by Chris Speyer
‘Why don’t you borrow the book?’ suggested Mrs Palmer, adding the book of myths to Zaki’s pile. ‘You could do a project for me on shamanism and shapeshifting. You’ll probably find plenty about it on the internet.’
Zaki stood up and Mrs Palmer loaded the books on to his good arm.
‘Hope your shoulder feels better.’
‘It’s OK now, thanks,’ said Zaki, although it wasn’t.
There was one big plus to having an injured shoulder – it gave Zaki the perfect excuse for not joining Craig and his mates for a kick-about in the park after school and left him free to catch the 3.45 bus to Salcombe. All day, he’d been thinking about the logbook and what it might contain, and he was anxious to get it back from Grandad. He was disappointed that Anusha couldn’t come with him. She was part of this now. They were doing this together. But he didn’t want to wait until tomorrow before opening the log.
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Chapter 11
‘If you’re wondering where your package is,’ said Grandad, ‘it’s by the kettle.’ Zaki pushed Jenna out of the way and crossed the boat shed. The logbook was still in the carrier bag but there was no way of telling if his grandfather had taken a look at it.
‘Glad you’ve popped round, I could do with a hand.’
‘Sure. What needs doing?’ asked Zaki enthusiastically, always eager for the opportunity to work with his grandfather.
The old man was taking the next plank for the boat’s hull out of the steam box where it had been softening.
‘Help me clamp this one up for starters.’
The plank had to be clamped into position while it was still hot and flexible to ensure a perfect fit. Grandad made minute adjustments to the plank’s position until he was satisfied and then the clamps were tightened.
‘Fetch us over them copper nails.’
They worked steadily along the length of the new plank, fastening it to the one below. The tide was in and the sound of waves lapping against the slipway could be heard in the pauses between the tap-tap-tappings of Grandad’s hammer. The rhythm of the work, the wood and varnish smells of the workshop, the sound of the waves, his grandfather’s proximity, patient, unhurried, calmed Zaki, and soon he was concentrating entirely on what they were doing. So it came as a jolt when Grandad rested his hammer and asked, ‘Your dad all right, is he?’
Zaki felt momentarily disorientated. Dad? He’d been a bit grumpy recently – was out a lot – he seemed a bit worried about something, but that wasn’t unusual. Was he all right?
‘I dunno – I guess so.’
Grandad went ‘Hmmm, hmmm, hm,’ picked up the next nail but then paused.
‘Never talks about buildin’ that boat?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Zaki.
‘Have you forgot why you all came back down ’ere from London? You were goin’ to build a boat but I haven’t heard much mention of it lately.’
It was true; that had been the plan. Zaki remembered the cold, winter morning in the London house, that seemed so long ago now, when his father gleefully announced they were moving back to Devon. At first, Michael had objected, said he ‘didn’t want to live in some hick town in the sticks!’, had threatened to run away. But his parents’ enthusiasm had been overwhelming; they were like a couple of kids, laughing every time they looked at each other, like they’d just decided to do something truly wicked. They were going to live by the sea – build a beautiful, big, wooden boat, then they were all going to sail around the world together!
He and Michael had climbed into their parents’ bed and they had all talked and talked. His father had fetched breakfast on a tray and they had filled the bed with toast crumbs while they discussed the best time to cross the Atlantic and looked at pictures of anchorages with turquoise water and perfect, white-sand beaches in the Caribbean, while a fine drizzle fell from the grey London sky outside the bedroom window. It was such a brave, wonderful, frightening yet exciting plan. What had happened to it?
