We surged ahead, but it wasn’t the end of the drama.
Oh no.
Not at all.
Pen opened her mouth to call the next command, but before she could there was a strange sound, then a thock thock, and Matilda exclaimed in fright. ‘We’ve hit something!’ I heard her yell.
Pen’s forehead creased in confusion. She was looking down near the bottom of the boat, shaking her head in disbelief and pulling off her waterproof jacket and shoving it at the side of the boat.
She’s plugging a hole, I thought. What . . .?
Then a realisation hit, and her gaze shot up and over to the west bank. Before she could react there was a plume of spray from the water near me that didn’t fit with the crazy waves or the wind, then another and another, all of them thock thocking closer and closer until finally – thock! – a ribbon of blood zipped across my forearm, and – thock – another across my right shoulder as I dipped into the next stroke.
No. Frikking. Way! Impossible!
Oh no you don’t, I thought, searching the west bank for someone with a gun. Oh no you don’t, you miserable little man. Not now.
‘Go!’ screamed Pen, her eyes wide and frantic and locked on to mine. Tears began streaming in that instant, the cords standing out in her neck, her face scarlet. ‘Push for ten! Through the railway bridge! Now, now, NOW!’
What? We were already at the railway bridge? We could do this. Just five hundred metres to go. Think about that. Don’t think about who’s out there. Don’t think about the burning grazes across your skin. Make this the fastest moving target ever.
Pen was no help at all. She was not counting down the strokes; she had turned round in the boat, gesturing wildly at the umpire boat behind us. The one with Jack and Jazz on it. Through snatched glances I saw Jack suddenly handing the camera to Jazz to answer a call on his mobile, his face dropping as he listened. One look back at me, then at the west bank, and then it seemed as though he was about to dive into the water – but Jazz held him tight, holding on for all she was worth. He still had his mobile to his ear, then he stood tall, shading his eyes against the sun.
I tried to see what he was looking at . . . Was that a grey hat? A fedora? Someone sprinting through the bushes?
Looking back at Jack, I suddenly saw his arm fling up in a victory salute, a high thumb’s up to Pen. Phone back in pocket, camera back at eyeball.
Pen looked from him to the west bank then to all of us. Tears were still streaming down her face as she ignored Matilda’s yells for answers.
‘Pen? Pen? What is it?’
Breath rasped in my throat, as much from fear as the effort of rowing this far, this fast. But no time to think – PSG were fighting back now, and had gained two feet on us.
Pen glanced across at them, her eyes streaming in the gale. A gust hit us and the boat flopped hard to strokeside. She yelled at us to adjust the height of our blades to compensate and we pulled together to get the balance right. Then at last we were round the corner, and through the railway bridge. The wind was coming at Pen’s back, making it easier to balance. She yelled for the push, then to hold it, then screamed at us to up the rating.
I can’t!
I blinked. That voice in my head was not helpful. Not helpful at all, even though it said what I was feeling, and echoed the smears of blood across my body, the sting of salt water in the raw flesh of my hands. The push through the railway bridge had got my nose bleeding again, and hot blood spattered on my left knee every time I came up at the catch. Attractive, I thought, and winced as the umpire boat surged close to us, Jack and Jazz staring hard at us all.
Okay, seriously. I just can’t.
I caught a glimpse of Jazz. She was throwing her head back against Jack’s shoulder and laughing at something. Right, then. There were two minutes left of this torture and I was going to make them count. PSG were just to one side of us, the burgundy crew had dropped way back along with the others. Though the PSG crew looked scrappy and tired, they were still fighting back.
‘We’ve lost another foot!’ screamed Pen. ‘Let’s push for home!’
A two-minute push? Was my little sister nuts? A two-minute push may not sound like a lot, but two minutes rating thirty-four strokes per minute is sixty-eight back-breaking slams that could burn a tray of millefeuille calories in a nanosecond.
But, just for today, my little sister was boss.
Matilda eased up the slide and we began to work.
Slam!
Slam!
Slam!
