Girl. Boy. Sea.

by Chris Vick

  On the far wall there’s a picture of a tropical island with perfect white sands. I focus on that, because for some reason I’m struggling to get through the water. I look at the island. It’s my goal and I have to get to it. I’m finding it harder with every step, but it’s not the force of the jets. My legs feel like lead. I can’t see my feet.

  ‘Out, out!’ I’m scrambling, my hands on the rails, pulling myself onto the side, trying to get out as quickly as I can.

  Dr Jones rushes to me. I grab her arm and use her to heave myself out, digging my fingers into her shoulder.

  ‘Ouch! Bill. Bill! It’s okay, it’s okay.’

  I look back into the frothing water, scanning the surface for something that’s not there. I don’t calm down until the machine is turned off and the water is clear.

  *

  I have a nightmare.

  The body of Stephan is slipping, sliding through the current. The shell of him, being pulled into the erupting water.

  And the awful calm after he’s gone. I watch it, waiting for his hand to reach out of the water. But it doesn’t.

  Then I wake.

  It’s not even a nightmare. It’s a memory.

  v

  Two days later I’m well enough to leave hospital.

  Dad wants to take me to lunch, before we drive home.

  I have a shower before we leave. I look in the mirror. Even after all the vitamins and minerals they’ve pumped through the drips and tubes, and even with all the food I’ve stuffed down me, I’m still much lighter than when I flew to the Canaries.

  What did I look like when they found me? That scares me.

  I think back further, to who I was before the storm hit Pandora. But I can’t recognise the ‘me’ that stumbled off the plane, squinting, hiding his face from the sun. There’s a lot about him I don’t even remember.

  My skin is dirt brown. Not like a tan, more leathered. The colour of me seems more Moroccan than English. A chunk of my foot is gone. In the mirror I see it fresh for the first time. They’ve neatly folded the skin over where I once had toes and stitched it together. I’ll get new ones soon, plastic ones. My muscles are wire-tight. I’ve got a patch over one eye. The other burns bright green.

  I think of Thiyya and the djinn, and the champions who tried to defeat it. Like those so-called heroes, I’ve been half-blinded, half-crippled, driven half-mad.

  *

  The restaurant is nice. Polished black marble floors, white table linen and gleaming glasses.

  Built into one wall is an aquarium. I recognise the fish: orange as the sun, blue as the sky. Round and round they go, in and out of a plastic reef. They move slower than in the wild. Here there’s no bigger fish to chase them.

  People stare at me. I stare back.

  ‘What d’you fancy?’ says Dad. ‘They’ve got steaks, posh burgers. I bet you missed those?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You must be gagging for some decent grub after that hospital nosh.’

  I scan the menu. ‘I’ll have fish. Some prawns.’

  Dad tries to make conversation. But he doesn’t push too hard, he’s sensitive, as though I’m a bomb and he needs help to deactivate me.

  A course of giant prawns arrives. Big pink beasts, grilled in oil and garlic. My mouth waters.

  I grab one and twist its head off its body, then hold the neck to my mouth and suck the brains and juice out. Then I put the skull in my mouth and chew and suck, till the goodness is out of it, then put it on my plate and start on the body.

  I’ve had two before I notice Dad is staring at me.

  ‘You’ve, um…’ He smiles and taps his chin and raises his eyebrows, to let me know I’ve got juice dribbling down my chin. Drops of oily juice have spattered over my nice new shirt.

  ‘Oh, er, oops.’

  There’s a table nearby with a family of four who’ve been watching me stuff my face. They’re halfway through their meal, but they lay their knives and forks neatly across their plates. Waiters appear and clear their food away.

  I watch as a grilled fish and an unfinished lobster are dumped onto one plate so it’s easy for the waiter to carry.

  ‘Bill,’ Dad whispers and prods my leg with his foot. ‘You’re staring.’

  ‘They should eat that. They should finish it.’

  ‘People eat as much or as little as they want,’ he says gently. ‘You do remember restaurants?’ he teases me.

