Torn Away (5 page)

He checked the gas again; it was very low and he was still a long way from the shore. He had not counted on the wind. He should have stopped sooner. He hoped there was a dock at the island; if there was none, he was done for.

He stared ahead at the island, misty in the distance, willing the motor to keep turning. Where was the eagle? Or the seal?

He was hungry. He ate one of the chunks of soda bread.

After a while, he thought the motor sounded a bit different, as though it were thirsty. He was scared to take off the cap and
look into the tank for fear he would find it dry. Keep going for another five minutes, he prayed, that's all, five minutes.

The boat heaved and rolled in the choppy sea. The motor coughed. He throttled back a bit. He was nearly there. He could see a narrow strip of beach where he could land the boat. He would have to be careful not to damage the motor. He examined its swivel mechanism and figured that he would have to pull the motor back and up out of the water when he could see the sandy bottom under the boat.

He was there! Up with the motor! The bottom of the boat scraped the sandy beach as he leaped out with the prow rope and dragged the boat up higher onto the beach where the tide could not take it back again. It was a falling tide; the boat should be safe there a while.

He sat on the beach, trying to decide what to do next. This could be a deserted island. His map was too small a scale to give any useful information. One thing was certain: the boat that had brought him here was no longer of any use to him. He would have to find another before he could continue his
journey. Perhaps it was just as well. If he had put into shore at a dock on the peninsula, he might have been caught. And didn't bank robbers change cars to confuse the police? He stood up, hooked his thumb under the collar of the coat, slung it over his shoulder and set off along the rocky shore, breathing a silent prayer to those watching over him not to desert him now, to let him soon find another boat.

He walked for an hour along narrow trails until he came to a headland and was forced to make his way up over the rocks.

When he had climbed up to the top, he could see for miles. There was no sign of a living soul, only a lone blue heron on the beach. Above the rocks and the trees and the glittering sea wheeled the screeching gulls. He looked up and saw an eagle, gliding high in the sky above the cliffs, and he took it as a sign.

He walked along the cliff, intending to make his way over to the other side of the cape and then cut down to the beach again, but thought he could hear something and stopped, listening. There was a noise, a rumble, that became louder over the cries of the gulls. It sounded like a truck. If it was a truck, then there must be a road or a trail.

He headed inland toward the noise, pushing his way through alder and salal brush. The truck noise died away, but he kept going and soon came on a gravel road running parallel with the coast. He turned south along the road, his sneakers crunching on the gravel.

The sun hung over his head at noon. He was thirsty. Why hadn't he thought to bring water instead of bread? Water was more important than food. Too late to remember that now. But there was bound to be water on the island, a stream or a creek; it had rained two days ago.

When he finally came upon a creek, channeled through a culvert under the road, he kneeled down and tasted the water. It was clear and sparkling and ice cold from the top of the mountain. He scooped up the water
in his hands, slurping greedily. Then he lay back on a shady bed of ferns underneath a high canopy of hemlock trees and closed his eyes and rested.

There were no more cars or trucks. If a car did come along, he should hide; no good taking chances.

The air smelled sweet and pure. He could hear birds and the buzz of insects. It was all very calm and peaceful, the birds chattering and the tall trees rustling and the clear air shining. Eden must have been like this. He had forgotten what it was like in a forest or on a moor, and only dimly remembered a trip he and his ma and Mairead had taken to the Donegal countryside when he was ten. Mairead would have been only seven. But he remembered the air and the silence.

He drank more water and then set off along the road once more. After a while, the road dipped and curved downhill to a narrow junction, with another road running off to the right towards the coast. The new road showed signs of heavy usage. He would have to be careful he was not seen.

In ten minutes he was out of the forest, and soon came to a collection of small
cottages on the waterfront. There were a few cars and trucks and a dock with several boats. Two men stood in conversation on the dock. He heard the sound of a radio in one of the cottages playing rock music. This was the place, but he would have to wait for the men to leave.

