Authors: Chris Speyer
The hawk’s head swivelled to take in the girl. Zaki felt its grip tighten on his arm as its muscles bunched, ready for flight. A wing brushed his face, the harsh
keek-keek-keek
broke the silence and the hawk was airborne, through the window, and gone.
The next moment Mrs Palmer’s hand was on Zaki’s shoulder. She spun him around, bending to thrust her face, contorted with anger, close to his own.
‘What sort of a stupid stunt was that?! Do you realise that people could have been seriously hurt? Do you? Hmm? How did you get that bird into the classroom? Did somebody help you? Somebody must have helped you. If it hadn’t been for Anusha getting the window open . . . well, I don’t know what would have happened.’ Mrs Palmer straightened and glared at the class. ‘I will find out who else was involved. Be sure of that! Now you are to sit in your places. You will not move or make a sound until I return.’ And she marched Zaki out into the corridor. As soon as they were through the door, an excited babble erupted in the room behind them.
Mrs Palmer took a deep breath as though about to speak, thought better of it, turned and set off down the corridor. Zaki followed, feelings of anger, hurt and bewilderment chasing each other around and around inside him. When they reached the door of the head teacher’s office, Mrs Palmer commanded Zaki to ‘Wait!’, then she knocked and entered the head’s office. When she emerged she said simply, ‘We’ve sent for your father. You will stay here until he arrives,’ and returned to the classroom.
g
Zaki stood waiting, staring at the floor and avoiding the curious glances of teachers and children who occasionally passed by. Eventually, he heard the break bell go and the corridor filled with noise and bodies, but Zaki kept his eyes down.
‘I know what happened.’ She stood close to him as the pushing, chattering crowd heaved around them. ‘I saw it. It was the poster. I don’t know how you did it but you changed the poster into the eagle, or whatever that bird was.’
Zaki looked up. He and the girl were almost exactly the same height. Her eyes were so dark that it was difficult to see the difference between the black of the pupils and the brown of the irises. Her dark eyes seemed to intensify the seriousness of her expression. What had Mrs Palmer called her?
‘How did you do it? Was it real?’
Zaki knew he should say something but when he thought about the moment that the hawk appeared all became confused.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I don’t know how it happens. Things just keep appearing. Look, I don’t think you should be talking to me. You’ll get into trouble.’ But he didn’t want her to go away. It was a relief to be talking to someone; someone else who’d seen what he’d seen.
‘I’ll meet you after school,’ she said. ‘Do you take the bus?’
‘No, I walk.’
‘So do I. Meet you down the harbour. By the tourist information.’
‘Um . . . Well, they might send me home, I suppose,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but we’ve got to talk. So come to the harbour anyway.’
She was right. ‘OK,’ he said. And felt better, much better. He wasn’t alone any more, ‘Yeah, I’ll meet you – by the tourist information.’
‘I know you’re called Isaac,’ she said. ‘I’m Anusha.’
‘Zaki – I’m usually called Zaki.’
‘Fine – Zaki – Whatever. Meet you after school.’
The crush in the corridor had subsided and Anusha joined the stragglers heading outside for break.
A few minutes later, Craig came by, looking furtive, and wished Zaki luck. Others waved from a safe distance or pulled faces. It was clear that the story had spread like wildfire during break because the returning crowds regarded him with much more interest, but soon classes resumed and Zaki was left on his own.
g
Zaki’s father arrived looking hot and worried. He had obviously come straight from Number 43, as he was in his work clothes and there was brick dust in his hair. He looked questioningly at Zaki while the school secretary knocked on the head teacher’s door, but they were shown in before they had any time to say anything to each other.
‘Please sit down, Mr Luxton,’ said the head, and then added, ‘you’d better sit as well, Zaki.’ And, to Zaki’s surprise, she smiled at him. She was a large woman, smartly dressed. Her short hair and the lines around her eyes gave her face a slightly mischievous look. She remained standing, picked a pen up off her desk and put it down again.
‘I must apologise for dragging you in here,’ she said to Zaki’s father, ‘but this a serious matter and, if what I am told is true, there’s the question of animal welfare.’
