Mr Dabbings stepped forward. ‘Well I do like to cuddle a clod, now you mention it.’
‘Ha!’ Another arm shot out. ‘I knew it. Ground clingers, the lot o’ ye.’ From the shaking fist, Abbie guessed that wasn’t a compliment. ‘You earthy wormers, you terra firmas – what brings you to the skirts of Old Granny Ocean?’
Dad reached out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, um–’
‘Cap’n Winkymalarkey O’Rourkemelads!’ Dad’s hand was ignored. ‘Retired pirate, shark-wrestler and squid-squasher. Current Master o’ the Fidgety Bridget and ferryman to local islands. Where’re ye bound?’
‘Remote Ken,’ said Dad.
‘Avoy!’ The beard shivered like an electrocuted hedge. ‘You’re pulling me portholes! It’s years since I’ve hoisted me pintles to that bewarted isle. You urban sprawlers, you shopping-mallers – you won’t last ten minutes there.’
Mr Dabbings sniffed. ‘We’re actually going for ten days, thank you, to enjoy the natural world.’
Cap’n Winkymalarkey cackled. ‘Oh, it ain’t the natural world you’ll be enjoying, me dewy groggers.’
Mr Dabbings blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
The Cap’n threw out his arms. ‘Plank up, young drabbers. Load the dunnage, clew the jimmybird and I’ll tell ’ee the tale.’
Abbie guessed that meant they were going. Everyone grabbed their rucksacks and followed the Cap’n along the jetty. Stone steps led down to the water. The children climbed the gangplank onto the boat. The grown-ups made several trips to load the trolleys and food boxes onto the deck.
Leaning against the side rail, Abbie saw Henry sidle up to Ursula. ‘Oh no you don’t!’ She grabbed his arm before he could fake-push the poor girl overboard.
The Cap’n went into the cabin. With a shudder of engine and poop of horn, the boat set off. The wind whipped up, snatching at coats and spraying the deck with foam. Everyone hurried into the cabin, put on life jackets and crowded round the steering wheel.
‘So,’ said Dad.
‘You were saying,’ Mr Dabbings coughed.
‘About the island,’ Matt rubbed his teeth nervously.
The Cap’n steered and stared ahead. ‘There be tales,’ he said at last, ‘of hidden treasure.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Dad waved his hand. ‘We’ve read about–’
‘Mebbe so.’ The Cap’n wheeled round. ‘But I’ll wager me tubscrews ye didn’t read there were –’ his eyes glinted from face to face, ‘GHOSTIES!’
Everyone fell onto everyone else. Dad tumbled into Mr Dabbings. Coriander stumbled into Matt. Perdita tripped over Abbie. Marcus toppled on Terrifica. And Henry seized the opportunity to stamp on Ursula’s foot.
When everyone was vaguely upright again, Marcus said, a little too confidently, ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts.’
‘Ha!’ The Cap’n’s eyes settled on Marcus. ‘Is that so, young bobberjack? So tell me why the folks round these parts refuse to visit Remote Ken?’ He turned back to the steering wheel.
Dad leaned towards him over Abbie’s shoulder. ‘Because they’ve grown up with the stories.’ His breath tickled her ear. ‘It’s always the way. Look at any legend in history and there’ll be magic tucked in somewhere. There’s even a technical term for it. Hystoria – going hysterical over history.’
‘Ahee!’ boomed the Cap’n. ‘So why the tales o’ strange goings-on? Whispers in the woods, ripples in the lake?’
Mr Dabbings waved his hand. ‘Oh, just Nature at play.’ He smiled round the group. ‘I’ve been reading up. The local climate is thought to result from hot and cold waters meeting to the west of Remote Ken. That creates a warm current called the Atlantic Waft, which can cause unusual weather conditions on the island.’ He patted the whimpering Ursula on the shoulder. ‘Now good Cap’n, I’ll thank you to stop scaring the children and take us to our holiday spot.’
‘Calm yer clotterhooks,’ muttered Cap’n Winky. ‘Just trying to warn ’ee.’ His mouth vanished into his beard. For a while he steered in silence. Then: ‘Land ahoy!’ he boomed.
Peering through the window, Abbie could make out nothing but grey.
‘Come. I’ll show ’ee where ye’ll be resting yer beamscuttles for a ten-day.’ Matt took over the steering while the Cap’n led them out of the cabin.