The PSG crew did their best, Barbie’s voice growing more shrill with every stroke, but they were no match for our perfect rhythm, and the power it brought. I counted the strokes down, every surge of the boat bringing the sound of the finish line closer. Shouts from spectators on the riverbanks became more frequent, snatches of music from the hospitality tents were more audible now; out of the corner of my eye I saw three crazy figures on bicycles, pedalling madly along the river path to keep pace with our boat: Carrie, Tam and Alex, ringing their bells and shouting at the tops of their voices. I glimpsed the smug smile fade from Jazz’s face and saw Jack’s lens zoom for a shot of my friends.
I grinned. Three girls were better than one boy any day, even though my heart was not in the mood to agree at the minute.
‘Ten strokes to the finish, with everything you’ve got, now,’ came Pen’s voice over the speakers as the long shadow of the final high arched bridge came chopping across the water.
Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!
The noise from the banks was incredible. Shouting, chants, bicycle bells and hooters. I could see PSG pushing like never before. Were they gaining?
Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!
A commentator’s voice filtered through the roar of the umpire’s motorboat: ‘Hambledon Girls in the lead! They’re going to take it!’
Slam! Slam!
The echoing honk of the hooter signalling the first boat over the line. A last glance at Jazz, the sound boom dropped down now, both her arms round Jack, laughing up at him again. Jack laughing too.
Hambledon Girls’ High had won the race.
And I had lost my boyfriend.
Chapter Forty-two
There was no doubt in my mind as blood streamed from my nose, my shoulder, my arm, as my head grew fuzzy and dizzy, as the crew around me screamed with jubilation while I slumped over my blade handle, that I was the most disgusterous specimen on the river. I fully appreciated Jack’s firm hold under the perfect breasts of Jazz Delaney.
‘Hilary, two strokes, now,’ came Pen’s voice, quieting the excited chatter in the boat around me.
‘No,’ said Matilda. ‘We’re not going in just yet. We need to warm down.’
‘Now, Hilary,’ repeated Pen. ‘Tatty needs a bit of first aid.’
Matilda twisted to look at me and I saw her eyes widen before the world swung this way and that before me. ‘Blade up, Tatty,’ commanded Matilda, doing the same. ‘And drop your head on your knees, you moron.’
I obeyed, and began to retch into the boat beneath me, though nothing was coming up.
‘Is she puking?’ asked Kelly.
‘Think so,’ said Dion, ‘but I’m not seeing the vomit.’
‘Oh, this is totally gross,’ moaned Kelly. ‘Where’s the glory in tipping up our boat onshore and a billion litres of blood and sick spilling out?’
The O’Connelly sisters clamoured their horror, but in minutes Pen had steered us to the jetty and, though my nose was still gushing, I’d stopped heaving.
Mr VDM was doing a loony dance on the boards of the jetty. The whole platform was bouncing and splashing in the water. I tried to sit up straight, but the world spun again and I retched.
‘Head down,’ hissed Matilda. ‘The camera’s on you. Hide the blood.’
I heaved a shuddering sigh. Why the frik did nothing ever go my way? Stretching forward carefully, I unlaced my feet from the footboard and looked around for something to staunch the blood.
&nb
sp; ‘You’d better have this,’ said Pen, and she hauled off her sweatshirt, passing it down to Matilda, who shoved it under my nose.
‘’Ankoo,’ I mumbled. ‘Ayeeingothesoff.’
‘What?’ asked Matilda.
‘She’s whining about me taking my clothes off,’ said Pen. She held on to the jetty and eased herself out of the cox’s seat, then leapt nimbly on to the boards in her trisuit and nothing else. I saw her scanning the crowds, and then her face lit up and she raised her arm in a wide wave. She looked sensational.
And, clearly, Angus thought so too. He was beaming and hurrying over as fast as his muscle-bound legs could carry him.
Then a big hairy arm with a very bling red patent-leather Chanel handbag over the shoulder stretched out and held my rigger firmly against the jetty. ‘Hop out, Tatty, but watch the shirt. I’ve got to go onstage in this later.’
‘Dad? Whaoinghere?’
I staggered ashore, Pen helping too, leaving my crewmates and Arns to bring the boat in, while my father held me at arm’s length all the way to the first-aid tent.
‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ burbled Dad. ‘I got such a welcome from the Setting Sun folks, and they’re so proud of you. What a race! Jack was filming the whole time, with commentary! They’re going to rerun it in the members’ tent after the men’s final. Car broke down, of course. Nearly didn’t make it. But Dan said Oscar was ready for a drive?’
‘He made it all the way here?’ I smiled behind the wadding of Pen’s shirt. ‘Go, Oscar.’
Dad squeezed my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I got to drive him before you. I thought it would be better to do that than miss the race.’
‘Definitely,’ agreed Pen.
We came to a halt in front of the first-aid tent, and I found myself smiling at my father, though probably the only thing he could see of me was smiley eyes.
I didn’t mind at all that Dad had driven Oscar – or that he had his crazy woman’s bag with him. I was just so relieved to see he was entirely sober. And relieved that I was entirely alive.
‘Lula,’ said Dad, ‘I see you looking at my bag. But just let it go, okay? See this?’ He tugged at a bunch of gold clasps and pulled it open. ‘The most convenient pocket for my iPhone. Right here.’
I groaned. ‘Put it away!’
Pen hugged me even closer and suddenly burst into tears. ‘Oh, Tallulah!’
‘P-Pen?’ I stammered.
‘Do you have any idea what was going on out there?’ she bleated. ‘Any idea?’
‘A very tough race, and you at the helm, brilliant girl,’ I said firmly, squeezing her forearm more firmly still and sliding my eyes to the left, to my father, about to go onstage in a few minutes, and needing no high drama to tip him over the edge. ‘Why don’t you see if you can find Sergeant T, and then wander back later’ – another eyeslide left to Dad – ‘and tell me what’s new.’
Pen was about to argue, but she saw someone in the crowd, nodded and hurried off with Angus in tow. Ah. Bludgeon. Ha. She’d post him as sentry for sure.
‘Your nose is bleeding again,’ said Dad. ‘Thank goodness Dr McCabe is doing first aid today.’ He stepped into the tent, bag neatly on his shoulder again. ‘Hi, Doc. Could you take a look at Tallulah’s nose? And her face?’
I nearly turned and ran. Then I remembered that we’d won the race and Dr McCabe’s only child was safely ashore. I could deal with this man’s anti-Tatty vibe no problem when I had no guilt to compound it. I stepped out from behind Dad and watched Dr McCabe do a double-take.
‘Goodness!’ he said. ‘Goodness gracious!’ And then he started rummaging in a small cardboard box of gauze and bottles and tape and vicious-looking syringes.
‘Don’t leave me,’ I muttered to Dad, grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip.
‘My shirt!’ moaned Dad. ‘Look what you’ve done!’
‘Where’s all your famous sensitivity?’ I hissed. ‘I’m probably going to faint from loss of blood!’
‘Yes, but did you have to lose it all over my shirt?’
I rolled my eyes. And promptly passed out.
Going towards the light
I could hear someone calling my name. And there was a comforting beam shining just ahead of me that I felt I wanted to draw near to. The light flashed off. Oh. Is this how it was supposed to go? I was to find my way in the darkness? The light flashed on. I strained to see ahead and suddenly the light was blinding me.
‘Please, Dr McCabe, move your torch from my daughter’s eyes. That can’t be good for the retinas.’
The light went away. I blinked blearily and made out my mother, just at my shoulder, staring down at me. She was wearing a Hawaiian-print caftan in blues and golds, and I could see she’d trimmed her own hair again, though it didn’t look DIY this time, thank frik. Somewhere, not far away, someone was belting out a catchy rhythm and I could hear familiar lyrics:
Oh whoa whoa whoa baby
You’re my kind la-la-lady
Don’t leeeeeeeave me in this turmoil
Don’t go swiiiiiiiitching me on to boil
‘I’ve died and gone to hell,’ I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut with a shudder.
‘Oh, she’s awake!’ squealed my mother.
My eyes shot open again. Aha. It was definitely my mother, and I was alive. Blue was holding her hand. I could just see her eyes peeping over the mattress.
‘What is that noise?’ I whispered. ‘Tell me that’s not Dad singing.’ My eyes began to water. ‘Tell me he’s not onstage singing. With the handbag.’
