The League of Sharks (6 page)

When Junk next woke, he was lying on a bed of soft silver fur. It was so plush that he sank into it and the fur closed around him, enveloping him in its delicate embrace. It was probably the most luxurious bed he had ever slept on.

He sat up and looked around. He was in a cabin made of wood. The ceilings were at least eight metres high. The craftsmanship that had constructed it was stunning. Junk knew about wood because of his father. Without consciously seeking them out, Junk was drawn to the joints in the elaborate roof. A mix of mortise and tenon joints and comb joints, all cut to perfection. Even though he recognized the style, there was something different about how it was put together. He couldn't quite work out what it was. Maybe it was the wood itself. The grain was extremely tight. Its colour was a rich burnt coppery orange.

Half the room was in darkness even though it was light outside. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Something caught Junk's attention and he frowned as he stared at the nearest window. The glass looked different
from normal glass. It was slightly translucent, thickening the light as it entered. Nothing was sharp.

All the furniture was wooden, handmade and huge. The table was as tall as Junk himself. In fact, he would probably have to stand on tiptoe to see over it.

He threw off the blanket that had been covering him and discovered two things. The first was that he was wearing a shirt that was vast. The sleeves were three times the length of his arms. He pulled and pulled and pulled some more to roll one of them up enough to free his hand. He managed to tuck the ends inside, but it meant there was a lot of bunched-up material hanging from his arm. He did the same thing with the other sleeve. The shirt went down past his feet and the second thing he discovered when he hoicked it up was that he was tethered to the bed with an intricately woven leather manacle. A criss-cross of thinner strips of leather, almost like laces, seemed to secure it, and as Junk tried to undo them, all he managed to do was tighten them even more. The way the strips of leather were arranged seemed to offer the chance of freedom just by loosening the correct strand. Unfortunately loosening one strand tightened another and after several long, frustrating moments, Junk gave up.

He looked around some more. Where was he? Whose cabin was this?

‘Hello?' he called. No reply. ‘HEY!' he called louder. ‘
HELLO
!' Louder still. Nothing.

He sat up as tall as he could and saw a belt hanging
over the back of one of the chairs by the giant table. The belt was made from woven strands of leather and looked a lot like the manacle around his ankle. Attached to the belt was a leather scabbard and sticking out of the scabbard was the hilt of a knife. Junk rolled over on to his hands and knees and crawled forward. The material of his voluminous shirt gathered around him, hobbling his progress.

He crawled as far as he could, until the leather strap around his ankle became taut, and then he stretched out his arm, reaching for the knife. Infuriatingly it was still beyond his grasp. He pulled forward, causing the straps to tighten around his ankle. They started to cut into his skin and cause him pain. When he pulled back, they didn't then loosen. Once tightened they stayed that way. They were cutting off the flow of blood to his foot which was now turning a rather alarming shade of purple.

However, Junk knew that if he could reach the knife then he could cut himself free so he persisted and stretched further. The leather around his ankle constricted even more. The pain increased. Junk was becoming desperate. If he didn't get the knife, there was a good possibility that he would pass out from the pain and maybe lose the foot. He wasn't sure, but he thought if the circulation was cut off from an extremity such as a foot then it would wither and die. He was pretty sure that was true. He was pretty sure he'd seen it on a documentary once, though there was a possibility
it was in a horror film. He turned his attention back to the knife.

He dug his fingernails into the seam at the top of his baggy shirt sleeve and ripped. It came apart with relative ease and he was able to pull it free. He tied a hefty knot in one end to give it a bit of weight and then took aim and launched it at the belt hanging from the chair, keeping hold of the other end. First time, he missed. It bounced off the belt and hit the floor. He reeled it back in and tried again. Second time, the knot looped through the belt and came back around a little. By incremental flicks of his wrist, he was able to coax the knotted end of the shirt sleeve closer and closer to him until at last he was able to grab hold of it. A rush of euphoria shot through him. Holding both ends of the sleeve, he pulled at the belt but it was hooked over the top of the chair. He tried his wrist-flicking again to get the belt off. On the third try, it worked. The belt was dislodged and it fell to the floor.

