by Fiona Shaw
–The smugglers will’ve shopped us by now, Poacher said. –I thought they were your men. The ones you’d gone fer.
–Ah, the priest said. –I understand.
–So we could always cut yer chip out. Drop it in the sea, Poacher said. –Done it often enough, do it by moonlight, I reckon. That’ll sort ’em tracking yer.
–No. The priest was pulling even harder on the oars now, and he spoke the words between the strokes. –My flock … is here … You cut me … I can’t return … But I know this sea … and you don’t … You won’t make it without me.
–Better pray then, Davie said. He looked back at the gang seated in the boat behind him and Jake saw that his face was dead serious.
The priest nodded. –Yes, all of you might pray, he said.
The only sound was the splash of the oars till they reached the boat, but Jake reckoned everyone was doing like him, and praying to any god they could believe in.
They climbed up the metal steps and into the fishing boat. The priest moved quickly, like a man who was as easy on the water as he was on the land. He sent Swift and Cass down the narrow steps to a cabin below and ordered Poacher to come with him into the small glassed-in room he called the bridge. He pointed to Jake and Ollie and Davie.
–You three: lookouts. Anything with a light, anything moving towards us, you shout, he said.
–It’s the smugglers’ boat, this, Poacher said, –isn’t it?
Jake couldn’t see the priest’s face, but he could hear him smiling as he answered. –’Tis. You paid your passage. Or your friend did. I’m just helping you along a bit.
The engine started, a deep rumble in the heart of the boat. The priest put the boat into gear and it surged forward. Gripping the side, Jake stared across the sea, tears streaking down his cheeks. The boat smelled like his life jacket, like a hundred thousand fish had died in it, and he was glad to have the wind in his face. The boat showed no lights and the priest steered on into the darkness. Only sometimes, briefly, Poacher’s small penlight dimpled the black so that the priest could read the compass, swinging for its true north, and the map spread out beside him.
In broad reaches, the priest swung the boat one way and then the other, cutting a long, angled wake across the water. Behind them, the lights of Berwick grew smaller, the sounds of the town fainter. The water stayed dark and the sky stayed black. Jake eased his grip. He was finding his sea legs. And in spite of his sadness, he felt a spark of hope.
They were so close now. Perhaps. Perhaps.
–Jake? It was Ollie calling above the noise of the boat and the wind. –When I see my dad, first thing, I’m going to get him cook for us all. Spaghetti, I reckon. Spaghetti with clams, since we’re on the sea. Spaghetti alla vongole.
Jake heard the spark in Ollie’s voice too, and he remembered all those weeks back, when Ollie told him his dad was the best cook in the world. When they’d sat in the sun outside the abandoned hospital.
–I had spaghetti for my birthday once. Proper dried spaghetti, imported from Italy. But I’ve never eaten clams, Jake said. –Be my first time.
And he saw Jet, strong again, and he pictured Aliya sitting next to him, arguing about something, and the spark grew stronger.
The helicopter noise seemed to come from nowhere. No time to warn anyone. It was deafening, the din beating at them, its beam swinging over the black water. Then the searchlight found the boat, lighting them up in a cold, white spot of light: everything, everyone picked out in its merciless glare.
–Looks like the smugglers got their price for us, Ollie shouted.
The priest swung the wheel and the boat lurched out of the light, but in seconds the helicopter found them again. Booming down, they heard the voice Jake dreaded. Scar woman’s voice.
–We have weapons, and we will use them … Give yourselves up, or we sink this vessel …
–You have nowhere left to hide … I repeat, give yourselves up, or we sink this vessel …
–Come out and stand with your hands in the air … I repeat, stand with your hands in the air.
–We have weapons and we will use them.
The helicopter dropped lower. The wind from its blades rushed at them; the noise blasted.
Swift came to the top of the steps, and Jake saw Poacher shake his head, his shoulders slumped. Next to Jake, Ollie stared at the helicopter. He looked as angry as Jake felt, but what good could their anger do now?
