We’ve had what Vern calls high tea. Kind of early. It’s just so miserable outside all we feel like doing is eating. Vern tells us stories afterwards. He’s full of them, about the old days – mermaids, boats and shipwrecks. Fortunately he keeps off ghosts. He tells us this one about a storm. He has Mei staring at him with her mouth open.
‘This is the story of Tom Bawcock,’ says Vern. ‘My mother’s granddaddy told me. He had a fishing boat in the old days in Cornwall. There’s a castle in the sea near where they came from – you can walk across while the tide’s out, but when the tide comes in …’
‘What happens?’ whispers Mei.
‘You get caught in the sea. Well, round that way, in a place called Mousehole,’ (he says this like ‘mowzal’) ‘there was a fisherman called Tom. A storm blew up like this one but she’d been blowing for a week and the fisher folk couldn’t get out in their boats to fish. It was almost Christmas, and the village was going to starve if someone didn’t do something soon.’
I sure hope this storm doesn’t keep up that long.
Vern carries on with the story. ‘Tom decided he should go out and try. When the villagers realised where Tom was they put a candle in every window in the whole village and the men waved lanterns on the jetty.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘So Tom would find his way back in the storm. He could see the lights and when he finally made it back he shared all the fish. Caught seven different sorts, he did. They cooked it all up and the whole village ate it together. Best Christmas they’d ever had.’
Vern most probably made up a few bits but it’s a nice story. Mei’s eyes are bright. It reminds me of all of us sandbagging to save the island.
Then I’m saying that this weather is early for us, but Vern disagrees. ‘There’s been storms in April before, boy. Bad ones too.’ Mei pipes up. ‘I read about one in the lighthouse log—’ she doesn’t get to finish because just then the house starts to shake even more than it’s done before and the window on the seaward side, the one behind Mei, shatters. Water bursts in; it’s like waves. Glass flies everywhere. Mei screams and Vern’s up as quick as a dolphin surfacing. Even Olsen moves himself faster than usual out of the line of rain.
Vern’s got a sheet of thick orange plastic and he’s nailing it to the window frame. With every bang he’s apologising to the house. ‘Can’t be helped about the nails, ol’ girl. We’ll plug the holes up later.’ Then I notice the water seeping in under the door. A few soaking towels later, Mei says, ‘That’s what it was like in the log. The sea jumped up and broke down the front door of the head keeper’s cottage.’
We both stare at her. This is the head keeper’s cottage. We’re quiet for a while after that, listening to all the different sounds outside. Almost at bedtime, the lighthouse starts clanging again. Vern’s right about that. You do kind of get used to it. Even Mei says nothing this time.
And suddenly the door bangs open. It’s never locked. Vern rushes to shut it and Olsen actually growls. It’s a deep, old-man kind of growl, a warning. Totally surprising. There’s someone standing there. He shuts the door himself and pushes Vern back.
The ghost. I can tell by Mei’s face that’s who she thinks it is. I didn’t think they were so aggressive, just sort of wafty and see-through-y. This ghost has a grey tracksuit on, pretty wet, but I see the embroidered patch on the coat. It looks like a uniform, one of those that you can’t rip easily. Nah, this isn’t the ghost of the head keeper. More like the ghost of Barber Smith, missing member of the detention gang!
21
Then the ghost talks and I know he’s no ghost. Something much worse. How did he get here? No one could come in this sea unless they were Sea Rescue or had a helicopter. Then I realise he’s been here all the time. The rustling in the kitchen, Vern thinking he’s been eating more or that Mr Pengelly has been bringing less food. Some ghost. And the tinnie I found. He must have tried a run for it and ran out of petrol. Stupid not taking oars. He sure must swim well.
‘So where’s the boat?’
‘What boat?’ Vern finally says. Vern’s tinnie is still being kept as police evidence, and he doesn’t keep anything bigger here. He’s sizing up this guy, standing in front of Mei and me. But what could Vern do? He’s got about as much go in him as Olsen.
‘These kids came back. I’ve been looking for it.’ He’s studying me now. How come he knows everything? He’s sort of grinning and I’m uneasy. He reminds me of Scott, only younger – one thing on his mind, and nothing’s going to push him off course. His gaze travels to Mei and stays there, flicking down her long black hair. That’s when I start talking, and fast.