He circled around the cottages, close to the trees, and worked his way toward the beach. He saw the men walking up the road away from the dock. They climbed into a truck and drove off.

He waited. It was quiet. He strolled casually onto the dock, hoping that if anyone saw him, they would not be suspicious. He had to be quick. He spotted an ignition key dangling from the dashboard of a small cabin boat. He was in luck! He threw his coat aboard and leaped down off the dock, ducking his head in under the cabin roof. His prayers were being answered. The 75HP outboard would get him there faster. He untied the boat and pushed off. When he had drifted out a short distance, he started the motor, slipped the transmission into gear, and nursed the boat along for a few hundred yards until he was well clear of the
shore. He looked back. All seemed quiet. It had been too easy. His heart swelled. It was a moment of triumph. He opened the throttle and headed for Sea Island, singing loudly for joy over the crash of the spray and the roar of the powerful motor.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.

He kept away from other boats with their trailing fishing lines, circling around them as he had done before, but then almost out of nowhere, came one of the huge blue-white ferries, large as an ocean liner, bearing down on him, bellowing madly like an angry sea monster.

The
Queen of Esquimalt
was heading for Horseshoe Bay.

His heart bottomed out. “BC Ferries” said the name on the funnel. The thing was enormous. It howled constantly at him to get out of its path. The noise was deafening. In his panic to get away, he swung the wheel too hard and almost capsized the boat. Water
slopped into the cabin. The motor protested, faltered as if about to stall, then recovered. He urged the boat out of the giant's path as the motor picked up power and speed. The ferry slid by only yards away, still screaming with rage. He turned the boat and throttled back, heading it into the waves that followed the ferry's passage. Again he almost capsized, as the boat heaved and swung in the violent afterwash.

He hung on to the wheel. When the waves had abated and his heart had stopped pounding, he opened the throttle again, this time watching the horizon more alertly.

He slipped his uncle's coat on. It was colder now. Clouds obscured the afternoon sun. He ate the remaining hunk of soda bread and consulted the map. That must be Point Gray in the distance, he decided. The motor sounded good. He would soon be there, an hour maybe.

He ran out of gas just off the Point.

The boat wallowed helplessly only a few hundred yards from the shore. He was beginning to feel tired and dispirited; his arms and shoulders ached, and the bruises on his wrist felt sore. He rubbed his cold hands
together, and rubbed at the gold ring on his middle finger.

He wasn't finished yet! He'd come this far. He would try to signal another boat and buy or beg enough gas to take him to Sea Island; it wasn't that far away.

He scanned the seascape for a boat close enough to see his signal, while the drift tide took him back around the Point into the mouth of English Bay. A sleek sailboat was coming his way. He started to wave his green toque to attract attention but, startled by a sudden thumping noise behind him, turned his head and saw a sleek prow bearing down on him slowly. It was the coastguard.

The forty-one-foot coastguard search-and-rescue vessel,
Osprey
, acting on a call from the
Queen of Esquimalt
, had been searching for a boy alone in a small boat. They had been searching for less than twenty minutes. It had not taken them long to find him.

The sign on his desk said, “Arthur McKenzie. Coxswain.” He was a tough, grizzled man with a Scottish accent. He held a report in his hand as he glared at Declan across his desk. “You stole the boat from Bowen Island.”

Declan said nothing.

“Where do you live?”

Declan stared at him.

“What's your name, son?” McKenzie's tone softened.

“Do you think I could have a drink of water?”

McKenzie called to one of the men in the next room to bring some water. Declan drank the water quickly; his mouth felt so dry.

McKenzie resumed his questioning: “What's your name?”

Declan held out the empty glass. “Could I have some more?”

McKenzie gave a sigh. “More water for Oliver Twist!” he yelled into the other room.

Declan drank the second glass of water and put the empty glass on McKenzie's desk.

“Well?”

Declan said, “Thanks.”