–They’ll shoot us anyway, Jake shouted to Ollie. –They’ve got Aliya, so nothing to stop them.
–Even more reason not to surrender, Ollie returned, but there was fear in his face.
–Hold on to your hats, the priest yelled out to them. We’ll give them a run for their money. And he swung the boat sideways, its engine shrieking, zigzagging over and over to avoid that bright white eye of light. But each time they lost the helicopter, it found them again, and Scar woman’s voice roared down at them:
–You cannot escape. Surrender. You have nothing to fear.
He should just jump. He could swim for it. The life jacket would keep him afloat, and the tide might pull him over the border. He leaned over the black sea.
–Don’t! Ollie yelled, grabbing at Jake’s shoulder. –They’ll pick you out like a fly in the water.
But Jake shook himself away. He’d planted one foot on the rail when the air exploded with machine-gun gunfire and the sea blistered, cut into a thousand flurries below him. He dropped to the deck floor as the priest threw the boat the other way, then swung it again. But there was no hope, the priest must know that. They didn’t stand a chance against a helicopter, and machine guns, and Scar woman.
–Surrender, or we’ll come and take you.
Scar woman’s voice, calm and collected. And as the helicopter lifted away, they knew it wasn’t for long. The priest found his course again and the boat steadied. Jake and Ollie got to their feet and joined the others on the bridge. They weren’t any safer in there, but at least they were standing together. They all watched the helicopter, a giant insect hovering above, waiting to destroy them. All except Davie.
–What you doing? Jake said, because under the glare of the helicopter’s searchlight, he saw him rummaging amongst the maps on the shelf. –Bit late to change our route, he called.
–Got it! Davie shouted, and he grabbed something, like a long, thin torch, and pushed open the bridge door.
–Porca vacca! You crazy? Ollie shouted.
–Davie, stop! Poacher said.
But Davie ignored him and stepped out on to the deck.
Forty-four
They saw Davie at once from the helicopter and Scar woman’s voice boomed down again.
–Hands in the air. We have you in our sights.
–Hands in the air now!
And Davie did lift one hand. Held it high and still, no trace of a twitch. A small scrap of a boy standing stock-still under the searchlight, except for one arm pointing high to the sky; pointing the long, thin torch towards the helicopter so that a thin green beam stretched into the sky. The helicopter noise grew louder, deafening. Again Davie pointed, and again and again.
–What’s he doing? Ollie shouted.
Because it looked like the helicopter was going to drop straight on to the boat. Closer it came and Jake could feel the air vibrate beneath it. Then it swerved away.
–Yo! Davie’s voice, triumphant.
He kept the green beam pointed, and the helicopter was veering this way and that, lighting up the sea, and the wave froth away to one side of them, then catching the boat in its lights, then swinging away again.
Something was very wrong with the helicopter now. It was veering crazily, juddering out of control, its swings getting wilder.
It was heading straight down towards the sea, lighting the dark water to a glistening white. And they heard Scar woman’s voice again, but yelling this time, terrified:
–Pull her up, for god’s sake. Pull her up! We’re going down. We’re going—
&
nbsp; The helicopter hit the sea. A huge crash of water rose in the air with deafening sound. Inside the bridge, they all ducked instinctively as an explosion blew the helicopter apart, an orange ball of fire rising from it and bits of plastic and glass showering all about them.
Davie screamed, and in the light from the explosion Jake glimpsed him, crouched down, scrabbling himself into a locker, the torch still in his hand.
The boat yawed and rolled from side to side with the pull of the massive machine sinking down below the water. The helicopter rotors slipped underneath. Then silence. Some lights glowed green below the surface, then dimmer and dimmer, until they were gone and there was only black sea and the soft sound of the boat engine.
The gang were silent.
The priest’s voice: –Hold tight now.
And a great rolling wash came and lifted the fishing boat up and down. Then the waves subsided and the sea was calm again. The priest slowed the engine. Bits of wreckage tapped at the side of the boat.