At first, after the move from London, Grandad would come over on Sunday afternoons and boat plans would be spread out on the kitchen table to be discussed. Lists of ropes, rigging, deck fittings, navigation equipment and engine parts were written, and cabin layouts and sail plans drawn and redrawn on sheet after sheet of paper. Zaki pictured his mother dressed in one of his father’s old sweaters, her arms around his father, her chin resting on his shoulder, as they both leant over to examine Grandad’s latest sketch. His parents looked so happy, their eyes bright and full of life. At last, all agreed they had designed the perfect long-distance cruising yacht and they began combing the small ads and the boat jumble sales for the equipment on their lists. It didn’t have to be new, so long as it was in good order, and there were family outings to inspect second-hand anchors and unwanted bilge pumps. Each purchase, it seemed at the time to Zaki, brought them closer to the day when they would sail off to explore the world, maybe discover paradise. What happened?
The boat was never built. Instead, his father took to renovating houses. The boat was mentioned less and less often and ‘When we build the boat’ became ‘If we build the boat’ until, eventually, only Zaki’s mother seemed to believe it could ever happen, and then even she stopped talking about it. And then she went to Switzerland. It would never happen now. Why was his grandad bringing it up? It was like poking at a bruise to see if it still hurt.
‘Mortal shame,’ muttered Grandad. ‘Your dad always dreamt of sailin’ round the world, ever since he was your age.’
‘I don’t think he’s got enough money to build the boat now,’ said Zaki.
‘We could always sell this place. Be worth a bit these days to a developer.’
‘No!’ cried Zaki, feeling shock and horror. ‘You mustn’t! Please don’t. Oh, please, Grandad, you mustn’t ever, ever sell this place!’
The boat shed was the never-changing, still centre of Zaki’s universe; his refuge. Destroy the centre and everything would be set adrift.
‘Hey now,’ said Grandad gently, ‘Hey, I only said we could – never said we would. I’ll tell you what – we’ll finish up ’ere and then have a cup o’ tea. You can tell me all about that school project of yours.’
‘I should be getting home,’ said Zaki, anxious now to be gone before his grandfather became any more interested in the contents of the carrier bag by the kettle, and before there was any more talk of selling the boat shed.
‘I can run you home.’
‘That’s OK, thanks, Grandad, I can take the bus.’
‘Suit yourself.’
They worked on in silence until they finished fixing the plank and then, after retrieving the logbook, Zaki said his goodbyes to Grandad and Jenna and set off to catch the bus back to Kingsbridge. As he left the boat shed, a grey cat scampered away down the narrow lane.
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Chapter 12
Was his imagination playing tricks on him? All the way from the bus station by Kingsbridge harbour to Moor Lane, Zaki had the distinct feeling that there was someone or something behind him, like a slight pressure in the centre of his back, a tension between his shoulder blades. Sometimes when he turned his head he thought he detected the swift movement of a shadowy form slipping beyond the periphery of his vision. When he reached the main shopping street he loitered in front of shop windows, trying to use their reflective surfaces to catch sight of his pursuer. People passed by. Outside the chemist a young woman with a baby in a pushchair, wondering what could be so interesting, stopped to stare with him into the window, saw nothing out of the ordinary, gave him a puzzled look, shrugged and moved on.
As he entered the quiet residential streets behind the busy thoroughfare, Zaki began to walk more quickly. The thought struck him that, if Anusha were right, and he could dream things into existence, then he might, right now, be dreaming up a monster that would burst through into the real world at any moment. He tried to empty his mind but it was hopeless; the more he tried to keep his mind blank the more he saw shapes and shadows
from the corners of his eyes. He tried to think about sailing Morveren, but that only carried his thoughts to the cave. He made himself concentrate on his grandfather’s workshop, anchoring his mind by picturing the old man patiently shaping planks for the hull of the little boat. Even then, the sense of being followed never left him.
It was a relief to reach his own front garden. He walked down the narrow passage between the side of the house and the garden fence, but as he approached the back door he stopped. He could hear raised voices. It was Michael in the kitchen and he was shouting . . . Now he heard his father, not shouting, but speaking loudly and firmly . . . Then Michael again. What was it about? What were they saying? It was not unusual for his brother and father to argue, particularly recently, but not like this, not shouting. Zaki remained rooted to the spot where the sound of the voices had stopped him, not daring to take another step; it was as if beyond that point lay thin ice that could not be trusted to take his weight, that might crack and swallow him.