  ‘Dad, I’m sorry…’

  ‘It’s okay, son, it’s okay.’

  ‘It’s just.’ My voice is shaking and my fingers are trembling. ‘I don’t belong here.’ I point at the wall, with the aquarium. ‘That’s not real, Dad. None of this is real.’ I have an urge to pick up a chair and smash it through the glass. And I don’t know why. I think what a spoiled, up-himself teenager I must sound like. How mad I must seem. The family at the next table are properly staring at me now. I laugh louder; it stops the family staring too.

  Dad reaches out and holds my hand.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise for anything. You’ve been through so much. I know you don’t want to talk. Not to me, nor Mum, and that’s okay. But you could talk to someone, when we get home. Er, if you want?’ He winces. He’s worried how I’ll react to the idea.

  ‘Sure. I should see someone. Anyone who came out of that normal would be mad, right?’

  He smiles and nods. ‘Okay. There’s time for that. There’s time for everything when you’re ready. Catching up with mates. Watching TV. Walking Benji. You can have anything. You can do anything. Anything you like…’

  He carries on talking, a babble of things I can’t understand.

  ‘Bill.’ Dad waves his hand in front of my face.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve zoned out. Did you hear what I said?… Bill?… Bill!’

  ‘I can’t do those things, Dad. Now I’m out there’s only one thing I’m going to do.’

  ‘Oh, terrific! Like what?’

  ‘I’m going back.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where I was found. I’m going to find her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I wasn’t alone out there, Dad. There was this girl, and if it wasn’t for her, I’d be dead.’

  He sits open-mouthed. I talk. He listens.

  I carry on talking. I tell him everything.

  There’s a long pause while he absorbs what I’ve said.

  ‘You have a life, Bill. In England. I’m not sure you can just go to Africa, looking for some girl. And this place where you were found. It’s on the edge of quite a dangerous zone.’

  ‘She saved me, Dad. I have to know she’s all right. I can’t just… leave her.’

  ‘But she left you, didn’t she? At least that’s how it looks. You were found alone.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve thought about it. But it doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I think: Why did she leave me? Does she want me to find her? Did we even live in the same story?

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’m sure,’ I say. ‘I have to know what happened to her. I have to find her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. And she’s not “some girl”. Her name is Aya.’

  vi

  ‘I reckon I can persuade Wilko. He’s been there loads of times on surf trips. He told us, when we were on Pandora. He knows that part of Morocco well,’ I say in the car as we drive home.

  ‘There is no way we would let you go without one of us. We’ve lost you once, I’m not letting that happen again. And why am I even having this conversation? It’s a crazy idea.’

  ‘The village where I was found, I only need to go there. That’s miles from any trouble.’

  Is that true? I’ve no idea. I’m easily mixing up lies with the truth.

  ‘And the point of that is what? She’s not going to be there, is she? So the chances of you finding her are slim. Bill, it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And even if I
said yes, your mum’s not going to let you go.’

  ‘I won’t tell her straight off, I’ll wait a bit, until I can see and walk better. Reassure her that Wilko knows the place.’

  I know I have to go. I reckon Mum will listen. I’ll work on it hard, and anyway, I’ve got my last resort well rehearsed.

  I’m sixteen. You can’t stop me. Not legally. I’ve got the money Grandma left me. I’m going.

  Turns out I don’t need to say those words. Mum doesn’t like my plan, but she can read me. She knows me. And she sees how I’ve changed. Maybe before she might have persuaded me, but not now. And she knows she has to accept it. More than that, she understands, in a way that Dad never could.

  I explain to her what we’ve already been through a dozen times. That Wilko isn’t a nutter, that he did all he could to save us.

  ‘Okay,’ Mum says. ‘You want to know what happened. You want to know where she is now, if she’s even alive. Well, your dad would have to go with you, as well as Wilko.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Dad says. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He wants closure, John. Our son won’t rest until he knows what’s happened. I don’t think it’s just about the girl either, though that’s important. Bill, you want to know what happened to you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. And it’s true. From the sun demon, to waking up in the hospital. There’s a blankness in my mind I want to fill.