–I feel sick, Swift said. –We’ve just killed them. Haven’t we?
–They’d have killed us, Poacher said.
–I’m going to circle round, the priest said. –Shine your torches. Look for survivors.
Jake shone his torch at the sea, but he didn’t want to find anybody.
–I hope they’re drowned, Ollie said.
The sea had swallowed the helicopter crew. There was nothing and nobody to be found.
They found Davie still huddled in the locker. Crouching down to him, Poacher shone his torch. Davie was white-faced and his teeth were chattering. His eyes were like two black holes. He’d taken off his life jacket and it lay on the deck. He was rocking back and forth, back and forth, one hand swiping his head, again and again.
–Lo, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death … lo, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death … lo, though we walk …
–Hey, brother, Poacher said, and gently he put his big hand over Davie’s. –Be still.
–I didn’t mean to … I only wanted to stop them, Davie said. –To stop her voice, her horrible voice …
–Be still, brother. She was bad; she was bad and you stopped her.
–You saved us, Davie. There was awe in Ollie’s voice. –You brought the helicopter down. You dazzled them with the laser and they crashed. It was amazing.
–But I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to stop her voice. I just wanted her to be quiet. It was only a laser pointer.
The priest handed Poacher the wheel and came over and crouched down, put his hand on Davie’s back. –They were trying to kill us, the priest said. –If they’d caught us, they would have killed us, no question.
–But now I’ve killed them. Now it’s on me.
–No. The priest’s voice was stern. –It’s not on you. He picked up Davie’s life jacket; gently he put it back on him, easing Davie’s shivering arms through the armholes. –You acted in self-defence, he said. –You didn’t intend to kill them. God sees your intention, and your intention was good. He turned to Ollie. –Take him down to the cabin. Get him warm and stay with him. We owe him our lives.
Swift touched Ollie’s arm as he turned to go down. –Watch his hands, she said. –Don’t let him hurt himself.
Poacher stared over the wheel of the boat. –How much further? he called.
And the priest pointed into the dark. –Over there. Those lights. That’s where we’re headed.
Jake stared, and then he saw them: pinpricks in the darkness.
–That’s Scotland, the priest said.
The next minutes seemed like hours.
Straining their eyes into the night, watching the sea, listening for the engine beat of a boat or a helicopter, all the time expecting something sharp through the air, or the boom of a tannoy voice that was coming for them, coming to catch them.
But nothing stopped them. Not police, not hubbers, not the blond Surfer, not Scar woman risen from the wreckage of the helicopter.
First Jake saw a little bunch of lights. They drew closer and he saw a harbour wall. Then houses behind. A few street lights. A village.
–Doesn’t look very different from England, Ollie said. –Hope this is right.
–I’ll bring us up alongside, the priest called out. –One of you, jump out with that rope. Make it fast to a ring, doesn’t matter how.
–That’s you, Jake, Poacher said. –You’re the climber. You’re good with ropes.
The fishing boat slipped silently alongside the jetty. Jake climbed up a ladder set into the harbour wall, found a ring set into the stone and tied the rope as the priest had told him. He stood and felt the ground beneath his feet.
Same sky, same stars, same wind, same moon. But Scottish ground.
Ollie came and stood beside him, and then Poacher, then Davie, then Swift and Cass.
Such a churn of feelings swept over Jake that he wanted to laugh and cry together. Martha should be there with them, and Aliya, and Jet should be by his side. No one spoke, and Jake was glad of the quiet. After the last hours in England, it was hard to believe there was nobody hunting them, nobody trying to kill them. He breathed deep, filling his lungs, feeling his feet on the solid Scottish ground.
Then the priest was pulling his cape around him, beckoning, and they were walking.
–It’s not far. But if we meet anyone, the priest said, –then you’re my church choir. We’re on a trip.
–Have you heard Ollie sing! Swift said. When she grinned, she crinkled her eyes. Jake had never seen that before. It felt so good to laugh.
