I ran on along the deserted promenade, past the rock shop and the ice-cream parlour, past the Guinness clock, the aquarium and the penny arcade. As I ran, I kept watching the distant rain-blurred sea. I had just reached the green wooden shelter beside the pier when I saw it. The light from the bronze shields of the harbour statues was glimmering across the water in a faint X. Calabash was in danger of disappearing forever. The moment of invasion had arrived.
The rain began falling even harder, and moments later the end of the pier vanished in a heavy grey mist. The shelter was full of drunken Chavs who looked as though they were spoiling for a fight. I needed to be somewhere dry and quiet, where I could examine the books in my bag. I thought for a moment, then remembered Apsley’s Field, a waterlogged green patch behind the high street shops that housed a dozen dilapidated caravans.
Why anyone would want to spend a fortnight in a caravan, fetching water across the mud in a plastic churn, changing cylinders of Calor Gas, and washing in a breezeblock outhouse reeking of disinfectant and filled with spiders was a mystery to me, but I knew that at this time of the day the visitors’ room would be empty. I made my way down an alley between the shops, and up into the entrance of the field. There was always somebody on the site who stood against the wire fence staring into the next field at the sheep. Even now, in the teeming rain, an elderly man stood beneath a golf umbrella watching the sodden, miserable animals. Perhaps he was trying to decide who was worst off. I reached the visitors’ room, an inhospitable cinder-brick box with condensation running down the windows, and entered.
Throwing myself into a corner, I tore open the bag and spilled the contents out onto the bench. I began to examine the books. I placed them in order, then started skimming through them one at a time. The characters of Arcadia bore little resemblance to anyone I had met in Calabash, yet they seemed somehow familiar, as though the writer had drawn his ideas from a similar source. There were adventures, political intrigues, battles and romances, all the twists of fate that one expected to occur to the residents of an exotic, far-off land. As my eye travelled through the chapters, the adventures blurred together. It seemed rather tame stuff, enjoyable if you were sick in bed, nothing more. Disappointed, I ploughed on, only to find more of the same. I turned to the final book.
It was towards the end of this posthumously published volume, Arcadia Endures, that I found myself reading the following exchange:
The old man shielded his eyes from the blazing sun. ‘It is too hot to go further today,’ he announced. He pulled his camel to its knees and dismounted, making for the oasis where Pip sat. Opening his cloak, he produced a large orange gourd, dried and hollowed into a water container. He dipped the gourd into the shaded clear water of the oasis and raised it, but did not drink. Instead, he held it at the boy’s chest, and asked him, ‘Tell me, Pip, what do you see?’
Pip looked down and saw his reflection smiling back. ‘I see myself,’ he replied.
‘You see a mirror-image of yourself,’ said the old man, ‘for what use is a dry gourd but as a receptacle to contain something precious? Just as water brings forth life, so this is a container for your life-giving imagination. You need imagination just as much as you need water. Think, Pip, a mirror to your life. One half of your reflection.’ He smiled and allowed the boy to drink. ‘When a gourd like this is hollowed out for such a purpose, it is called a—’
‘Calabash,’ I said aloud. ‘It’s a calabash.’
Something that contained the other half of you. Somewhere to put all of the frustrated ideas, all the things you couldn’t use, all the dreams you couldn’t achieve. That’s what I’d been using Calabash for. The stupid thing was that I’d been keeping it separate, closed off from my so-called real life. The more I thought about it, the more everything suddenly made sense.
My eyes rose to the lightning flickering beyond the rooftops. I pushed the books back into the bag and stood. Now, for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what I had to do.
Chapter 40
Breaking Through
My chest had started to hurt. My rib cage felt as though someone was standing on it. When I breathed deep, a sharp pain stabbed at my lungs in a way that reminded me of the feeling I got just before a bout of pneumonia. Not now, I prayed, not when I’m so close. As I returned to the esplanade, the rain mist momentarily lifted, and I halted at the railing to catch my breath.
