by J S Landor
Jack glared back. ‘Numpty,’ he muttered.
‘And what’s one of them when it’s at home? You bin reading them ickle baby books? Humpty Dumpty sat on the –’
And that was what finally did it. Jack was way beyond nursery rhymes, and he’d had enough of the jabbing finger. ‘It’s “man” or “mouse”, you moron!’ he shouted.
‘Oh yeah?’ The boy raised his fists with a grin. ‘Reckon ’umpty’s got the ’ump! Come on then, li’l mouse …’
Motivated by some deep instinct which told him to make his whole body like a battering ram, Jack charged forwards. At the last moment, he twisted sideways, dropping his shoulder low. He didn’t see the boy’s astonished expression, but as his head thundered into his midriff, there was a moment of intense satisfaction: he knocked the loudmouth clean off his feet.
‘Ooof!’
What happened next, however, took them both by surprise. Beyond the mound of sand where the boy had been standing was a precipice. The two of them crashed over it.
There were rocks on the way down and they hurt like hell. Jack’s knee crashed into the boy’s head and something sharp gouged his ankle. Above them the gulls screeched in alarm, but their own yells, mixed with the clatter of tumbling stones, were decibels louder.
Eventually, they came to a sprawling halt on a stretch of soft sand, Jack on his front and the boy spread-eagled on his back.
‘Bloomin’ maniac! Thought yer said yer didn’t fight!’
‘I LIED!’ roared Jack. A trickle of blood ran down his ankle. He bit his lip against the pain.
Groaning, the boy sat up and put his head between his knees. Drops of blood from his forehead stained the sand.
‘Here!’ barked Jack. He pulled a filthy tissue from his pocket. ‘Take it.’
With a grimace – either of disgust or pain, Jack couldn’t tell which – the boy mopped his face. Then he put his fingers in his mouth to remove what looked like a piece of tooth. Throwing it aside, he heaved himself up.
‘Bill Armitage,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘It is my beach. No one comes in autumn, leastways not after the ’olidays. That’s my Princess over there … What’s the matter? Cat got yer tongue?’
Jack peered into the boy’s big, open face. ‘Bill?’
The bushy eyebrows should have given it away; the voice too. It was him, the engineer from the ship. Only he was younger, much younger. Jack’s heart gave a thud. This time the disc had sent him backwards rather than forwards.
He glanced along the beach. A small boat, Bill’s Princess, was pulled up on the sand nearby, a fishing rod sticking out the back with its line trailing in the water. And beyond, on a craggy island in the sea, stood a familiar sight: the Pentland lighthouse.
‘Do I know yer?’ asked Bill, hoisting him up.
‘Yes! I – I mean no.’ Jack grinned awkwardly. ‘Well, not yet anyway … I think we’re going to be friends!’
‘We’re bleedin’ blood brothers already. Look at us! What’s yer name?’
‘Jack Tideswell.’
‘And yer climbed down ’ere in them shoes?’
Jack looked down at his plimsolls, then up to the cliffs which rose behind them. Hundreds of thousands of gulls thronged every ledge and crevice. He nodded.
‘Blimey. Can you swim an’ all?’
‘Course I can!’
A grin stole across Bill’s face. ‘Hmmm. A mouse wot swims.’ His eyes flicked towards the sea.
Without a word of warning, he set off down the beach, chunks of wet sand flying around his heels. As he ran, he peeled off his shirt and, with a quick backwards glance, whirled it about his head and whooped like an Indian warrior.
Two black gym shoes lay discarded among the rocks. Jack was close behind. When his feet hit the water’s edge, he yelled too. The surf was ice cold and made his ankle sting like an animal had chewed it.
‘Last one in’s a bloomin’ –’
The wind stole Bill’s final words but Jack had a shrewd idea what they might be. He ran even faster. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t have stopped him. Bill was asking for it.
A wave rolled in and he plunged towards it, disappearing through the wall of water which poured down like a white mane. The shock of immersion was wonderful. Within seconds he forgot the cold, forgot his stinging ankle, forgot everything in his life that felt unfair and lost himself in his own private battle against the breakers.