‘I’m sorry, but would you mind telling me what’s been going on?’ asked Zaki’s father.
‘I think the best person to tell us is Isaac,’ said the head.
Both adults looked expectantly at Zaki. What was he supposed to say? That a poster at the back of the classroom had mysteriously turned into a hawk? That for a few seconds he’d been looking through the hawk’s eyes and seen everything from the bird’s point of view? That this wasn’t the first time; that the other day he’d seen a plastic bag turn into a seagull and, only this morning, a cat turn into a pigeon! They were hardly likely to believe that, were they?
‘Well, Zaki?’ said his father.
‘There was this bird in our classroom this morning,’ said Zaki. ‘The teacher thought I brought it in, but I didn’t.’
‘It wasn’t just any bird, was it, Isaac,’ said the head. ‘It was a bird of prey. Quite a rare bird and, if I’m not mistaken, a protected species. Am I right, Isaac?’
‘Think so, Mrs Bennett.’
‘You think so. And how did this bird of prey get into the classroom?’
‘I don’t know. It just appeared. I didn’t bring it in!’
‘Mrs Bennett, could you explain why my son is being accused of bringing this bird into school?’ asked Zaki’s father.
‘Somebody released a bird of prey in Mrs Palmer’s class this morning at precisely the time when Isaac was telling the class a story about being chased by a hawk. It seems that Isaac and one or more of his friends thought it would be a bit of a laugh.’
‘No!’ cried Zaki, ‘We didn’t! I didn’t! It was just there!’
‘OK, Zaki,’ said his father, ‘OK – let’s keep calm. If you say you didn’t bring the bird in, then I believe you. But a bird can’t just appear.’
‘If no one brought it in, perhaps you can tell me how it got there,’ said the head.
‘Couldn’t it have come in through a window?’ suggested Zaki’s father. ‘Birds sometimes do.’
‘The windows were closed,’ said the head. She picked up her pen, removed the cap and then clicked it back on again. She sighed, walked around her desk and sat down.
‘Do you have any idea how it got in?’ asked Zaki’s father.
‘No – I told you!’ said Zaki.
‘OK,’ said his father, holding up his hands in a way that indicated he considered the subject closed.
‘Mrs Palmer says the bird appeared to have been trained,’ persisted the head. ‘That Isaac held up his arm and the bird flew to him.’
‘It was going for me! I was protecting myself! Look!’ Zaki pulled up his sleeve; the claw marks were clearly visible on his forearm.
‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ Zaki’s father got to his feet. ‘Are you seriously suggesting my son is some sort of expert in falconry?’
‘I’m merely trying to establish the truth, Mr Luxton; to hear Isaac’s side of the story.’ The head sighed again. ‘Isaac was off sick yesterday, I think? Hurt his shoulder, or something?’
‘He’s cracked his collarbone,’ said Zaki’s father.
‘Perhaps he should have the rest of today off. Let this business blow over. Is there anyone at home who could look after him? I believe his mother’s away.’
Zaki saw his father stiffen. ‘I’m quite capable of taking care of my son, thank you,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t suggest for a moment that you are not,’ said the head, then to Zaki, ‘Well, if you or any of your friends think of anything more you want to tell me about this bird, do come and see me. You won’t get into any trouble.’ And she smiled, but all Zaki could think was,
She doesn’t believe me.
g
On the way home in the van, his father turned to him and said, ‘First a cat turns up in the house that you have nothing to do with and now this bird. It does make me wonder.’
He doesn’t believe me either
, thought Zaki miserably. Then he remembered Anusha. There was somebody who believed him; someone who’d seen what really happened that morning, and she said she’d meet him after school. He would have to find an excuse for going out. He had to talk to her.
g
When his father steered the van into the driveway at Moor Lane, Zaki half expected the grey cat to be waiting for them outside the house, but there was no sign of it, nor did it materialise inside the house. Would it be back at the boat shed? he wondered.
