by Ross Welford
– He speaks weirdly, with a strange accent that I can’t identify.
– He has just begged me (backed up with vague threats) to keep all of this secret.
And I have agreed.
‘Please, I am beseeching you,’ is what he said.
How much longer could I keep the secret? Was it even right to do so? The police were searching for him, so would I get into trouble if I said nothing?
All of this, and about a trillion other things, were going through my head as I snuck about the house at midnight, finding stuff for Alfie. I had unpacked a bunch of camping gear a couple of days ago, so I easily found a sleeping bag in the cupboard on the landing. I figured he might like an airbed as well, so I was holding these two items and heading downstairs when the door to what would be my room opened and Jasper came out in his pyjamas and stood in the dim light.
‘All right, son,’ he half whispered blearily. ‘Just heading to the khazi. Old man’s bladder.’
Thanks for the information, I thought, hoping he’d just walk past me and ignore the fact that I was two steps down the stairs with a sleeping bag and an airbed.
Fat chance.
‘What the blazes are you doing with that lot?’ he said, scratching his beard.
Quick, Aidan. Think on your feet.
‘Ah … I was having trouble sleeping, and … and I thought, erm … I’d try sleeping downstairs. New house. Not used to it.’ More unconvincing lies.
He said nothing, but looked me up and down before shuffling off to the bathroom.
He hadn’t believed me. I had my hoodie on over my pyjamas, and outdoor shoes.
Not knowing was agony. Why hadn’t he said anything more? Was he half asleep? Did he not care? I decided it was the last one: he’d never shown much interest in me, so why start now? That’s what I told myself, anyhow, as I quickly scooted down the back garden, through the gap in the fence and handed the stuff to a grateful Alfie. I’d even found a tin of tuna, which I thought was a good substitute for crab.
Roxy had already delivered some food, and promised to bring some fresh dressings in the morning, so it was just Alfie and me.
He looked at me with his pale, red-rimmed eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘very sincerely.’ Then he added, ‘Pal.’
Just that. ‘Pal.’ It was as if he’d never said it before. He didn’t toss off the word casually like people normally do – you know, ‘Hey there, pal!’ – although around here you didn’t hear it so much. It was like he’d picked it up and was practising it for the first time, enunciating it clearly as he did with lots of words.
Then he smiled, and despite his shocking teeth there was a warmth that I felt all the way through me. Then the smile slowly faded, to be replaced by a serious stare, and he said, ‘I am relying on you.’
I turned to go. ‘Aidan,’ he said softly.
‘Yes?’
‘There is something I need to tell you. But you may not believe me.’
So now there’s another thing to add to the list of things that will make you think I’m stupid, crazy, or both.
He reckons he’s a thousand years old.
I feel as though there is a space inside me. Yet the space, although it is inside of me, is actually bigger than me.
It could swallow me up. If I look down into the space, I could topple over and fall down, down into the space that is not even black.
It has no colour. No sound. No smell. It is just nothing.
I sat in the hut that Roxy Minto calls her garage and stared at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Now that she had turned off the pink sign outside, it was shady, and my eyes rested. Without my dark glasses, everything outside is too bright. (Mam and I both have – had – high ‘photosensitivity’; bright sunlight is almost painful. For both of us, it started immediately after we had mixed the life-pearl’s unguent with our blood. It must be what is now called a ‘side effect’.)
All around me lingered the smell of the fire. I had bathed and changed clothes, but my old, smoke-reeking garments lay in a heap in the corner. It was as if the smell had entered my skin, my nose. The boy who is friends with Roxy – Aidan – is kind. He helped me in the bath. He said nothing about my scars or tattoo, although he must have wanted to ask.
And, if he had, what would I have told him?
‘This is a tattoo that I acquired some five hundred years ago, so it is not surprising that it has faded over the centuries.’
Perhaps I should have done. Tell the truth, that is; Mam, however, would not have approved. There was a plan for what to do if either of us died but it did not involve telling everyone the truth.
Mam.
