by Sam Clarke
‘Like who?’
‘Girlfriend?’ He then noticed my Scooby Doo pyjamas and answered his own question. ‘I guess not.’
I was too nervous to be embarrassed. Detective Thompson flipped his notebook open. His spiky handwriting reminded me of an ECG. ‘Are you Noah Larsson?’
‘Yes.’
Detective Thompson crossed my name off his list. ‘Come with me.’
‘Am I under arrest?’ I asked, fighting the urge to bite my nails. It wasn’t just about being taken into custody – if my Scooby Doo pyjamas showed in the mugshots, I would have gone viral overnight. Isabelle’s door swung open. Valhalla’s master-eavesdropper had used Detective Thompson’s visit to hone her skills. ‘Noah, don’t say a word until your lawyer gets here,’ she said.
I had no idea which lawyer she was referring to, but I nodded back and tried hard not to stare her pale-blue nightie, which clung in all the wrong places. Or the right ones. Something was seriously wrong with me. Since hitting puberty I couldn’t help being attracted to every girl I met, including the ones I didn’t like. Detective Thompson forced me to concentrate on more pressing problems. ‘Nobody’s under arrest. Not yet, at least,’ he said, with a yellow smile that made Isabelle’s lips curl in disgust. He then put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me forward. ‘Go through to the lounge, young man. I’ll explain everything when your father gets here.’
I mechanically put one foot in front of the other and begged every god I could think of to get me out of this mess. Isabelle grabbed her zip-up sweatshirt and followed us. In the lounge, Viggo, Miguel and Ariel were clustered around a second detective. Judging by their topic of conversation – beer-making techniques in medieval Germany – the possibility of a stint in prison didn’t scare them in the slightest. Viggo, who started each day with an early morning swim, had come directly from the sea. He was still in his shorty-wetsuit and water had started to pool around his bare feet.
‘Is Noah the last man on board?’ asked Detective Thompson.
‘Anatomically speaking, yes,’ boomed Ariel. ‘But a real man would rather die than be seen in that outfit.’
I wanted to glare at him, but my survival instincts knew better. I plopped myself on the sofa and crossed my arms over my chest to cover Scooby Doo as best as I could. And that’s when my father rushed in, shirt back to front and inside out. The bead at the bottom of his beard was gone and the green bracelet wrapped around his wrist identified him as a guest of the Reef Atlantis hotel. He scowled at the yellow-toothed detective, with whom he was on a first name basis. ‘Edward, is this really necessary?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Detective Thompson apologetically. ‘It’s about the firearms that were discharged in George Street on Wednesday. An eye-witness has just placed your truck and your crew at the crime scene. I need to bring you in for questioning.’
‘It’s six o’clock in the morning!’ thundered my father.
‘I’m aware of that, but the NCPD cannot be seen ignoring such a serious accusation.’ Detective Thompson lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag. His yellow teeth were obviously a work in progress. ‘Magnus, it’s just a formality. The captain will take care of everything. As long as your alibi checks out, you have nothing to worry about. You have an alibi which fits the circumstances, don’t you?’
My father nodded. ‘Joe’s Bar. We spent the afternoon playing pool and left in a hurry when we heard the gunshots.’
Detective Thompson let out a cloud of smoke and allowed himself a smile. As I later found out, along with a vast selection of cheap beers, Joe’s Bar provided affordable alibis to criminals in need. ‘Very well,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure Joe will corroborate your statement. As well as your number plate, my witness provided partial descriptions of four men leaving the scene.’
Isabelle gave me a triumphant smile. The visually-impaired witness had saved her a trip to the police station. Detective Thompson leafed through his notes. ‘The descriptions are vague enough, but I need four of you to come down to the station and give a statement.’
‘Noah is a minor and I only have temporary custody,’ said my father. ‘Can you leave my ex-wife out of this?’
Detective Thompson winced. ‘If she’s the main guardian, she will have to be notified.’
The other policeman stepped forward. ‘Magnus, minors generate a truckload of paperwork. You should keep things simple.’
My father chewed his lip and nodded. ‘I’ll need a few minutes.’