‘It’s out under the boxthorns on the western side. It’s only a tinnie.’ Can’t imagine what he’s thinking of. Nor can Vern.
‘What do you want the tinnie for, man? You can’t get off the island in this weather.’ Not in a tinnie, that’s for sure.
‘I’ve had enough of this bloody island – not enough boats come. I’m getting off before the whole thing sinks.’
‘She won’t sink,’ says Vern. He’s trying to keep the guy calm. ‘It’s taken forty years to halve her size.’
‘Yeah? I’m taking no chances, old man. They told us all about it when we were working here, lumping all those stupid sandbags.’
‘You’ll die on the sea,’ says Vern then and Barber Smith laughs. It’s not the sort of sound you want to join in with.
‘Not me. You all thought I was dead, didn’t ya? Well, you was meant to. I staged it, see? Collected petrol from the chainsaw in me Coke can. Took the little boat out halfway, fixed the motor and swam back. Made sure there were no oars, so you’d think I didn’t make it. Hear that?’ He’s pointing at Vern, and Mei takes a step away. ‘I swam back.’ None of us are clapping, but he hasn’t noticed. ‘Then no one would know I was alive. Or know I was here. When a boat comes, all I’ve got to do is take it. And this is the first time one’s been left overnight.’
Mrs Colby said once I’d end up in a detention centre, but imagine being like this guy. He’s the crazy one, not Vern. Vern wouldn’t even move a bird’s egg.
‘It won’t work,’ I blurt out. ‘The motor’s stuffed.’ That steely gaze of Barber’s turns to me. His eyes look kind of metallic too, like they’re not real. Even Vern’s fake eye looks more alive than his.
‘Is it now? Now how do you think that happened? That was me, see. To make sure you never left. It wasn’t meant to get you as far as it did.’
All of a sudden I can’t think straight. The jerk! We could’ve died out there. I take a step forward but Vern’s quicker. He puts an arm in front of me and I hear him, low. ‘Not the way, boy.’ Olsen growls again; it’s the sound of an old engine cranking up, ready to go. Barber ignores him.
‘C’mon, move it. You,’ he points to me. ‘You show me.’
That’s when Vern makes a move. He tries to tackle Barber Smith, but I can see it’s useless unless Vern knows some old sailor tricks. He doesn’t. Barber’s fast. He moves in to knock Vern back but suddenly Olsen’s there. He’s on Vern’s blind side and so Vern doesn’t see what happens next. Olsen gets in the way. Olsen? He must have jumped – not strong enough to push or scare Barber but he takes the thump that would’ve knocked Vern out for good.
Olsen yelps once and falls like a sack of sand. Vern just drops to his knees. He’s breathing funny, coughs a bit. Mei’s crying, trying to get to Olsen and Vern, but Barber’s pushing us both out the door.
‘Wait,’ I say, straining to get a look at Vern.
‘Aah, he’s a cracked old geezer. Stop ya fussing. Show me this boat.’
And then I can’t move. Cracked ol’ geezer. I can hear thumping, the drumming of hoof beats. He can’t do this. Olsen, and now this. I hurl myself at his middle, trying to punch, to make him hurt. It’s a short attack for suddenly I’m pulled up in front of him, a knife pointing at my neck. Mei’s squealing at him to stop and through the haze I realise something. He has to keep at least one of
us alive; we know where the tinnie is. I have to stay calm. He could do the same to Mei as he did to Olsen. Take deep breaths, Joel. Keep calm, keep calm. It sounds like a skittish rhythm cantering in my head, uneven, not calm at all. This time he gets us both out the door into the rain. We don’t even put coats on.
On the way through the park I’m thinking how mad he is. He’s the one who must have suddenly cracked. The wind’s so strong we can’t walk upright. Even in the dark I can see white, flying up on the side like whipped sugar being flung off a giant fairy-floss machine. There’s no way he’ll survive in a sea like this. Then I get this horrible thought – what if he takes one of us with him? I’ve been called crazy before – no sense of danger, I’ve been told, but I know this is suicidal. And he’s not the suicidal type. See what I mean about crazy?