Everything comes back to her. Every thought, every action brings her to mind. I have already lost count of the number of times I have started to say something to her, or looked round to see if she is near, or wanted to feel her strong arms round me.
Mam would stroke my back and sing the song of the old times, in the tongue we alone shared.
And there, in the grimy hut, on the ripped sofa, I hugged myself instead and tried to imagine it was Mam. I sang the song that Mam sang, the sad notes catching in my throat, but somehow making me feel better.
When Aidan came back, it was about 1am to judge from the moon. I had been dozing, but could not sleep for fear that the empty space inside me would swallow me as I slept.
He had brought a long, padded bag for me to sleep in. He asked me if I were all right. OK was the word he used. ‘Are you OK, Alfie?’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I am OK.’ It felt unusual. It is not a word I have used much before.
He sat with me a while, not saying anything, and that was all right. Nice, even. Then he said, ‘How is your arm?’
‘Fine,’ I said but it was not. It was very sore, in spite of the painkillers I had taken.
Then, when he got up to leave, it just came out.
‘Aidan,’ I said, ‘there is something I need to tell you …’
‘OK,’ he said, ‘shoot.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Shoot. Go ahead.’
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I thought of Mam and our plan. Then I just said it.
‘I am a thousand years old. More, actually. So was my mam.’
‘Say that again?’ he said, so I did.
I expected him to accuse me of lying, or at least to laugh at me. But he did not. Instead he looked at me carefully and said, ‘How long have you lived there, in the woods?’
‘On and off for about a hundred and fifty years.’
‘And before that?’
‘We lived near Hexham, on a little farmstead. We did a bit of sewing, making clothes, repairing things. And, before that, in Wales for a time, and—’
‘Sewing?’ he interrupted. ‘Your mum was a “costumier”?’
‘That is a little grand but yes, sometimes that is what Mam would say.’
Aidan’s brow had creased as he peered at me. He had sat back down on the desk and was thinking hard, I could tell.
‘And … were you ever photographed, Alfie? Both of you? Outside the cottage?’
‘Why, yes we were. How could I forget? It was the first time either of us had seen a camera before. A man from the Shields Gazette came and we stood by the front door, and … wait a minute. Why did you ask me that?’
We talked until the sky began to get light. I told him about Da and Mam and Biffa and the livperler. The life-pearls. I felt a little less empty. I even think he may have believed me.
I told him about me and Mam’s plan. I began to think it would work, and it might have done had it not been for what happened next.
And, when he finally left, I slept, and did not dream.
The very last thing I wanted to do – one hour after finally getting into bed at sunrise, and not sleeping a wink because of what I had just learnt – was to be ‘woken’ (although I was already wide awake) to go out on Jasper’s boat.
While Dad and I were out on the boat with Jasper, M
um and Aunty Alice were going to pick up Libby from Brownie camp.
Now, ever since I overheard Mum and Dad in the car on the way back from Aunty Alice’s wedding two years ago, I’ve known that they don’t really like Jasper. But they don’t know that I know.
(Adults do this thing – you must have noticed – where they kind of pretend that they’re all good friends and everybody is nice, especially family. I suppose it’s to ‘set an example’ to us kids: you know, love and trust, don’t make judgements, the adult world is all lovely, blah-di-blah. Except we know when they’re doing it.)
In this case, it’s probably so they don’t upset Aunty Alice because she likes Jasper. Loves him, even. And so when Jasper had said to me, ‘You comin’ out on me ship tomorrow, young fellow-me-lad?’ I had glanced over at Dad.
The way Jasper said it was more like a statement than a question, and Dad had replied, ‘Thanks, Jasper, we’d love to.’
We.
I was relieved. I don’t know what Dad imagined would happen to me – maybe he thought Jasper would sail into a storm, or make me walk the plank. I don’t know. But I do know I was pleased that I wasn’t going alone.
Some people have a fear of flying. I daresay some people are scared in cars. Mum won’t ever go on a motorbike.
Me? It’s boats. I once tried to tell this to Jasper, who scoffed and told me I had to ‘man up’ and Dad even agreed with him, saying I can’t go through life being scared of boats. Adults, eh? You just can’t tell.