  I call Wilko. He doesn’t hesitate.

  ‘Of course, if your parents are okay with that. I know the place. I speak good French, a bit of Arabic too. But I’m sticking to you like glue! We’re not losing you again.’

  ‘Right. That’s what Dad said.’

  The Road of Bones

  i

  Wilko does know Morocco, and a large chunk of its coast, but not the place we’re going to. The land that far south isn’t even Morocco, not officially. It’s on the edge of ‘disputed territory’.

  We have the name of the village where the fisherman lives and the name of the fisherman, Mohamed. But that’s all.

  We fly into Agadir and stay in a hotel. Wilko and Dad organise a taxi and driver. We leave first thing next morning.

  Agadir is smart and modern, not what I expected Morocco to be like. It’s all hotels and ice cream joints.

  It doesn’t seem any more real than the hospital, the restaurant, England.

  But the south of the city is different. The buildings are plain; brown and soft pink walls of concrete and breezeblocks. A lot of them are only part built. Road signs are written in Arabic and English and in Berber too.

  The heat and dust get worse as the sun rises.

  The taxi is an old Mercedes with leather seats and no air-con. I find I like the heat. It feels good to sweat again. We keep the windows open.

  We drive through a long chain of villages. There are men in robes or jeans and caps sitting outside cafés, smoking hookah pipes and sipping tea. The villages feel peaceful, but parts of the road are hectic with revving, horn-blasting cars, a moped with a mum, dad and a kid on it, trucks loaded with fruit, even goats. Some carry gangs of women in colourful dresses. When they clock Wilko, they wave and giggle.

  Then we’re out of the villages and following the coast, cruising down a black tarmac road. On the left there’s scrub and small fields lined by stone walls. In the distance, I can make out mountains through the haze. The heat, the dust, the sea breeze: they mix into something I can breathe.

  Huge waves thump the shoreline. We pass fishing villages full of white buildings and sky-blue boats.

  The road is straight and endless. Sand blows across it in wisps.

  On the right is the sea, brilliant and sparkling.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Dad says. ‘How does it feel seeing it again?’

  ‘Strange. Good, I think. It was our home.’ But I think of the days of heat and thirst. And I don’t know what I feel about it.

  There’s scrub and sand and fishing villages. For miles and hours. Then huge dunes. Hills and mountains of sand. Parts of the road are covered and the car struggles.

  The tarmac ends in the afternoon and we travel on a rougher, older road.

  The driver complains, but Wilko and Dad urge him to carry on.

  Then we hit a roadblock. A small hut with two policemen and one army guy with a rifle hanging over his shoulder.

  The driver gets out to smoke and talk with the police. He focuses on the taller one with a massive moustache. He gets lively, swinging his cigarette around and talking loudly. Dad has offered him a lot of money if he can get us to the village where the fisherman found me.

  One of the policemen raises a hand and shakes his head. The driver lowers his voice and steps back.

  Dad sits with me in the back, fanning his face, sighing, and shifting in his seat.

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ Wilko says. ‘Better if I do. They likely won’t speak much English. But they’ll speak French.’

  Wilko gets out to talk to the one in charge, the one with the moustache.

  After a minute the other one comes to the car, takes off his cap, leans over and sticks his head inside the open window.

  He wags a white-gloved finger. ‘No here,’ says the policeman. ‘No tourist here.’ He looks at my crutch and foot.

  ‘We have to go further,’ I say.

  ‘No. It… is.’ He struggles to find the words. ‘Er, many problems. This.’ He points south. Then: ‘English?’

  ‘English.’

  The policeman grins. ‘Ah, I have friend English. He live Ports-a-mouth. You haff been Ports-a-mouth?’

  It seems so weird, him suddenly chatting to us like this.