‘I took care of it.’ I turned my head in the direction of Pen’s voice. She was sitting on a high stool to my left, still in the trisuit, still looking great. ‘He’s on the drums, the bag is behind the bass, but he’s still man of the moment cos guess who’s singing? Dizzee!’ She squealed and clapped her hands. Then a serious look crossed her face. ‘But you’ve got to get out there for the hula dance. Mrs Baldacci will be as mad as a snake. Not to mention Alex – you don’t want to pee off Alex. Hey, you okay?’
‘Is Dad –’
‘Oh, yeah yeah. Dad. Dad is fine. Don’t worry. Blue has been getting him loads of water whenever he feels thirsty.’
‘Yay for Bluebird.’ A smile cracked across my aching face and I tried to sit up.
Dr McCabe hove suddenly into view. ‘Down!’ he commanded. ‘You’ve still got half a litre to go.’ And he fiddled with a bag of liquid hanging above me, the tube snaking its way down to my arm.
‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘I needed that?’
‘Yes, so make sure you do exactly what Doctor Mac says, okay, Lula?’ Mum looked stern and wagged a finger. ‘Well done on the race, love’ – a kiss to the cheek – ‘I’m going to check on your father.’
We waited till Mum had exited the tent before shrilling queries at each other. We would have gone on forever: Who? What? Did you see –? And then there was this THWOCK! Did the girls cycle past him? Was it –?
But then, ‘Enough!’ Sergeant T’s voice boomed round the first-aid tent, and it takes some doing for a voice to boom in a tent, I can tell you.
Sergeant T! Who? What? Did you see –? And the THWOCKs! Did the girls cycle past him? Healey? Was it him? Was it you phoning Jack?
‘If you don’t stop now,’ she said, raising her hand, ‘Tallulah won’t have a chance to get cleaned up in time for the hula dancing. Dr McCabe says you’re good to go, Lula.’
‘Oh no,’ I said in mock dismay.
‘Mrs Baldacci . . .’ began Sergeant T.
‘Okay, okay,’ I mumbled, and elbowed myself up into a half-sitting position. The drip was nearly empty, and I was almost ready to leave, but I needed to find out . . .
‘Did you get Healey?’ I asked.
Sergeant T smiled and nodded. ‘We got him, thanks to Mr Kadinski. Gavin rang us to say he’d overhead his mad grandfather going on about “taking down that girl”, and he gave us all the information. I’m sorry we didn’t get there sooner, though I guess we have Mr
K and six police officers now to give evidence that he was shooting across the river. Honestly, I don’t know what that old man thought he’d achieve by killing you, Tallulah.’
Pen shuddered, her hands coming up to her face. ‘It was so terrible,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘So, so terrible.’
‘You totally saved my bacon,’ I said, and pulled my little sister into a hug. ‘And Sergeant T, and Mr Kadinski.’ I offered Arns’s mum my hand. ‘Thank you.’
Sergeant T smiled and shook my hand. ‘You’re welcome. That boy Jack was ready to dive in and apprehend Healey himself too, you know.’
I bit my lip. ‘What stopped him?’
‘Mr Kadinski got there first,’ said Sergeant T. ‘Followed shortly by my team. And I’d better get back to them before they let Healey throw his wig in the river or some other ridiculous disaster. See you later, girls.’
‘This is perfecto, Pen!’ I said, squeezing Pen harder. ‘Those fibres will match up and they’ll get him for murdering Parcel for sure, won’t they?’
‘Get your scabby arms off me,’ said my sister, sniffing and dropping her hands. ‘And don’t second-guess the law. It’s too complex for the likes of your blunderiness.’
I shot her an amused Oh yeah? look.
She set her jaw, narrowing her eyes. ‘PLUS! Enough with the mysteries and the violence and the crazy people, Lu. Enough.’
‘Oh, please,’ I mocked. ‘You love it really.’ Sergeant T’s revelations about Jack had made me feel a little happier, though I still wondered why he hadn’t called since yesterday. I swung my legs off the bed. Maybe it was time to wash some blood away and get out there to hula.
Lula Does the Hula Page 30
