”

  Now, Rory thinks. Now. He’s got the bike. He just has to get out onto the road and he’ll be away, they’ll never catch him.

  He sees it all at once. It’s as if someone’s reached up into the sky and switched on a light. He sees where everyone is, Oochellino hiding in the tree, the other Italians in their boat listening to the unexpected people onshore, Kate and Fi pressing together wondering who’s sneaking around in the dark. In a flash he sees what to do.

  He reaches a sweaty fist into his pocket, pulls out the night-light and switches it on. There’s a big chunk of slate near his foot. For good measure he lobs that into the darkness as well. It comes down with a sharp splintering crash. Kate and Fi gasp: they’re already farther away down the road, perhaps sweeping the torch into the nettles and bindweed between the houses. He’s got to be quick now, quick quick. He puts the night-light down at the very edge of the quay, over the beach, right in front of the bike. There. It’s nothing like as bright as the bike light but it’s better than nothing. Now.

  He picks up the bike. The driftwood rattles.

  He can’t hesitate.

  He carries the bike to the back of the quay and faces the alley by the ruined fence. He’s about to make a terrible racket but he has no choice at all now.

  He can’t ride through the mess in the alley. He gulps and blunders in.

  The crashing and crunching around his feet burns his ears. He hears Kate and Fi stop. One of them says something to the other. He pushes on.

  “Back that way.”

  “Who’s that? Stop!”

  “They’ve got a bike!”

  He doesn’t know how but he’s out on the road. His hands are shaking. He almost tips over in his hurry to mount the bike but he’s on. He kicks for the pedals desperately. The feeble torch is swinging in his direction but they’re too far off. He’s moving, he’s done it. The headlight grinds awake. “Wait!” Kate shouts. “Please wait!” Like she forgot to be polite. He stamps down hard and points the bike up the Lane. He’s away. He risks a glance over his shoulder. They’re chasing, Fi and Kate, running away from the Old Harbor. He’s got to keep them moving that way so the Italians can land. He’s having brainwaves again, he can feel everything go sort of slowly, as though he knows what’s happening before it happens. He eases off a bit, letting them think they might be able to catch up. Kate’s shouting things about being sensible and only wanting to talk and no one being in trouble. She sounds badly out of breath. Maybe if he pretends to fall off? He dismounts and drops the bike in the road: it goes dark. The chasing torch waggles eagerly. He lets it come closer and then when they’re close to the church he hops on again and speeds away, quickly at first, then struggling as he gets to the steep towards the crest of the lane. He lets them close in again while it’s uphill, and then at the last moment he’s away racing down the other side of the island towards the Pub, the light white as fresh paint in front of him, the air clean and cold, glory in his heart. He dismounts just before the bottom of the slope and throws the bike over the hedge into the mass of bramble beyond, then squeezes himself down into the niche under the ivy at the corner of the Pub. He holds his breath and curls tight as Fi and Kate come gasping by. He lets them go past him, down to the road by the Beach. They stand there, mumbling as they try to catch their breath, and he slips out as quiet as anything and tiptoes back up the Lane. It’s dark but it doesn’t matter, there’s a trace of hidden moonlight in the clouds and this is his territory now, he could walk the length of the Lane with his eyes shut. No one’s coming after him. Why would they? He’s invisible in the night, and as far as Kate and Fi know the traitor on the bike has raced away in completely the other direction. He feels his way to the door of Parson’s and lets himself in.

  It’s so still inside. It’s like nothing at all has just happened. His mother’s snoring. He peels off his shoes and warm clothes, one by one, putting them back exactly where they came from. He creeps up the stairs and slides himself into bed, marveling at himself and at the sheer wonder of the world. A while later, lying with eyes wide open, he hears Kate and Fi come down the road outside his window, talking softly. He’s still flushed and sweaty and his hands must be filthy and if they come in to wake them up it’ll be obvious he’s been outside, but they don’t. He hears what Kate says. She’s got a strong voice even when she’s murmuring. “We’ll never find anything in the dark anyway,” she says. “Leave it till morning. Let poor Rory sleep.”

  10

  Wakey wakey.”

  He blinks. Daylight’s come out of nowhere. He’s missed something.

  “Come on, sweetheart. Up you get.”

  His mother’s sitting by his feet. There’s a sound of rain against the window.

  “This isn’t like you. You’re usually my alarm clock.” She jiggles his shoulders.

  He’s overslept. He’s facing away from her. His eyes open wide as he thinks of how filthy he must be under the blankets.

  “I’ve put a bit of warm water in the sink.” She bends over and kisses his cheek. “All right?”

  He has to pretend everything’s normal. He makes himself stretch and yawn, though he keeps his hands hidden. “All right, Mum.”

