The 1,000 year old Boy

by Ross Welford

  ‘How cold do you reckon that water is, Alfie?’

  Aidan scoffs. ‘It’s the North Sea, Roxy. It’s freezing.’

  ‘But it’s nearly June.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’ve got an idea.’

  Roxy’s idea is so outrageous and outlandish, so bold and brave, that there is no possible way it could work.

  It is also my only – and my last – hope.

  We are going to steal a boat. Well, by ‘we’, I mean ‘I’, basically.

  In a small, busy marina, in summer, surrounded by other people, I am going to steal a little yacht (or any yacht, for that matter: I am not sure I will have much of a choice) and sail it to Coquet Island, about a mile off the shore.

  I know. Sheer folly.

  But the alternative is not to try, and that is not much of an option.

  I can remember a time when nobody stole very much at all. Indeed I can remember a time when stealing as much as a basket of fish would get you hanged – however old you were.

  So … stealing a boat?

  Sitting there on the bench, the three of us observe the marina and work out the plan that – even if it works – is guaranteed to get us all into a great deal of trouble.

  If it does not work – which is highly likely – the consequences are too grim even to think about, which is what I say to Roxy.

  ‘So we don’t think about them!’ says Roxy, too brightly for my liking. ‘It’s simple,’ she goes on. ‘Either we try and probably fail. Or we don’t try and definitely fail.’

  In that tiny sliver of chance, between ‘probably’ and ‘definitely’, lies my future.

  Roxy is on her mobile telephone, jabbing away with her fingers. Suddenly she is Roxy In Charge: tiny and very impressive.

  ‘There are two coastguard stations near here,’ she says, looking at her telephone. ‘The first is Amble, right there.’ She points across the harbour to a low building facing the water. ‘The other is in Seahouses up the coast. We’ve got to hope that you reach the island before either of them can catch you. Seahouses is easy – it’s way too far. This one, well … I dunno, really.’

  If this were not discouraging enough, I am struggling to identify which sailing boats I could handle by myself that would have the speed I require.

  There is only one: a thirty-foot, white, single-masted yacht. It is moored on the last jetty of the marina, closest to the open water, which is good, but a long walk past other boats, which is bad. I will be noticed. I will have to walk by dozens of people, who all know each other and the other sailors, and have to hope that they pay me no attention.

  ‘That one,’ I say to Aidan, pointing to the yacht, which has a little pirate flag flapping over the stern. He says nothing. ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘I heard you. Does it have to be that one?’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘That’s my Uncle Jasper’s boat,’ says Aidan.

  Our only chance of sailing a boat out of the little marina is to do it in full view. ‘Hidden in plain sight,’ as Mam used to say. Even then we are going to need a massive distraction.

  That is why Roxy asked about the temperature of the water.

  First, though, we have to call out the coastguard.

  We have moved away from the bench to a quiet part of the harbour where there are no passers-by, but we can still see both the coastguard station and the yacht I am about to steal.

  The three of us face each other. I cannot speak for them, but my heart is thumping like a blacksmith’s hammer, and my throat is so dry I feel like I could drink the whole harbour.

  In the entirety of my long life, I do not think I have ever felt more thankful for friends like these, but it is not something I can easily say. I look at Aidan and he has turned very pale.

  ‘Is something wrong, Aidan?’ I ask him but he shakes his head.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Let’s do this.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He smiles. ‘What are friends for, Alfie?’

  And so begins the rest of my life.

  Roxy has turned off ‘caller ID’, which she says is a way that the recipient of a call can identify you.

  She has given a false name and (presumably) a false number to whoever answered her emergency call, and then wails, ‘It’s me dad! He’s in trouble! He’s on a windsurfer and he’s miles out to sea!’

  She is good. Very convincing. I look at her face and it is contorted with worry, as though she really is making an emergency call about her dad.

  ‘He went in off Low Hauxley Beach,’ she says. ‘You’ve got to help! Thank you … Yes, I’ll stay here.’