I’ve got to get to the radio. And another thing, if I can get away in order to do it, he won’t hurt Mei surely, because then he’ll only have one of us. He’ll need one of us at least. What if Dev turns up tomorrow? Barber will need bargaining power. Won’t he?
When we reach the boxthorns where we left the boat, I can tell it’s gone.
‘We left it here,’ I shout. The guy thinks I’m stalling and starts pulling Mei around.
‘It’s gone,’ I yell again. Never thought the sea would come this far. We didn’t pull it up high enough. I try and get close to Mei, give her arm a squeeze. It’s all I can manage. I can’t bawl out what I want to do. I just hope she understands when I disappear and that Barber doesn’t retaliate and hurt her. I’m counting on the fact he must have something in his head besides rocks to plan his fake death a few weeks ago. I have to believe he won’t hurt Mei, unless he’s totally lost it after being alone so long.
He’s got us both by the arms. His grip’s like a pair of pliers; bet they do work-outs every day in the gym at the detention centre. Suddenly, I shout, ‘There it is!’ I pull away as though to go look and Barber loosens his hold. That’s when I twist away. I run for a bit, away from the house, and hide in a boobialla bush. Even through my jeans it scratches and then my bum gets nipped. Ow. Stupid penguin. I can’t cry out. Barber’s swearing; bet he’s pulling poor Mei this way and that, trying to find me. When I can’t hear him and I think he’s far enough away, I make a run for the house. Just hope Mei still talks to me after leaving her with him.
My biggest horror right now is getting to the house and finding out Barber’s thought of the radio too and he’s already planted there. In front of it. If I don’t get to the radio first we’ve got no show of getting out of this. Not until the wind dies down enough for someone to turn up, and by then it may be too late.
I go in the back way, sneak through the rooms until I get to the kitchen. Barber’s not there. Just Vern and Olsen. Poor Olsen. Vern’s eye is looking at me. I stop still a second, scared. He’s not, is he? But no, it’s moving. Yep, he’s awake; he’s on the floor by Olsen, his hand in Olsen’s fur. I don’t dare say anything about Olsen but it’s like Vern knows.
‘Good friend is Olsen, aren’t you, ol’ son?’
Olsen doesn’t answer any more; I think that’s the worst. Olsen sure was a slow old dog but even when he was under the table barely moving his tail, it seemed heaps better than this stillness.
‘I couldn’t put him down. And he would have hung on and hung on until he couldn’t move. What sort of life is that, ol’ son, eh?’ Then Vern remembers me. I’m standing in front of the radio.
‘The radio, boy.’
I’m not sure how to use one of these big marine radios. ‘Do I change the channel? It’s on sixteen.’
Vern nods. ‘That’s the one. Always on sixteen. What time is it, boy?’
I check the kitchen clock. ‘Nearly eleven-thirty.’
‘Have to wait for the half-hour – they monitor during the three minutes past the hour and half-hour.’ Vern’s coughing again. I hope he’s all right. Waiting doesn’t sound such a good idea. Barber’s going to know what I’m up to. Have I time? Vern gives another cough and starts talking again.
‘Wait, then pick up the microphone, press the button, talk and release. Have a go again in half an hour.’
I do what he says. I pick up the microphone. I’ve never seen a clock hand go so slow, like something’s dragging on it, not wanting me to start or to get a message through. Then it’s eleven-thirty. I press the button.
‘What’ll I say?’ But Vern’s head topples over to the side. Not Vern too. His eyes are closed. Isn’t that a good sign? I turn back to the radio. I remember the call sign. If it’s an emergency you have to say ‘breaker’ in case others are on. Mr Pham’s got one of these on his trawler that Dev works on.
‘Breaker,’ I say. My hand’s sweating on the microphone. ‘This is the island—’ Then suddenly an extra-heavy gust of wind bangs on the windows. They rattle against their frames and I panic.
‘Mayday, mayday! Sea Rescue? Can you hear me? We need the ambulance and police. Barber Smith is alive – he’s got us holed up. Vern’s knocked out in his house. Barber’s got Mei.’ I remember to say, ‘Over’. Then I release the button. I wait. No one answers. Damn. I try again. ‘Mayday, mayday.’ Press, release. Press, release. No one’s picking me up. The electricity must be out over there.