It took several dives to get beyond them and by the time he surfaced, Bill was nowhere to be seen. He paddled about, listening for a tell-tale splash or shout. But apart from the gulls with their endless creeling, he was alone.
A small boat toiled across the choppy waves towards the lighthouse. In the prow, he could make out three figures, standing shoulder to shoulder, too far away to notice his tiny bobbing head. His courage began to fade. Where had Bill got to? Surely he could handle the current?
All at once the water erupted below him and before he knew what was happening, a pair of broad shoulders lifted him clean out of it. ‘Let go!’ he screamed. Two hands had fastened around his ankles, tipping him backwards.
For a split second, while his arms flailed, he could see the lighthouse quite clearly. A man with binoculars watched his plight from the walkway on top. Just before he slammed down, gulping a horrible salty mouthful, he saw him wave.
‘Ha ha ha!’ Through the haze of bubbles came muffled howls of laughter. ‘No one can hold their breath as long as me!’ roared Bill as he reappeared.
‘Wanna bet?’ spluttered Jack, furious at being caught out.
‘Yeah, bring it on!’
‘How much?’
‘Pound note says yer won’t last two minutes.’
‘Easy!’ Jack flicked back his wet hair, spraying Bill in the face.
‘You ent got the lungs, Mouse.’
‘Watch me.’
Jack dived again, so wrapped up in the moment he completely forgot he was in another ‘here and now’. Being with Bill was fun. Despite his rough edges, Jack liked him and wanted nothing more than to win his admiration.
The money didn’t much matter, which was lucky, because in his enthusiasm Jack had overlooked one important detail. There was no such thing as a pound note, at least not in his ‘here and now’. They’d stopped printing them more than thirty years before.
***
Later on, Jack couldn’t help laughing. As things turned out, Bill didn’t have a penny on him. He was so embarrassed he wouldn’t let the subject drop. Jack had won fair and square; he’d pay him back ‘one day’, he said. To prove it, he wrote ‘I.O.U.’ in the sand with a big stick he was using to prod the fire they’d made.
The wind had picked up and no amount of driftwood seemed sufficient to make a good blaze. So, belatedly, they’d begun building a firewall of rocks, each trying to outdo the other over who could lift the biggest.
While they worked Jack’s eyes kept returning to the letters in the sand. As far as he was concerned, Bill had already settled his debt on The Empress. He wanted to tell him everything, about the ship, Lily, the light … but he stopped himself short. It’ll freak him out, he thought.
Instead, he asked about the visitors he’d seen.
‘Oh, them.’ Bill dropped a huge rock into position and stood back to survey his handiwork. ‘Them’s the Brethren.’
‘Are they monks or something?’
‘No, you clod! Don’t you know nuffin? They’re from Trinity House – officials. It’s them what runs the lighthouses. My dad’s the keeper.’
Jack nodded. ‘I think I saw him earlier. The man with binoculars?’
‘That’s ’im. Always bloomin’ spyin’.’
‘Can we go and see him?’ It occurred to Jack he could warn the adults about the light.
‘Nope.’
‘Why
not? You live there, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’ Bill gave the fire a prod. ‘I’m mainly with mam on the mainland.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s easier fer school,’ explained Bill. ‘I help when I can. He doesn’t want me today.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re talkin’ – ’bout improvements.’
‘There’s a problem with the light?’
‘No! Works perfick.’
‘How do you know? What if there’s a fault? What if some day it breaks down? Suddenly the power could fail and the next thing you know –’
‘Ent never gonna break down!’ Bill cut in. ‘Not while my dad’s keeper. Anyways, if the main light goes, we’ve got a backup. Plus two sets of batteries in case the electric fails. ’Ere we go – look!’
The light had come on. As it swept across the bay, Bill grew animated. ‘It’s got its own signature flash, see, every five seconds. That’s how you know it’s the Pentland,’ he said proudly.
