by Kevin Brooks
Yeah, I thought, it must run in the family. First Lucas sees me with a gang of morons, and now he’s having to warn me about Dominic’s unsavoury friends. He must think we’re dysfunctional or something.
Lucas put out his cigarette and smiled at me. ‘I shouldn’t worry about it too much. I’m sure your brother’s got enough sense to keep out of trouble. He’ll probably get fed up with them sooner or later, anyway. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on things. If anything starts getting out of hand, I’ll sort it out.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll think of something.’ He got up and went over to the fire to check on the food.
I said, ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘What – cooking?’
‘No – I mean, why should you want to help my brother? What’s he ever done for you?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know.’
‘So why help him?’
‘Why did you help me at the bridge when the others were throwing stones at me? What have I ever done for you?’
‘Well, nothing … but—’
‘Just a minute.’ He spooned some meat from the pan, blew on it, then popped a piece in his mouth and chewed. ‘I think this is just about ready.’
I looked at him.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
I nodded.
He smiled. ‘OK. So let’s eat.’
Over a surprisingly tasty meal of crab, boiled potatoes, stale crackers and black tea, we finally got round to discussing what happened at the raft race.
‘I was on the cliff with Dad and Deefer,’ I told him. ‘We saw the whole thing. It was incredible.’
Lucas didn’t say anything, just nodded slowly and concentrated on his food. There was only one plate, a battered old tin thing that Lucas had insisted on giving to me, so he was eating straight from the pan. He picked out a chunk of meat and gave it to Deefer, who took it with uncharacteristic grace.
‘It was a good job you were there,’ I said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, that little girl would have drowned. No one else was going to do anything. I couldn’t believe it. I don’t know what was the matter with them.’
‘It’s just one of those days.’
‘What?’
‘Sometimes you get a day when all the lights go out, and everyone you meet is cold and bitter. They don’t care about anything. Today’s been one of those days. Didn’t you feel it?’
I thought of Tait and Sara Toms and Lee Brendell at the sea wall … the dirty looks, the mocking laughter … but then, I thought, they’re always cold and bitter. I knew what he meant, though. There’d been a sour taste to the air all day.
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘How come your lights weren’t out?’
‘They were – that’s why the lady thought I was harming her daughter.’
‘But you weren’t.’
He shrugged. ‘She was only doing what she thought right.’
‘Well, anyway, Dad’s going to have a word with her. That’s why I came after you, to let you know it’s going to be all right. He’s going to explain what happened – in fact, he’ll have already done it by now. So there’s nothing to worry about. She won’t be calling the police or anything.’
‘Thanks, that’s kind of you. Tell your dad I appreciate it.’ He sipped tea from a tin mug and gazed out at the glade. The sun was out now. Pale light was filtering through the trees casting rippled shadows across the grass, and small birds were twittering in the sunlit bushes. The darkness of the day seemed to be lifting. But not for Lucas. From the look on his face, he didn’t seem to share my opinion that everything was going to be all right.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to reassure him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, turning to face me. ‘Please don’t think I’m being ungrateful, it’s just that these things have a tendency to stick, whatever happens.’ He wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘No matter what your dad says, the police are still going to want to talk to me. They’ve already been sniffing around.’
‘Why? You haven’t done anything.’
He smiled knowingly. ‘People don’t like it when they don’t know what you are. They don’t like things that don’t fit. It frightens them. They’d rather have a monster they know than a mystery they don’t. In a place like this, the fear takes hold and spreads. It feeds on itself. Pretty soon the police are going to start asking me lots of questions, and then the rumours will start—’
‘But Dad and I can tell everyone what happened—’
‘It won’t make any difference. I’ve been here before. I know how it works.’ He started clearing away the pans. ‘That’s why it’s always best to keep moving.’
‘What do you mean? Are you leaving?’
‘Not immediately. But it’s going to start getting uncomfortable in a few days—’
‘It might not.’
‘It will, believe me.’
‘But what about Dominic? You said you’d keep an eye on him—’
‘I will.’
‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes – a day or two, maybe a bit longer. Look, I’ll make sure he’s all right – don’t worry about it.’
I wasn’t worried about it – not just then, anyway. For all I cared, Dominic could go to hell. I just didn’t want Lucas to go. But what could I say? I couldn’t tell him how I felt. I couldn’t beg him to stay, could I? He’d think I was an idiot.
‘Why don’t you stay until next Saturday?’ I suggested.
‘What’s next Saturday?’
‘The Summer Festival … it’s really good. Stalls, bric-à-brac, music …’ I paused, looking at the smile on his face. ‘What?’
‘It sounds quite similar to the regatta.’
‘No, no, it’s a lot better than the regatta. Honestly, you’d enjoy it.’
‘Is there a raft race?’
‘No, definitely not. No races. I’m running the RSPCA stall – well, I’m not actually running it, but I’ll be there. You could come and say hello …’ I hesitated. ‘I mean, if you’re still here … I could show you around, if you wanted …’
He smiled again. ‘Will you buy me an ice cream?’
‘I might.’
