by Zizou Corder
‘Really,’ said Maccomo. ‘How interesting. For me, you know, there have been changes. For example, the price has gone up.’
‘That needn’t be a problem,’ said Rafi. He wasn’t intending to pay anything anyway. Now he had the parchment, he was intending to bully, bribe or blackmail Charlie into coming along of his own accord. He was only trying to find out if Maccomo knew where Charlie was, or where he was heading.
‘But you understand,’ said Maccomo. ‘It is difficult merchandise to keep hold of.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rafi politely. ‘So – um – you have a hold of it at the moment?’
‘Delivery is imminent,’ said Maccomo.
Excellent! thought Rafi. Maccomo’s expecting him!
‘So when and where can we exchange?’ he asked smoothly.
Maccomo smiled quietly to himself. He burned with a low, dangerous fury.
He still hadn’t decided what to do with Charlie when he got hold of him. The Lionspeaking filled him with envy and desire – so would he keep Charlie, get his hands on the boy’s knowledge, wring out of him the language of the Lions? Or would he punish him by selling him to Rafi, for whatever nefarious purpose he had in mind?
It was nothing to Maccomo if Rafi came for Charlie or not. However, Maccomo needed money. No longer living in the Circus, and no longer being paid Circus wages, he was going to be running short soon. Rafi would bring money.
Even if Maccomo decided not to sell Charlie, he could just steal the money Rafi would bring.
He chuckled. What a good idea!
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Essaouira, on the Barbary Coast. I am here. Come.’ And he flicked off the phone.
‘Yes!’ cried Rafi. That had been so easy! Now, where’s the Barbary Coast?
‘Hmmmm,’ mused Maccomo. This would be so easy. Perhaps he would move to more comfortable lodgings.
Ninu flicked his eyes, left and right.
Chapter Fourteen
The happy days on the solarboat lasted almost long enough for Charlie to get bored of them. It was like when you’re on a long summer holiday, and even though you spend all day at the beach playing and having fun, you still catch yourself wondering what the new term at school is going to be like. Charlie was so relaxed with the boat by now that he would draw it to a halt so that he and the Young Lion could dive off the front, splash wildly in the sea and then scrabble on board again, out of breath, giggling and shaking themselves, much to the annoyance of the Lionesses, who felt that cats should stay dry. There was some fishing kit on board, and Charlie learned to handle it quite well, pulling up tuna and swordfish, which the Lions happily tore to pieces – except Elsina, who wrinkled her pink nose and longed for proper fresh meat. The Young Lion was convinced that claws were better than hooks for fishing, and would trail his big paws over the edge trying to skewer fish single-handedly. He and Charlie developed a cheerful competition to see who could catch more. (Charlie won. Even after the Young Lion tried with a hook tied on to the end of his tail.)
To amuse them all, Charlie tried to teach the Lions to sing sea shanties. Their favourite went:
‘One morning a weasel came swimming
Over the water from France,
And he taught all the weasels of England
To play on the fiddle and dance.’
Elsina had a sweet squeaky voice and the Young Lion was very enthusiastic, so they made an appalling racket and Sergei, who was rather musical, had to go and put his paws over his ears at the other end of the boat, muttering insults about tone-deaf, cloth-eared bliddy philistines. No one minded. After the long days and nights on the train, in the snow and stuck inside the damp Venetian palazzo, they were just happy to be in the sun, to fall asleep soaking up the warmth. Their skin and fur glowed under the sun’s polishing, and Charlie’s locks grew stiff with all the salt spray and the swimming.
One day, still encrusted with fine crystals of salt from a dip with Elsina, Charlie went to the water butt to refresh his sea-watery mouth, and noticed that the level was getting low. Not dangerously low, but low. They had passed round the heel of Italy, heading west for the second leg of their journey. It was good that the water had lasted so long, but now they would need to get more.
That evening, after Charlie’s dinner of pasta, olive oil and chilli peppers (the Lions were not eating that day), he went to the solarboat’s computer and asked it about going ashore. The information came up on the screen: they could put in at any number of little fishing towns and shipping ports along the coast.