‘You lied! You lied!’ Michael’s voice was on the edge of tears.
‘That’s not true, Michael.’
‘Yes it is! It is!’
‘Michael, listen . . .’
‘Why? Why should I? Why should I believe anything you tell me?’
‘Michael . . .’
‘You lied!’
‘Michael, this isn’t helping.’
‘I don’t care!’
‘Michael, please . . .’
‘I hate you!’
‘Michael, listen to me . . .’
Zaki began to retreat. He didn’t want to hear those voices, those words. One step back and then another and another and another, as though he could rewind time, creep back from this moment and then edge around it, reach the future by a different route. He found himself in the passage between the house and the fence. He pushed his back against the wall, pushed his head hard against it; by only moving his eyes he could see to the left and right. There was nobody in sight. The tarry smell of creosote spread across through the evening air from the high wooden fence that screened him from the world. He waited. He could only hear the usual neighbourhood sounds; birds twittered, someone strimmed weeds, distant traffic.
He began to count. ‘When I reach a hundred,’ he told himself, ‘I’ll go round.’ He reached one hundred and decided to go on to one hundred and fifty. One hundred and fifty came and went and he counted on, one number following another like links in an endless chain running through his head. He counted until he heard the front door slam and his father calling after his brother. He listened. He didn’t hear the front door reopen and close again. Had they both gone out? He crept around to the back door and opened it very carefully. All was quiet in the house, but some new thing had been released, something that now lurked in the corners, lurked in the dark spaces behind the furniture, something that made the air in the house more difficult to breath. Zaki stood just inside the kitchen door and examined the room, examined the mundane, household objects that, by being abandoned, had taken on a sinister significance; a partly chopped onion and a knife on the chopping board, the cutlery draw left open, potatoes boiling in a pan of water on the cooker, building plans for Number 43 spread out on the kitchen table. There was nothing to explain the source of the argument. Zaki took the knife from the chopping board and prodded the potatoes. They seemed to be cooked. Should he take them off? He slid the pan off the ring and turned off the cooker. Now what? Moving carefully, as though through a minefield, he made his way upstairs.
The door to his brother’s room was open. Michael’s guitar lay across his rumpled bed. His phone was in the middle of the floor along with his school sweatshirt and trousers and his rucksack. Zaki crossed the room and sat on the bed. He brushed a fingernail across the guitar strings, needing a noise to fill the silence but wanting above anything to hear the cheery sound of his brother’s teasing banter. He was hungry but he didn’t want to return to that unnaturally empty kitchen.
He was still sitting on the bed when he heard the front door open and close and his father’s footsteps in the hall. He listened – his father had definitely returned alone and he judged that he was now back in the kitchen.
Eight o’clock came and went. Hunger drove Zaki downstairs. It was growing dark in the house and the light was on in the kitchen, it streamed out through the door into the unlit hall. Zaki’s father was leaning over the kitchen table, his hands resting on either side of the spread-out plans, his head hung down between his raised shoulders. Zaki stood in the doorway and waited for his father to notice him. After what seemed a long time, his father looked up. Catching sight of Zaki, he quickly straightened and tried, with a smile, to hide the worry on his face, but it continued to hover around his eyes.
‘I took the potatoes off. I think they’re cooked,’ said Zaki to break the silence.
‘Oh, yes. I expect they are. Sorry, I forgot about them.’
‘I’m a bit hungry,’ Zaki ventured.
‘Yes,’ his father said, looking around the kitchen in a vague sort of way as if hoping a meal might have materialised while he was out. ‘Yes, I . . . I got distracted. There’s a problem with one of the gullies on the roof.’ He tapped the plans with a finger. ‘What about mashed potato and some beans?’
‘Fine,’ said Zaki and, when his father continued to stare at the plans, he added ‘Do you want me to mash the potatoes?’
‘Um – yes, if you could. I’ll do you some beans.’