  ‘You holiday Sidi-Ifni? Agadir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dad says.

  ‘Why here? No tourist here. Understand?’

  The other policeman walks up. They talk. They sound lively, excited. The head appears again.

  ‘You is boy!’ he squeals. ‘Boy in boat?’

  Wilko gets in the car.

  Both of the policemen stick their white-gloved hands inside for us to shake.

  ‘They’ll take us to the village,’ says Wilko.

  *

  We follow their car for an hour. We leave the main road, following tracks that criss-cross the countryside, moving away from the sea, then close, then away again, snaking a path down the coast.

  I don’t know why they are doing this. Wilko says he isn’t paying them. But they’re taking us. Out of kindness, or curiosity, for our safety, or simply so we don’t get lost. Maybe all those things. All we have is the name of the village. We’re lucky to have their help.

  The village is a bunch of square whitewashed blocks, some with corrugated iron sheets for roofs. Plastic bags blow across the dirt track. Tins and cigarette butts are scattered over the ground.

  Two skinny, barking dogs follow the car as we bump along the track.

  There’s a small shining mosque with elegant curved turrets and arches. A shop with a table outside it, loaded with bananas and breads. But the place is like a ghost town.

  We stop when we reach the sea. There are at least a dozen boats at the shore, painted yellow and blue, stacked with piles of nets and pots. There’s a natural harbour, a finger of rock that shelters the bay; the waves on the other side of it are booming. Where is everyone?

  But then they appear. Men in robes. Others more western style with caps, vests and shorts. Lots of them are smoking. There’s a couple of women and a gaggle of scruffy children.

  The adults stare and stare. Not smiling or friendly. But the kids point and laugh, talking loudly. They ask for pens, and weirdly, because he must have known we’d be asked, Wilko has a handful of them in his bag. The kids are thrilled.

  I get out of the taxi with some help and stand, leaning on my crutch.

  ‘Salam,’ I say, remembering words Aya taught me. ‘Manzakine. Neck ghih Bill.’

  There’s a lot of talk. The villagers ask the police lots of questions.
>
  We’re beckoned to a café, and sit in the gloom at a plastic table.

  Women appear with a tray of small glasses and a tall metal, curved pot. A man pours mint tea. Then he pours all the tea back into the pot. He repeats this three times before we are allowed to drink. It’s hot and sweet and singing with the taste of mint.

  We’re given flat breads and doughnuts. We’re made a fuss of by the rapidly growing crowd. Half the village seems to be in the café, the other half are standing outside. Dogs are lying in the open door.

  There’s a commotion outside.

  A man says: ‘The man who find you. He is coming.’

  The crowd parts, making space, and the man who saved my life walks through the door and to the table. He is wire-thin, creased face, crooked teeth and big, kind eyes. We shake hands. I’ve never met him, but of course he’s met me.

  I don’t think I can say ‘thank you’ without choking up. He speaks to the police, then to me. He laughs, and all the Moroccans laugh with him. The policeman with the huge moustache translates.

  ‘He is name Mohamed. He say is very please to see you. He say when they take you Agadir he is thinking you die! He is please when he see in news you live.’

  ‘Can you ask him what happened?’

  Mohamed sits at the table, takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it.

  The crowd leans in. This annoys the policemen who shoos them away.

  One policeman, Wilko, Dad, Mohamed and me are left.

  I’m hardly breathing. I’m dizzy. I want to know, but I’m scared. Because the whole drive down here I’ve feared the words. I’ve imagined them.

  The girl was dead.

  Mohamed talks for about a minute. Moustache-man nods, then holds a hand up to stop him.

  ‘He saw boat near some island, but island under water, you understand? Far out many miles.’

  ‘A reef?’ Wilko offers.

  ‘He go to see trap for lobster. He sees boat in distance. He find you and believe you dead—’

  ‘What did he find?’ I almost shout.

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘What, exactly, did he find?’

  The fisherman speaks directly to me. The policeman speaks.