The Ghost at the Point

by Charlotte Calder

There was a rare silence from her husband.

  “I tell you, Edmund,” Mrs Crickle’s voice was rising to a sob, “there’s some very strange things going on around here. And here we are, locked in with a snake, without even a light–”

  “For goodness sake, calm yourself. You’re becoming hysterical again.”

  “Can’t you even find a light?”

  “Where?” he hissed. “It’s your fault the lamp’s broken, with all your kicking and floundering about. And even if we did have some matches, if we struck one, there’d probably be an explosion, what with all the sulphurous gas you’ve emitted. Phew – I can still smell it!”

  “Don’t be vulgar, Edmund. You know the tonic plays havoc with my digestion.”

  Once again, Dorrie would have found it funny if she hadn’t been thinking so desperately. It was all very well to have locked up these villains, but what were she and Alonso to do now? Should she go and get help in the truck, leaving Alonso to keep watch on his own? And how long could they actually keep the prisoners shut inside? The old shed was only made of rusting galvanised iron, and as horrible as Mr Crickle was, he wasn’t stupid. She could already hear him moving about inside, feeling his way around for the tools. Sooner or later, they’d be able to cut – or even dig – their way out.

  She glanced at Alonso. Despite not being able to see his face properly in the dark, she was sure he was thinking much the same things. If only they could discuss the situation, mull things over together.

  And one more thing. As far as she knew Mr Crickle had the map on him; she was certain he hadn’t left it on the ground where they’d been searching. Whatever happened to the Crickles, she and Alonso had to make sure they got hold of it.

  She was going to have to get help. Either from Jacky and his dad, or, a bit further away, from the Jennings. Sergeant Tonks in Redcliff was simply too far.

  Dorrie turned to Alonso and mimed herself driving the truck. He nodded. Then she asked him whether he wanted to come with her or stay. He signalled that he wanted to stay. He still wanted his presence to be kept a secret, she thought.

  But when she hurried over to the garage, the truck wouldn’t start. At least the engine started, but then sputtered and died, six times in a row.

  She and Alonso, who had come with her to the garage, exchanged looks of dismay. Fishing the torch out of the glove box, Dorrie switched it on. She shone the beam on the controls, thinking hard.

  Then she tried again, with the same result. Only this time the starter sounded ominously sluggish, as though the battery was going flat.

  She thumped the steering wheel with fury. Of all times for this to happen! The old truck was pretty temperamental, but Gah always seemed to have a trick up his sleeve to get it going. She waited a minute, then pumped the throttle several times – to no avail.

  Alonso tapped on her shoulder and jerked his thumb, miming driving. Dorrie gazed blankly at him for a second before the penny dropped.

  “Of course,” she cried. “Brilliant, Alonso – I’ll take the Crickle machine.”

  She’d only ever driven the truck, but the roadster couldn’t be that different, surely. And when they had a look, it did seem as though she could manage it.

  There was only one snag. To suit Mr Crickle’s stork-like legs, the seat was set right back from the pedals, but when they located the adjustment lever under the seat, it was stuck fast. No amount of pushing or pulling would move it, or the seat. Unless Dorrie’s legs suddenly doubled in length, there was no way that she was going to be able to drive the roadster.

  And it would take far too long to get anywhere on Sampson.

  She gave a little cry of frustration, and banged the torch against the seat. The light went out for a second, then came on again when she shook it.

  Dorrie and Alonso stared at the torch, and then at one another. They might be able to signal for help – with a flashing light. There probably wouldn’t be any boats out on the water, but it was worth a try.

  They hurried up to the house again. The occupants of the shed had gone ominously quiet; Dorrie hated to think what they were up to. They certainly wouldn’t be sitting there waiting for the door to be unlocked.

  She lit the biggest hurricane lamp and scooped up a rug from the sofa. Then they took them down the end of the point.

  The moon had set; all was black outside the glow of their light. The wind had dropped; the sound of the waves slapping hard on the rocks below was the only reminder of the storm.