The clearing air revealed a great cross of yellow light shining over the water, growing brighter with every passing second. The time had come. Calabash was falling, and the General was preparing to bring his war machine across. Perhaps I was already too late. I pushed away from the railing and limped on. As I passed the Las Vegas arcade I saw Julia standing outside, dressed in a bright yellow rain mac. I crossed the road and called out to her.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said. ‘I ran into your mum. She’s been trying to call you. She says you’ve got to go home.’
‘I can’t,’ I answered, taking quick, shallow breaths. ‘Not now. There’s something I’ve got to do.’
‘Come on, Kay, she misses you. They both do. Couldn’t you just go and see them for a few minutes? I’m walking back that way.’
‘I can’t right now. But I will, as soon as I’ve done this, I promise.’
She gave me an imploring look. ‘What have you got to do that’s so important?’
‘I’m not sure you’d understand if I told you.’
‘You could try to explain for once.’
‘I’m sorting everything out. You’ll be the first to know if I manage it, I promise.’
I walked forwards, half-expecting her to flinch, but she didn’t so I kissed her gently on the lips. She tasted fantastic. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn’t move away. ‘Go ahead,’ I told her, ‘I won’t be long. I’ll catch you up.’ If I come back in one piece.
My lungs had stopped hurting. I ran off again, crossing the road and swinging through the turnstile of the pier as the rain began to intensify. I ran into the arcade and threw my bag into a dark corner, hoping that I could still go through to the end of the pier and reach the access point from the gap in the scaffolding.
Someone was blocking my way. Hearing familiar laughter, I turned and looked across the gloomy game-room. Malcolm Slattery was standing near the upper exit, punching the glass side of a mechanical claw machine as it failed to raise a furry gonk in its arms. Laurence, doomed to spend his life watching from the sidelines, was indeed watching him.
Slattery looked up in surprise as I approached, and the gonk slithered from the clutch of the steel grab. Slapping the machine with the flat of his hand he moved over to a model of a lighthouse in a glass case. Two helicopters, one red, the other blue, stuck out on wires from either side. Laurence dropped money into the slots, and the pair of them began furiously turning the circular steel handles at the front of the case, causing the helicopters to race skywards.
‘Oi, Goodwin, what are you doing here?’ Slattery called as I passed him. He was hunched over the machine, noisily spinning the wheel, all of his concentration centred on beating Laurence to the top of the lighthouse. I figured he usually won.
‘It’s nothing to do with you, Slattery,’ I replied, but I knew I had to get around him to reach the arcade door and the end of the pier.
He released his hand from the wheel, allowing it to spin on. We squared off against each other while Laurence, puzzled, took his helicopter onto the top, ringing the bell. I don’t think he liked winning.
‘Why didn’t you just piss off out of this town while you could still stand up?’ Slattery took a step towards me, flexing his fists. ‘You were a loony at school, and you’re still a loony.’
And suddenly he was grabbing at me, trying to swing a punch, just like the days when I was still in his class, and Laurence was bouncing around beside him, urging him to hit me. Too bad he hadn’t seen me deck the headmaster. I was still riding high. I ducked and dropped back as he ran forwards, then st
uck out my leg so that he fell sprawling onto the floor.
‘I’ve seen you creeping around,’ he gasped, standing up. ‘Kate’s not there any more. What is it down the end of the pier that’s so bloody important?’ He threw a punch at my face, but it fell short. I ran around behind him, only to have Laurence grab my shirt and hold me in place. Slattery came charging forwards, punching me hard in the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. I twisted hard as I fell, throwing Laurence into his path, crashing them together into the angled Perspex of the Penny Falls game. A copper cascade poured over the ledge of the machine and bounced into the winnings tray. It was the first time I’d ever seen the machine pay out. Mesmerised, Laurence dropped to his knees and began scooping out coins like an otter pawing minnows from a brook.
