“She thought tha’ were truth,” Halflin explained. “Poor thing. I ‘eard she passed.”
Tikki had been watching the old man with interest and sniffed at his ankles, squeaked at him, then jumped up and settled in Fenn’s lap. “Yer caught yerself a mongoose,” Halflin murmured as he began to wash the blood from Fenn’s eye. Crying had made Fenn’s breath gather in his chest like pleats of air, and he couldn’t get the words out.
“Take a minute,” Halflin told him and Fenn gently stroked Tikki’s fur, making him purr. That sound had always warmed Fenn’s heart.
“I … I … found him on the Panimengro,” Fenn managed, his breath slipping out in a shuddering sigh. “I can’t believe you’re alive!”
“An’ I can’t believe yer here! Word was yer were on the Shanties, an’ I believed it ’til the Punchlock got lit. Guessed it were you! Then rumour were yer’d got ter the Sargassons.” Halflin grabbed a rag from the table and pressed it hard against Fenn’s eye.
“I did! Moray helped me and my friends, but the Terras attacked, and we got away but—”
“Yer got caught.” Halflin nodded. “Every Seaborn ends up here.”
“Humber showed me the tunnel you started. Everyone’s trying to break out, but the Terras are doing a Sweep.”
“Lookin’ fer yer?” Halflin said, alarmed.
Fenn nodded. “Humber and Magpie hid me down here…”
“Don’t know no Magpie, but that Humber, he’s a good ’un!” Halflin murmured.
“I’ve got to get back, my friends are still—”
“Yer not goin’ nowhere,” Halflin muttered as he pressed the edges of the torn skin together firmly. “If the Terras know yer on the ship, we don’t have long. They’ll be down here soon.” Halflin quickly began to wind the bandage around Fenn’s head.
“Why did Lundy think you’d died?” Fenn asked while Halflin worked.
“She saw ’em get me on the patrol bound ter the Warspite, but I jumped overboard an’ took me chance in the water. They thought I’d drowned. Got ter shore, laid low, then tried ter get a boat ter come an’ fetch yer. Got caugh’ an’ landed ’ere.”
He tied a knot in the bandage and checked his work, tilting Fenn’s face against the light.
“Wha’ time is it?” he suddenly asked. “Reckon it’s dawn?”
“Not yet,” Fenn answered.
Halflin nodded and put his fingers on his temples to help himself think.
“Tha’ hurt still?” he asked, studying Fenn’s face.
“A bit,” Fenn said. It felt like his head was on fire.
“Well, I got summat ter take the edge off tha’.”
Halflin quickly fumbled along the bench until his fingers found a small glass bottle hidden behind the others, containing what looked like purple syrup. He uncorked it and gave it to Fenn to drink.
“Knock it back quick, it’s bitter as cud.”
He watched Fenn grimace as he swallowed the lot, then he helped him stand up. Tikki fell off Fenn’s lap with an angry chatter, but Halflin just nudged him out of the way with the toe of his boot. Quick as the two of them could manage, he guided Fenn down the dark passage by the side of the fire. In the shadows behind them, Tikki scampered at a safe distance from Halflin’s boot; he seemed to know instinctively that he must keep quiet around the stumbling old man.
“Is this another way back up?” Fenn asked, feeling his way through the gloom.
“Yep,” Halflin mumbled as he stepped through a doorway into a second narrow corridor. He bolted the door hard behind him and they were plunged into complete blackness. Fenn felt like he couldn’t breathe; he started to feel sick.
“Grandad…?”
“Yep?” Halflin answered, stubbornly limping ahead.
“I feel strange.”
“Well, yer took a knock, din’t yer?” Halflin mumbled as he tapped down the corridor. Fenn heard a bolt being passed back and another door creaked open, revealing a gloomy room with a long wooden trolley, on which three large rice sacks were already lined up. Around the ceiling were the remains of bars where more cells had once been. The far end of the room was made up of a large goods lift with a square door and a heavy crank handle on the right.
“Sit there,” Halflin told him, lifting him under the arms onto the edge of the trolley. Fenn watched woozily as Halflin began to shunt the sacks along to make space. His eyelids suddenly drooped and he was overcome with a desire to lie down. He forced himself to stay upright.