‘Yes!' he said triumphantly and started to reel it in. Suddenly a hand came out of the shadow, followed by a face. Garvan's face. Garvan's enormous face. Terror and panic raced through Junk. He screamed and shot backwards. The sudden movement caused the leather strap on his ankle to tighten even more and he cried out in pain.

Garvan had been sitting in the shadows watching Junk all along. He picked up the belt with the knife and placed it on the table, well out of Junk's reach. Then he stood over him like a passing oak tree. Junk was both
terrorized and in agony. Instinctively he yanked at the manacle but only managed to make it tighter still. He was desperate to get away from this terrifying giant looking down at him.

‘Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!' Junk said in panicked prayer. Garvan lowered himself down and grabbed hold of Junk's foot. It was almost black by now. He held it still and with more finesse than one would expect possible from his huge fingers, he loosened the bindings so that the constricting pressure was alleviated, though Junk was still restrained. The pain ebbed away almost at once. Junk lay still, breathing hard, but his pounding heart was calming down. He stared at Garvan's colossal features.

‘Who are ya?' Junk managed to say on the end of a breath, but Garvan didn't answer. He made no response at all. He just put Junk's foot down gently and rose to his feet. Junk had never seen anyone so big. He was easily half the height of the very high room.

Junk tried again. ‘What do you want from me?' Garvan didn't react. ‘Are you going to hurt me?' Nothing. ‘Where am I?' Garvan turned and walked away. ‘My friends are looking for me.' Junk always thought it was phoney when kidnap victims said that in movies, but here he was saying it himself. It was because he couldn't think of anything else to say and he really felt like he should have something to say. It never did any good. The kidnappers never went, ‘Oh, I'd better let you go then.'

He watched Garvan as he moved around the cabin. Junk's head was spinning. He didn't know what to think.
Garvan looked human but not. Junk had never seen such a big person. He was a giant. A proper giant. His face was different too. His nose lacked cartilage. It was wide and soft. His mouth was weak, as if he'd had a stroke. The old priest back in Murroughtoohy, Father Austin, he'd had a stroke and the left corner of his mouth hung lower than the right. However, there the similarity ended. Father Austin's whole left side was affected. He dragged his left foot, his left arm hung uselessly and his double chins gathered in a fleshy pleat on that side of his face. Garvan, however, had a firm, strong jaw. He stood straight, walked cleanly. His shoulders were broad and powerful. Each of his arms was wider than Junk's torso.

Garvan returned holding a plate made from a flat piece of slate. On it was a selection of berries, some fruit Junk didn't recognize and what looked like bread. Garvan set it down in front of Junk and backed away to the table. He grabbed a chair, turned it round and sat, watching. Junk suddenly realized how hungry he was and wasn't sure how long it had been since he last ate. He grabbed a piece of the unknown fruit and bit into it. Its flesh was orange in colour but its texture was like that of a banana. It was sweet. A little like vanilla custard. He scoffed it all down quickly. He couldn't stop. The first bite had awakened the hunger pangs in him and they were demanding satisfaction.

‘This is good. Thank you,' said Junk, biting into the bread-like substance. It was close to bread but it wasn't quite bread. It was delicious though. Crisp on the outside,
sweet on the inside. The texture was like an Italian Christmas cake that he'd tried once. Panettone, it was called. ‘My name's Junk,' he said. He looked Garvan in the eye, wanting to make a connection, see some sort of reaction. But there was nothing. ‘Can you tell me where I am?' That was the second time he had asked that question and the second time that it garnered no response. ‘Do you understand me? Do you speak English?' Nothing. ‘
Ellinika
?' Greek? ‘
Milate Ellinika
?' Do you speak Greek? After all, when he went diving he was off the coast of Corfu. It made sense. Junk went through the languages he knew in his head, then looked at Garvan and listed them: ‘
Français? Italiano? Deutsch? Español? Português? Svenska? Arabi? Russki? Zhongwen?
' The list could have gone on, though conversation would have become increasingly limited. For example, the only thing he could say in Urdu was ‘my donkey likes your tree'. So far it had never come in handy. As it was there was no conversation at all. Nothing Junk said elicited anything vaguely resembling a response from Garvan, and after about twenty minutes Garvan got up and left the room.