  “That’s better. I let you sleep in a bit.” She stands up. “It’s going to be a bit of a big day.”

  “Is it?”

  “We’re all going over to Briar to say good-bye to Oliver. Remember? And there’s something else we have to have a little chat about. Come on then, get yourself going. I’ll start some eggs. We can have them with a bit of milk.”

  “Nice,” he says, though he’s hardly listening. It’s gradually coming back to him just how far from normal everything else is. He almost can’t believe his mother doesn’t know. Talking about breakfast, as if it’s just another day.

  She goes downstairs, which allows him to bring his hands out and inspect them. They’re pretty bad, but if there’s water in the sink that’s OK, he can clean off before she sees anything. The rain’s that kind of wind-driven spitting drizzle that plays intermittent bursts of percussion on the glass. Tappitytaptap, it goes, answering a gust. Taptaptaptaptap. He turns to the window idly.

  There’s a face outside.

  Tap tap tap. It’s Oochellino. He’s pressed up against the smeared glass, tapp
ing. The rest of him is sort of folded up underneath, sideways. He’s balancing on the window ledge, high off the ground.

  This is insane. His mother’s right downstairs. How can she not notice a man clinging to the side of the house? How can Oochellino even be clinging there at all? The ledge isn’t much wider than Rory’s arm.

  Oochellino jiggles the window and points upwards. Open it.

  Eggs crack downstairs.

  Stunned into obedience, Rory pushes the catch and slides the bottom half of the window up. His room fills with the sounds and smell of a wet, blowy morning. Some incomprehensible arrangement of cramped limbs is keeping Oochellino upright and attached to the ledge. His feet are bare, and the toes are curling over the slate almost like fingers. A hand appears and passes something through the window.

  It’s the night-light.

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Did you just open the window?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s pouring out there!”

  The hand waggles the night-light. Rory takes it.

  “Good boy,” Oochellino whispers. “Verrrry good.”

  “What on earth are you . . .” Her footsteps come to the bottom of the staircase. “Shut it, for goodness’s sake!”

  “Sorry!” He’s gone to block the door, panicking that she’s going to come up and see. When he turns back Oochellino is gone.

  There was no sound at all. No thump of someone dropping to the ground, no rustle of clothes. (He’s got a different coat and trousers from somewhere. He was wearing something dark and waterproof, not Ol’s stuff.)

  After another moment of paralyzed astonishment, Rory closes the window.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “Sorry. It felt a bit smelly in here.”

  “Go on, get yourself dressed. Hurry up.”

  “OK. Sorry.”

  He hears her go back to the kitchen. He wipes spits of rain off his hands.

  A moment later he hears her say to herself, “Where’s that night-light gone?”

  * * *

  He checks the kitchen surreptitiously while he eats. He’s put the night-light back (he took it to go out for a pee in the night, he says). Everything else is where it’s supposed to be, the clothes, the shoes. His hands are scrubbed and he’s splashed the dried sweat out of his hair. The only thing he won’t be able to replace as if nothing happened is the bicycle, but he can’t see why that’s a problem; they already know someone stole a bicycle, it doesn’t have to be back where it used to be. So when Kate arrives he’s calm, he’s safe, he carries on with breakfast while she shakes out her umbrella and unwraps her scarf. He’s eating scrambled eggs with a fork, separating them into tiny lumps and chewing them morsel by morsel.

  Kate’s come to tell his mother what happened in the night. He keeps his eyes down and concentrates on chewing, the way he’s supposed to.

  “Is there any damage?” his mother asks.

  “We’ve locked everything we can think of. Fi thinks there’s some stuff missing from the Stash. As far as I can see nothing else has been touched.”

  “Why would they do this?”

  “Who?”

  “Isn’t it . . .” His mother sounds peculiarly halfhearted, as though she doesn’t care as much as she feels she ought to care. “I thought it’s those people from Mary’s?”

  “I don’t think it is,” Kate says as Rory concentrates on spearing another lump. “It didn’t feel like that. It felt like it was one person. Very frightened. Fi thinks the same. I think it must be something to do with that fishing boat.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Rory chews. No one’s looking at him. To stop himself going red he concentrates on the taste in his mouth.

  “I think it must have been an outsider. Why wouldn’t she show herself otherwise? No one’s got anything to hide, and it’s not like Fi and me are so fearsome. But if she’s maybe come from the Continent, something like that . . .”

  “Mm,” his mother agrees, vaguely. “Well. Whoever she is, she’ll have to show her face eventually.”

  “Connie,” Kate says, and Rory knows at once that this is what she’s actually come to say. She’s put on her calm voice, the one that makes other people stop and do what she tells them. “I’m asking you to reconsider.”

  Rory looks up, surprised. His mother’s being told off.

  “Not now,” she says.

