“Where’s yours?” Amber asked suspiciously.
“I’m not coming. Not yet.” There was a tone in his voice they’d never heard before: rigid and immovable. They all stared at him.
Amber looked at Fathom to see if this was a joke. He wasn’t smiling. She looked at Gulper, who was as confused as she was.
“We have to stick together!” Gulper said.
“I’ll follow on soon,” said Fenn. Amber glared at him, the old flinty look back in her eyes.
“Why?”
“Fathom knows. He’ll explain it all when you’re safe away from here.”
Fathom nodded.
“Knows what? What do you know?” Amber snapped, staring at Fathom first then back to Fenn.
“That it’s not safe for you lot to stay with me.” Fenn tried to smile. He nodded at Amber’s clover earring. “You’ll have more luck without me.”
“You can’t stay here alone,” Gulper said.
“No, he can’t. Tell him Fathom.” Amber looked at Fathom for support but when she found none, she fell silent and tears ran down her cheeks.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got Tikki,” Fenn said. Amber suddenly threw her arms around Fenn’s neck and sobbed aloud. Fenn tried to disentangle himself but before he could get free, Amber let go anyway, almost shoving him away. She fumbled with her scarf for a second before she closed his fingers around something hard and sharp. Then she ran back along the gangplank and disappeared below deck.
“Better get going before you miss the tide,” Fenn said to Fathom.
He gave Comfort a kiss. Then Fathom and Gulper hugged him briefly before following Comfort onto the boat. Fathom pulled back the gangplank and Fenn dropped the moor line off the bollard. Gulper hoisted the line back over the gunwale.
“See you in West Isle,” Fenn called.
The Madeleine chugged away and the soft swell from her wash slopped against the jetty. As the ship surged across the estuary towards open sea, Amber appeared by the rail, trying to catch one last glimpse of him.
Fenn was already halfway up the rise towards the hut before he dared open his hand, still clenched around the object Amber had pushed into it. He knew what it was before he looked; in the centre of his palm lay Amber’s lucky brass clover. He was going to need it and, as he pinned it through the cloth in his shirt pocket, his heart started pounding so hard that it felt like it would crash through his ribs. He wanted to turn around, to wave, to run back and go with his friends. Instead he continued to walk on, doggedly. From over the estuary, he just caught Amber shouting with all her might.
“Fenn!”
But Fenn refused to turn around or stop; it would do no good for her to see him weeping. There was no place for tears in this world.
Fenn went back to the hut and bolted the doors. He hadn’t slept for days and was exhausted. He hung sacking over the gaping windows then wrapped himself in any blankets he could find, tucked Tikki down by his feet and curled up on Halflin’s bed, burying his face deep in the pillow and breathing in the sweet smell of dry bulrush and pipe smoke. He fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake until it was nearly dusk.
It was time; he knew what to do.
He washed under the kitchen pump, rubbed his hair dry with a blanket, then went outside. He found what he was looking for in the woodshed, hidden behind the rusting generator: a large jerrycan full of kerosene that Halflin filled the lamps from, and a tin of engine oil. Next he salvaged a few glass jars from the hut’s windows, tore down the sheets that divided the rooms and ripped the blankets off the bed. He piled all these in a barrow and wheeled it to the Punchlock.
In the lowering light he filled each of the jars with the kerosene, a layer of oil, then stuffed a piece of torn blanket in the top. Into this he shoved a plaited scrap of sheet to make a wick. When he had made four of them he stopped and rested, sharing a can of corn he’d found with Tikki, as they watched dusk fall over the estuary. The wind had fallen and the sky was clear, except for one dark cloud; a flock of starlings, moving swiftly and changing shape constantly like a shoal of airborne fish. Fenn remembered Halflin explaining how the birds waltzed on the breeze to protect themselves from predators.
As darkness arrived, Fenn locked Tikki in the work shed so he wouldn’t follow him, laid the jars carefully in a catch basket, hitched the jerrycan onto his back and walked down the thin gangway that Halflin had used to do maintenance work on the Punchlock. When he got there he shimmied up the post, gripping it with his knees and ankles like a monkey.