“But…” he just managed to say through his grogginess. “I have to get back to…”
“I have ter get you out,” Halflin said firmly, drawing his hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the Punchlock and all the woes it had brought him. He grunted as he heaved the next two sacks further down the trolley. “So I give yer a little sleepwort,” he said quietly. “Din’t like ter trick yer, but I know yer too well. Yer’d never leave yer friends, an’ tha’ll get yer killed.”
Fenn struggled to stand up, but his joints felt like they were loosening, like a puppet having its strings snipped. Halflin only needed to give him the gentlest nudge for Fenn to slide sideways down onto the cool stone. He fought to keep awake, rolling his head onto his cut so pain would make him sharp again. When that didn’t work, he tried to bite his tongue but his teeth kept missing their mark.
“Don’t fight it,” Halflin instructed. “Sleepwort slows the heart. Makes yer feel dead – makes yer look dead.” He lifted Fenn’s feet up onto the trolley. “Viktor’ll be here soon ter get the next load up on deck, then off ter the bone-barge. There’ll be a coupler Malmuts sniffin’ round fer sure, but they’ll smell nothin’. Yer’ll be dead ter them.”
Fenn could only blink as he watched Halflin. Now he realised what was in the sacks.
“Don’t be ’fraid. They can’t hurt yer,” he said. “When yer wake up, Viktor’ll take yer somewhere safe ’til dust settles. He still owes me. I got his wife an’ kid ter safety once. After this we’re quits. Don’t be mad at him for dumpin’ yer on the Shanties. He’d only do that if ’e ’ad ter.”
Halflin shook out a large empty sack, and began to pull it up around Fenn’s feet like a sleeping bag. Seeing that he was soon to be covered made Fenn all the more desperate. He mustered every last fibre in his body to lift his head and look at Halflin.
“Come with me…” he just managed to say, before his tongue flopped uselessly in his mouth. Halflin shook his head.
“Sleepwort would slaugh’er a worn heart like mine. Peaceful death, but I ain’t ready yet. Besides, an old man wiv a gammy leg will geddus both killed.” Halflin reached out and touched Fenn’s hair with the tips of his fingers. His hands were trembling.
Now or never, he told himself. Now or never. He squatted down on his heels so his face was level with Fenn’s.
“Got summat ter say. Blink if yer can hear.”
Fenn blinked.
“Lundy always wanted me ter tell yer this – an’ she were right.”
Halflin swallowed. He’d never tried to win Fenn’s love, but he didn’t want his hate either. He hoped Fenn would forgive him. His voice was raw.
“Yer folks weren’t me kin. I’m not yer grandad. I’m nuffin’ ter do with the Demaris, ’cept that I sunk their barge; damn me for ever … an’ then I found yer!”
Halflin let out a rasping laugh of amazement, remembering the fateful day their paths had crossed.
“Like dead in the water yer were, but yer took a breath an’ yer lived again! We’ve both of us ’ad all our second chances, boy. Yer lived – an’ I got ter tell yer the truth. Should’ve told yer years ago mind, but kept losin’ me nerve.”
Fenn struggled to stay awake but his body felt like it was being clawed downwards, somewhere deep and quiet; into the quagmires of sleepwort sleep, shadowy, cool as a coffin. He could barely even open his eyes now.
Halflin stood up and unwound his scarf.
“I know I did wrong ter try an’ keep yer, when yer weren’t mine
ter keep,” he said, tucking the scarf under Fenn’s cheek for a pillow. “Strange; all ’em years we ’ad in our little hut, with no one but each other fer company, yet I never foun’ one momen’ ter tell yer.”
He bit his lip at his weakness.
“An’ I knowed tha’ would’ve bin safest. If yer knowed the truth, then maybe yer never would’ve come back.”
Sleepwort had thickened Fenn’s thoughts into slurry, but he could hear every last word Halflin said. Before he finally lost consciousness he thought, I would always have come back…
Then everything melted together into a sludge of red and black, marsh and river, whales and Wall, Tikki and friends, water and stone. A tear rolled out of Fenn’s eye onto Halflin’s hand, but the skin there was too calloused for Halflin to feel something so small. Instead he stroked Fenn’s hair once more before taking his hand away as if he had no right to even touch Fenn. He allowed himself to look at Fenn for just a few seconds more, then got on with what needed to be done.