  She got Alonso to sit down, holding the lamp on his lap, and put the rug over its metal top. Then, standing behind him, she lifted the whole rug up and put it back again, quickly, three times in a row. She repeated this sequence, only this time making the light and dark periods longer. Lastly, she did a re-run of the three quick flashes. She waited five seconds and repeated the whole pattern again. And again, and again …

  SOS, they signalled. SOS … SOS … SOS …

  Save Our Souls.

  Alonso boosted their signal with the torch, switching it off and on in time with the flashes of lamplight.

  Despite the brightness of the resulting light, Dorrie didn’t hold much hope. From their humpy tucked away in the sandhills, Jacky and his father wouldn’t be able to see the flashes. Unless they happened to be out on the beach, which in the wee small hours of the morning was pretty unlikely. And across from the Pearce’s, on the other side of the lagoon entrance, lay the shanty town of Jack’s Landing, but she was positive the signal would be too dim to reach that far. Even if anybody did happen to be awake, looking out into the darkness.

  “That should be enough,” said Dorrie, after three or four minutes of signalling. “If anyone’s out there, they would’ve seen it by now.”

  It was a big if.

  And she had a horrible feeling that the situation down at the shed might have changed.

  They hurried back up the point to the house. When they rounded the corner of the verandah next to the drive, Dorrie stopped, putting a finger to her lips. They stood still for a moment, listening. Everything was quiet. There was no noise coming from the shed.

  She extinguished the lamp and put it down. Alonso switched off the torch and they sneaked around the edge of the drive, the dark shape of the shed becoming dimly visible.

  When they were about ten feet away, they stopped again. Alonso switched on the torch and flashed it on the door.

  The bolt was in the latch – it was still locked.

  They stared at it, orange-painted and silent in the beam.

  “What the heck are they doing in there?” Dorrie whispered. “Why are they so quiet?”

  Alonso didn’t need to understand her exact words. He shrugged, tugging uneasily at the bush beside him.

  Suddenly, there was a footfall from behind and something heavy came over them – something rough and smelling of salt. Dorrie heard herself gasp, then scream in terror.

  “Got you!” hissed a horribly familiar voice, as she and Alonso were yanked together, hard.

  They’d been caught, she realised, in a fishing net. The one that was stored in the shed. Wound together, up and down, around and around.

  “Pull it tight, Mavis. Pull it tight!”

  Dorrie and Alonso yelled and struggled and kicked, but with their arms already pinned, all they succeeded in doing was to fall over in a tangled, panicky heap.

  “Well, fancy that, another brat,” came Mr Crickle’s slimy tone. “So much for your ghosts, my precious-ss.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, his wife snatched up Dorrie’s dropped torch and flashed it right in Dorrie’s and Alonso’s faces. They blinked and squirmed, unable to shield their eyes.

  “My, my, what a nice little catch we’ve got here, eh, Edmund?” She cackled as though it was the funniest joke ever. “A couple of beauties. Snapper or whiting, d’you think?”

  “Ha-ha,” Dorrie sneered, still trying to pull and twist. She and Alonso had ended up back to back, the ropes cutting into them. “So funny.”

  Mr
s Crickle bent down to her and Dorrie got yet another blast of bad breath. “Don’t you give me cheek, my girl, or you’ll be food for the real fishes, very smartly.”

  Dorrie glared at her, but a chill went through her. Meanwhile, Alonso was cursing the Crickles in his own language, and it sounded pretty colourful.

  “What have we here?” Now it was Mr Crickle’s turn to bend down. “A little foreigner, eh?”

  “Seems to be,” leered Mrs Crickle. “One of those oily, dark continental types like you see in the talking pictures. The ones that smell of garlic.”

  You can talk, thought Dorrie furiously.

  She and Alonso had more or less given up struggling – all it did was make the ropes dig in tighter.

  Mr Crickle grunted as he tied knots on top of knots.

  “There we are, my dears, just try and get free of that!” He turned to his wife. “Come on, let’s get back to our mission, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

  But Mrs Crickle looked alarmed. “What’s that?” she cried, slowly straightening up.

  Mr Crickle swung around, listening. Sure enough, from down on the road came the faint sound of a motor vehicle approaching.

  Dorrie held her breath, willing it to slow down, and come up the drive.

