by Robin Crumby
“How do you mean?”
“Victor is the real organ grinder, Briggs is just his monkey. It was Victor who suggested we steer a course for Southampton. He told Lieutenant Peterson about this place too.”
“When?”
“When we were all at Port Tawfiq, waiting our turn to get through the Suez Canal. None of us knew where to go. The whole world was falling apart. Looking for a safe port in a storm. Victor told us about the island.”
“What’s so special about the Isle of Wight? Why not Majorca, Corsica, the Azores, Malta?”
“I’m not sure. I think he came here as a child.”
“Why would the Americans trust Victor?”
“You don’t know him like I do. He can be very convincing. He’s been playing all sides. Like pieces on a chess board.”
“Briggs is not a forgiving man. The truth will catch up with him eventually.” Zed yawned loudly, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I really should turn in.”
“Now I think you can see why I love this ship. Nothing can touch us out here.”
“Sleep well, my friend.”
“Good night. We can finish talking in the morning.”
Chapter Forty-one
“With all due respect,” said the embattled base commander in the operations centre at St Mary’s, deploying not inconsiderable diplomacy, “where would you go?”
“That’s not the point,” said Sister Imelda dismissively, puffing out her chest. “You can’t keep us here against our will. It’s not right.”
“Sister, the whole island is on lockdown. All the roads are blocked.”
“Then I’d go cross-country the same way I got here: on horseback.”
“You’re missing the point. Limiting the movement of people is the best way we have of containing the spread of disease.”
“By force?”
“If necessary, yes. You could unknowingly infect the whole of the south of the island. It would be extremely reckless to leave right now. Until we get the all-clear, everyone is stuck here.”
“And how long’s that likely to be?”
“Could be a few days yet before we know for certain. If you’re not happy, I suggest you take this up with the captain.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.”
Riley watched her leave, exchanging a knowing look with the padre. “She’s right, you know. They can’t keep us here against our will.”
“It’s for our own protection.”
“What about the others? I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened at Freshwater while I was stuck here. No, the sooner I get out of here, the better.”
“We won’t take that personally,” said the padre, trying to lighten the mood.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but I can’t rest until I know that the others are safe. I have Heather and Adele to think about. The sooner I get them back to the hotel the better.”
“There have been no reports of infection anywhere else. They’re saying the outbreak is contained.”
“And you really believe them? They can’t know that for sure. It’s only a matter of time before it spreads.”
“I appreciate this is inconvenient for everyone, but it’s for the best.”
“My mind’s made up, we’re leaving. I just need to figure out how. You know this place better than I do.”
“I can’t help you, Riley,” he protested impotently. Riley could tell he was conflicted by her request.
“There must be another way out of this compound. Please.”
“But if you breathe a word, they’d have me court-martialled.”
“My lips are sealed, father.”
“The river Medina runs right past the hospital. If you can get to the river, then you can find a boat. Check the map.”
“It’s a long way round, but I suppose with any luck, we could bypass all the checkpoints and roadblocks in one fell swoop.”
“They’re watching every waterway and crossing point day and night. It won’t be that easy.”
“But that’s just it. We’re not going to the mainland. We could hug the shoreline. With any luck no one will see us. If we left after dark, we could make it round to Freshwater before daylight.”
“Can any of you actually sail a boat? It would be foolish to put the lives of those children at risk.”
“We don’t have a choice. Either we leave now, or we risk being stuck here for weeks. My friends in Freshwater might not have that long.”
The padre nodded, smiling weakly. “I fear it will take more than luck.”
****
Riley found Heather playing cards with Adele in the waiting room. The little girl was wearing her Parker jacket with a fur hood, her overnight bag packed next to her. Her cheeks had recovered some of their usual colour.
Riley leaned in close and whispered excitedly. “Grab your stuff, girls. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” started Heather before Riley silenced her.
“I’ll explain everything, but not here. Come on.”
****
At 9pm sharp, the three of them met at the edge of the compound. Beyond the fence and the half-finished accommodation block lay farmland that stretched for several miles north towards Cowes. To the north-east lay the outdoor activity centre Sergeant Jones had mentioned.
“Did you get all the stuff?”
The two girls nodded, twisting around to reveal backpacks bulging with warm clothing, food and water for the night’s journey.
“Are you sure about this, Riley?”
“As certain as I’ll ever be.”
“How are we meant to sail halfway around the island in the dark?” asked Adele. “We won’t be able to see anything.”
“That’s the whole point,” said Heather bluntly, with barely disguised condescension. “If we can’t see them, they can’t see us.”
“Fine, but who’s going to get us there?”
“I can sail a dinghy,” said Heather, with typical teenage overconfidence. “Just find me something remotely seaworthy.”
Riley cast her eyes around the overcast night sky. The winds were light and somewhere hidden behind a thick layer of grey cloud was a half-moon. They just had to trust to luck that the tide would be in their favour.
“Come on, Adele, where’s your sense of adventure?” said Riley, in a cheery voice.