To be honest, it’s not the boat. It’s the seasickness. I throw up whenever I’m on a boat. (I even threw up on a pedalo once on holiday in Mallorca, though I didn’t tell anyone because I was so ashamed.)
Jasper had anchored his boat and moored it to one of the two long concrete piers that curve out into Culvercot Bay like arms in a hug.
Now I know nothing about boats, but I think his is a yacht. It’s white, with a tall mast, and the sail is furled up under a blue cover along the bit that swings from side to side, which I happen to know is called the boom, so – hey! – I do know something about boats, after all.
There’s a steering wheel, which is just called a wheel.
The boat is about ten metres long, and I know that because I heard Jasper refer to it as a ‘thirty-footer’ and I know thirty feet is about ten metres, a bit less.
Jolly Roger is written on the side in jaunty letters, and there’s even a little pirate flag hanging over the back end. The bow. Rhymes with ‘snow’, not with ‘cow’. Or maybe the other way round. Like I said, I’m no expert.
When we got down to Culvercot pier, we could see a group of kids had hopped into the boat and were trying the door of the cabin.
We all saw it at the same time, but Jasper was the first to react. It was like a little bomb had exploded in his head, and he went from super-calm to super-angry in about half a second.
‘Oi! Hey!’ He was surprisingly fast on his feet as he ran down the pier, shouting and swearing. ‘You little devils! Get the hell off my boat! Geroff it now!’
Oh no. It was Inigo Delombra. Instead of being intimidated, the three boys just looked up at Jasper. The cabin door had been opened, despite having a combination lock, but they didn’t go in. Inigo Delombra spoke.
‘This your boat?’
‘Yes, it damn well is! Get off it!’ Jasper reached out and grabbed one of the boys’ jackets, but he wriggled free.
‘Oi, that’s assault that is, old man!’ Inigo continued: ‘Only me dad’s the harbour master, and he says there’s no permitted anchorage here between April and September, so technically you’re in breach of maritime regulations. We were just checkin’ if you were inside, like.’
By now, the boys had clambered out and were standing facing us on the pier.
‘Har-harbour master?’ stammered Jasper.
‘Aye. He’s a stickler for regulations, my old man.’ The other two had begun to saunter off, but Inigo stood his ground before delivering his parting shot. ‘I’ll do you a favour. I won’t mention that you assaulted Jonesy here, but you know – y’cannit just park your boat anywhere and not expect investigation by the authorities.’
Further down the pier, the other two spluttered with laughter, but Inigo shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered off. He turned and added:
‘One more thing? Your entry code? One of the top ten.’ Then he looked at me and smirked. ‘It’s a long walk for you to come back here, isn’t it, Linklater? You know – from Dumpsville, where you live now?’
Dad was going down the steps of the pier and didn’t hear, which I was glad about. The last thing you need when you’re dealing with someone like Inigo Delombra is to have your dad go ballistic at them. It can only ever make things worse.
So the trip up the coast to St Mary’s lighthouse and back was grim.
Jasper was in a foul mood after his encounter with the boys on the pier, and he was concentrating hard on the sailing, barking orders like, ‘Pull in that sheet!’ and when I looked blank he’d get frustrated. ‘The sheet, laddie! That rope there – pull it!’
Because of the wind’s direction, we had to go in a zigzag (Ticking? Tacking? Who knows?) and, more than once, Dad had to tell him, ‘Steady on, Jasper. It’s his first time.’
Except by the time we turned round, just past the lighthouse, his mood had altered like a sea wind changing direction. It was bizarre and a bit scary to see how quickly his personality flipped. He reached into a cabinet and brought out a white captain’s cap with gold braid and jammed it onto his head. Next he turned a knob on the console by the wheel and music blasted out. Old music – people singing, like in a church or something – and it was LOUD.
‘Ah, gotta love the old Gregorian chanting,’ said Jasper, to no one, really. ‘A true elevation of the soul!’ He closed his eyes dreamily for a few seconds and lifted his face to the wind.