Over lunch, Zaki asked his father about progress with the renovations at Number 43, anything to keep him off the subject of the morning’s problems at school. Zaki knew his father would be keen to get back to work, so, once they had finished eating, he said, ‘I think I might take a look down the harbour. There’s an old sailing trawler tied up there and they’ll take her back down the river when the tide turns.’ His father knew he loved old boats, so this seemed perfectly plausible.
‘Fine, just keep out of trouble,’ said his father, ‘I’d better get back to number forty-three. They’re meant to deliver the slates for the roof this afternoon. But if you’re thinking of meeting Craig after school, don’t go playing football; remember what the doctor said.’ His father gave him a searching look.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’m not stupid,’ said Zaki.
* * *
When he reached the harbour, there was still half an hour to kill before school finished, and even if Anusha hurried, Zaki figured it would take her a further fifteen minutes to get down to the harbour. Zaki hadn’t invented the old trawler he’d told his father he was going to look at; he had noticed her tied up at the visitors’ berth when they passed on their way home from school. He thought he might as well take a look while he waited for Anusha to arrive. He wandered down to the water’s edge. ‘Vigilance’ said the gold letters on the boat’s stern. Zaki’s grandad could remember a few still fishing under sail in the 1930s and spoke with loving respect of seeing them running home, laden with fish, before a southerly gale.
But Zaki’s mind wasn’t on boats, it was on his meeting with Anusha. What should he tell her? Should he tell her everything? Should he tell her about the cave and the skeleton? What about the girl who rescued him and the promise he made her?
Zaki used his good arm to help clamber on to the harbour wall, swung his legs over and sat staring down into the water. His reflection bent and buckled, distorting on the rippling surface. Passing small craft sent larger waves racing to strike the harbour wall and bounce back, bringing confusion to the pattern of ripples, fragmenting his reflection, making his arms, legs, head spring away from each other and then draw back together to reunite. He watched this repeated, hypnotic disintegration and reunification of his body. The sunlight on the water flashed and sparkled and an aura radiated out from his reflected head.
Zaki looked up to rest his eyes from the dazzle of the water and saw that there was a boat making its way up the estuary under sail; another old gaff rigger, but much smaller than the sailing trawler. Was there some sort of old gaffer’s convention taking place in Kingsbridge? Her hull was painted black with a white stripe at the waterline and a snub-nosed pram dinghy with a matching black hull and white stripe trailed behind her.
Zaki knew it took considerable skill to sail all the way to the top of the estuary, the narrow channel of deeper water winding its way down between wide mud flats, the twists and turns of the channel marked only by red and white striped poles. It was one thing to do it in a sailing dinghy with a lifting centreboard, as he and Michael had often done, quite another to attempt it in boat with a fixed keel. She looked like a Falmouth Working Boat, thought Zaki, the sort still used on the oyster beds of Carrick Roads. As the boat came around the next marker post, Zaki saw that there was only one person on deck and he was even more impressed by the skill of her skipper, who now left the boat to look after herself while checking the fenders and ropes were in place for mooring. The next turn would bring her into the cluster of moorings that lay just off the visitor’s berth and Zaki expected to hear the motor start and see her sails come down, but to his surprise she continued on under sail, weaving between the moored boats.
This guy would even impress Michael!
thought Zaki.
Emerging from the moorings, with less than fifty metres to go, the skipper loosed the sails and now the wind no longer drove the boat along and only her momentum kept her moving forward. It was the sort of trick old-timers like Zaki’s grandad used, but this skipper looked young, a kid almost, maybe his brother’s age. And then, with a shock, Zaki realised it was a girl – the realisation was followed a split second later by near-certainty that he knew who she was. Spiky, cropped curls framed a tanned face with widely spaced eyes; a pair of eyes that had been centimetres from his own, while he clung to the boulder in Dragon Pool.
Normally, Zaki would have hurried over to catch mooring lines and help the skipper make fast; it was the friendly thing to do, particularly when someone was bringing a boat alongside single-handed. But instead, Zaki slid off the wall and ducked behind a large green recycling bin. Peeping around the bin, he watched the boat close the last few metres to the harbour wall.