Junk didn't see him again that day. The light faded gradually as day turned to night. There were no lamps or candles within view and so Junk sat in the darkness on his fur-lined bed until fatigue overcame him and he fell asleep.

*

At dawn, Garvan came back and sat watching the boy as he slept. His mind was racing with the thought that this
might be the one he'd been waiting for. He didn't look like he expected him to look, but he spoke in a strange alien language that Garvan didn't understand. That was the first marker. The first sign. He had played the sequence of events that were due to unfold over and over in his head a thousand times. Ten thousand. A hundred thousand. But he shouldn't get carried away, he told himself. This might not be the one. He would test him and see. If he passed, it still wouldn't mean he was the one, but it would be another step in the right direction. The boy started to stir.

*

When Junk woke he felt refreshed, having had one of the best sleeps in memory. He opened his eyes and looked around. Garvan was sitting watching him again.

‘Morning,' said Junk, sitting up. No reaction from Garvan as always. ‘What sort of fur is this?' Junk asked, running his hand through the luxurious pelt beneath him. ‘This is the softest bed I've ever slept on. Spent most of the last few years sleeping in bunks on ships and boats. They're pretty much the same wherever you are. Thin mattress, thin blanket. Can't remember the last time I was this still. Got used to rooms swaying around me.'

Junk wasn't sure why, but he didn't feel scared around Garvan any more. There was something serene about the big man. At that moment he thought about the monster in
Frankenstein
. He'd read the book when he was about nine and found it again a year ago on board a fishing boat he had crewed on out of Gdansk. Of course that ended badly. The book, not the Polish fishing boat.

Maybe because Garvan said nothing, Junk felt compelled to speak. He didn't expect a response and left less and less opportunity between sentences for Garvan to say anything.

‘So what can I call ya? Got to call you something. You got a name?' He did pause then but got no reaction. ‘How about Frank?' he said, thinking about the book again. ‘So I'm Junk, you're Frank. How's things, Frank? Looks like a nice sunny day out there.' He craned his head to look out of the misted window. ‘Any chance I could go for a walk? I won't go far. Just stretch my legs. Get a breath of fresh air. That sort of thing.' No reaction. ‘No? Fair enough. It was worth asking though, wasn't it?'

There was a moment of silence as Junk considered what to say next. His stomach rumbled and he realized he was starving.

‘Any chance of some breakfast? That fruit you had yesterday or the bread or anything really. What was that fruit? What's it called? Don't know why I keep asking questions. Seems like a waste of words. I mean what if I found out everyone was allotted a finite number of words and I was using mine up willy-nilly talking to you. Like a man in a desert having a bath. A good, long, hot soak. I suppose I could always borrow some of your words quota. You don't seem to have any need for them. I wonder what the hell I'm talking about. Strange things pop into your head sometimes, don't they?'

Junk stopped talking. The two of them sat in silence. Junk's stomach rumbled again. This time Garvan got up
and crossed to his kitchen. He started putting some more food together. He brought a plate over to Junk and set it down in front of him. Junk looked at him when he was close.

‘So you can understand me?' No reaction from Garvan. ‘Or maybe you just heard me stomach. Thank you anyway.'

Junk dug into the food. There was more of the bread that wasn't bread, some more berries, a different type of fruit. It was crunchy like an apple but bitter like grapefruit. Junk didn't enjoy his first bite, but the taste grew on him and by the third he was loving it. There was also something in a small wooden bowl that resembled cottage cheese. It had a sharp oaky, nutty taste.

‘This is lovely. What's this? It's kind of cheesy. Doesn't look that appetizing but tastes gorgeous.'

Garvan returned to the kitchen area and came back with a plate of food for himself and two clay beakers full of water. The beakers had been made with great skill, the same craftsmanship that was evident in the architecture of the cabin, the furniture and the plates. Junk drank deeply, emptying the beaker in one go. Only then did he realize how thirsty he had been.