  We do not have to wait long. Within a few minutes, three figures in yellow oilskins run out of the coastguard building and climb down a metal ladder on the harbour wall to a waiting rescue boat: a large, grey, rigid inflatable.

  By the time the boat has started, Roxy, Aidan and I are down by the marina. I am breathing so hard with nerves that it is making me a little light-headed.

  ‘Will you hurry, please?’ says Roxy into the telephone. ‘I’ve got no battery left on me phone. You are comin’? Thanks, I’ve gotta go cos—’ and she shuts the telephone off mid-sentence.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asks Aidan but I can only nod in response.

  He turns to Roxy. ‘All right. Time to do your thing.’ She tightens her jaw and marches behind a shuttered ice-cream shed, emerging seconds later in a T-shirt and knickers.

  There are people on the jetties – yachties, mainly – but no one seems to take much notice of us. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Jolly good luck, Roxy,’ I say, and I offer her my hand to shake. Her face breaks into a grin.

  ‘You, Alfie Monk, have to be the weirdest kid ever!’ she says. ‘Come here!’ She throws her tiny arms round me and squeezes hard. ‘You are the one that needs good luck. All I have to do is pretend to be drowning. Jolly good luck. What are you like?’

  With that, she descends some steps from the jetty into the water and slips in without even gasping at what must be very cold water. She is clenching her jaw so tightly that thick sinewy cords run down her neck, and her eyes are so white and wide-open that I fear they may pop out.

  I tell you: Roxy Minto is the toughest girl I have ever met.

  She begins her swim out into the middle of the harbour, and nobody even notices her tiny dark head bobbing through the water.

  Aidan and I must work quickly.

  I have taken off the stupid coat and hat costume and am back to looking like a child. There are some empty lobster pots and a blue plastic crate lying in a heap at the side of a jetty, and we both pick up an armful and head towards the far end of the marina.

  Look as though you have a purpose, and people will ignore you. It is one of many pieces of advice that have helped me over the years.

  Only not this time. A thin woman in a thick sweater, with a red, windswept face, steps into our path.

  ‘All right, lads?’ she says, not unpleasantly. ‘Where you’s headed with that lot?’

  ‘I … erm …’ says Aidan and I glance across at him. He has turned almost as red as the woman in front of us.

  ‘They’re for his uncle,’ I say.

  ‘Oh aye? An’ who’s that, then? Only I’m the duty harbour warden today. I have to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘It … it’s Jasper. Jasper Hooke,’ says Aidan eventually.

  The lady’s face softens. ‘Ah, Cap’n Hooke, eh? We’ve been seein’ a lot of him lately! Goin’ after the lobsters now, is he?’ She glances up to the sky, which is turning from white to grey, with a darker purplish bruise moving closer. ‘I wouldn’t go out now, though. Tell Jasper that Natalie said that. Look – people are coming in.’

  She indicates the approach to the harbour, between two long piers, where already four sailing boats are heading back. There are others in the open water. The wind is getting stronger, and there are one or two sharp, cold raindrops. We hurry along the jetty, past the yachties se
curing their boats against the coming storm, and I can just see Roxy’s head, way out in the middle of the harbour.

  Right on cue, we hear her cry – Help! Help!

  Only it is very quiet. Surprised, I look around me. Nobody else has heard. Even Aidan has not heard.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I ask him.

  ‘Hear what?’

  The idea was that Roxy would cause such a disturbance that everybody would be distracted while we quietly slipped out of the harbour.

  But it is not working. Nobody is paying any attention to the tiny speck way out in the harbour. The noise of the wind, and the sea sloshing the sides of the boats, and the rattling rigging and the slapping sails …

  ‘Help!’ It sounds genuine but then Roxy is a very good actress.

  I drop my blue plastic crate and run back along the jetty towards the red-faced lady.

  ‘Someone is in trouble!’ I yell, pointing in the direction of the faint scream that comes again.

  ‘Help!’ shouts Roxy.

  ‘Ee, is that someone swimmin’? You’re norrallowed to swim in the harbour. Hey! Hey!’