The wind jostled Abbie across the deck. She gripped the handrail on the side of the boat and stared at the dark shape looming from the sea.
‘Look!’ cried Henry. But it wasn’t the island he was pointing at. Cap’n Winky’s hat had blown off. Underneath bits of tape were stuck to his temples. The wind snatched at the tape. The beard shot off and flew away like a great hairy bird.
‘Oh,’ said the mouth it had left behind. ‘Cwumbs. That’s not in the scwipt.’ The Cap’n clapped a hand to his face.
Coriander laid a hand on his arm. ‘I think you’d better explain,’ she said firmly.
The Cap’n leaned against the side of the boat. Stripped of his beard, his face was small and pinched. Below wide eyes and sharp cheekbones his cheeks tapered to a tiny chin. ‘I told them it wouldn’t work.’ His voice had gone high and squeaky.
‘What wouldn’t?’ said Coriander.
‘The plan.’ The Cap’n rubbed his eyes. ‘Oh the game’s up,’ he said wearily. ‘Might as well come clean.’ He sighed. ‘Along this coast, you see, the villages are wather wun down. So the locals hatched a plan to attwact touwists. They put an advert in the paper fow a boatman. Someone who could spin a cweepy tale. The idea was that the stowy would spwead and bwing more visitors.’
‘Ha!’ Dad crowed. ‘What did I tell you? Classic Hystoria.’
Mr Dabbings tutted. ‘Exploiting Nature? Shame on you.’
Cap’n Winkymalarkey sniffed. ‘Wasn’t my idea. I just happened to be here, taking a bweak fwom London. I was twying to find myself.’
‘And your chin,’ said Marcus.
The Cap’n blushed. ‘Please don’t. It’s no joke having a poor bottom jaw. I’m an actor, you see. But who wants a chinless James Bond? Who’d play Juliet to a jawless Womeo? Audiences were so wude. They laughed me off stage, wuined my confidence. I got tewwible stage fwight.’
Coriander tutted sympathetically. ‘Has this job cured you?’
‘Dunno. You’re my first touwists. The beard helped – until it blew off. Haven’t had much pwactice sticking it on. Sowwy.’
‘It’s OK.’ Coriander patted his hand. ‘But you shouldn’t have scared the children like that, Cap’n Winkymalarkey.’
He hung his small head. ‘And by the way, that’s not my weal name. It’s …’ he twisted the toe of his welly boot, ‘Bundy Pilks.’
The children hooted.
‘Stop that,’ ordered Coriander. ‘You should never laugh at someone’s name. Should you, Mr Dabbings?’
‘No.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Not even if it’s really stupid.’
As Bundy Pilks returned to the cabin, Abbie turned to inspect the island. The edges were flat as a mat. But through the mist she made out two mountains in the middle. Rising in sharp triangles, they peaked at the same height and were separated by a wide V-shaped valley.
The sun broke through the clouds, dropping diamonds onto the sea and scattering the fog in ghostly puffs. Despite the warmth on her face, Abbie shivered. Not ghostly, she corrected herself. Ocean currenty. The Atlantic Waft was fact. Everything else was fiction.
So why was dread uncurling in her stomach like a slow, black snake?
***
‘You chaps are welcome to stay till you’re sorted.’ Grandma spoke loudly and clearly. ‘Aren’t they, folks?’
Ollie nodded across the kitchen table. ‘Defnutly. Can I take them in for Show and Tell?’
Mum cleared her throat. ‘I think it might be hard to explain what two ancient Incas are doing in Garton, poppet.’ She glared at Grandma. ‘And no, they’re not welcome,’ she muttered. ‘How can we possibly help them?’
Grandma had brought the old men home the previous a
fternoon. It hadn’t started well. When she’d explained that the visitors were Incas who’d survived the Spanish invasion of Ecuador, and that Fernando and Carmen were two of those invaders, the atmosphere had turned a little frosty. But Fernando had apologised in a lovely way – ‘I sorry for conquer with all my heart’ – and Carmen had refrained from pointing out that he had no heart to be sorry with. After that things improved, not least because the heads knew a little Quechua from their years in Ecuador and could help translate Bacpac’s story when his English failed. Chester, too, helped break the ice. Watching him wriggle on Grandma’s head, or fly down to help Mum serve dinner, the old men were reminded of monkeys in their jungle home.
But now, at Sunday dinnertime, the tension returned.