‘We’ll wait in the car,’ said Detective Thompson, flicking some ash in an empty mug. ‘Come out when you’re ready.’
As soon as the detectives had left, my father turned to Viggo. ‘Get changed. You’ll take Noah’s place.’
His aide sploshed out of the room without a peep. I may not be the bravest guy in the world, but I’m not a coward. ‘Dad, this isn’t right,’ I protested. ‘Viggo is the only person in this room who wasn’t in George Street! And even if mum gets to hear about this, so what? She’s in Lebanon. There’s nothing she can do.’
‘Nothing she can do?’ he echoed. ‘Use your brain, Noah! You’re underage and my alibi would place you in a sleazy bar in the middle of the afternoon. When your mother gets wind of it, she’ll revoke the custody agreement on the spot. If you had gone to Super Value instead of playing detective, we wouldn’t be in this situation.’
He may have been a newbie at fatherhood, but telling me off in front of everyone was totally uncalled for. I stormed out, embarrassed and furious, and followed Viggo’s wet footprints to his cabin. The door was open and he was towel-drying his hair with the t-shirt he had been wearing the day before. ‘My father’s out of order,’ I said. ‘I won’t let you take the fall for me.’
He dumped his t-shirt on the bed. ‘Dude, chill, it’s just a statement.’
His calm unnerved me. ‘But you’re innocent! You should never have been dragged into this!’
He unzipped his wetsuit and exposed the incredibly fit torso that had left Isabelle speechless on more than one occasion. ‘Seriously, don’t feel bad about it. If anything, you’re doing me a favour.’
I frowned. ‘How?’
‘Dude, I’d much rather spend the morning at the police station than on my own with Isabelle. Hardened criminals, I can handle; bored girls, not so much.’
He turned to rummage through his wardrobe and I did a double-take. He practically lived in his rash vest and I had never noticed the small, vermilion cross tattooed on his right shoulder. It was identical to the design on my father’s calf. Weird coincidence or buy-one-get-one-free at the local tattoo parlour?
#
My father and his crew left with Detective Thompson; Isabelle and I retreated to our respective cabins. I showered, threw my Scooby-Doo pyjamas in the bin, took them out again and fired up my laptop. My inbox was inundated with promises of cheap degrees from dubious universities and requests to confirm security details of bank accounts I didn’t have. And then I saw it: New message from Cressida Rothschild. I blinked, twice, the message was definitely there.
Hi Noah,
I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.
Keep in touch,
Cressida.
I re-read it over and over. Cressida, the über-popular Cressida, was asking me to keep in touch. I cursed her timing. Lame as it sounds, this was the type of message I would have killed for when the distance between Cressida and I was measured in something other than nautical miles. I checked the date stamp to make sure I wasn’t replying too soon, I didn’t want to appear needy, or too late, I didn’t want to appear rude.
‘Uh-lah-la, who’s Cressida?’ asked Isabelle from behind.
I quickly shut the computer and she tried to force it open. ‘Stop it. She’s just a friend.’
My stance was far too defensive and the fact that I was willing to squash her fingers inside my laptop didn’t exactly help my case.
‘Isn’t watercressida a type of lettuce?’ she asked, trying to snatch th
e computer with her free hand.
I groaned. ‘You’re thinking of watercress.’
‘Is she your girlfriend then? Or did she dump you when she saw your pyjamas?’
Viggo was right. I had drawn the short straw after all. A high-pitched sound saved me from answering. Pity it was the last sound I wanted to hear: the gate alarm. Isabelle let go of my laptop and took a step back. ‘Someone must have entered the wrong access code three times in a row,’ she said.
I checked the time on my phone. It was too soon for the rest of the guys to be back and they would never enter the incorrect code so many times. Something wasn’t right. ‘I’ll check things out in the control room,’ I said. ‘It’s probably a short circuit.’
I had no idea what I was talking about. My knowledge of electrical matters had come to a premature end when I had accidentally electrocuted myself during a D&T lesson. I rushed downstairs, Isabelle’s flip-flops squeaking behind me. The CCTV monitors displayed two men. If it wasn’t for the guns slung over their shoulders, they would have been completely unremarkable. One of them had plugged a hand-held device into the gate’s control panel and was attempting to override the system. Isabelle brought her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God! They’re going to break in!’