Rising, I turned and slammed out through the arcade doors with Slattery in pursuit, just as I had when all this had begun. The rain was smashing down now, bouncing up from the planks beneath my feet as I ran to the builders’ barrier, climbed up and scrambled through with my old enemy closing in on me. I dropped to the other side and pounded past the bare ribs of the helter skelter, the empty rusting dodgem rink and the shuttered ghost train, on towards the back of the pier…
Only to slide to a stop just before plunging down into the angry waves.
It had gone. All of it. The whole of the back of the pier had fallen into the sea. Not just the upper and lower fishing platforms but the boardwalk, the candyfloss kiosk and the sundeck, just splintered away into a churning wreckage of wood and iron. There was no way of getting back. Calabash was sealed off for good.
I knew that the only way this business could be brought to an end was with one final journey. Now that journey could not take place. I stared hopelessly down at the desolate storm-damage.
I needed to get to the point where the beams crossed. Not stopping to see where Slattery was, I wheeled back on myself, catching the corner edge of the building housing the saloon with my outstretched arm, and swung in through the bar door. I knew where Cottesloe kept the keys to the Skylark, on the hook behind the counter, and grabbed them before the barmaid could even register that I had entered the room.
The boat was still moored on its hoist near the bottom of the steps beside the arcade, covered in a green tarpaulin. With the keys in my hand and Slattery only yards behind, I raced towards it. I stumbled over the top step leading to the boarding platform and nearly fell headlong down the staircase. Ahead of me was the winch that lowered the boat into the water. I ducked under the chain, grabbed its handle and began to turn. Nothing happened at first, then the greased cable unwound with a groan, and the winch started turning so fast that the handle was pulled out of my grasp.
‘You bloody nutcase,’ Slattery was calling, ‘what do you think you’re doing? You’ll kill yourself!’ But by that time the Skylark had thumped into the rocking sea with a bang, and I was off down the stairs. I jumped the last two and landed on the broad deck of the boat. Pulling free the mooring harnesses—something I’d had plenty of practice doing in Calabash harbour—and tearing open a section of tarp on the driver’s side, I was tipped into the seat by the force of the waves rising and plunging around the bow.
The Skylark had been specifically designed for heavy weather. It could plough through virtually anything. The engine turned over first time, and the whole boat shook with a great throaty roar. Clouds of thick blue petrol smoke billowed from the stern. I opened the throttle and roared away from the stanchions of the pier, then swung the wheel hard and turned her around, heading back towards the site where the fishing platform had stood, praying that the hull would miss the jagged remains of the iron posts that now lay beneath the water.
I had never tried to cross into Calabash with any solid object, but I was going too fast to stop now. If I didn’t hit the spot where the harbour lights intersected, I saw that I would plough into the struts of the pier and most likely be killed.
The gap closed fast. The pier came soaring up towards me as the boat leapt from the top of one wave into the trough of the next with a bone-shaking crash, soaking me. Up rose the launch again, water cascading from the bow, as I crested the great green wave before the black wall of iron struts. The Skylark’s engine screamed as the propeller left the water.
I had reached the cross of light. The boat was nearly vertical. The water rolling beneath the hull made it sound as though we were punching across a series of concrete blocks. The pier stanchions filled my vision. My hands were torn from the wheel. I threw my arms across my face and fell back.
The Skylark came down in the calm blue sea off the coast of Calabash.
Chapter 41
To Rescue a Princess
Clouds drifted sluggishly across the water. Calabash was ablaze. General Bassa and his men had put the city to the torch. The afternoon sun was lost in a vermilion haze as I moored the Skylark against the harbour jetty. Climbing the steps, I ran into a wall of billowing, choking smoke. From all around came the sound of hammering. Soldiers were building a wooden structure along the top of the harbour wall. The city was a distant flickering beacon, the damned dark land of a Breughel painting.
