Raiders' Ransom (18 page)

“We'll be able to moor up. We'll be safe,” I gasp, pushing and pushing on the tiller.

It feels like we're turning forever, heaving through the black river to get over to that speck of safety. As we get closer, level with the hump of mud and bushes, the bow finally shifts, edging us closer to the island. But still not near enough. It's too far to jump, and the river's clutching at us, trying to pull us beyond the island before we even have a chance to get to it.

“Try and catch hold of something!” I shout at Zeph.

He grabs one of the long, heavy fishpoles, then he's leaning out, trying to snag us a bush or a tree, almost falling overboard he's reaching so hard. The pole weaves and wobbles in the air, the hook on its end brushing and snapping through bushes, clattering against tree trunks. I can see his arms shaking as he tries to keep it from dropping. Zeph swears loudly, and gives a jerk with his arms, slamming the pole into a tree. The branches quiver as the hook catches, the pole shudders, and Zeph's face goes nearly purple with strain as he gets yanked upward, nearly going overboard again. But he doesn't go over; he holds the pole, the tree, the boat. Holds everything together.

“I did it!” he shouts. But even as he does, his feet start slipping. The river still wants to take us, and there's only Zeph's hands on a little pole against all that water, all that strength.

I jump over, grab the pole as well, and brace my feet. Then I'm holding on to that pole till it feels like my arms'll pull straight out from my shoulders. My cold hands go red-raw from gripping the wet, gritty wood. Even so, the river keeps on pulling at us, shaking us through the boat. The pole shivers and slips, the tree bends and creaks. But then Zeph gets a hand farther up the pole and he pulls us in a little bit. And I get a hand farther along and I start to pull. Then it's hand over hand, arms aching and sore, close as we can to the mist-dripping lump of bushes and trees. And when we're close
enough for me to jump off, I look at Zeph, at his straining face, his hair slick with mist, and he says, “I can hold it.”

So I grab a mooring line, jumping onto wet and sliding mud, scrabbling up the bank to a tree, tying the line off. And then I jump back on and off again to do the same with another line, and another. And all the time Zeph's holding fast with the pole.

And when he can see it's trees and ropes holding the boat, Zeph lets the pole drop, and flops to sitting down. And he wipes his hands across his face, and rubs at his arms.

I climb back on board, onto our safely moored boat, and I'm grinning at Zeph. And he's grinning back at me, kind of wobbly. Cos we're out of it: out of the roaring river; out of the twirling, curling fog; out of the way of whatever might have been waiting to scupper us and take us to the bottom.

And I reckon our smiles could light up that dark island.

“This island is a pig pit,” says Zeph.

“At least we're safe.”

“Safe from drowning, but we're gonna freeze to death most likely.”

And I ain't disagreeing. Cos apart from saving us from being wrecked, this island ain't up to much.

Zeph shuffles inside his blanket and hunches down against the fog. We've got a fire, but it doesn't cut much against all the damp, and, anyway, all the wood on this island is wet through, so it just smolders and hardly makes any heat. Cat
took one look at the cold, smoky fire and pushed his way inside my oilskin, sitting curled up on my lap. A squash, but we keep each other warm. Zeph ain't got a cat to warm him, and he's looking colder every minute.

For dinner, all we had was oat biscuits and water, and that didn't cheer us up for a minute, specially not Cat. The rest of the time we've just been sat here in the foggy gloom. Far off there's an owl hooting, but mostly the only sound is the soft lapping of the river as it rolls its way to the sea.

With another shuffle, Zeph slides himself down inside his blanket, and after a bit he starts a soft snoring. But I ain't sleepy, so I sit and watch the boat rocking gently in the river, and the way the fog swirls about, settling like rain on the grass around us, dripping from the leaves of trees and bushes. It seems like hours and hours pass, but I don't know how long it is really. And then I must nod off, cos I'm woken up by Cat miaowing and wriggling to get out of my coat.

I sit up, and Cat's out. He stretches out his front legs, then pulls himself forward so his back ones go straight. And when he's done his stretching, he starts a bit of sniffing and snuffing. He sneezes, and I know he doesn't like all this wetness. I can't say I'm that happy about it, either, cos it's hard to sleep through this cold and damp. I feel wide awake now, but Zeph's still snoring away, so I creep off to the other side of the island, which ain't far cos it's so little. And when I'm out of sight of the campfire, I get the jewel out of my belt and unwrap it. Cos even though it'd be a whole lot better if that
head had got drowned in London, I can't help wanting to have another chat with it.

It sits quiet in my hand, and I wonder if it's been drowned, then it starts to glow, then it flashes. There's a click and the head pops up in front of me. It coughs and splutters.

“Primary user identified,” it says. “Welcome, Lilly Melkun.” Then it glowers at me. “You realize I said that because the start-up greeting is programmed in. How dare you treat me this way?” it huffs. “Dropping me in the mud! I have extremely delicate parts, and I'm sure I've already told you I'm not an aquatic unit. Some primary user you are. It's a wonder I've any integrity left.”

“I didn't do it on purpose,” I say. “I was pushed in.”

The head doesn't look any happier.

“And another thing: Why have I been off so long? You haven't activated me for days. Have we reached London yet?”

“We've been and gone,” I say.

“What?” screeches the head. “But London's my best option for finding a technical support outlet!”

“I don't think there were any,” I say, trying to calm it down. “It's all flooded and ruined there now. Not like the olden times.”

“So you say,” mutters the head. “Which is just the kind of tale a hacker would tell.”

“I ain't a hacker,” I say. “I don't even know what a hacker is.”