Zaki mashed the potatoes while his father opened a tin of beans and tipped them into a saucepan.
‘Where’s Michael?’ asked Zaki without looking up from his mashing.
‘He’s gone to practise with his band,’ his father replied after only the slightest pause.
Zaki pictured the guitar lying on Michael’s bed. Whatever the truth was, his father was hiding it. Of course, his father didn’t know that he had overheard the argument.
When the potatoes looked thoroughly mashed, Zaki got himself a plate from the cupboard.
‘Are you going to have some?’ he asked his father, reaching for a second plate.
‘No, I’ll have something later.’ His father folded the plans to make space for Zaki on the kitchen table. He spooned beans on to Zaki’s plate. The sauce ran around the mound of mashed potato, creating an island in a steaming sea. Zaki took a fork from the drawer and then sat at the table. His father hesitated before gathering up the plans and turning to leave the room.
‘Can we phone Mum?’ Zaki asked quickly before his father could get through the door.
For a moment his father didn’t answer. In that moment, Zaki was afraid. Afraid his father would find a reason to say no; afraid he would be denied the sound of his mother’s voice. He needed to hear her.
His father half turned, the smile that didn’t reach his eyes, again on his face. ‘Yes, if you like,’ he said, the tone of voice hinting that there was something unreasonable in the request. ‘I spoke to her earlier today. She knows about your shoulder.’
‘I’d still like to talk to her.’
‘Yeah – OK.’ His father returned to the table and wrote the number with its long, international dialling code on a scrap of paper. ‘You can call her when you finish your tea.’
Left alone, Zaki quickly shovelled beans and potato into his mouth. The beans were too hot, but the potato was stone cold. Mixed together they became an edible temperature.
As soon as his plate was empty, Zaki took the scrap of paper to the phone and carefully keyed in the numbers. He listened to the tone. Was it engaged or was it ringing? ‘Bee . . . Bee . . . Bee . . .’ Why did Swiss phones have to ring differently?
‘Guten Tag. Bitte sehr?’ said the woman who answered the phone.
‘Mum?’ Zaki asked a little cautiously, afraid he might have misdialled.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ His mother’s voice switched into the cheery sounds he was so used to. ‘I heard about your poor shoulder. Does it hurt a lot?’
‘It’s not t
oo bad,’ Zaki replied with careful emphasis, so that his mother would know that he was suffering terribly but was being brave.
‘How did you do it? Dad said you fell on a rock. Is that right?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Well, you will be careful now, won’t you? Don’t go falling out of a tree or something. You don’t want to make it worse.’
There was a pause.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Zaki asked, not quite knowing why.
‘Of course I am! I’m fine. I’ve been busy, but I’m fine.’ Then his mother chatted on about places she’d been and things she’d seen. Zaki listened, wanting her to keep talking and talking so that he could go on listening to the reassuring sound of her voice; he didn’t really listen to the words, he just wanted to know that she was there.
‘But I almost forgot!’ she exclaimed, breaking off. ‘You started your new school this week. How are you getting on?’
So his father hadn’t told her about the business with the hawk. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when you come home,’ he said.
There was another pause. Zaki waited, willing her to say when that would be, longing to ask the direct question – ‘When are you coming back?’ – but unwilling to risk the disappointment of hearing her say ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘Soon, but I’m not sure when,’ or ‘I’ll tell you as soon as I know.’
‘Well . . .’ said his mother after a bit, ‘I suppose I’d better be getting on.’
Zaki’s heart sank. ‘Do you want to talk to Dad?’
‘I spoke to him earlier. Is Michael around?’
‘He’s out.’
‘Practising with his band, I suppose?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I hope he’s not letting it distract him from his schoolwork. But I’m sure your dad wouldn’t let that happen.’
Could that have been what the argument had been about? Zaki wondered. No, surely not.
‘Send your brother a big hug from me, won’t you,’ said his mother. ‘It’s all right, I won’t ask you to kiss him from me.’