  Now I really am scared, because I cannot make out Roxy’s head in the water any longer. The swell of the sea has increased and even her raised arm disappears from sight. Natalie has taken out a small pair of binoculars and is sweeping them from side to side. Eventually she says, ‘Yes! There is someone!’ and we both hear the cry again:

  ‘Help me!’

  Then Natalie is off, her wellingtons thudding against the wooden planks of the jetty as she runs for help. I am running in the opposite direction, back towards Aidan, who has stopped by his Uncle Jasper’s boat.

  ‘Come on – we do not have superfluous time, Aidan!’

  The boat is tied to the iron mooring and Aidan is already unhooking the long rope. He is about to unravel the last loop when he stops, his brow furrowed and a concerned look on his face. He is looking at the boat’s wheelhouse.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘The keys. Look. They’re in the ignition.’ He is whispering.

  Sure enough, a key is sticking out of the boat’s control panel, with a large cork float dangling from it.

  ‘Why would—’ I start. Aidan is ahead of me.

  ‘—anyone leave their keys in a boat? Unless …’

  ‘… they were already on board?’

  The swell of the water has made the yacht rise and fall, and the last yard or two of rope has become disengaged from the mooring. Already the boat is drifting from the jetty. I put my fingers to my lips and leap onto the stern of the yacht as quietly as I can. Aidan follows, landing lightly. We creep towards the wheelhouse.

  Next to the ship’s wheel is a tiny open doorway leading below deck to a little kitchenette with a table and, beyond it, a bed.

  Lying on the bed, arms outstretched, eyes closed and with headphones covering his ears, is Aidan’s Uncle Jasper, an empty bottle of rum lying next to him. He has the music turned up so loud that it is seeping out of the headphones: I can even hear that it is old church music, what we used to call plainchant, voices chanting and singing.

  There is a length of rope neatly coiled, hanging from a hook next to the wheel, and it seems as though Aidan and I have the same idea simultaneously. While he shuts the door as quietly as he can, I loop the rope over the door handle and stretch it as tightly as I can round the metal handrail. I come back and loop it again, and once more round the handrail, finishing with as secure a knot as I can. There’s a broad grin on Aidan’s face and he holds up his open palm. I do the same, and he hits my hand, which is strange but fun.

  We have drifted quite a few yards out into the harbour by now, and the swell is taking us towards another boat.

  ‘Hey! Look out!’ we hear from the other vessel, and it turns to avoid a collision by inches. ‘You idiots! There’s a storm coming!’

  A couple of hundred yards away, a boat with a little engine is puttering towards Roxy, and clusters of people have gathered on the pier and on the jetties.

  There was never a hope that we would get very far without rousing Jasper. Any significant movement would alert him, so we just have to get on with it.

  I for one have nothing to lose. If I have to sail to Coquet Island with Jasper held prisoner in his own boat, well … that is what I am going to do.

  It is not as though I have any choice.

  We had planned – if ‘plan’ is the right word – to get out of the harbour under sail power, but the key in the ignition means we can use the engine, so I turn it, and it powers up. I steer the boat towards the open sea.

  And then we hear it.

  ‘Oi! What the blazes is going on?’

  There is no window in the door that Uncle Jasper is rattling with all his might. He has no idea who is stealing his boat.

  How long will the rope hold the door shut? Can he break the door down? How long until we reach the island? We have not yet cleared the two piers and there is at least another mile to go – and then what? On the island there is no harbour, no pier, no nothing. Where will we land?

  Perhaps the plan could have been polished a little more.

  Together Aidan and I haul up the mainsail, and, before it is halfway up, the wind has caught it and the boat lurches strongly to one side. I grab the wheel, Aidan secures the sail and in seconds we are cutting through the silver water and heading for the open sea with breathtaking speed.

  ‘What in the name of God Almighty are you doing? I hope you realise the seriousness of your crime, you thieving scum!’

  I have no idea how long the door will hold. It is not looking good.

  I almost feel sorry for Jasper. The sheer panic in his voice shows that he’s terrified. There he was, relaxing on his boat, listening to some music on his headphones, when suddenly he’s locked in and – so far as he knows – kidnapped.

