The Twelfth Ring

by Sam Clarke

  ‘If it was about the twelfth ring, it would be different,’ my father was saying. ‘But he wants me to go on a stupid job when I’ve made it perfectly clear to him that I’m taking time off.’

  Miguel sighed. ‘It wouldn’t be the first holiday Knut’s asking you to cut short. It’s never been a problem before. He knows something’s up. Maybe you should tell him about Noah.’

  ‘You know he doesn’t like kids around. He’s fine with Isabelle because you can send her back to her mother at the drop of a hat, but I can’t send Noah to Lebanon, can I?’

  ‘Dodging his calls isn’t the answer.’

  ‘I’ll work something out,’ said my father. ‘Let’s concentrate on the George Street business for now. If the item is genuine, you can swap your jeep for a limited-edition Lamborghini Diablo.’

  I shifted position. The sole of one of my flip-flops squeaked against the floor. The sound was barely audible but, before I knew it, my father was standing in front of me with a suspicious look on his face. I was so startled that I forgot to look guilty. ‘Hi dad, I was looking for you,’ I said, with a smile that nearly split my face in half. ‘What time are you leaving for Nassau?’

  He didn’t answer and tried to decipher my smile, which could have been anything from pure innocence to the start of a stroke. I hoped he wouldn’t take too long because my face was beginning to hurt. To my relief, he didn’t accuse of me of anything and checked his watch instead. ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘Cool, I’ll be ready. Where shall we meet?’

  ‘You’re not coming,’ he replied, without the slightest hesitation.

  Disappointment spread over my face. ‘But… you promised I’d be part of your next search.’

  ‘And you will be,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘This is just a pick-up. Nothing exciting.’

  The limited-edition Lamborghini Diablo sounded exciting enough to me, but bringing it up would have meant coming clean about my eavesdropping, and I didn’t want us to start off on the wrong foot. Or on the squeaky one. He sensed my hesitation and spread his hands upwards. ‘There’s nothing going on here, Noah. You can trust me, I’m your father.’

  I could have told him that trust and biological fatherhood do not necessarily go hand in hand, but I was still hoping to go to Nassau, so I held back. My silence baffled him. ‘Is trusting me such an improbable thought?’ he asked.

  In a nutshell, yes, but I didn’t want to offend him and ventured down the tortuous path of diplomacy. ‘No, of course not, but… um… well… how can I put it…’

  ‘Give it me to straight, Noah. I won’t get angry.’

  ‘That’s exactly what mum says right before turning into the Hulk.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll like my answer.’

  ‘By now, I don’t think so either. Spit it out.’

  I scratched my head. ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way but… trusting you is kind of hard. I mean… I still don’t know why mum hates you so much and I have absolutely no idea where you’ve been for the past fifteen years.’

  He kept his cool and didn’t turn green. ‘I know coming here was difficult for you,’ he said, after a brief silence. ‘And I know I owe you some answers, but this isn’t the time.’

  ‘When, then?’ I pushed. ‘Tomorrow? The next day? I really need to know what happened, dad. I really need to know… you.’

  He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind at the last moment. He dropped his gaze. ‘I should go. I’ll see you at dinner.’

  He clapped my shoulder and walked off. I headed for my cabin, my mood darkening with every step. He was as bad as mum, I would never get any answers out of him either. If I wanted to discover what had ripped my family apart, I would have to do it by myself. I just didn’t know how. With my trip to Nassau up in smoke, I decided to make a start on my homework. Ariel had been very clear: every missed deadline would result in a hundred push-ups in the midday heat. Isabelle’s door was open, she was laying on her front, flicking through a glossy magazine. She saw me and broke into a charming smile. When a pretty girl gives me that kind of smile, she always expects something in return. Usually something I’d rather keep. ‘I can make it happen,’ she said, ‘but it’s going to cost you a hundred Bahamian dollars.’

  I sighed. I wasn’t in the mood for games. ‘What is?’

  She snapped her magazine closed, it was a tattered copy of Teen Vogue. ‘I can get you to George Street.’

  Now she had my attention. I took one step inside her cabin, crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to look as interested as I was. ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I’d rather spy on a lonely seagull. I was spying on Magnus and you happened to come along. And get caught. One of these days I’ll have to teach you how to eavesdrop properly,’ she added, as if she regularly held workshops for MI6 agents. ‘So, how about George Street?’

  Price aside, her proposition was incredibly tempting. ‘It depends. Can you get me there by 4:00pm this afternoon?’

  Another “charming” smile followed. ‘I can, but if Magnus catches us snooping around, we’re going to be grounded on Valhalla for the next twenty years. The higher the risk, the higher the price.’

  She was a natural born haggler, but my meagre pocket money had taught me how to drive a hard bargain. ‘I’m not going to pay you anything. You want to know what they’re picking up as much as I do.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m skint and I can’t afford to take you for free. I know how to get a passage into town and you don’t. You do the maths.’

  She returned to her magazine. I cursed inwardly. I had never been past the front gate and had no idea how to get to Nassau. I needed her. ‘I’ll buy you a new Teen Vogue,’ I said.

