Arcadia (15 page)

After a long moment he cycles on.

He's not so sure of his route on this road. People only come here for wood and he's too small for that job. He has to maneuver round holes and rubbish, and the dynamo almost goes dark when he does. It's the noise that lets him know when he's reached the small broken houses near the School and the Old Harbor bay. He's closer to the sea here and the suck and push of waves abruptly sounds as if it's right by his wheels. He dismounts and pulls out the night-light. There's darkness in every direction. No one's there.

“Good boy.”

He jumps out of his skin. “Who's that?” he blurts stupidly.

Oochellino steps into the faint radiance. In the shadows he looks terrifying again, monstrous, like he's wearing a strange round hood with blank holes for eyes.

“Verrry good. I know you do this. Now.
Subito
.” The man snatches the bike and vanishes with it. There's a clattering, the rubbish in the road being kicked out of the way. “Here,” the man's voice says. “With me.” Rory hears the bike clank down somewhere out near the water, on the quay where the fire was.

“Where . . . ?”

Oochellino reappears and grabs him. “
Subito
!
” He tugs Rory away.

“What—”

“
Hsss
!
” He turns to face the sea and whistles twice, sharp whooping whistles. “Go. Like this.” He beckons Rory to follow him.

The stranger steers him beside the ransacked houses and out onto the quay. He doesn't hesitate. It's like he can see in the dark, an animal. He whistles again. The offshore light reappears. It's an electric torch, winking unsteadily towards them.

“Who's that?”

“
Hsss!
” It's like
shh
. He yanks Rory another step or two and there's the bike, wonkily propped up on a sort of trestle made of bits of driftwood. “You.” He pulls Rory down to a crouch and places his hand on the pedal. “Like this. Go.” He starts spinning the pedal, still clasping Rory's hand. The front wheel's lifted off the ground and spins freely. A weak light appears, pointing out towards the shoals. “
Ecco
. Light. Go go go. No stop.”

“You want me to—”

“No stop!” Oochellino pumps his hand harder on the pedal. “Light!”

It's obvious what he's supposed to do. The bike's headlamp is aiming straight out towards the wreck, where the other light is.

The unmistakable bumping and rattling of a boat comes out of the darkness offshore. Someone there calls out
Hoi!
It's hard to make out among the thumping and scratching of the invisible waves, but it's another man's voice.

“Good! Like this!” Oochellino bobs down and pushes Rory's hand faster. His arm's tired already. It's an awkward way to crank the pedals. He understands why he can't stop, though. Out there in the dark someone's taken the dinghy off the wrecked fishing boat and is lowering it into the shallow waters. They need a light to aim at or they'll never find the Old Harbor beach through the shoals and sandbars and tiny reefs. Really what they need—Rory remembers his father explaining this to him, trying to get him interested in sailing by talking about navigation—is two lights, one above the other, so they can line them up and stop themselves drifting to one side or the other.

Something big swishes in the trees behind him. He jerks around, startled.

“Not stop,” Oochellino calls from high up. He was right beside Rory a moment ago. It's like he's floated into the air. The branches shake again. It must be him. He's climbing a tree, in the dark.

Up there, a tiny light flares.

“
Via via via!
Go!” Rory's let the headlight run dim and wan, a harvest moon. He sets to the pedal again but keeps an eye over his shoulder. Perched in the branches, Oochellino has struck a match. He pulls a candle from one of Ol's pockets and tries to light it, cursing in Italian as the wind blows it out. From offshore comes a familiar muffled creak. Oars.

They're coming.

On his third try Oochellino coaxes the candle flame into life, sheltering it between his palms. He holds it up. By its light Rory can see his weird face nodding. “Good!” he calls, half a shout and half a whisper.
Crrrk,
the oars say. Is he imagining it or do they sound closer already?

He grits his teeth against the soreness spreading over his shoulder and keeps turning the pedal. He doesn't ask himself why he's doing it anymore. He looks back to see how Oochellino's managing with the second light.