Charlie frowned. They were a long way from Venice now, it was true, but he was reluctant to go to the mainland. For all he knew there might be ‘wanted’ posters up – policeguys lying in wait, fat rewards lying unclaimed, and hungry bounty hunters desperate to get their hands on the runaways. Plus most of the mainland down here, he knew, was a lawless area, run by vicious families who fought each other all the time: people who used to be farmers but whose lands had been ruined by chemicals and genetic modification; people with next to nothing, who stole from each other. He didn’t want to have to go there, all alone, asking for water. They’d steal the boat.
Not that he’d blame them. He’d probably steal the boat too, if it were him.
The only alternative was the Islands. It was still risky, but one way or another they were going to have to take a risk, and Charlie felt that the Islands were safer, if only because their inhabitants were less hungry.
The Islands around the toe of Italy are exceptionally beautiful, so beautiful that Communitybuilders had snatched them up long before. Lots of rich people wanted to live there – they were warm and quiet and clean, and it hadn’t even cost that much to bribe the shepherds and fishermen who had lived there to move away to Naples or Brindisi, clearing the way for the wealthy outsiders.
Charlie keyed the Islands’ names into the computer. One after the other they came up and, yes, they were all new communities. One in particular caught his eye: Pantelleria, halfway between Sicily and Algeria, between Europe and Africa, a smallish island all alone.
It was on their course, it was big enough to have plenty of supplies, and far enough away from everywhere else not to have extra police nearby, or daily newspapers coming in. The information said it was beloved of pop stars, and listed some. Charlie had heard of them. They were the kind that did yoga and ate no meat. Charlie was pretty sure that such people would not deny a boy a butt of fresh water.
That’s the one, he decided.
Later that night, the waves around their bow began to sparkle in the darkness. It was little scraps of glimmering green phosphorescence, thrown up like tiny diamonds in the pale ghostly lace of the sea spray, then disappearing, dissolving in the night.
The Lionesses gazed at it in awe. Elsina tried to catch it in her paws, until the Oldest Lion pulled her back by the tail. Even Sergei was rendered silent by the strange, otherworldly beauty of it.
‘What is it?’ breathed Charlie.
No one knew. It was just there. Everybody felt in their hearts the extraordinary, unnecessary beauty of the world.
But then suddenly, silently barging out of the magical darkness, breaking their quiet, wondering mood, there was a ship. It was big, but not enormous; it had no lights on. It had loomed up, completely invisible – there was no way they could have seen it coming. And it was almost on them.
Charlie yelled, and rushed to let off the solarboat’s siren. The Young Lion was about to roar, but the Lionesses shushed him and the siren began to wail. The big boat changed course, drastically, and the solarboat bobbed helplessly in the waves it made.
‘What are you doing?’ yelled Charlie, into the darkness. ‘You almost killed us, you stupid seahogs!’
From the ship, still so close, came the sound of groaning. Human groaning.
It rocked there, dark against the moonlight and the sparkling phosphorescence.
‘Where are your lights!’ shouted Charlie.
Of course no one could hear him.
‘
Charlie,’ said Sergei cautiously.
‘What!’ said Charlie. He was really angry. How dare this stupid boat bear down on them in the middle of the sea with no lights on, making no noise – he had his lights on, didn’t he? Port and starboard, bow and stern, just like Julius had taught him on board the Circe …
‘Hush, Charlie,’ said Sergei.
Something in his voice made Charlie do as he said.
For a moment, all was silent but for the low roarings of the sea moving over itself, and slapping at the sides of the two boats. And the groaning.
Then a figure appeared on the deck of the strange ship.
It called out, in no language that Charlie had ever heard, and he had heard most. It sounded sad beyond belief.
‘What is it?’ Charlie whispered.
Sergei was staring, his whiskers out rigid, his rounded head with its tattered ears motionless.
‘Speed up, Charlie,’ he said. ‘We must get out of here.’