  ‘And an ice-cream.’

  I exhaled. ‘Fine. Single scoop.’

  ‘And you’ll do my algebra homework for a week.’

  She obviously didn’t know how much I sucked at algebra. I shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want…’

  We shook hands and I hoped I wasn’t digging myself into a deep hole. ‘So,’ I said, lowering my voice to a whisper, ‘how much is this passage going to cost us? Is your contact reliable?’

  She giggled. ‘You watch too much TV, Noah. Viggo goes grocery shopping every Wednesday afternoon. We’ll tag along.’

  My face fell. ‘Your passage is Viggo?’

  ‘Who did you expect? Ron Weasley in his flying car?’

  ‘No, but I had pictured something a bit more… adventurous.’

  ‘If you wanted adventure you should have stayed in London. Valhalla is the dullest place on the planet. Anyway, when we get to the supermarket, do exactly as I say. I’ll take care of the rest.’

  CHAPTER 5

  I was on deck with time to spare, all I had to do was put my trainers on. My father, Ariel and Miguel had already left. Viggo, who had been locked in a never-ending texting session with Hope since they had exchanged phone numbers, had taken a short break to pore over a shopping list. By the time Isabelle showed up, I had cleared three more levels in my farming game. The reason for her delay was pretty obvious. She had undergone a major make-over, I just wasn’t sure about the results. Her lips were a strange shade of pink and if her eyelashes got any longer they could have kept flies at bay. She had applied a magic potion to her face because her cute freckles had mysteriously disappeared. Her low-cut top made her look older than her years and her tiny handbag couldn’t have contained anything bigger than a hamster. She walked right past me and made a beeline for Viggo. He threw her an absent glance and, for no apparent reason, winked. Her cheeks turned crimson. She recovered quickly but, as a serial blusher, I knew what I had seen. Her allergy to Hope finally made sense: she had a crush on my father’s aide. I decided not to tease her about it unless strictly necessary, partly because I’m a sweet guy and partly because I had no idea how to get to George Street by myself.

  The drive to Nassau was a pleasant affair.
We had borrowed Miguel’s jeep and Viggo – who was more responsible than my father when it came to sticking to speed limits – managed to ignore his beeping phone until we reached our unexciting final destination, Super Value Food Store. I was barely out of the car when Isabelle grabbed me by the arm. ‘See you later, then,’ she said, waving her manicured hand at Viggo.

  He frowned. ‘Hang on. I thought you were coming to Super Value.’

  She fluttered her extra-long eyelashes. For a very brief moment, she was the picture of innocence. ‘This is Noah’s first trip to Nassau. Magnus said we could hop on a jitney and do some sightseeing while you do the food shopping. Didn’t he, Noah?’

  I hoped a jitney wasn’t a wild animal, but I couldn’t stand food shopping and was willing to take the risk. ‘Yes, he… he did.’

  Viggo slammed the jeep door closed and leaned against it, undecided. He rubbed his forehead, as if he wanted to warm up his brain. He was about to say something, when his phone beeped. His hand flew to his pocket at supersonic speed. He read his message and curled his lips into a cheeky grin. We could have burst into flames and he wouldn’t have noticed. This was our chance. ‘Can we go then?’ I asked.

  ‘Um… alright,’ he said, without looking up from his phone. ‘But you’ve got to be back here in exactly two hours. Don’t be late.’

  Isabelle dragged me across the street and flagged down an ancient looking bus. In comparison, my father’s truck looked new. ‘Jitneys are the easiest way to get around town,’ she said, after we got to our seats. ‘Pity they don’t come all the way to our marina.’

  As far as I could tell, nothing came (or was allowed to come) all the way to our marina. I glanced at my watch. Twenty to four. I bit my nail. I hadn’t done it in a while, not since mum had found a disgusting varnish to stop nail biting that would put anyone off anything. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the taste of the offending varnish or having to paint my nails in front of her. ‘How far are we from George Street?’ I asked.

  Isabelle pushed her nose against the window to get her bearings. ‘Not far, if we get off at the next stop we can buy my magazine on the way. The newsagent is right next to an ice-cream parlour. What’s with the nail biting, are you having second thoughts?’

  I was so tense that I could feel my nerves pulling inside me. ‘No. I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘If you’re afraid of getting caught, we can turn back. But you still have to pay me.’

  I shook my head. ‘I want to know what my father is up to.’

  ‘You’ll find out very soon. This is our stop.’

  Ten minutes later, we were strolling down a side street. Isabelle, ice-cream in one hand and fashion magazine in the other, was rambling on about the stray dog that she had recently adopted in Paris. I couldn’t make her out, most of the time she was incredibly irritating, but every now and then a sweeter version of her emerged and forced me to doubt my judgement. Or maybe I was being extra-lenient because she was so pretty. We had just turned into George Street when a series of loud bangs distracted me from Isabelle’s multiple personalities. I had never heard gunfire before, but I instinctively pushed her to the ground. As her ice-cream splattered on to the pavement, I learnt my first French curse. ‘Stay down,’ I said. ‘Gunshots.’