The wood was blackened by years of bitumen painted to stop the salt erosion and it stained Fenn’s hands and clothes. At the top, three thick iron straps secured the T-shaped bar from which the tethering chain creaked gently. Balancing carefully, Fenn crawled out onto the arm, pouring kerosene along it and splashing more down the mast. Finally he slid back down and did the same all around the lock. Then, walking backwards, he poured the last of the kerosene along the gangway. The whole thing took no more than ten minutes. Breathing hard, Fenn picked up the first jar, lit the rag, took a run up and flung it at the Punchlock with all his might.
It flew like a comet, leaving splinters of fire in a tail behind it, but his aim was out and it missed completely, landing in the water. He lit a second. This time his aim was true and it smashed in a satisfying rosette of flame against the Punchlock post. For a second the flame sagged, like a curtain, then it flashed upwards like a bird taking flight and fluttered along the post. He lit a third and threw it so that it shattered on the lock itself. Now the entire structure was alight. Gold, rose and emerald licks of fire twisted and flicked their way across the post and dropped down like tears, fizzing as they hit the water. The starlings scattered in fright.
The Punchlock post began to bubble and blister as the tar melted in the heat. Bitumen oozed out of the wood and a bright tongue of flame licked out from the top of the post where the tethering arm was fixed, as sparks twirled up into the air and the flames ate into the old oak. The heat was so intense that the iron straps supporting the arm started to melt, dripping and sliding down the post in molten red streams. After a few minutes there was a splintering sound as the arm of the Punchlock started to collapse. The embers of the burning wood blazed high into the sky, illuminating the whole estuary. Suddenly the beam crashed down, smashing the edge of the gangway, where the fire buckled and flicked out.
Fenn carefully packed the remaining bottle into his rucksack and went back to unlock the work shed. Tikki was hiding under Halflin’s bench, his eyes wide with fear at the smell of fire and the strange flickering light. As soon as he saw Fenn he scampered up. Fenn cuddled him close, carefully tucking him down into his reefer jacket to keep him safe. Then he shut the door and clambered quickly back up the hill, away from the searing heat.
Fenn followed the low wall in front of the hut and skirted around it until he reached the scrubby, stony land that sloped down towards a small cliff. From there he could see the world clearly; to his left the estuary swelled out towards the sea, to his right the river and streams glistened like mercury between the dense reeds. He flattened out a tussock of dry moss, sat down and put Tikki on his lap, stroking him gently as he watched the jetty and Punchlock burn and slowly collapse into the sea. Only its mast still stood, blazing like a beacon in the dark, the black smoke drifting like a stain across the water.
A damp breeze suddenly swept up from the estuary, bringing ash fluttering over the entire hill, snowing down on him and making his eyes stream. He shivered as he stared out at the huge sea, the Whale’s Acre, then he held Tikki against his chest and lay back on the ground, gazing up at the starless sky.
No more hiding in the darkness. A fire like this would be seen for hundreds of miles.
Coming soon…
FENN HALFLIN AND THE
RISING OF THE SEABORN
Hunted by the brutal Terra Firma, Fenn Halflin’s survival now depends on finding the last of a rumoured resistance group. His journey will take him deep into a treacherous marsh, but a
s the water levels continue to rise, the fight to get the Seaborns behind the Wall has never been more desperate.
Read more great adventures…
About the author
Francesca Armour-Chelu grew up by the Suffolk Coast. She studied English and Drama at Goldsmiths and went on to work in museum education and public libraries. Her experience of living on water meadows in an abandoned Edwardian railway carriage inspired her debut novel, Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero, which was shortlisted for the Mslexia Children’s Novel Competition 2012. Francesca lives in Suffolk.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published in Great Britain 2016 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2016 Francesca Armour-Chelu
Map illustration © 2016 Francesca Armour-Chelu
Cover design © 2016 Richard Collingridge
The right of Francesca Armour-Chelu to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-6931-1 (ePub)
www.walker.co.uk
Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero Page 20