‘Why?’ said Charlie, always prepared to argue and discuss, but Sergei turned and hissed sharply at him, ‘Get a move on! Now!’
Charlie was shocked at the sudden passion and anger in Sergei’s voice. He swiftly scurried to do his bidding.
As the solarboat started away from the dark ship, the groanings seemed not to fade but to grow louder, a protesting chorus of sadness, a yearning, lonely sound. Looking back, Charlie could see more figures on deck, silhouettes joining the first one. Their arms were outstretched and their voices pathetic.
‘Who are they, Sergei?’ he whispered. ‘What’s the matter with them? Shouldn’t we help them?’
Sergei was silent for a moment.
‘It’s a Ship of Fools, Charlie,’ he said finally. ‘Those are the Poor Fools.’
Charlie didn’t understand.
‘But who are they? Where do they come from?’ he asked.
Sergei said, ‘They’re humans and they come from nowhere.’
‘But nobody can come from nowhere,’ Charlie began to say, puzzled.
Sergei interrupted him. ‘They’ve nowhere to live, because they left where they were, lookin’ for somewhere better,’ he said.
Charlie knew about that. That was refugees. Loads of people had been refugees at some stage or another: uprooted, thrown out, having to start over somewhere new … he knew about refugees. He always thanked his stars that London was somewhere refugees came, not somewhere whose people had to become refugees.
‘So why aren’t they in the place they were going to?’ he asked. ‘Or in a camp or something?’
‘No place will have them,’ said Sergei.
Charlie could understand that too. Places got filled up.
‘Why don’t they go back to their old place? Is it too dangerous for them?’
Sergei smiled, a bitter little smile. ‘For most, yes, it’s just that they’ll be killed or put in prison. But for the Fools it’s different.’
‘How?’ asked Charlie.
‘Their old places don’t exist any more,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘They don’t exist,’ said Sergei again. ‘They’ve been abolished by law, or destroyed by war, or poisoned and blitzed and sunk into the sea. Those guys were calling out in Ukrainian. There has been no Ukraine for fifty years.’
Charlie stared.
‘Shouldn’t we help them?’ he said in a very small voice.
‘Cats don’t help people,’ said Sergei coldly.
‘You help me,’ said Charlie.
Sergei was silent.
‘Humans fifty years ago should have helped them,’ he said finally.
Charlie looked back to where the hulk of the Ship of Fools was disappearing into the darkness behind them. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
Charlie was very sad that night.
Rafi, however, was happy. He’d gone to the great electropark by the station in Venice and stolen a fantastic electrobike: a dark grey and silver Triumph with seismic suspension and a 12,000-volt chargesystem. It could go quicker than anything else on the road – and Rafi was making sure that it did. With his collar turned up, his shades on and his body leaning into the bend, he roared out of Verona heading west into the evening sun. He planned to cross the top of Italy, cut into southern France west of the Alps, and be in Spain within thirty-six hours and Morocco a day or two later.
Behind him at the electropark a great grey dog raised his head and howled. Once again his instincts had been frustrated. Once again the scent that he knew and craved had eluded him. After days of criss-crossing this smelly wet town, diverted by every whiff there was, he had found Rafi’s scent again. And now it was gone – melted into the clean metallic smell of electrochargers. The merest wisp of it was on the wind … Troy couldn’t help himself. His nose was stronger than his brain, than his legs, than any sense he might have had. He lowered his head and set off after that wisp.
Rafi wasn’t planning to rest much, nor to eat. He was a man on a mission: strong black coffee and sheer anger would be his fuel. However, even a man on a mission, fuelled by strong black coffee and sheer anger, needs to pee every now and again. When he stopped in a lay-by outside Milan for just this purpose, his body juddering and his legs almost locked into place by gripping the bike at such high speeds, he noticed that his phone was beeping in his pocket. He had a message.
It was from the Chief Executive. At first Rafi wasn’t even going to bother to listen to it. He knew what it would say. Then he did listen, because after all it might say something else.