Then I hear the footsteps. A night ago, I would have thought it was the ghost. Look how scared I was. This beats that. No time to think of the ghost. Besides, I reckon we know now who the ghost was. I run into Vern’s room. I can’t let Barber catch me. I have to try the radio again every half-hour. I climb the ladder. I can hear Mei’s sharp breaths as the two of them come into the house. I hear the noise from outside grow louder before the door shuts.
I’m through the trapdoor now and leave it open a bit to hear what happens. I hear Barber kick something out of the way and Mei’s little cry. I hope it’s a chair and not Olsen. Or Vern. Then there’s all this banging. He’s really wild. Swearing stuff I’ve never heard at school even. Shawn would be impressed. Sounds like Barber’s taking the hammer to something – not the radio, I hope. No thought of ships in distress in the gulf for Barber – no way. Just looking after number one.
I try not to think how terrified Mei must be, but it’s better for her if I can stay away. He’s only got her; he’ll keep her alive. I keep telling myself that over and over. He won’t hurt her. He won’t hurt her.
Who am I trying to kid? I’ve got a problem if Barber stays in the kitchen. So has Vern. If he wakes up again, Barber will belt him for sure. I just hope he sees Mei as non-threatening and relaxes a bit. Then I think of something else. Mei’s only twelve but she’s heaps cool to look at. How old are detention guys? Only teenagers, aren’t they? I’m itching to get out of this hole in the ceiling. Looking around, I see another wooden ladder. It’s heaps dark, and noisy, with the rain on the roof. Then there’s another trapdoor. Onto the roof? I try to slide it quietly but there’s enough noise from outside. Surely Barber wouldn’t hear a noise on the roof. I manage to pull it across. Good thing it slides and doesn’t open on hinges; the wind would have whipped it straight back into my face.
There’s a rail outside – it looks like the top deck of an old yacht up here. Feels like one that’s not doing well in the swells and I’m the old sailor staring down towards where the lighthouse is. I see a light; must be down at the bottom. It has to be Barber and Mei. Then I hear the grandad of clangs. They’re at the lighthouse door. Looks like Barber can pick padlocks. He’s got the door open. No one goes in there, not even Vern. Only the transport officer to service the light. Guess Barber must think if I did get to the radio no one would find him in there.
I get down the ladder fast. And into the kitchen. Vern’s still out. Then I check on the radio. It’s ten to twelve, but there’s no way I can try it again. The little red light is off. Little bits of the receiver are broken, sticking out at strange angles. Always that radio flashed or murmured, like the purring of a cat. I push the button just to check. No crackle, no murmur. Nothing. We’re on our
own.
22
Since I can’t do any more with the radio, I decide I better not leave Mei by herself with that maniac any longer. There must be something I can do. I’m as wet as a dog that’s fallen into the surf. Vern’s still asleep. I check him out, put him on his side and get a blanket. Went once with Dev to a volunteer Sea Rescue night. Some ambulance guys were showing us all this stuff. Just hope Vern’s okay. It’s hard not seeing Olsen lift his tail. Even though he was an old dog, he still had some go in him. Weird how it’s not until it’s stopped that I‘ve noticed. The radio too.
I pull on one of Vern’s coats. At least Mei and I have our own jeans and sweaters, dried by Vern’s heater. Not dry any more. Just before I tug the door open I give it all one more thought. What can I do? But I don’t think for long. For one thing, I won’t know until I get there, and besides, planning ahead isn’t one of my strong points unless I’m fishing. When you’re fishing everything goes fine if you use the right bait and lure. Somehow now I have to do the same.
The door to the lighthouse isn’t locked from the inside. Now why hasn’t he done that? Thinks no one will know anyway? I would have locked it if it was me in there. I’m trying not to make a noise or huff too much as I go up the stairs. I don’t want him to know I’m coming, nor do I want to freak Mei out. But trying to hold my breath to listen makes me noisier.
I needn’t have bothered being quiet – Barber’s sitting there at the top, waiting for me. As I come round the last curve I see him. He’s got a torch going. Mei’s in a tight little ball as far away on the next step as she can manage, her head down on her knees and her arms wrapped round them like she’s hanging onto a tower in the wind.
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