There's another light. A yellowy elegant one, wobbling among the hedges up towards the top of the Lane.

Someone's coming. With a flashlight.

An instant later he hears a shout, a woman's voice. Kate's voice: even muffled and at a distance, it's her, he can tell. Oochellino hisses something angry and brief. His candle snuffs out. The new light wobbles faster. Kate's running now, down the Lane, towards the Old Harbor: towards them. She must have seen something.

Rory seizes up in complete terror. He jams the wheel to a stop. The light dies.

“Who's there?”

It's Kate. Of course it's Kate. She always knows what's going on. She's going to find him, all of them. Rory's mind has gone blank except for the one word,
Traitor
.

“We saw you!” And it's Fi too. Both of them are coming, shouting from a distance but approaching quickly. Fi doesn't anger easily but when she does she goes crazy, he's seen it. Their torchlight reappears as a glow behind him, screened by the trees behind the quay but making a segment of the sky above flicker in and out of darkness. The noise of the oars has stopped. The Italians are out there, completely benighted. Oochellino's gone invisible and silent. He could be anywhere but they'll never find him. Only Rory's stuck. If he tries to squeeze back past the ruins to the road they'll hear him. They'll turn their torch towards the noise and they'll spot him straightaway.

He's trapped.

He can hear Fi's and Kate's feet now, running past the church. They slow down as they approach the Old Harbor.

“It was just down here.” That's Fi, talking to Kate. They're on the shore road, on the far side of the broken fence and the trees, barely twenty steps away.

“Who is it?” Kate shouts. “Don't be silly. We just want to know what you're doing. No one wants any trouble.” The torchlight swings into the trees. It's too feeble to reach through them to the quay but it almost makes Rory's heart stop. This is the worst thing that's ever happened. He doesn't care what he has to deal with for the whole rest of his life if only this could somehow not be happening, if he could be back in bed where he's supposed to be—

He's got the bike. His hands are on the bike.

“Was it on the quay?” Fi says. “I thought it was here somewhere.”

“Please!” Kate shouts. “Just talk to us!”

Rory hears Fi's snort. “I don't think they want to be friendly,” she mutters.

“Let's check the quay,” Kate says. Their torch swings away from the trees and picks out the overgrown ruins. This is it. They're going to come out by the water and they'll see him. He's done for, unless someone does something.

The heap of driftwood Oochellino used to build his trestle is right by his hand. He grabs a loose stick, stands up, reaches back, and hurls it as far as he can in the direction of the abandoned houses. There's an instant of terrible silent suspense and then—

“Who's there?”

The stick has thunked against something, roof or wall or window. It rolls down, clattering, and goes still.

The torch has swung away in that direction. Carefully, infinitely carefully—if he knocks the bike it's game over—Rory gets hold of another stick.

“Hello?”

“In the houses somewhere,” Fi mutters quietly. Rory lobs the second stick, as far as he can. It thuds, quieter than the first, but hard enough.

“We can hear you!” Kate shouts. “We saw your light!”

They're moving that way. They're not coming out onto the quay anymore.

“Careful,” Fi says.

Rory finds a couple of small stones. He flings them in a handful.
Rat-a-tat
: they patter against slate or stone.

“Please don't try and hide!” Kate says. They're both definitely moving away, down the road, towards the sounds. “It's dangerous in there!”

Now, Rory thinks. Now. He's got the bike. He just has to get out onto the road and he'll be away, they'll never catch him.

He sees it all at once. It's as if someone's reached up into the sky and switched on a light. He sees where everyone is, Oochellino hiding in the tree, the other Italians in their boat listening to the unexpected people onshore, Kate and Fi pressing together wondering who's sneaking around in the dark. In a flash he sees what to do.

He reaches a sweaty fist into his pocket, pulls out the night-light and switches it on. There's a big chunk of slate near his foot. For good measure he lobs that into the darkness as well. It comes down with a sharp splintering crash. Kate and Fi gasp: they're already farther away down the road, perhaps sweeping the torch into the nettles and bindweed between the houses. He's got to be quick now, quick quick. He puts the night-light down at the very edge of the quay, over the beach, right in front of the bike. There. It's nothing like as bright as the bike light but it's better than nothing. Now.