“Also what a hacker would say,” snaps the head, then it looks around. “So if we aren't in London, where exactly are we?”

“We're on an island in the Thames.”

“For goodness' sake! Don't you have any idea of sterile operating conditions?” I reckon if it had feet it'd be stamping them. “So what are we doing here?” it says grumpily.

“We're on our way to the raiders. The ones that took Alexandra. I met the son of the raider Boss who took her, and he's going to take me to his home.”

“The raiders? The ones you described as murdering evil savages?”

I nod.

“And yet one of them is taking you to his home?”

I nod again. The head raises its eyebrows in a question.

“I tricked him,” I say. “I ain't told him about you, or Alexandra, or what I'm doing, or anything. I even said my name was Lilo, not Lilly Melkun.” The head raises its eyebrows a bit more, and I end up telling it everything that's happened. Just like I always do. When I tell it about the Scots, and how I reckon maybe they was looking for a computer, not Alexandra, it looks right pleased.

“These Scots sound more sensible than the rest of you. And perhaps will help me find the assistance I require.” It looks at me all haughtily. “Take me to the Scots,” it orders. “I require immediate technical support.”

“I ain't doing that,” I say. “I've got to take you to the raiders. And even if I wasn't, it ain't easy to get into Greater Scotland.
Not if you're from the Last Ten Counties. The Prime Minister put out orders a few years ago that anyone trying to get across the border could be shot. And folks say even if you get through, the Scots just lock you up when you get there.”

“I'm sure we can manage it,” says the head. “This Greater Scotland place sounds like my best option by far, and I want to go there. Please.”

I shake my head.

“You're going to the raiders,” I say.

“Don't I have any say in the matter? You wouldn't do this to one of your own kind! It's little better than slavery!”

“Plenty of people get traded for slaves,” I say. “Anyway, you probably won't stay long with the raiders. They're bound to sell you on.”

“Which is hardly a comfort,” snaps the head.

It won't say anything after that, and keeps turning its face away from me. So I shut it down and creep back to the fire. Where Zeph's still snoring.

I get woken by footsteps next to my head, and when I open my eyes, Zeph's already up and about, his blanket folded, the fire stamped out. The sun's gleaming gold on the horizon, and the river's rippling pink and silver in the dawn. The fog's lifted, and there's just a few wisps of mist on the water and a soggy wetness over everything on the island.

“You're awake, then,” says Zeph. “Come on. The fog's gone, so we better get going. The sooner we get to my father, the sooner this will all be settled.”

“All what?”

But he doesn't answer.

“Mew,” says Cat, wandering over. He must have wriggled out of my oilskin when I was sleeping. He licks my ear and rumbles a little purr inside. At least someone's cheery this morning.

It turns out we're only a few lengths from the southern shore. And now that we're closer, I can see ruined houses poking out everywhere from the trees and scrub — a whole town laid to waste. Farther in are the towers we saw last night, and in the morning light they look a whole lot more broken. They're just the concrete shells of long-dead buildings: every window smashed, bits of wall hanging off in chunks or slumped away completely. Up the Thames, nearer London, the river's lined with towers like this. And when the wind blows through them, there's a sighing, moaning sound, like they're crying for what's lost.

“See,” I say to Zeph, “no ghosts came and got us in the night.”

Zeph looks hard at me, but doesn't say anything.

We pack up and push off, unfurling the mainsail and heading out into the wide river. The wind ain't coming from the best direction, but the river's still pushing us, so we make good speed through the morning. Zeph's grumpy and quiet today. Probably in another of his moods, which seem to come and go like rain showers in April. But I don't have time to care, cos this is the Thames, and everyone knows it's got sandbanks and trick currents and all sorts waiting to get you. We don't pass any more towers or haunted woods, just miles and miles of flat green marshes. Seems like the only life is the birds. Ducks paddle about the edges of the river, and flocks of tiny things peep and flutter above the reeds. But that's only what
it seems, cos here and there I catch sight of smoke rising. The marshes ain't empty, and you don't want to meet anyone who comes out of them.

“Is it like this where you live?” I ask Zeph.

But he just gives me a glaring look and says, “You'll find out yourself, won't you?”

Like I said, grumpy.

By lunchtime, the tide's turning back upriver and we make slow going of it. We pass by more ruins, not a town this time, but three chimneys, next to a big square lump of a ruin and a long line of broken concrete across the grass, where it looks like a fourth chimney has already fallen down. The chimneys are as tall as any of the great towers, but they're leaning all over. In their shadows, white, brown, and red specks of birds putter about in the muddy shore, poking their beaks in and out, looking for lugworms and shellfish.

Not long after, the southern shore's so far and distant I can't hardly see it, and by the smell of the water, I know we're back at sea.

“Just follow the coast north,” says Zeph when I ask him where to go. Which doesn't seem like much of a plan to me, but Zeph's sure.

“My father will find me, no problem. All you have to do is get us to the right place.”

But I don't know if Zeph even knows where the right place is, cos he doesn't give me any directions, and when I ask if there's a pilot song for this coastline, he just looks blank at
me. The marshy coast is cut with creeks and islands, weaving away into the rushes, so it ends up with me asking at every one, “Is it up there?”

And every time he just shakes his head and carries on staring out ahead of us.

The farther north we go, the moodier Zeph gets. In the middle of the afternoon, I see dark shapes under the water and the first white hints of breakers.

“Do you know what that is?” I call to Zeph, and he looks back at me with sea-dazzled eyes.

“Oh, there's a lot of sandbanks round here. You'd better pull farther out into deeper water.”

“And you didn't tell me before?”