The priest took them up a lane and across the grass along a path, down past a terrace of houses. ‘Sea’s Reach’ and ‘Journey’s End’, Jake read on the plaques by the front doors.
They saw no one. Only lights on the insides of drawn curtains, and sometimes a voice, the noise of a screen: ordinary noise. People-in-their-homes kind of noise. A cat crossed their path: black as Jet, Jake thought. It stared at them, then slunk silently into the undergrowth.
Beyond the terrace stood a single, white-painted house standing alone on the cliff. The priest faced the door.
–It might be she’s moved by now, he said. –Or she’s … It’s forty years. I haven’t seen her in forty years, so. Not since the Wall. He lifted his hand to the door knocker, then lowered it again. –She’ll understand, he said. –She’ll know why … She will know.
–Just knock, Swift said, but her voice gentle.
The priest ran a hand over his face. Then he knocked.
There was no sound inside the cottage. The priest tried to smile at them, but Jake could tell he was worried. The silence went on. Only the gentle lap of the sea, glistening beneath the moon.
–I guess she’s not home, Ollie said. –What do we do now?
And then a light came on in the porch and the door opened. A woman stood there.
Her hair was short and grey and she had a direct gaze and the bluest eyes. She wore jeans, and a sweater with a brooch pinned to it that caught the light: a hare, running.
She saw the gang standing behind him, but the person she stared at, really stared at, was the priest.
–It’s you, she said finally.
–We need your help, the priest said.
Forty-five
Jake was warm, his body was light, his hands, his feet tingling. His head was heavy on the soft pillow. The pillow smelled of the wind. It smelled of home.
He was in the garden, Jet was chasing a ball. Jake picked it up, and threw.
The ball flew dream-high, but something was trapping him, holding his arms, smothering him. He twisted, fighting to free himself.
–Madonna! Cut it out. Ollie’s voice. And something kicked him hard in the side.
He remembered. He was safe. He could sleep now. No hubbers, no Scar woman, no blond Surfer.
He lay quiet, exhausted. They’d done it.
The woman had taken them into her house. She made them take off their boots and their jackets,
made them queue up to wash their hands and their faces, priest too. Then she brought in extra chairs and sat them at her kitchen table and made them beans on toast and hot tea. The kitchen had a shelf with little jars with labels, and photos on the fridge. It had flowers in a jug and a bowl full of apples and oranges. Jake’s chair had a small, heart-shaped hole carved in its back.
The woman poured for herself and the priest two tumblers of whisky, and the priest said to her: –Auld lang syne, Cathleen.
She didn’t reply, but she gave him a look, the kind of look Jake’s mum used to give his dad sometimes. –So, she said, –how come a gang of filthy children and a man I haven’t seen in forty years need my help at ten o’clock on a Wednesday evening?
The priest lifted his glass – Jake smelled the sweet smoky smell of the whisky – took a sip and then he said: –These children have come a very long way. And they need to speak to the Scottish government on a matter of international importance. So we’d be grateful for the use of your phone.
She laughed, the woman.
Cathleen. She said to the priest: –You always did have a sense of your own importance.
But then Swift told their story, right from the start, and the woman didn’t laugh after that. She made some notes, but mostly she just listened. She was one of those people you couldn’t tell from her face what she was thinking. But when Swift spoke about the lowlifers and about Martha, then Jake saw her put her hand to her mouth, and she got up out of her chair and started banging down saucepans and plates in the sink.
Jake unwound Jet’s collar from his wrist and flipped the disc out from its safe place. He knew they’d have to listen to it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to hear his parents’ voices again. Not yet.
He went outside. Sat on a bench on the grass beyond the house and looked at the sea and the sky in the moonlight. The black cat found him and butted its head against his legs. He felt shaky, and he felt sick. Above all, he felt tired as tired as tired, like he could sleep for ever and never wake up. He wanted never to wake up.