If she’d got the speed wrong, he thought, that long bowsprit would skewer the sailing trawler. But she hadn’t got it wrong – the boat slowed gently, and as the side kissed the harbour wall, the girl reached over and dropped a mooring rope round a bollard, let the line run out, then with a flick of her wrist tied off the other end. In another moment she was ashore securing her bow line. It was so expertly done that Zaki felt like applauding.
Then she dropped and furled the sails before disappearing into the cabin.
* * *
‘Why are you hiding?’
Zaki spun round and found Anusha standing behind him.
‘You weren’t by the tourist information office, so I came looking for you.’
‘Sorry,’ said Zaki, not wanting to take his eyes off the boat for more than a second. ‘I wasn’t hiding from you.’
The girl was still below decks.
‘What are you doing, then? Who are you spying on?’
‘You see that boat there?’
Anusha nodded.
‘There’s a girl on it. And I think I know who she is. Well, I don’t really know who she is. That’s the thing, you see? And I want to know what she’s doing here.’
Anusha examined him quizzically, her head tipped slightly to one side. ‘You’re not making that much sense.’
‘Sorry. It’s just – I don’t have time to explain it all.’
‘All what?’
Zaki could hear the note of irritation in her voice but he couldn’t think of a simple answer.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want to trust me.’ And she turned to leave.
‘Wait! Please . . . I need your help.’
Anusha waited, arms folded, while Zaki struggled to organise his thoughts.
‘On holiday . . . we were on my dad’s boat and I found a cave . . . with a skeleton in it . . .’
‘A what! A skeleton! Are you making this up?’
‘. . . and she’s got something to do with it, but I don’t know what.’
Anusha sucked her lip and said nothing. Zaki knew she was having trouble believing him. Then, a wild idea came into his head.
‘Listen. If she comes ashore, I want you to follow her.’
‘You’re kidding! Me? Why?’
‘I want to know where she goes.’
‘What about you?’
‘I can’t follow her, she might recognise me. Anyway, if she leaves the boat open, I’m going to take a look on board.’
‘Isn’t that against the law, or something?’
‘I need to know who she is.’
‘Well . . . why don’t you just ask her?’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘No – I don’t.’
‘The skeleton – maybe she did it – maybe she killed someone. She made me promise not to tell. She’s keeping it a secret.’
‘So, maybe she’s a murderer, and you want me to follow her?’
‘Yes,’ said Zaki, thinking, when put like that, it didn’t sound such a great idea. Also, he had just broken his promise to the girl who had saved his life.
‘All right,’ said Anusha, after a pause. ‘OK, I’ll follow her. But make sure you’re out of her boat before she gets back. Please?’
‘If she starts coming back suddenly, try to warn me.’
‘How?’ Anusha demanded.
‘I don’t know. Look! She’s coming ashore.’
The girl jumped ashore. She was barefooted and had an old canvas rucksack, the sort with leather straps that you might find in an army surplus store, slung over one shoulder. It looked empty. She took a moment to put her rucksack on properly and then strode off towards the road into town. Anusha allowed the girl to get to the corner of the waterside buildings and then hurried off after her.
Zaki waited until Anusha was out of sight, checked that nobody was watching him, then quickly crossed the dockside to where the boat was moored and climbed on board. He crouched down in the cockpit. The boat’s deck was below the level of the harbour edge so that, by keeping low, he could keep out of sight of anyone ashore, unless they were standing just above the boat.
Curlew
– the boat’s name was painted in neat black letters across the edge of the sliding hatch over the steps down to the cabin. A good name for her, Zaki thought. With her long, downward-bending bowsprit she looked quite like the long-beaked wader she was named after.
Now, could he get into the cabin? He tried the hatch cover. A gentle push and it slid forward. Not locked. Carefully, he lifted out the washboards and laid them on the floor of the cockpit.
The cabin was dark by contrast with the sunlight outside. The sudden thought struck Zaki that she may have left the boat unlocked because there was someone else on board, someone who had remained in the cabin. Gingerly, Zaki climbed down the steps. There was no one in the small saloon. Zaki listened at the door to the forward cabin. If anyone was aboard he or she was keeping very still. There was just enough height below the deck for Zaki to be able to stand; anyone taller would need to remain stooped.