‘There’s three lenses wot revolve round the lamp, bleedin’ massive things. We has to dust ’em every day, and polish ’em with vinegar. Then once a year we –’
He broke off. Jack’s hand was on his shoulder. ‘Wot?’
‘I have to go.’
Bill looked disappointed. ‘You cold or summat? I can fix that.’ He marched over to his boat.
Jack pulled on his plimsolls. He wasn’t cold and he didn’t want to leave. The Pentland light had triggered the tugging sensation and it was getting stronger by the second. The disc was pulling him back.
‘Bill, listen. Have you ever seen magic happen? Right in front of your eyes?’
‘Once or twice,’ said Bill over his shoulder. ‘Watched a bloke cut a woman in ’alf once. Bit boring really. Ah, ’ere it is!’ He held up a jerry can and an oily rag.
‘That’s just a stupid trick! I mean the real thing.’
‘Wot, like witches and broomsticks?’
‘No! The kind where you go backwards and forwards. In time.’
‘Teleporting and stuff?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Load of rubbish.’
‘That’s what I thought. Then –’
Bill wasn’t paying any attention. He doused the rag with liquid from the can. ‘I’ll show yer a piece of bloomin’ magic. Stand back.’
He picked up a stone the size of a tennis ball and tied the rag around it. Then, after weighing the bundle in his hand, he lobbed it high into the air. It landed dead centre in the pile of smouldering wood. A crackle, a hiss and a great deal of spitting followed before an explosion of flames reached into the sky.
‘HowZAT!’
Bill spun round, arms raised in triumph.
Above him, the gulls circled and screeched.
‘Mouse?’ The bushy eyebrows met in the middle. There was no cheer of approval, no friend to join him in a war dance around the flames. The beach was empty. Jack’s magic had beaten him to it.
***
The screensaver lighthouse glowed luminous in the dusk of the room. Six letters slid down its yellow beam into the sea: P – h – a – r – o – s.
Despite what had happened, Jack felt surprisingly calm. He’d made up his mind. There was something he had to do – for Lily, Bill, even toad-face Lonsdale.
A small amount of money lay on his desk, with a shiny silver pen that had belonged to his father and his crystal horse, Indigo. He put the items in his rucksack, taking care to wrap Indigo in a nest of tissues inside his favourite old, red hoodie.
Then he folded up the train timetable he’d printed out. His plan was simple. Tomorrow he’d skip school, take the Great Eastern line to Dunton and walk across The Spike peninsula to Wakeham. From there it was only a fifteen-minute boat ride to the lighthouse.
Bill’s reassurances about the backup system hadn’t convinced him. He had to find the keeper and warn him about the light. He’d seen with his own eyes what was going to happen. And the only one who could stop it was him.
Brimming with excitement, he picked up the mysterious disc. What kind of crazy device is this? he thought. First it had catapulted him into the future, to an event which had very nearly killed him. Then it had blasted him to the past, landing him in his first-ever fist fight!
One thing, at least, was clear. He understood now how Bill had come to recognise him on the ship. And Lonsdale too, for that matter … though there’d been no reason to call him a thief. He’d been on his best behaviour at Osmaston Hall.
Downstairs, the DJ on the radio announced another song. To his relief, Nan had given up singing. He tucked the disc in the hoodie along with Indigo and zipped up the rucksack. He’d have to wear his uniform and act normally in the morning. She’d go nuts if she knew what he was up to.
Exhausted, he collapsed on the bed. Lily had haunted his dreams for two nights running and he had a feeling tonight would be no different. Perhaps when he’d seen the keeper she would leave him in peace.
He pulled off the plimsolls and a sprinkling of dry, white sand fell to the floor, sparkling on the thick pile of the carpet. He studied it for a moment. ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall …’ At least Bill couldn’t accuse him of doing that.
Chapter 20
It was long past midnight at Osmaston Hall and several fallow deer had crept into the walled garden to nibble at the shrubbery. A tawny owl hooted overhead and in the distance, a dog fox called to his mate. The marauding deer munched on, stooping low among the holly bushes to reach the tender bark.