  “Until we’re sure of the situation. Surely it would be better to wait until spring anyway. Rory’s not eleven for a while, he can’t possibly—”

  “I haven’t talked to him about it yet.”

  Rory’s looking back and forth between them. His mother looks ashamed. Kate looks surprised, and disappointed. “Oh,” she says.

  Now they’re both looking at him.

  “What,” he says.

  Kate stands up slowly. “I’m sorry,” she says. She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I’d have thought you would have by now.”

  “Well,” his mother says, sounding bizarrely like Pink when she’s being told off, “I haven’t. We were going to talk this morning.”

  “Perhaps I’d better leave you two alone then.” Kate picks up her umbrella. “But please, Connie. Think about waiting for a few months. It’s winter soon, and you’re such a help, both of you.”

  “Do you think I haven’t thought about it?”

  Rory’s never heard anyone snap at Kate like that. Shocked, he waits to see what the punishment will be. Kate just opens the door.

  “Sorry,” his mother says.

  “Just give it some time,” she says. “Come along to the Abbey whenever you’re ready.”

  “Of course.”

  And out she goes, leaving Rory and his mother staring at each other across the table.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” she says.

  He can’t say anything. Before Kate came in the only thing he was worrying about was keeping his secret stuffed so far down inside himself it wouldn’t show. Now he’s not thinking about that at all.

  “Put your fork down, please,” she says.

  He puts his fork down.

  “We. Um.” She pushes her hair back and takes a deep breath.

  “What,” he says.

  She reaches across the table and takes one of his hands in hers. She feels cold.

  “We can’t stay here, Rory,” she says.

  “In Parson’s?”

  “I’m not talking about Parson’s. We can’t stay here. On this island, these islands. We’re going to go away.”

  He stares, waiting for her to say something that makes sense. The whole room, himself included, seems to have turned to stone. He feels numb. Time isn’t passing. The air’s gone solid.

  “I know,” his mother says, in an attempt at a gentle voice. “It’s a big change for you.”

  He doesn’t say anything. This isn’t a conversation anymore. It’s an execution.

  “We’ll find a better place.” She squeezes his hand. “I know we will. I promise. All right?” She smiles, weakly, nervously.

  His hand doesn’t feel like it belongs to him.

  “What do you think?”

  What he’s thinking is No.

  “No,” he says.

  The smile vanishes. “Rory.”

  “I’m not going.”

  She’s making an effort not to lose her temper. “It’s all decided, Rory.”

  “You can’t.”

  She looks down. “We have to.”

  “No we don’t. Why? Why do we have to?”

  “Because They’ll kill you.” The gentleness has gone the way of the smile. She’s getting louder. “They will. Is that what you want, to wait till that happens? Because I don’t. I’m not going to.”

  “Yeah? Well I’m not going.”

  “Rory—”

  “I don’t want to!” He tears his hand away and pushes back his chair so hard it falls over. The noise makes the air ri
ng. It unlocks the room. Time starts beating again, painfully fast. He can feel it in his chest.

  “Sit down. I said sit down! And pick up your chair!” She shouts the last bit so loudly he flinches. He crumples onto the floor and holds his head in his hands.

  After a little bit she crouches next to him.

  “It’s not far to the Mainland,” she says. “We’ll wait for a clear day and we can get all the way there in just one day. And when we get there—”

  “You can’t get there! No one can! We’ll die!”

  His mother doesn’t answer. She takes a few slow breaths and goes on as if he hasn’t said anything. “You probably don’t remember, but the Mainland’s big. Really big. You can’t even guess. There’ll be all sorts of things there we don’t have. They’ve probably got telly and computers. That’d be good, wouldn’t it? You’ll like that. We might even find Dad and—”

  “They’re dead!” The sea is death. He’s always been terrified of sailing. Hundreds of times he’s imagined his father and brother and sister drowning, flailing around in freezing heaving grey, nothing to see, nothing to hold on to, then sinking, nothing to breathe.

  “We don’t know—”

  “They are! They’re all dead!”

  “Rory.” She hugs his shoulders. He’s too riven with horror even to twist away. “All right. I don’t know what we’ll find. But we can’t stay. I’ve made up my mind. I’m getting you away from these islands, no matter what.”

  “But there isn’t anywhere—”

  “No. Matter. What.”

  She wants to take him off the edge of the world. She wants to tear him out of existence, away from everything there is, gathering and foraging and reaping and baking and fetching and carrying and eating and sleeping. And from the wonderful things too, the comics, the Italians, Her. The whole of his life. The sea is its boundary. The sea is where life runs out. She’s going to kill them both.

  “We’ll have a few days,” his mother’s saying. “We’ll get everything we need ready and wait for a nice calm bright day. I know it’s a bit of a shock but you’ll get used to it. And Rory. Look at me, please.”