They walked along the fence until they found the area Riley had spotted on the sitemap. The soldiers had cleared one of the warehouses to make way for further accommodation. With the natural barrier of the river on the other side, the fence in this section was rarely patrolled.
By the corner of a building, they waited behind a bush, scanning the darkness for any movement. Other than the two guards they had passed on the way, there wasn’t a soul about.
Once they had satisfied themselves that no one was watching, they tiptoed forward. The mesh fence was at least twelve feet high, topped with razor wire. There were no overhanging trees or street furniture to climb on.
Riley considered the building site and weighed up the possibility of dragging back materials to build an improvised tower, but decided it would take too long and risk making too much noise. Their best chance was cutting through the fence, but that would require tools they didn’t have.
It was Adele who spotted it first. A fox or some other animal had dug out the earth beside one of the fence posts. With a little further excavation, it might be just large enough to wriggle under.
The girls went first and emerged on the far side, dusting off dirt from their jeans. Riley pushed through their rucksacks and her own. She sat down and slipped her legs underneath, copying what the girls had done. She struggled to contort her shoulders and hips to fit underneath. After several unsuccessful attempts, she retreated and sat back on her haunches, regretting her lack of pilates since the injury.
With her bare hands, she raked at the loose earth, kicking out a few larger stones and widening the gap. She tried again, wiggling lef
t and right until the girls took one boot each and hauled her through. Her sleeve snagged on the metal edge, ripping a hole in her Puffa jacket.
Beyond the fence, they followed the run of a hedge that bordered open fields, making towards the sounds from the riverbank. They stopped next to a single-track lane lined with trees and shrubs. Beyond the lane were the silent shapes of industrial buildings.
The sound of voices to their rear made them quicken their pace. Riley glanced behind, checking for headlights or torches in the darkness, but they were alone on the roadway. They could already smell the sea.
Low voices ahead of them made them stop and listen, crouching low to stay out of sight. Through the fence, they could just make out dozens of tents pitched in a field. Riley checked her watch. It was nearly half past ten. They decided to wait for a few minutes until the noises died away before creeping forward again, stopping every few hundred metres to listen.
At the end of the road, marked with a “No entry” sign, they could hear the unmistakable sound of sail canvas flapping in the wind. Halyards tapped rhythmically against the masts of larger vessels moored in the main channel.
They found the small boatyard and activity centre Sergeant Jones had told Riley about. The soldiers based at St Mary’s had converted the site into a base for physical training for the new recruits, complete with single-person canoes, or kayaks as he called them. Jones said he had overflown it several times in the past few weeks.
There were several dozen sailing dinghies on trailers to choose from. Moving them to the water’s edge was the challenge. The larger ones were too heavy to move. They found two sturdy day boats already on the water, tied up at the jetty with all of their sails and ropes attached.
Riley couldn’t risk turning on her head torch for a fuller inspection, but let Heather climb aboard to inspect the boom and tiller, hauling up the main halyard and making sure there was a working centreboard. With a thumbs up, she confirmed everything was in good order. In the port locker under the seat, they found two paddles and adult life jackets which she handed around. Adele’s was several sizes too big, riding up under her chin when she sat down.
Riley took one last look around, checking for any sounds or sign of movement. She could hear the tide flowing beneath the pontoon, but it was hard to tell whether it was coming in or going out. She could see and smell the mudflats, but the floating jetty was far enough out into the tidal channel to be accessible at most points of the tide. They would need to stick to the main channel to avoid getting stuck in the shallower waters.
Riley untied the mooring lines fore and aft and handed them to Adele, before jumping aboard. She grabbed an oar, pushing them out into the tide and paddling downstream. Judging by their rapid progress, the tide was still flowing in their favour.
Heather took the tiller and manoeuvred the dinghy through the lines of motorboats and yachts, growing ever more impressive as they progressed towards the mouth of the river and Cowes Harbour. Ocean-going race boats, luxury yachts and gin palaces. Some looked inhabited, others abandoned. Several marinas they swept past remained a forest of masts, their rigging tapping out a metallic concerto in the light breeze.
As they reached the dim street lights in town, they ducked down, staying hidden as they passed the chain-link ferry and Red Funnel terminal. To a casual observer, it might have seemed that the dinghy had merely broken free of its moorings, drifting lazily out to sea. Heather kept her eyes fixed forward as she carefully steered them between mooring buoys and other obstacles.
A headwind funnelled down the channel, slowing their progress. Riley gave the nod, and they raised the mainsail, tacking back and forth until they were clear of the harbour wall and jetty of what remained of the Royal Yacht Squadron. They hugged the shoreline, wind on their beam, swell building once they were in open water.
It was a straight run of some ten miles down to Yarmouth and the Needles Channel beyond. From there they would head round the Needles rocks and back up the far side of the island to Freshwater in time for breakfast. Riley had estimated it would take them five or six hours at most, depending on the tide, and hoped they would arrive before dawn. It was imperative they passed Yarmouth and the Needles Battery in the darkness. They didn’t want to risk being spotted and intercepted.