‘It’s tempting …’
‘I think it’d be nice. You could meet my dad.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘So, you’ll think about it?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
He got up and piled the pans and things outside the shelter, then he wiped his hands in the moist grass and dried them on his trousers. I went outside and joined him. Although I felt embarrassed by my behaviour, I was glad that I’d made the effort to persuade him to stay until Saturday. I would have felt worse than embarrassed if I hadn’t. Lucas seemed happier, too. The troubled look had faded from his eyes.
As we stood in the warming sunlight watching Deefer jumping around in the stream, with the birds singing in the background and the smell of wood smoke drifting in a light breeze, I would have done almost anything to freeze the moment for ever. It was so quiet and peaceful, so simple, so serene.
I turned to see Lucas looking at me. His eyes shone with a savage sweet clarity that took my breath away.
‘Where will you go?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know … along the south coast, probably. There’s some nice places in Dorset and Devon. I’ve always wanted to take a look at the moors.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll send you a postcard.’
We stood there for a while longer, neither of us knowing what to say. Part of me wished I knew what he was thinking, but another part – the more astute part – was glad that I didn’t. Sometimes it’s best to rely on your imagination. Facts can let you down, but your mind will always look after you.
‘I’d better get going,’ I said eventually. ‘Dad’ll be waiting for me.’
‘What are you going to tell him?’ Lucas asked.
‘About what?’
‘Me.�
�
His honesty shocked me for a moment. It was the kind of question people want to ask but rarely do.
‘I’ll just tell him the truth,’ I said.
Lucas looked at me and nodded. ‘One day you will.’
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, if he meant anything at all … but I didn’t dwell on it.
I went back into the shelter to get my hat and coat. On the way out I noticed a row of small wooden figures lodged in the reeds of the wall above Lucas’s bed. I knelt down for a closer look. They were crude, but remarkably beautiful, carvings of animals. No bigger than a finger, and carved out of driftwood, there were about a dozen of them. Dogs, fish, birds, a seal, cows, a horse … there was only minimal detail in the carving, but each little animal had a character that stood out a mile. Beside the figures, hanging by a leather strap on the wall, was a bone-handled knife with a seven-inch blade. The blade was heavy and broad at the base, tapering to a razor-sharp point. It was hard to believe those wonderful little figures could be fashioned with such a deadly-looking tool.
Without thinking I reached across and picked out one of the figures, a familiar-looking dog.
‘What do you think?’
The sound of Lucas’s voice startled me and I jerked round, fumbling the little figure in my fingers. ‘Oh … I’m sorry – I was just looking—’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, smiling. ‘What do you think? Have I captured his soul?’
I looked at the carving in my hand. Of course – it was Deefer. It was Deefer. The look on his face, his head, the way he held his tail, everything. A miniature wooden Deefer.
I laughed. ‘It’s perfect … it’s just like him. How did you do it?’
‘I just found a bit of wood and cut away all the bits that weren’t Deefer.’
I nodded vaguely, not sure if he was joking or not.
‘You can keep it, if you like,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘He’s your dog.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, rubbing my thumb over the carving. It felt smooth and warm, almost alive. I stood there for a moment, trying to think of something else to say, but I couldn’t find the words to express myself. So I just thanked him again and slipped the carving in my pocket. ‘I really do have to go, now. Dad’s going to start worrying if I don’t get back soon.’
‘I’m ready when you are,’ Lucas said.
With a final glance around, I put my hat on, slung my cape over my shoulder, and followed him out of the woods.
* * *
If I’d known then that I’d never see the shelter or the glade again, I might have taken a little more time. I might have allowed myself a longer goodbye, soaking up every little detail until the memory was firmly lodged in my mind for ever. The soft babble of the stream, the rhododendrons and the sun-dappled trees, that unforgettable lawn of jewels …
But that’s not how it works, is it? And maybe it’s better that way. Because some things are never meant to be anything more than a moment. And that was one of them.
seven
D
ad was waiting in the kitchen when I got back. He was sitting at the table with a glass of whiskey and a cigarette, reading a dog-eared copy of Ulysses.
‘Did you catch him?’ he asked casually as I wandered in.
My heart was beating fast as I quickly explained how I’d caught up with Lucas at the Point, that we’d had a chat, and that he’d asked me to pass on his thanks. Then, before Dad had a chance to interrogate me, I asked him how it had gone with the woman at the cliffs.
‘Not too well, I’m afraid. Her name’s Ellen Coombe. She’s one of those people who can’t see the truth even when it’s poking them in the eyes. I told her what happened, but she just wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t even listen to her own damn child.’
‘How is she – the little girl?’
‘A bit shaken up, but she’s all right. Her name’s Kylie.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘She kept telling her mum – he saved me, the boy saved me – but her mum didn’t want to know. I don’t think she cared, to be honest. She never asked the kid if she was all right or anything, she even yelled at her when she started blaming someone called Derek. I think he was the one in charge of the raft. Poor bloody kid … all that woman seems to care about is making trouble.’
‘Will she call the police, do you think?’