I was nervous enough as it was, her gloomy predictions weren’t helping. I doubted that my father and Miguel would be allowed to keep their phones on during their mock police interview, but I tried them anyway and it went straight to voicemail. At the fourth attempt, I left a brief message. I hoped we would be alive by the time they picked it up. Unless we wanted to walk into the intruders’ burly arms, exiting via the main gate wasn’t an option. We had nowhere to run. My heart was thumping so hard I thought it would crack a couple of ribs. Slowly, panic started to set in. Panic. The word kick-started my brain and I remembered the health and safety tour that Viggo had given me when I’d first set foot on Valhalla. ‘The panic room,’ I said to Isabelle. ‘We’ll hide in the panic room until everyone gets back. Viggo programmed the retina scanner to recognise my eyes too.’
She didn’t react, but I was too engrossed with my plan to be bothered by her lack of enthusiasm. I moved to a panelled corner of the control room. The panels were secured in place with metal bolts. I counted them, found the one I was looking for and put my eyeball in front of it. The retina scanner kicked into action – a concealed door opened with a click and a hiss. I crawled through it. The windowless panic room was only a fraction bigger than my cabin. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I yelled to Isabelle.
‘I… I think I’ll stay here, thank you for asking,’ came the unusually polite reply.
I partially crawled out. ‘Are you crazy? This is the safest place in the whole ship. The access door is thirty-five centimetres thick. Get in here.’
‘No.’
I pointed at the monitors behind her. The intruders had made it past the main gate. ‘This would be a good time to reconsider.’
She stared at the armed men striding down the sandy path and kept on twisting her hands, as if she was washing them under an imaginary tap.
‘C’mon,’ I urged her. Without a word, she went down on all fours and slowly crawled through. I pulled the door behind us. As it clicked into place, I felt some of the tension leave my body. The panic room contained a single security monitor. I switched it on and fiddled with the controls until I was able to adjust the camera angles. The intruders were ransacking the place, but they seemed more interested in exploring every nook and cranny than in raiding expensive electronics. This wasn’t a random robbery. They were looking for something specific and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was.
‘They’re after the map,’ I said to Isabelle. Strangely enough, she displayed no interest in what was going on. She remained in her corner, as quiet as a mouse, her fingers digging deeply into her fists. The intruders got to the control room and switched the camera feeds off. The monitor went black. They were close, I could just about hear their muffled voices. I pressed my ear to the door – all I heard was a whimpering sound coming from Isabelle’s corner. Her forehead was covered in beads of sweat and I noticed a trickle of blood where her nails had dug into her palms. I moved away from the door and gently pried her hands open. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m claustrophobic,’ she whispered. ‘I’m OK if there’s a window, but I can’t do spaces like this. I just… can’t.’
She snapped her fingers closed. If she didn’t stop digging her palms, she would have no hands left by the time the others returned.
‘There must be something you can do to keep your fear under control,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could try a visualisation technique. I read about it in one of my mum’s medical journals. I’ll describe a place, you’ll imagine it in your head and believe that you’re there instead of here.’
The look she gave me spoke a thousand insults. ‘Great, I’m locked in a windowless room with a delusional Jedi!’
‘At least give it a try,’ I said. ‘It must be better than carving your palms!’
She grabbed my t-shirt with both hands and pulled me towards her. I wasn’t sure whether to expect a kiss or a head-butt. I got neither. ‘You’ve got to get me out of here, Noah!’ she screeched. Or sobbed. Or both. ‘I’m about to have a panic attack.’
Her breath was now coming in great heavy gasps. ‘Sit under the air-shaft,’ I said. ‘There’s a bit of a draft. It will make you feel better.’