He picks up the bike. The driftwood rattles.

He can't hesitate.

He carries the bike to the back of the quay and faces the alley by the ruined fence. He's about to make a terrible racket but he has no choice at all now.

He can't ride through the mess in the alley. He gulps and blunders in.

The crashing and crunching around his feet burns his ears. He hears Kate and Fi stop. One of them says something to the other. He pushes on.

“Back that way.”

“Who's that? Stop!”

“They've got a bike!”

He doesn't know how but he's out on the road. His hands are shaking. He almost tips over in his hurry to mount the bike but he's on. He kicks for the pedals desperately. The feeble torch is swinging in his direction but they're too far off. He's moving, he's done it. The headlight grinds awake. “Wait!” Kate shouts. “Please wait!” Like she forgot to be polite. He stamps down hard and points the bike up the Lane. He's away. He risks a glance over his shoulder. They're chasing, Fi and Kate, running away from the Old Harbor. He's got to keep them moving that way so the Italians can land. He's having brainwaves again, he can feel everything go sort of slowly, as though he knows what's happening before it happens. He eases off a bit, letting them think they might be able to catch up. Kate's shouting things about being sensible and only wanting to talk and no one being in trouble. She sounds badly out of breath. Maybe if he pretends to fall off? He dismounts and drops the bike in the road: it goes dark. The chasing torch waggles eagerly. He lets it come closer and then when they're close to the church he hops on again and speeds away, quickly at first, then struggling as he gets to the steep towards the crest of the lane. He lets them close in again while it's uphill, and then at the last moment he's away racing down the other side of the island towards the Pub, the light white as fresh paint in front of him, the air clean and cold, glory in his heart. He dismounts just before the bottom of the slope and throws the bike over the hedge into the mass of bramble beyond, then squeezes himself down into the niche under the ivy at the corner of the Pub. He holds his breath and curls tight as Fi and Kate come gasping by. He lets them go past him, down to the road by the Beach. They stand there, mumbling as they try to catch their breath, and he slips out as quiet as anything and tiptoes back up the Lane. It's dark but it doesn't matter, there's a trace of hidden moonlight in the clouds and this is his territory now, he could walk the length of the Lane with his eyes shut. No one's coming after him. Why would they? He's invisible in the night, and as far as Kate and Fi know the traitor on the bike has raced away in completely the other direction. He feels his way to the door of Parson's and lets himself in.

It's so still inside. It's like nothing at all has just happened. His mother's snoring. He peels off his shoes and warm clothes, one by one, putting them back exactly where they came from. He creeps up the stairs and slides himself into bed, marveling at himself and at the sheer wonder of the world. A while later, lying with eyes wide open, he hears Kate and Fi come down the road outside his window, talking softly. He's still flushed and sweaty and his hands must be filthy and if they come in to wake them up it'll be obvious he's been outside, but they don't. He hears what Kate says. She's got a strong voice even when she's murmuring. “We'll never find anything in the dark anyway,” she says. “Leave it till morning. Let poor Rory sleep.”

W
akey wakey.”

He blinks. Daylight's come out of nowhere. He's missed something.

“Come on, sweetheart. Up you get.”

His mother's sitting by his feet. There's a sound of rain against the window.

“This isn't like you. You're usually my alarm clock.” She jiggles his shoulders.

He's overslept. He's facing away from her. His eyes open wide as he thinks of how filthy he must be under the blankets.

“I've put a bit of warm water in the sink.” She bends over and kisses his cheek. “All right?”

He has to pretend everything's normal. He makes himself stretch and yawn, though he keeps his hands hidden. “All right, Mum.”

“That's better. I let you sleep in a bit.” She stands up. “It's going to be a bit of a big day.”

“Is it?”