‘’Ow indeed can we ’elp?’ Grandma waved her knife at Mum. ‘I’ve been worryin’ about it all day. And I’ve decided we can. I’ve decided we should.’
Mum’s fork froze in mid-air. ‘Ollie,’ she said, ‘why don’t you go and see how many chocolate wrappers you can find in Dad’s study? I’ll give you a Wagon Wheel for every ten you bring.’
When he’d gone Mum stared at Grandma. ‘If you’re suggesting,’ she murmured, ‘that you introduce the Incas to Klench so that he can hold their hands …’ she let out a long breath. ‘Well, isn’t that murder? At the very least you’d be a – whatsit? – an accessory.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t approve,’ Grandma laid down her cutlery. ‘And nor did I at first. But the thing is,’ she sighed, ‘growin’ old’s no lark in the park. Me bones are startin’ to creak, me brain’s beginnin’ to leak – and I’m only seventy-three. They’re more than six times me age. Imagine ’ow it must feel to be the only survivors of a culture that’s long kaput, stuck in a world that’s passed ’em by. The kindest thing we can do is ’elp ’em to join their friends and family in the afterlife.’
Bacpac was nodding: he clearly got the gist. Chunca was flicking peas at the wall.
‘Besides.’ Grandma pushed her plate away. ‘’Oo’s to know? The Incas’ll die when they shake Klench’s ’and. It’ll look like a couple of ’eart attacks. It’s the simplest thing – and the best for them. They’ll be eternally grateful.’
Mum chewed her bottom lip. ‘They’ll be eternally dead.’
***
Klench stood over the sink in the prison bathroom. He tipped out the food he’d collected during the day: the prunes and bran flakes saved from breakfast, and the liquorice he’d pinched from another prisoner. He added some tap water and mixed them together. Then he crumbled in a bar of soap, squeezed in some toothpaste, squirted in some hairgel, spooned in some shoe polish … and opened his mouth.
7
Hurling Henry
The Fidgety Bridget sat on the beach, half in and half out of the water. Little waves patted her side. Grabbing their rucksacks, the children climbed down a ladder fixed to the side of the boat. The adults unloaded the rest of the luggage, dropping the food crates onto the beach and stacking them on the two trolleys.
Bundy saluted from the deck. ‘See you in ten days – Wednesday at thwee o’clock … ish … pwobably … weather permitting.’
Abbie didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If the weather’s bad, you’ll have to wait.’ Bundy laughed nervously. ‘No one messes with the sea wound here.’
‘You mean we could be stranded?’ Abbie swallowed.
‘What if there’s an emergency?’ said Marcus.
Bundy shrugged. ‘Call me. I’ll come as soon as I can.’
‘How?’ Marcus looked coldly at Mr Dabbings. ‘You didn’t let us bring cell phones, Sir.’
‘I bet there’s no signal here anyway,’ said Terrifica, her nostrils flaring anxiously.
‘Right and right again.’ Mr Dabbings smiled. ‘Which is why the school bought me this.’ He fished out a chunky black phone from his anorak pocket.
Marcus snorted. ‘Fat use that’ll be. A stone-age phone.’
‘No, Marcus, it’s a modern-age, state-of-the-art satellite phone. As expedition leader I have to be able to contact the outside world. Only in a crisis, of course. I’m sure I won’t be needing it, will I, Bundy?’
‘No,’ squeaked the mini-chinned actor, looking far less than sure and far more than keen to get away. He gave his number to Mr Dabbings, then waved. ‘Cheewio, chaps. See you soon … ish.’ He went into the cabin to start the engine while everyone pushed the Fidgety Bridget back into the water.
They stared in silence as the boat bobbed and shrank towards the horizon. Panic fluttered in Abbie’s stomach. There goes our lifeline, our link to the world. Never mind the ground beneath them – she suddenly felt adrift, cut loose in space and time. She pictured Brother Donal landing here a thousand years ago. Perhaps the pebbles were smoother now, perhaps the mountains sharper, but little else could have changed. She imagined a thin, ragged man dropping to his knees on the beach to thank God for another safe trip. She pictured three kindly old monks waddling down to meet him, their faces alight, their arms outstretched, all hugs and hot chocolate.
OK, maybe not hot chocolate. But boy could she use one now. A nice little seafront café with armchairs and home-made flapjacks: that would do perfectly. She looked around. Dream on. The shingle beach rose gently inland to a band of rocks, dark and chunky as Mum’s chocolate brownies. They ended at a line of scrubby grass. Beyond that stretched moorland, a vast bruise of purple-green heather. She shivered. You could see how the stories had arisen. Treasure, Vikings, curses … this place looked made for mystery.