Dad nodded. ‘I’ve already spoken to Lenny about it. I rang him up and explained everything. I told him we’re willing to make a statement. He said he’ll get it sorted out, it shouldn’t be a problem.’
Lenny Craine is the local police sergeant. He’s been a sergeant on the island for as long as anyone can remember. He was here when Mum and Dad first arrived, and he’s about the closest thing to a friend Dad has on the island. He helped out a lot after Mum died … mostly by keeping Dad out of trouble. The two of them meet up occasionally for a quiet drink or two, or maybe three, and now and then they go out fishing together. At least that’s what they call it. As far as I can tell, all they do is sit in a boat all day drinking beer.
‘What about the others?’ I said.
‘What others?’
‘The other witnesses. Will Lenny have to take statements from them?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it depends on Mrs Coombe, whether she wants to press charges or not.’
‘Press charges?’
‘Hey, don’t worry. It’ll be all right. Lenny’s a good man, he’ll keep things under control.’
I shook my head. Lucas was right, I could sense the rumours starting already.
‘Anyway,’ Dad said, swallowing a mouthful of whisky, ‘let’s get back to you and this Wonder Boy.’
‘He’s just a boy, Dad …’
He smiled thoughtfully. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Where’s he from?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Fifteen or sixteen, I think.’
‘What’s he doing on the island?’
‘I don’t know … nothing, really. He does a bit of work now and then … he’s just passing through.’
‘A drifter?’
‘I suppose.’
‘An honest-to-goodness tramp?’
‘He’s not a tramp. He’s clean, he’s intelligent—’
‘Did I say there was anything wrong with tramps? I like tramps.’
‘Well, he’s not a tramp.’
‘So what is he?’
I sighed. ‘He’s just a person.’
‘All right, fair enough.’ He lit a cigarette, eyeing me through the smoke. ‘And what do you think of this person?’
‘He’s interesting.’
‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know – he just is. Look—’ I dug the carving from my pocket and passed it over. ‘He did that.’
Dad studied the figure carefully, looking at it from different angles, rubbing his thumb over the surface, just as I had. After a while he said, ‘Is this who I think it is?’
I nodded. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Very good … very good, indeed.’ He passed it back. ‘Lucas just happened to have it with him, did he?’
‘Well – yes.’
‘I see.’
‘He’s read your books—’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘What? I’m not … I was just telling you—’
‘There’s no need to fret. I’m only doing my father bit. I am your father, you know. I’m supposed to ask awkward questions – it’s part of the job.’
‘I’m not fretting.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘Well, all these questions – it’s embarrassing.’
‘It’s meant to be. Now – let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you spent the last—’ he looked at his watch ‘—the last three hours standing around on the beach talking to Lucas?’
‘We were sittin
g down.’
‘For three hours?’
I shrugged. ‘We were talking.’
He looked at me for a long time. It wasn’t a threatening look, it wasn’t even a questioning look, it was a look that said – this is us, this is me and you, this is all we’ve got. You don’t have to lie to me.
I didn’t like lying to him, I hated myself for it. But I didn’t seem to have any choice. And besides, I could hear the echo of Lucas’s voice in my head:
What are you going to tell him?
About what?
Me.
I’ll just tell him the truth.
One day you will …
I didn’t know what he’d meant at the time, but I think I do now. I think he meant this – this story. This is my ‘one day’. This is my truth. I think I knew, even then, that it would always come out, and that when it did Dad would understand. And I think he knew it, too.
‘OK,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I won’t embarrass you any more.’ He drained the whiskey from his glass. ‘Just be careful, Cait. All right? Please, be very careful.’
I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak.
Dad got up and rinsed his glass in the sink. With his back to me, he said, ‘There’s plenty of hot water if you want a bath.’
‘I had a bath this morning.’
‘Your hair didn’t smell of wood smoke this morning.’
The next day I finally got hold of Simon on the phone and apologised for missing him on Friday. He seemed all right about it, although I sensed a slightly wary tone to his voice. That wasn’t surprising, really. I’d let him down, I’d humiliated him, he had a right to be wary.
We talked about this and that for a while, mostly RSPCA stuff. I did my best to sound interested, but Simon isn’t the most gripping of story-tellers, and as he mumbled on about the latest developments with the oil-tankers and the caravan park, my mind drifted back to what Lucas had said when I’d told him that if people hadn’t been so greedy there’d still be some oysters left. Left for who? he’d asked. I’d thought it was a flippant remark at the time, but now I wasn’t so sure. Those three little words had set me thinking, and I was beginning to ask myself questions that I’d never even thought of before: who are we trying to save the planet for? for ourselves? for our children? for our children’s children? isn’t that unbelievably selfish? self-important? self-gratifying? and if we’re not trying to save the planet for our own sake, then what are we doing? what right do we have to decide the fate of any given thing? who are we to say that a whale has more value than a mosquito? a gorilla more importance than a fly? a panda more worth than a rat? why does it matter if we strip every single oyster from the sea? they’re all going to die anyway, aren’t they? doesn’t everything go round and round, never really changing …?