It said what he expected. Things he didn’t want to hear, such as: ‘Where are you?’ and ‘Where’s the boy?’ and ‘What’s going on?’ and ‘Get a move on.’ Oh, and ‘We’d like to be able to continue to rely on your services, Rafi,’ in a very insulting and patronizing tone of voice.
Rafi kicked a tree. He hated being patronized. Those sniking big boys at school, when he was a little kid … Yeah, but he wasn’t a kid any more.
And his arm ached.
Angrily, he punched in Charlie’s number.
Charlie, sitting on the deck of the solarboat with Elsina tickling his feet with her whiskers, picked up his phone.
‘Hello, Charlieboy,’ Rafi said. ‘Hi there. How are you? Feeling pretty chipper? I bet you are. I bet you think you’re doing just fine, don’t you, running away with your little furry friends …’
As he recognized the voice, Charlie froze. Then he came swiftly back to life.
‘Oh, shut it, Rafi,’ he said. ‘You’re a bore. I’ve had it with you and these stupid phone calls … What’s the matter, someone ticked you off again for being so stupid? Got to find a smaller kid to take it out on? Well, how small is that, you pinnock? Just proves how small you are, doesn’t it –’
Rafi butted in. ‘Bigger than you, Charlie! And cleverer.’
‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ said Charlie. ‘Course you are, Rafi, which explains why I’ve escaped from you, and kept ahead of you, and know what you’re up to. Come on, Rafi. Prove it. You’re so big, prove it. Find me, for a start, and then let’s see who –’
‘Hey, cleverboy!’ cooed Rafi, in a deeply irritating singsong voice. ‘Hey, cleverboy, I think you’ll find I’m big enough to carry around something of yours, cleverboy … You take a look in your handbag and see what you’re missing, why don’t you. Go on! I won’t keep you – I’ll call you back later so we can talk about it.’
Rafi rang off. He felt a lot better now he had humiliated Charlie.
Charlie leapt up, flinging Elsina from him, and ran to his bag.
The parchment – his parents’ formula, written in his mother’s blood – wasn’t there.
For the second time in his life, he swore.
Chapter Fifteen
Magdalen was reading a newspaper on the train. In the foreign news was a story about the recent miraculous events in Venice, where the Doge had been toppled from power by the appearance of the Lion of St Mark, who had led the gondoliers in a p
eaceful revolution, supported by an army of Lions and a small brown saint, who had provided heavenly medicine to the asthmatic children of the city …
Magdalen wondered.
Aneba was snoozing on her shoulder. She stroked his knee. When he awoke, she would show him the story.
Mabel was sleeping too. Magdalen looked across at her sister and wanted, more than almost anything, to be friends with her again. But she was so angry with her.
‘There’s Pantelleria now!’ Charlie called. He had programmed the island’s name into the solarboat’s navigation system, and they were approaching the main harbour. It was low and rocky; hot and picturesque. Charlie looked forward to getting off the solarboat and running around a bit. He fancied a shower too. His coating of salt was getting just a bit too thick.
As they approached this beautiful island, something rather horrible happened.
A fence appeared out of the sea in front of them. Like the wall of the lock in Paris, it just rose up. But this was not a useful wall. It was a high metal fence with points to its bars – sharp points. It looked as if it were made out of spears, bound together with thick barbed wire. It was extremely unwelcoming.
The water rushed off it. It shone and sparkled. It blocked their way.
‘Oh,’ said Charlie.
The Lions growled. Sergei had a look on his face that suggested he wasn’t at all surprised.
A voice came out of nowhere, over the water. A smooth female voice.
‘Who are you?’ it said, in English, French, Italian, Arabic, Greek and Spanish.
Charlie thought quickly – at least he tried to. Should he lie?
He couldn’t bear to have to lie all the time. He hated it.
‘Charlie Ashanti!’ he cried, not sure how the voice could hear him.
‘Do we know you?’ the voice replied after a moment.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but –’
‘Then go away,’ said the smooth voice.
‘No, but –’
‘Go away,’ it repeated.
‘We only want some water –’