“I feel sick,” said Adele, resting her face on the rail.
“Keep your eyes on the land. That should help.”
It was beautiful out here on the water. There was just enough moonlight to see by. The sound of the wind and the waves breaking gently against the beach a few hundred metres away was making Riley feel drowsy.
Heather’s seamanship had so far proven impressive. Providing they stayed close into the shoreline, Riley was confident they would make it in no time. She wondered whether they were small enough to avoid the Chester’s radar systems.
Ahead of them, they could see the dark outline of a massive container ship that could only be the Maersk Charlotte. Several port-holes in the crew quarters at the back of the vessel were lit up, casting a ghostly glow on the water below.
Just visible in the distance, she could make out the lights of what she assumed was Yarmouth. She couldn’t remember much else on the coast between Cowes and Yarmouth, other than Newtown Creek. The beam of a searchlight or lighthouse swept periodically between Yarmouth and Lymington, several miles ahead of them. One or two of the channel markers remained lit, clanging away in the darkness.
Their progress seemed to slow. At a speed of no more than three or four knots, and running against the tide, they were actually in danger of going backwards. After two hours of sailing, they changed course for shallower water, hoping to lose more of the current.
The tides were notoriously unpredictable round here, back currents and eddies that caught out the unwary. She was unaware of any rocks or sandbanks on their path, but stayed vigilant at the bow, scanning the water for any breaking waves, fighting to keep her eyes open. Adele was soundly asleep, her head lolling against the foam head support of the life jacket.
Riley pointed towards a narrow tidal passage which she guessed was the entrance to Newtown Creek. She vaguely remembered sailing here from her childhood. They dropped their sails and tied up to a buoy in the channel, waiting for the tide to slacken. It was already nearly one in the morning. Once the tide changed, their progress should be quicker than the last hour or so.
“Have a rest, Heather. I’ll wake you when it’s time to get going.”
Riley watched enviously as Heather wriggled lower to shelter from the cold wind, pulling her hood over her head and zipping up the jacket tight under her chin.
****
Riley waited for as long as she dared for the eastward-flowing tide to slacken. Without waking the girls, she untied the mooring line and pulled up the mainsail, unfurling the jib as it flapped, head to wind. She hauled in the sheet and steered back towards the river entrance and out into the channel. It was hard to tell at first, but she quickly convinced herself it must be nearly slack tide. In a little while, it should turn in their favour and speed them on their way.
Heather rubbed her eyes, yawned and took Riley’s place at the tiller, coaxing every scintilla of speed from the boat as it surged through the waves. Nearing Yarmouth, they could see the lights of the Wightlink car ferry moored in the terminal. The low rumble from its noisy diesel engines carried across the water. They were close enough to see the outline of figures on top of Yarmouth Castle and hoped they were too busy to notice their passing.
Beyond Fort Victoria, they turned south-west, watching Hurst Castle slide past them to their right. As hard as she stared into the darkness, she could not make out any signs of activity. No bonfires in the courtyard, no lights in the windows. Its high walls remained as silent as the grave.
With every few minutes, they inched closer to Freshwater and home. The multicoloured cliffs of Alum Bay to their left loomed large in the darkness, and the chalk towers of the Needles rocks now lay directly ahead.
“Do we
need to go round the rocks, or can we go between them?” asked Heather.
“There’s a deeper channel between the first and second rock. Stay in the middle, and we should be fine.”
As Riley stared up at the Needles Headland, she kept an eye out for movement, mindful of Corporal Carter’s men. It was still dark enough that they would be near impossible to spot, even with the high vantage point afforded from the cliffs. She hoped their dark grey sails would be invisible against the inky blackness of the ocean.
To her surprise, she noticed a flurry of activity on the clifftop. A lone figure was running as fast as he could towards the gun emplacement. A searchlight powered up and quickly found them in the darkness. Riley stared back, shielding her eyes from the dazzling light.
“Wave, girls. Show them we mean no harm.”
In response, tracer bullets angled towards them, ripping up the water ahead of their nodding bow.
“Should I come about?” shouted Heather, a note of panic in her voice.
“No, hold your course. Keep waving.”
With a jolt, Riley remembered the radio Carter had given her, and she quickly rummaged around for it in the rucksack. She might only have a few seconds before they opened fire again. As soon as she found the small walkie-talkie, she turned on the power and rotated the dial to channel sixteen.
“Needles Battery. Cease fire, cease fire. We have children aboard. Repeat: cease fire.”
“Be advised, you are entering a restricted area. Turn around, or you will be fired upon,” came a cold, unfamiliar voice.
“Negative. We have authorisation. We are travelling to Freshwater Bay from St Mary’s. Repeat: we have not come from the mainland. Tell Corporal Carter that it’s Riley from the hotel, returning with two passengers. We are not infected. Repeat: we are not infected.”
“Stand by.”
There was an awkward silence as she imagined someone running to wake Corporal Carter to find out whether he had ever heard of a Riley and what exactly he wanted to do about it. Carter’s voice came over the radio.