A strangled cry filled the air. The deer stood to attention, watchful as sentries, their ears twitching. A long, rasping choke came from somewhere nearby: some creature was breathing its last. The deer had heard enough. With one collective leap, they bounded away in fright.
The house itself was in darkness, except for the soft blue glow of a laptop computer in the ground-floor office. Two big moths dive-bombed the screen, kamikaze-style, and Herbert Lonsdale swatted them aside. He couldn’t be bothered to close the window.
He scratched his head, tapped in some calculations and groaned. The Empress project was going to cost the Harington business a small fortune. At this rate it would take at least five years and the profits from every shop, office and hotel they owned to get the hare-brained scheme afloat. Geraldine might just as well play Monopoly with her properties.
But Lady Harington could not be dissuaded. ‘You can say what you like, Herb, it’s what Victor wanted.’
Romantic stuff and nonsense, thought Lonsdale moodily. There was nothing legal to bind her to a dead man’s whim. Lord Harington had been dead and buried for a year. It was time she realised that this ocean liner was nothing but a fantasy.
A scratching sound behind him interrupted his thoughts. The latch which held the window ajar had come undone and the room filled with a cool breeze. Lonsdale got up, shut the window and stood with his hands in his pockets looking out at the garden.
In the darkness, the enormous topiary bushes that lined the lawn resembled sleeping giants. Everything was perfectly still and quiet … except … Lonsdale leant forwards, squinting. There appeared to be something hanging from the silver birch tree.
Overhead, the clouds parted and for a moment the garden was bathed in moonlight. Lonsdale gasped in horror, realising what he’d been looking at. It was one of the grisliest sights he had ever seen.
Before he could do anything about it, a gloved hand covered his mouth. There was no time to struggle. He felt a sharp pain on the side of his neck and collapsed unconscious on the floor.
A small, wiry figure in a dark tracksuit gave the accountant’s sprawling body a shove. No response. Beneath his black balaclava, two impish eyes beamed with pleasure. Holding the high-powered stun gun to his lips, the intruder kissed it lightly before replacing it in his belt.
Moving swiftly, he went to the
safe and entered the code, removing several large wads of cash which he put in his backpack. Moments later he padded across the hallway and up the sweeping staircase, his black trainers squeaking on the marble steps.
Loud, manly snores came from a room at the end of a long gallery. A broad, mischievous grin spread across the thief’s face. Apparently, Lady Harington was not such a ladylike sleeper. She sounded like a giant balloon deflating.
Stealing into the room, he made straight for the wooden jewellery box on the dressing table and started examining the contents with his torch. Tiny flecks of coloured light danced across the ceiling and he sighed as if he’d never seen anything so beautiful. Into the backpack went a large sapphire ring, a gold heart-shaped locket, a diamond tiara and a bright turquoise bead necklace which Lady Harington had been given as a child. The necklace had not fitted around her broad neck for years.
She stirred in her sleep. ‘Whoa there, boy! Hold your horses …’
The thief froze, his hand hovering over the stun gun.
Lady Harington opened her eyes and clutched at her sheets. ‘Steady, Chesterfield,’ she murmured, ‘steady, boy … only a fox.’ Then, with a great creaking of bedsprings, she rolled over and the snoring resumed.
The thief let out a low whistle of relief. This mountain of a woman would not be easy to silence, especially for someone his size.
He hurried back along the gallery, passing beneath the portraits of Lady Harington’s ancestors. They looked fearsome in the torchlight but he barely gave them a glance. Something far more exciting had caught his attention, through an open door at the other end.
In a high-ceilinged room painted with fleecy clouds, two pinpricks of light winked at him. Padding across a circular cream rug, he paused to look around. The Harington family nursery, where generations of children had played and grown up, still seemed to echo with their voices.
His torch flashed to and fro, resting briefly on a white cot. Through the bars, beside a pile of neatly folded bedding, a small army of soft toys gazed up at him. He put a finger to his lips as if to hush them. Then, with astonishing speed, he bounded forwards and climbed the bookcase to the top.