He went to the shaft, opened the door and yanked a rope-pull. Somewhere high up a bell clanged, echoing down the shaft: Halflin’s signal to Viktor that he was ready. The lift could only be operated from the outside by two crank handles: one in the basement and one up on deck.
A few seconds later came the sound of grinding cogs and wheels as Viktor lowered the crate. While Halflin had been talking to Fenn, Tikki hid silently in the shadows, but as soon as the old man’s back was turned, he jumped up on the trolley and wriggled down in the sack, squirming beneath Fenn’s jacket and lying very still – he wasn’t letting Fenn out of his sight. The rumbling in the shaft grew louder; there wasn’t much time. Halflin took out a black glass bottle and tucked it in Fenn’s coat pocket, then pulled the rest of the sack up over Fenn’s head and tied it with a slip knot that could be quickly undone.
A clanking sound echoed in the room and a crate appeared in the shaft opening. Halflin quickly wheeled the trolley over and heaved the first sack inside, trying not to bump it on the wooden sides. It took another five minutes before he’d got the other inside, by which time sweat had beaded on his brow. When it was Fenn’s turn, he rested his hand on the hessian one last time before pulling on the bell rope again to signal Viktor to crank the crate back up.
As he watched the crate disappear up into the darkness, he suddenly remembered the little mongoose that had followed Fenn in. He shut the door to the shaft and stumbled back down the corridor, whistling into the shadows, trying to remember if it had a name. He’d have to find it; the little thing had looked so scared. It would need looking after.
18
Something stung acridly in Fenn’s nose and throat, and he spluttered up from the depths of unconsciousness. He felt like he’d been underwater for a long time, as if his body had been shipwrecked, leaving his mind floating away like a piece of jetsam in a vast, blank sea. Vague memories slopped over him as he was lifted on a swell of queasiness with each breath. All he could see was the purple-spotted orange light through the shield of his own eyelids. As his mind came back into focus, he wondered if he was still on the Brimstone and if Halflin was still there. He had so much he wanted to ask him; so much he didn’t understand. But of all his questions only one mattered; who did either of them belong to if not each other? He was angry too, not at Halflin’s trickery but at his own stupidity in not expecting it. He should have known Halflin would always be one step ahead.
Fenn managed to open one eyelid and saw something glinting close by, then he felt something move by his hand and was overjoyed to realise Tikki was there too, sniffing and licking his palm, trying to rouse him. Gradually the vague shape in front of him sharpened into a face. Fenn wouldn’t have recognised him if it weren’t for the F-shaped scar, sticking out even more brutally now that his head was shaved so close the skin had been nicked in many places. Veins snaked beneath the stubble like the grey ghosts of braids he once had knotted there. It was Viktor.
Fenn was lying on a bench in the cabin of a tug, even smaller than the one Halflin had used to tow Sunkmarked boats back to the Punchlock. To one side, steam shot from the spout of a green kettle dancing on the stove’s hotplate, and next to the bench a small wooden table showed signs of a recent meal – a crust of rice bread and a few too-hard beans scattered over an enamel plate. At the front of the cabin stood the ship’s wheel; charts and maps showing the coastline of East Isle were nailed to every beam, each of them bearing the Terra Firma stamp.
“It’s hartshorn,” Viktor said as he re-stoppered the bottle he’d been waving under Fenn’s nose before stowing it away in the table drawer. “You’d call them smelling salts – a gift from Halflin. Sharp now?” he asked, digging his hard hands under Fenn’s arms and hoisting him up to a sitting position. “So, the Panimengro’s tosher was Fenn Demari all along!” Viktor smiled, clapping his shoulder.
“I have to go back,” Fenn said immediately, trying to stand, but his sleep-slack muscles weren’t ready for that yet and he instantly toppled over. Viktor helped pick him up and propped his jacket under one side to keep him from rolling over. Then he stomped over to the stove where he clattered the kettle against a tin mug.
The long sou’wester Fenn had never seen him take off had gone, and in its place Viktor was dressed in the slug-grey boiler suit that all Fearzero workers were forced to wear. The one he wore – and the spare Fenn had spotted hanging on the nail by the door – were the only clothes he had; the Terra Firma owned him now. On his back was emblazoned a large Terra Firma insignia: a sharp-edged red triangle with a black T and F in the centre. Coming back to Fenn with the steaming drink, he caught Fenn’s eye and shrugged as if it didn’t bother him so much.