  In the distance, I caught a glimpse of a man running for his life. He got closer. A pair of battered Converse trainers darted in my field of vision. A red cross, its four arms of equal length and wider at the ends, was tattooed on the owner’s left calf. I blinked, refusing to believe what I was seeing. I looked up, I had to make sure. The cargo shorts, the mismatched bracelets, the greenish-greyish t-shirt: my father! He completely missed us and bolted down the road with a strange tube in his hand. Without thinking, I got up and started running after him. Isabelle was right behind me.

  ‘Dad,’ I shouted. ‘Dad!’

  He kept running. He trained regularly and was incredibly fast. Isabelle and I struggled to keep up. A hairless wasp whizzed past me at supersonic speed. Or maybe it was a bullet.

  ‘Dad,’ I shouted again, but he didn’t stop. And then I realised that it was the last name he would answer to. After all, he wasn’t used to having a son. ‘Magnus!’

  It worked. He turned one hundred and eighty degrees, shock chiselled into his every feature. Just then, his truck came to a screeching halt beside him. Ariel climbed out of the passenger side, extended his arm, pointed a gun at a pursuer who had nearly caught up with Isabelle, and fired. The man screamed and rolled on the ground holding his knee. My heart missed a beat, but my legs kept running. My father grabbed me by the shoulders and bundled me into the back of his truck. I crouched between the seats, next to Isabelle. Somehow, she had managed to save her magazine. The cylindrical leather tube that my father had been carrying a moment earlier was lying on the floor between us, I tried not to squash it. Miguel, both hands on the steering wheel, urged us to stay put. My father dived in, slammed the door and flattened himself against the seat. Police sirens howled in the distance and mixed with the passers-by’s panicked screams. Ariel fired two more shots and jumped in. Miguel hit the accelerator – he was swerving so hard, I wished for a sick bag. After an eternity that must have lasted less than five minutes, Ariel barked that it was safe to come up. Isabelle and I slid onto the backseat next to my completely flabbergasted father. She reached for a tissue in the hamster-bag and dabbed at her perfectly dry eyes. By the time I realised what was going on, she had stabbed me in the back with the efficiency of a Ninja. ‘It was Noah’s idea,’ she fake-sobbed. ‘I wanted to go food shopping, but he insisted on coming to George Street.’

  Her performance was incredibly convincing. For a split second, I nearly believed her myself. My father gave me a look that could have permanently killed a phoenix. ‘Dad, that’s not how it happened,’ I began.

  ‘Save your breath for Valhalla, Noah,’ he replied curtly. ‘You have a lot of explaining to do.’

  I could have said the same to him, but decided to keep my mouth shut – arguing with an angry parent never ends well.

  CHAPTER 6

  I raised my hand to knock on my father’s door and lowered it again, angry at my own hesitation. He had been locked in his cabin for the past two hours and had suddenly requested my presence. I presumed he had finally come up with a suitable punishment. And I also presumed I wasn’t going to like it. The door swung opened and revealed my father’s lean frame. ‘How long are you going to stand there for?’ he asked, more surprised than irritated. Without bullets flying past, he seemed to have reverted to his old self, but the mischievous twinkle that inhabited his eyes twenty-four-seven was gone.

  ‘I just got here,’ I replied.

  ‘Your feet preceded you. They’ve been under my door for the last five minutes.’

  I looked down, the gap between the door and the floor was tall enough for a cat to go through. He stood aside to let me in and gestured towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. Some of the clutter had been pushed aside to make room for two glasses of iced water. We sat down. I wasn’t thirsty, but I didn’t know what to do, so I reached for one of them anyway. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. His rage seemed to have evaporated, or maybe he had realised that, all things considered, his position was as sticky as mine. He skipped the small talk altogether and got straight to the point. A point I hadn’t considered. ‘If I send you back with a criminal record,’ he began, ‘your mother is going to skin me alive with her favourite scalpel. Luckily, I’m on good terms with the local police so you don’t have to worry about getting arrested.’

  Getting arrested? Criminal record? The water went down the wrong way and I coughed repeatedly to clear my airways. Unperturbed by his only son choking in front of him, he carried on. ‘What you witnessed today was… a huge misunderstanding. It’s not unusual for pick-ups to get messy, that’s why I didn’t want you to come to George Street in the first place. Your safety is my top priority.’ I kept coughing, he kept talking. ‘If we’re goin
g to spend the next six months together, we must lay down some ground rules. In the future, if I ask you not to do something and cannot explain why, I expect you to comply. I’ll try not to do it often, but in my line of work things aren’t always straightforward. For my part, I will try to be as open as I can.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I really don’t want things to be awkward between us. How about we put it all behind us and move on, what do you say? Deal?’

  He stretched his hand, eager to seal his proposal, but I kept mine firmly attached to the side of the chair. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why were those men chasing you?’

  He stroked his beard. The moment of truth, would he treat me like a child or would he dignify me with a decent explanation? I hoped he wasn’t going to invent anything too ridiculous. ‘If I tell you,’ he said gravely, ‘you must promise not to speak about it to anyone outside of Valhalla, in particular your mother.’