Then, putting on a deep, posh voice, he said, ‘Take her to sea, Mr Murdoch. Let’s stretch her legs!’
I smiled weakly. That was a line from the film Titanic, which I’d seen round at Mo’s.
We hoisted the foresail, which was a small one at the front, and the boat lurched forward with a force that surprised me. Dad staggered back and grabbed a handrail.
The sea wasn’t rough that day, but there was enough swell to make the boat slap down hard on the waves as it carved through the shiny grey water. I had been feeling a bit sick on the earlier part of the journey, and this wasn’t helping.
‘Here – take the wheel,’ said Jasper and he stepped aside. The ship’s wheel started turning alarmingly. ‘Go on!’ he snapped. ‘Take it!’ and I did, while he cranked the music up even louder.
‘Jasper, are you sure …’ yelled Dad over the chanting choir, but Jasper wasn’t listening.
‘ICEBERG RIGHT AHEAD!’ he screamed. ‘HARD TO STARBOARD, MR MURDOCH!’ I didn’t know what that meant. ‘Turn the wheel hard to the right, the RIGHT!’
His voice was so urgent that I half believed that there really was an enormous iceberg looming in front of us, a kilometre off the coast of Whitley Bay, and I turned the wheel with all the force I could. The boat reacted only seconds later, and lurched terrifyingly to the right. Dad was unprepared: he staggered again, banging his head hard on the low doorway, and he yelled out with pain.
‘Pirates preparing to board! Hard to port!’
There were no pirates in Titanic, but I didn’t care, and swung the boat round again. A wave splashed over the side.
‘That’s enough!’ yelled Dad, and we both turned to look at him. ‘It’s dangerous!’
But Jasper was having none of it. It was as if he’d forgotten that we were just ordinary people in a yacht. ‘I decide what’s dangerous on my ship. See this?’ and he pointed at his captain’s cap. ‘It means I’m in charge!’ He was smiling as he said it, not shouting, as if he and Dad were not really having an argument. But they were.
Dad pulled me away from the wheel. ‘In that case, you had better take charge,’ he s
aid, grinning coldly. He reached for the knob and snapped off the music, and the difference was startling. Instantly it was just the sea and wind sounds again. And still he didn’t give up on the ‘adults don’t argue in front of kids’ thing, by saying:
‘It’s all right, Aidan. Nothing to worry about. I was just a bit concerned, that’s all. Call me an old scaredy-cat, eh?’ He rubbed his head where he’d banged it.
And so we pootled back along the coast to Culvercot Bay, no one saying anything until Jasper turned to Dad and said, ‘Drink?’
‘A drink?’ The way Dad said it, you’d think Jasper had suggested he went skinny-dipping.
Jasper scratched his beard and said, ‘Aye. A drink.’ He opened up another cabinet to reveal several bottles of something I didn’t recognise.
‘Rum,’ he explained, apparently reading my mind. ‘A sailor’s best friend!’ In my side vision, I saw Dad rolling his eyes.
‘It’s, ah … it’s a little early in the day for me, Jasper,’ he said. ‘But you go right ahead.’
If the bottle had had a cork in it, Jasper would definitely have gripped the cork in his teeth to pull it out, like someone in a film. As it was, it had a screw cap, which he took off the normal way, and took a big gulp of the rum before going, ‘Ahhhh!’ and smacking his lips. Even I could tell he was putting it on.
Other than that, we sailed back in silence. Dad was seething, I could tell. Jasper – after a couple more swigs of rum – had reverted to being his normal not-Jack-Sparrow self, and I threw up quietly over the back of the boat without anyone seeing.
As we were walking back along the pier, I was feeling wobbly and sleepy. Dad’s mobile phone went off. His voice sounded alarmed.
‘She’s what? Police? Over the back fence? But … Oh. Oh. OK.’ Dad turned to us and said, ‘Libby’s found that missing kid.’
Well, that woke me right up. I staggered a little. Jasper grabbed my arm to steady me.
‘Although he’s run away again,’ Dad added.
All these ups and downs: it was like I was still at sea.