  Then the engine revved as it changed down gears, and they heard the unmistakable sound of the tyres starting to bump along the track.

  “Drat!” hissed Mr Crickle.

  “That’ll be Sergeant Tonks,” cried Dorrie, triumphantly. “He knows I’m here.” Never had she heard a more welcome sound. “You two are done for.”

  Mr Crickle snatched the torch from his wife, unlatched the shed door and rummaged inside. He rushed out again brandishing something that flashed in the torchlight.

  A fish filleting knife – old, but still quite sharp.

  “Get up,” he commanded, jabbing it at Alonso and Dorrie, “the two of you. And do exactly as you’re told or you’ll both be sorry.”

  The Crickles heaved and tugged them onto their feet, and the children stood there, swaying slightly, like an enormous, ungainly parcel on legs.

  “Now move – quickly – round behind the shed.”

  Dorrie and Alonso started shuffling forwards, teetering, almost overbalancing. The Crickles held onto their human bundle, steadying it and pushing it along.

  “Hurry up,” cried Mr Crickle. “Faster! Faster!”

  “Can’t go any faster,” snapped Dorrie. It was as though they were in some kind of peculiar one-legged, four-footed race.

  The strange procession reached the back of the shed a second before the motor came around the last bend. Its headlamps swept over the roadster, house and verandah. Meanwhile, Mr Crickle shone the torch on the thick bushes in front of them.

  “There,” he hissed, “behind that bush – hurry!”

  When the parcel had been shoved thither, it was unceremoniously pushed to the ground and sat upon.

  “Oooff!” Mrs Crickle sat on Dorrie, Mr Crickle on Alonso.

  Dorrie could barely breathe under the weight; she felt as though her ribs would crack. And from the gasps and curses coming from next to her, she guessed Alonso was feeling the same.

  “S-sssh!” came the horrible hiss, as the torch was switched off. She flinched as the tip of the knife pricked under her chin. “Not a sound, or you will be fish food.” The knife was removed, and a similar movement from Alonso told her that he was getting the same treatment.

  Dorrie lay there, heart pounding, ears trying to hear to the voices on the drive. The newcomers had immediately spotted the Crickle mobile.

  “Who the devil does this belong to?”

  Dorrie recognised the gruff tones of Sergeant Tonks.

  “I dunno,” came the reply, more faintly, “but I don’t like the look of it … I’m going to check in her room.”

  That voice brought tears to Dorrie’s eyes. It was Mr Jennings. His voice had none of its usual good cheer – he sounded worried.

  “Dorrie!” he yelled. “Dor-rie.”

  How she longed to yell back! They must have come at this hour to surprise her, she thought, to make sure they’d catch her.

  Their search, of course, yielded nothing.

  “Only the cat,” she heard Mr Jennings say, “shut up in her room. Dorrie must have got up in the night – when whoever owns this car arrived.”

  Dorrie imagined Poppy’s fury at being trapped, with all the strange noises going on.

  “Let’s head down the beach,” suggested the sergeant.

  Their footsteps came closer towards the top of the path. She saw the glow of torches through the bush.

  “I’ll check the shed,” said Mr Jennings. Dorrie heard the bolt being pulled out and the door squeak. She wriggled in frustration, wondering if she could risk crying out. But then a fat, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth, and she practically gagged. She was tempted to bite it, if only the tip of the knife wasn’t jabbing in her ribs. Her shoulder had gone numb from the weight of the mountainous Mrs Crickle, who was wheezing nervously.

  “That’s odd,” came Mr Jennings’s voice. “There’s a hole in the wall – here at the side. Seems like the tin’s been removed.”

  “Where?”

  She heard the two men examining it. Desperately, Dorrie willed them to come around a bit further into the bushes behind the shed. They didn’t.

  But somebody else did.

  There was a low growling and then a hiss. Next thing, Mr Crickle’s boot shot out, just missing the dark shape of Poppy. Dorrie felt a familiar brush of fur on her cheek as her cat flashed past.

  Mrs Crickle gave a muffled squeak of fright.

  “What was that?” the sergeant asked.

  “What?”