In the flickering, reflected light off the water that entered through the small brass portholes Zaki examined his surroundings. All was neat and tidy. Two narrow bunks, a drop-sided table, a spirit stove; no room for a chart table. He opened the wet-locker by the companionway and found a single set of old-fashioned oilskins hanging inside that looked to be the girl’s size and a pair of sea boots. He closed the locker. A spirit lamp hung from a deck beam aft of the mast. It was the only visible form of artificial lighting. There were no electrical fittings. Whoever owned this boat was a true traditionalist; there was no radio and no modern navigation aids, no GPS, no depth, speed or wind gauges, not even electric lights. Zaki bent down and looked through the steps of the companionway; there was no motor. No wonder the girl had brought the boat in under sail! His gaze took in the fittings – wood, brass and bronze – no stainless steel. She was like a boat out of a museum, out of a different time.
‘Get a move on!’ Zaki told himself. He was supposed to be finding out about the girl, not the boat. But what to look for? Cautiously, he moved forward and opened the door to the forward cabin. A small crowded space, but again, everything neat and tidy. There was a locker on each side, beyond which were canvas sailbags containing spare sails, coils of cotton and hemp rope and other bits of gear.
Zaki opened the locker on the starboard side. Clothing that Zaki guessed to be the girl’s, although there was nothing particularly feminine about any of it. Still, he was now pretty certain that she was sailing alone.
He closed the locker and opened the one on the port side. Behind the door were two shelves and below them a set of drawers; the shelves were full of cloth-covered writing books. It was clear from the state and style of their covers that the books had been purchased at different times. Zaki picked one at random and flicked through the pages. It was a logbook: dates, passage plans, ports of departure and arrival, weather details, notes, each entry written in the same sloping handwriting. He read the date of the last entry ‘6th July, 1965’. Too long ago to have been written by the girl. He replaced the log on the shelf and took down the one that looked the newest. Over half the pages were empty, so it had to be the current log, and this was borne out by the most recent entry; it was dated the previous day and gave details of a passage from Plymouth to Salcombe. It gave no reason for the journey, revealing nothing beyond the bare facts. She’d had a favourable wind and made good time, averaging, by Zaki’s reckoning, around five knots. But the handwriting! . . . Zaki took down the book he’d just put away; he opened it and compared entries in the two books. Yesterday’s entry was written in the same handwriting as an entry made over forty years ago. How could that be? She must have an older companion, the log keeper, perhaps the boat’s real owner; someone she’d put ashore in Salcombe before today’s short trip up to Kingsbridge?
Perhaps his assumption about the clothing was wrong, perhaps it wasn’t all hers. Then why one set of oilskins? Maybe the other person had worn his or her set ashore.
Zaki put away the logbooks and turned his attention to the drawers. Hurriedly opening and closing them, he quickly surveyed their contents without disturbing anything. Personal belongings, toiletries – he felt he was prying where he shouldn’t, like a burglar in somebody’s bedroom. In the third drawer, a locket on a golden chain lay open, but the two little pictures it contained were so faded that Zaki could only make out the vague outlines of the faces. He opened the fourth drawer and froze, staring at what he had revealed. Two bracelets, identical in size and design, except that one was tarnished and the other polished. He lifted the tarnished bracelet from where the girl had nestled it among her scarves and woollen gloves. There was the design of engraved symbols or runes that he had seen when he held it in the cave. He ran a finger over its convex outer surface and around the flat inner surface, and then slipped it over his hand and on to his wrist. So she hadn’t returned it to the cave, she had kept it, and what’s more it was one of a pair. The other, judging by the way it was polished, she wore herself from time to time. Lying in the drawer, it glowed like pale gold even in the dim light in the cabin. What were they made out of? Not gold, since they tarnished, but they were too pale for copper or brass. The bracelet on his wrist felt warm against his skin, as though it had been lying in the sun before he put it on. It was a comforting warmth that seemed to flow up through his arm to his injured shoulder. He pushed it further up his arm, under his sweatshirt sleeve, past the sling.