If the air-shaft hadn’t been by the door, it could have been a perfect plan. As it turned out, I had just shot myself in the foot. With a bazooka. She briefly sat under the air-vent, mumbled something about the walls getting closer, pulled the manual door-release lever and rolled herself out. I rushed after her to pull her back inside but she was already in the corridor, rooted to the spot in front of the lab door. The place had been turned inside out and one of the intruders was fidgeting with the scanner. His back was turned and I definitely didn’t want to find out what his face looked like. Isabelle’s breathing was calmer, but still laboured. Dragging her back to the panic room could have back-fired, the only way was up. I pointed to stairs and mouthed “upper deck”. She nodded in return. We tip-toed upstairs and managed to reach the main deck without any unwanted encounters. ‘We can’t leave by the main gate,’ I whispered. ‘They may have a getaway driver waiting for them.’
‘How do we get off Valhalla then?’
I leaned over the gunwale and looked down. The jet ski was bobbing gently over the waves, tied to one of the purpose-built hooks affixed to Valhalla’s hull. Isabelle followed my gaze and shook her head. ‘I’m not sure, Noah. We’ve never dived from this height before.’
‘Viggo does it all the time.’
‘Viggo swims better than Poseidon.’
‘We’re good swimmers too.’
‘What if the water isn’t deep enough?’
‘If it’s deep enough for Valhalla, it’s deep enough for us. C’mon, let’s do it.’ I heaved myself up and swung my legs over the gunwale. I was trying to assess the height of the jump, when I felt a hard jab between my shoulder blades. I turned around, slowly, picturing the gun before I even saw it. The intruder who was holding it offered a crooked smile. Despite being outnumbered, he didn’t seem worried, but then he was armed and we weren’t. He signalled for me to get off the gunwale and spoke into his two-way radio in a language I didn’t know. In return, he got enough static to make the hair at the back of my neck stand even straighter. I slid off the gunwale and slowly raised my hands in the air. The back of my foot hit something hard. I looked down, the double-paddle of Viggo’s kayak was lying on the deck boards. The intruder kept on trying to reach his accomplice and momentarily lowered his gun to adjust his radio channel. It was a golden opportunity to display my substandard fighting skills. I picked up the double-paddle with both hands and smashed it into the side of his face as hard as I could. Something cracked. It wasn’t the paddle. The intruder tumbled forward, clutching the side of his head, his other h
and frantically searching for the gun that he had dropped. I was transfixed by the blood – trickling through his fingers, dripping on the deck boards, sliding down the paddle…
Isabelle’s scream woke me from my crimson trance. ‘Snap out of it, Noah!’
I ditched the paddle. We scrambled on the gunwale and dived feet first. The drop was longer than expected, if I hadn’t been airborne in the company of a girl, I would have screamed my lungs out. Isabelle had no such qualms. Her shrieks probably perforated what was left of the intruder’s eardrums. The water opened beneath my feet and closed over my head. I was engulfed by silence and bubbles. The salty water stung my eyes, but I forced them to stay open. Isabelle was already swimming towards the jet ski’s hull. I equalised and kicked-up after her. We climbed on. The starter key was hanging from the handlebar, where Viggo usually left it. I slid it into place, wrapped the safety strap around my wrist, put the jet ski in forward mode and squeezed the trigger throttle. The engine responded with a huge burst of acceleration and the jet ski flew over the water at incredible speed. I zig-zagged across the waves to avoid the bullets that were now being fired in our direction. They disappeared underwater like mini-torpedoes. The rain of bullets eventually stopped – either we were out of range or the intruder had run out of ammo. There was a third possibility too, but I refused to consider it and kept going. When Valhalla was nothing but a distant blur, I put the jet ski in neutral position and scanned the surroundings. Sea and more sea. I swung round to face Isabelle. ‘I have no idea where we are,’ I said, wiping water off my face with my forearm.
She pointed to my right. ‘Pirate Cove is that way.’
‘What’s in Pirate Cove?’
‘Hope’s dive shop. She’ll help us out.’
I nodded. ‘Alright. Pirate Cove it is.’
Something warm coiled around my wrist. I instinctively yanked it back. Isabelle, completely startled by my reaction, released her gentle grip. I withered inside. When it came to girls I was a total loser, now she knew it too. I patiently waited for the dig that never came. ‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ she said instead. ‘When I ran out of the panic room, you rushed after me. Most of the boys I know would have stayed put.’