They waited at the edge of the moor while Dad and Matt wheeled the trolleys over the beach. Mr Dabbings was frowning over a map. ‘It’s the only one I could find,’ he said to Coriander. ‘Very unclear.’
‘This might help.’ She turned it the other way round. When he looked just as baffled, she took it gently from him. ‘That stream on the left leads over the moor to a lake between the mountains. The cottages should be there.’
Cottages. A fine word – almost as good as café. A smile rose inside Abbie as she pictured herself sitting by a roaring fire with Perdita in the cosy house they’d agreed to share, toasting the marshmallows she’d sneaked into her rucksack.
‘We must stick together,’ said Coriander. ‘There’ll be bogs.’ She scanned the moor. ‘Like over there.’ She pointed towards a bright green patch of grass on the right. ‘You really don’t want to fall into one of those.’
‘Mum should know,’ said Perdita proudly. ‘Tell them about the time you fell into the Okavango swamp.’
Coriander shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for that passing crocodile.’
Not entirely comforted, Abbie focused on the ground as they set out over the moor. The heather flattened beneath her trainers, then bounced back, boosting her stride. A watery sun warmed the back of her head. She fell into an easy rhythm, punctuated by the peep of invisible birds. If you didn’t think too hard or look too closely, this was almost, at a pinch, what you might call, very nearly, not too bad.
The land rose gently, its smooth surface broken only by fiery bursts of gorse and huge boulders scattered over the moor as if by giants in a tantrum.
‘Erics,’ said Dad happily. ‘Those rocks were carried down from the mountains in the Ice Age.’ He winked at Abbie. ‘Bit of a prehistorian too, your old dad.’
‘Actually,’ said Matt, ‘they’re called erratics.’
‘Oh.’ Dad sniffed. ‘Well, as you know, my expertise lies in people, not stones.’
After nearly an hour they reached a ridge on the moor.
‘Wow,’ said Abbie. In front of them a rocky slope dropped to a grassy area. Beyond it lay a pebble beach, then a lake. The mountains rose either side, their reflections trembling in the blue-green water. She shielded her eyes. ‘What are those?’ On the grass below them five grey domes stood together, surrounded by a low circular wall.
Dad whistled. ‘Beauties.’ He left his trolley at the top
of the slope and climbed down the rocks. The others followed.
Up close the beauties turned out to be buildings. The walls were made of thin flat stones, layered horizontally. Four of the domes were about twice Abbie’s height. The fifth was taller and wider. All five had rectangular doorways.
‘Beehive huts.’ Dad stroked the biggest dome. ‘Built by the monks a thousand years ago.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Some job, quarrying that lot.’ He nodded towards the rocks sloping down from the ridge.
‘How come there are five?’ said Marcus. ‘I thought only three monks lived here.’
‘These were probably built before they came, by a whole team from the monastery. Maybe as a bolt-hole in case of invasion.’ Dad patted the wall. ‘Not a lick of cement between the stones. Look at that craftsmanship.’
But Abbie was looking at something else – or rather she wasn’t. ‘Where are the cottages? I thought they were by the lake.’
Dad winked. Mr Dabbings smiled. Abbie went cold.
Last Christmas she’d been sure she was getting an iPhone. She’d even spotted the rectangular parcel under the tree. But it had turned out to be a six-pack of tights from deaf Aunt Brassica who lived in Swansea and bred prawns. Oh, the disappointment.
But that was nothing compared to this. ‘I’m not sleeping in a pizza oven!’ she wailed.
‘As promised,’ said Mr Dabbings, ignoring her, ‘simple self-catering. They’re roomy and dry with a south-facing aspect.’ He sounded like a medieval estate agent.
Dad patted the hut. ‘If they’re good enough for men of God, they’re good enough for you, young lady. The monks lived in them for years. We can jolly well do it for ten days.’
‘So you knew about this. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Dad shrugged. ‘You never asked.’
She couldn’t deny that. So she settled for some high-voltage glaring and waited for the others to complain. But no one did. They were too busy running in and out of the huts, testing for echoes and ancient graffiti.
‘How about this one, Abbie?’ Perdita stuck her head out of a hut. ‘We can spread some heather on the ground for mattresses.’
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