  “Thought I heard a noise.”

  There was silence, as the two men listened. The knife poked harder into Dorrie’s ribs. Surely they can hear my heart pounding, she thought.

  “Must’ve been a possum,” said Sergeant Tonks, finally. “Come on, let’s search the beach.”

  And off they went, still calling.

  Tears of frustration and fury ran down Dorrie’s cheeks.

  “Now, sit tight – not a word,” hissed Mr Crickle.

  “But–” started Mrs Crickle, shifting slightly. Dorrie gasped again.

  “That includes you, Mavis-ss!”

  Five minutes later the two men were back again, discussing what to do next.

  “Jasper’s Cove’s our best bet,” said the sergeant. “Rustle up a search party and scour the bush. We’ll doorknock. You take one side of town, I’ll take the other. Shouldn’t take us long to organise some men.”

  “Righto – let’s get going.”

  Footsteps receded, car doors slammed and the motor chugged off. And the fainter it got, the further Dorrie’s spirits sank.

  The only good thing was that the Crickles stood up, and off their human seats.

  Alonso and Dorrie gasped with relief. The numb parts of Dorrie ached as the blood rushed back into them.

  “Let’s get out of here, Edmund,” said Mrs Crickle, clutching her husband. “Forget about all this treasure nonsense.”

  Mr Crickle scowled at her, once again shaking her off. “Not on your nelly! We haven’t come this far only to scurry off like a couple of timid mice.”

  “But–”

  “You’re going to get caught, y’know,” cried Dorrie. She glared up at them. “How d’you think you’re going to get your motor car off the island?”

  “My dear child.” Mr Crickle smiled his oiliest non-smile at her. “We won’t need it. With what we’re about to dig up, we’ll be able to buy ten vehicles-ss!”

  “Some of them Rolls Royces,” added his wife, momentarily brightening. She clasped her fat hands to her bosom. “We’ll be spending summers in Monte Carlo and winters in gay Paree, won’t we, Edmund?”

  “Hmmm,” said her husband. “We’ll see.”

  Once again, Dorrie almost laughed. The image of Mr and Mrs Crickle mixing
with the royalty and millionaires of Europe was, to say the least, hilarious.

  “Edmund, you promised!” Mrs Crinkle said.

  Mr Crickle frowned and swung around to the bundled prisoners, poking them with the knife. “Now, come along.”

  But Mrs Crickle was not to be distracted. “Edmund Crickle,” she cried. “If you think I spent months of my life buttering up that old bag and going to stupid meetings and being seasick on that horrid boat and tramping about this godforsaken hole in the middle of the night while these little brats tried to scare the living daylights out of us, without the promise of the Riviera at the end of it …” She stopped with a gasp – the combination of her fury and her weight having got the better of her. “… Or at least something better,” she continued, “than sitting at home all day with you and your horrid stamp collection.”

  What an awful thought! Dorrie suddenly felt almost sorry for her.

  Mr Crickle glared at Mrs Crickle as though he’d like to jab her with the knife, but instead he took a deep breath. Appeasement was the best policy at this point.

  “Yes dear, yes dear.” He patted her, not so gently, on the back. “It’ll all be grand, I’m sure. Now,” he said, “let’s get cracking! They won’t be back for at least an hour, and by that time we’ll be gone. It’s getting light – we’ll be able to get our bearings better.” Faint streaks of sunlight were appearing in the eastern sky.

  Mrs Crickle turned to Dorrie and Alonso. “What are we going to do with them?”

  Mr Crickle’s lip curled. “We’ll decide when we go. Can’t have them blabbing to the authorities-ss, can we now?”

  Chapter 11

  Dorrie glared back at Crickle, but fear moved in her stomach like a snake. Alonso’s eyes were flashing daggers, as though he was about to spit.

  “Come on, get up!” Knife in one hand, Mr Crickle hauled at the net with the other. Dorrie and Alonso staggered up awkwardly and stood there swaying and wobbling on their still-numb feet. “Can’t leave them here to wriggle free. We’ll tie them to something up at the house.”

  And so the net parcel once again started its slow, painful shuffle, prodded and poked and hurried along by its captors.