“What of it? So the old devil rides my back,” he muttered. “At least I’m alive.” He pushed the mug across the table.
“I need to help my friends, and Halflin too,” Fenn said.
Viktor jerked his chin towards the mug. “Drink before talk. You look green-gilled. Don’t want spew on my table,” he grumbled, shoving the mug at him and slopping the contents. “Careful, it’s meski,” he warned, clenching his fist. Fenn still looked blank. “Living with Sargassons and still not learnt our tongue? Meski means ‘strong’. Very strong!”
Fenn nodded and knocked it back in one scalding gulp. It was like swallowing nettle and wasp stings mixed together: sweet, sharp, hot and minty, like the syrup Halflin used to spoon on the back of Fenn’s tongue when he had a sore throat. The drink seemed to blaze into all the fuggy nooks and crannies of his mind, making his thinking clear and sharp.
“You listen to me!” Fenn demanded. “You have to take me back now!”
Viktor returned to the wheel and peered through the soot-smeared windows. Outside the sun was beginning to set and the sky was mottling to a deep blue.
“I promised I’d get you as far away as possible. Halflin wants you safe. We all do.”
“To West Isle?”
“In the Crescent?” Viktor laughed, slapping the wheel scornfully. “She’s not the Panimengro! She can only just manage the sea between the Hellhulks and the Warspite – that’s all this beach-hugger’s good for. Halflin said to get you on another Gleaner. The Sastimos is waiting for you.”
Viktor locked the wheel before opening the door and stepping onto the narrow deck. Fenn staggered out after him.
“Why don’t yer make yerself useful? Skeg for her lights; she’s docked here somewhere,” Viktor mumbled, passing him a telescope to look through. Meanwhile he checked the ropes running through the tyre fenders that bounced around the edge of the little boat.
Fenn lifted the brass to his eye: they were only a mile off the shore. He quickly swung back towards the Brimstone and the Hercules; smoke plumed like storm clouds from the Brimstone’s stern. Further out to sea, he could just make out distant twinkling lights on the old familiar shape of the Warspite. Then he turned the telescope to scan the many bays and inlets fretting the coastline. Almost immediately he recognised the very tributary he and his
friends had come into when they sailed the Salamander back. In the fading light, he spied a darker outline of a boat, tucked away in the reeds.
“She’s there,” he said, pointing.
“Your yews were always sharp,” Viktor said approvingly. “Need to make this quick. Gotta be back by dawn. We’re towing the Warspite to the Brim at first light. Then it’s me that has to get rid of the body.”
“What?” Fenn asked, frowning.
“Chilstone won’t want no one to see it.” He sucked his teeth thoughtfully as he steered the tug into the neck of the creek.
“What body?”
“The kid they took off the Brim – the one pretending to be you!” Viktor shook his head at Fenn like he was stupid. Fenn stared at him dumbfounded. Viktor shrugged. “He’s either very brave … or very stupid.”
Fenn touched his bare neck and the necklace’s absence. He felt sick as he remembered Fathom’s words. They mustn’t get you!
“…either way, it’s good for us that Chilstone thinks he’s got you,” Viktor thought aloud, as he peered ahead into the gloom. “Shouldn’t be any patrols out on the rivers tonight. Not with the execution, an’ the rest of the Terras tryin’ to settle the riots on the Brim.”
“Execution? Chilstone won’t kill him? He’ll know he’s got the wrong boy! He’s seen me. He knows about my eyes.” Fenn’s face was white as milk.
“Chilstone will know, but so what?” Viktor mused. His eyes were lifeless and jaded. Fenn realised in an instant he’d given up all hope of fighting. “The boy is supposed to look like you. So long as Chilstone’s got the key, got a boy everyone thinks is you? It’s enough to crush the Resistance for ever.”
At that moment, Viktor’s attention was caught by a sycamore seed, spinning down onto the deck and he picked it up, idly shredding its flimsy wings as he spoke.
“Up there on the Warspite’s scaffold? Think that lot down on the Brim will know if it’s you – the last Demari – or some other kid? Most of ’em are half-blind from the scurvy anyway. Chilstone knows that. No, the old devil will put on a show – get some lights sparkling on the gibbet. The riots will be over before they started if the Seaborns got no one to fight for.” He sighed deeply and flicked what was left of the seed over the rail, scrutinising Fenn to see if he understood.
Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn Page 15