“I was asking about your name.”

Declan said nothing.

When Declan would answer none of the questions, McKenzie called the police. Five minutes later they were marching Declan out of the coastguard station and into their police car. There were two of them, uniformed. They pushed him into the back seat. There were no handles on the insides of the doors. By now it was getting dark. They whisked him to headquarters in downtown Vancouver where he was handed
over to a big man with a badly pockmarked face. He chewed gum. His dark jacket was badly crumpled. The sign on his desk said, “Detective Sam Gore.”

Gore's office was small, barely room for the desk and two chairs. Declan sat and hunched his shoulders. Gore sat back and stared at Declan with hard unfriendly eyes, his jaw chewing rhythmically.

Declan sat, relaxed, eyeing the big detective.

Gore stared and chewed.

Declan allowed his gaze to wander about the office, but there was nothing to focus on, no notices, no pictures of Most Wanted Men, no pictures of any kind: the room was completely featureless. He brought his attention back to Gore.

Declan's indifference had made Gore angrier, his chewing jaw tighter, his stare now a hostile glare. He spoke, forcing the words out slowly between his teeth. “What's your name?”

Declan said nothing.

Gore stopped chewing. His eyes protruded. “You hear me, boy?” he growled in a strangled voice. “I asked your name!”

Declan said nothing. He watched the detective calmly.

Gore, barely controlling himself, gripped the edges of his desk with his big paws as if he were about to hurl it aside and attack Declan with his fists. “It's all the same to me, boy,” he rasped, “but you could end up spending the rest of your life behind bars. So you better start talking, you hearing me?” He leaned forward over the desk. He was boiling. “You steal a boat from Bowen; you get near killed by a ferryboat; you got no ID, and seems like you're deaf and dumb. Who are you, boy? What's your name? Where do you live? Why'd you steal a boat? You better spill it, before I get mean! And when I get mean, I'm like
mean
, man!”

“Up yours!” said Declan calmly.

Gore howled with rage. “Why, you little snot!” He reached over the desk for Declan's neck.

The door opened. “Everything okay in here?” It was another detective. He stepped in quickly and held Gore by the arm. “Take it easy, Sam, he's only a kid. Look, why don't you go get a cup of coffee.” He wrestled Gore out from behind the desk and pushed him out
the door. “Leave the kid to me, okay?”

He came back, smiling, and put out his hand. “I'm Jake Ball.” He had bad teeth. He also chewed gum.

Declan ignored the outstretched hand.

Ball kept smiling. “Let me help you, son. You're in a heap of trouble, but it's nothing that can't be put right. I want to help you, okay?” He had a very friendly face. He offered Declan a stick of gum.

Declan ignored the gum. “I'm not your son. And I've been through this bad guy-good guy routine before. With professionals. So save your breath.”

Ball threw up his hands. “Okay. If that's the way you want it. If I let my partner in here again, he'll murder you, I know it. He's mean. But if that's what you want . . . “

“I'm trembling,” sneered Declan.

Ball went out and closed the door behind him.

Declan sprang to the door. It wasn't locked. He opened it and walked through. He could see Ball talking to Gore in another room. He hurried down the stairs and out the door into the dark street. He ran.

His legs were cramped from all the sit
ting in the boat. Running was painful. He jumped on a bus, not knowing where he was going, but it did not matter; he wanted to put some distance between himself and the police station.

He handed the driver his ten dollar bill.

The driver gave back the ten and said, “You have to have the change. Seventy cents.”

“Huh?”

The driver jerked his head. “Forget it. Siddown.”

He sat down beside an old man. “Does this bus go to the airport?”

“You want to get to the airport?” The old man seemed surprised that anyone would want to go there. “There's a bus goes every hour, on the hour . . .” He consulted his watch. “ . . . you should just about make one.” He pointed ahead. “Get off at the next stop, and walk over one block to the Vancouver Hotel. Bus goes every hour.”

Declan thanked him.