There were people running in every direction. Some had their belongings bundled into baskets, while others whipped laden donkeys, but nobody seemed to know where to go. Many of the fields were ablaze, and the few boats remaining in the bay did not appear seaworthy enough for trips of any duration. Even so, families were attempting to board them. One was already sinking. A father struggled towards his children as they floundered in the rising water. All was confusion. In the crackle of fire, the howling of infants, the braying of asses, there were no commanding voices to be heard. Several platoons of soldiers stood silently ranked on the grounds of the gutted fish sheds. They seemed to be waiting for some kind of signal before springing into action. I had only taken a few steps forwards when I stumbled into Menavino, who indicated that he had been sent to keep watch for me.
‘What’s happening?’ I cried, momentarily forgetting that the boy had no power of speech. I studied his frantic motions, hands flying in front of his face, fists knotting threateningly, fingers opening to form a box around him.
‘They’ve sealed off the city. The others are still inside. Has anyone seen the Princess?’
Menavino nodded violently, gesturing with his fingers once more. He grabbed my hand and began to pull me away. We ran through the panicking crowds. There were soldiers everywhere, herding villagers into groups. I knew that when troops did this, deaths soon followed. Following Menavino’s lead, I veered from the road and headed across the ploughed fields towards the woodland.
It took us an hour to cut a path through the dense undergrowth where I had found the ruins of the Grecian temples, the remains of Saunders’s youthful dreams. I wondered how many other dream cities lay buried beneath our feet.
The main gate to the city had been closed off with a latticework of crude iron bars. We followed the wall as closely as we could, and eventually reached a place where the stones had been smashed to a level that we could clamber over. The new regime was having trouble implementing its plans for security and fortification. Scrambling across the blackened rubble, we dropped to the other side and ran on.
The inner courtyard of the old palace had been sealed with fresh clay walls, but they had been so hastily finished that it was easy to gain a foothold on the outcroppings of the stones they had used. We soon arrived at the citadel where Trebunculus and his rebels had been hiding. The walls were black with smoke, but the building seemed undamaged.
If General Bassa was hoping for discipline from his men, he was to be sorely disappointed. Several lounged beside the burning house of a sherbet seller, drinking from goatskin pouches. I hoped they were so drunk that their senses would be dulled. The nearest soldier was alone and set back from the others, shielded from his friends by the side of the building. I realised that he was attempting to pee, and indicated to Menavino that we should take him. I had seen this performed many times
in films, but wasn’t sure how well it would actually work.
Menavino slipped his hand across the soldier’s mouth and nose as I placed a knee against his spine and tipped him back, dropping both my knees across his throat. He fought violently, so I dropped down harder. He still fought, so Menavino strangled him. After a few moments he lost consciousness, so we dragged him back into the shadows and stripped him of his uniform. The grey and silver folds of his tunic were loose-fitting enough to conceal the fact that it didn’t fit me. I unhooked the kukhri knife at his belt and raised Menavino before me, as though I had taken him prisoner. Then we walked forwards to the citadel.
We waited in the oily smoke haze beside the building’s doors, ready to dart in as soon as they opened. But they didn’t open. We waited, and waited.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ asked the doctor, who had appeared at my back with several of his rebels. ‘You look utterly ridiculous in that outfit.’
‘I’ve come back to rescue you and the Princess,’ I explained, pushing the soldier’s cap back from my eyes.
‘And Menavino, you should know better,’ Trebunculus chided. ‘Honestly, the pair of you are as much use as a cow’s eardrums. We effected our escape from the rear while you were making such a commotion, tumbling down the side of the building.’
‘So I did help you,’ I argued.
‘I just hope you have a plan now. We had to leave the Semanticor behind, he couldn’t manage the stairs. It’s no way to run a rebellion. And the news we have received from our lookouts is far from encouraging.’
‘What’s happened?’ I fell into step beside the doctor as we set off through alleyways efflorescent with smoke.
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