  Alfie, though? Alfie is as cool as you like. It’s as if he’s got one thing to do, and nothing – nothing – is going to stop him. He’s steering the boat, jaw tight, eyes screwed up, peering through the gathering rain.

  I don’t know how fast we’re going. Boat speeds are measured in knots, and I’ve no idea how big a knot is. Looking at the water rushing past us, though, we’re going at least as fast as a car in a town. The wind is deafening and the sail is a huge white curve, filled completely. We’re in luck with the wind: it’s coming straight off the land and taking the yacht directly to the island. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.

  ‘Hello? Hello? This is Delta Foxtrot One Niner. Delta Foxtrot …’

  It’s Jasper on the radio. He’s screaming for help.

  ‘Hello – do you read me … is that Dave? Dave! Are you in the lookout? It’s Jasper Hooke. My boat’s been stolen, looks like we’re heading straight for the island, and I’m on board, trapped below. I’ve been kidnapped, Dave. Call out the coastguard. Call the police! Call anyone! Over.’

  Dave’s voice crackles back.

  ‘Coastguard just returning from an abortive mission, Jasper. Hoax call, we reckon. Blimey – is that you out there? You’ll win the America’s Cup goin’ at that pace, Hookey. Get ’em to turn round – it’s not safe. Over.’

  ‘I can’t, you idiot, I’m … I’m kidnapped. They’re not gonna turn round just because I ask politely! Call the coastguard station; tell them to divert the rescue boat to the island and intercept us! Over!’

  ‘Who’s kidnapped you, Jasper?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dave! I’m locked in, I can’t see them.’

  ‘They may be armed or summat, Hookey.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Dave! They may also have a man-eating tiger with them for all I know. Just do something before this thing capsizes with me in it. Over and out!’

  There are footsteps on the stairs leading to the door, followed by a loud banging as he tries the door again.

  ‘Let me out! You’re gonna be in so much trouble. This is piracy. You’ll hang for this!’

  Then it goes quiet. It’s an
uneasy silence, as if the silence itself is planning something. The steely water is rushing past the hull, and by now the rain is coming at us almost horizontally, but the sail is taking all of the wind and there’s a sweet spot in the wheelhouse where everything is dead quiet.

  I look across at Alfie and he has this grin spreading across his face – the grin of someone in the grip of certainty – and it’s awesome! I know then, at that precise moment, that – no matter what happens with this boat, or with Jasper, or even with me – Alfie will succeed. Despite my terror of everything that’s happening about me, I reach across Alfie and flick the switch that I’d seen Jasper flick that day he took me and Dad out.

  Instantly the air is filled with unearthly music: the centuries-old Gregorian chants. For a few seconds – maybe as long as half a minute – we sail in glorious peace, abandoning ourselves to the wind, to the sea, to our fate.

  Then I see it, coming through the crack in the doorway: a small knife, sawing at the rope that’s holding the door shut. In a matter of seconds, it will have cut through.

  At the same time, bouncing across the waves towards us at a heck of a speed is the Amble coastguard rescue inflatable, the yellow-clad figures inside getting bigger by the second.

  As is the island.

  We’re heading straight for it. The sea is so wild by now that the rocks aren’t always visible, but, when the swell drops, there they are: huge black stones like whale-backs curving out of the surface and in seconds we’ll be smashed up on them.

  ‘Release the mainsail! That one there!’ shrieks Alfie, his voice shot through with fear, and I unwrap the rope from the hooks as quickly as I can. Immediately the boom swings round, the sail flaps loose and I can feel a lessening of the boat’s speed, but it’s still hurtling towards the rocks under its own momentum. The rocks shield a little bay and at any second we’ll be thumping down onto them like the waves, which are throwing up huge plumes of white spray.

  Alfie turns the boat’s wheel clockwise as fast as he can; his hands are a blur, and the boat lurches to the right. Meanwhile, in the doorway, another strand of the rope pings apart as Jasper continues his frantic sawing.