Lucas (38 page)

Dad gazed down at Robbie's crumpled body for a moment, then, with a dejected shake of his head, he turned around to face the crowd. As one disjointed organism, they stared back at him – fifty dead eyes burning through the rain. Dominic moved forward and stood
beside Dad. The crowd-beast flicked its eyes – and then it moved. Crunch, crunch … fifty legs and fifty arms, a thoughtless mass of flesh and bone moving to a stimulus.

Dad tried once more. ‘Think about it!' he cried out. ‘Stop and
think
…' But his words were lost to the sound of the beast. Inhuman voices, groans, spits and growls, thoughtless feet crunching on gravel.

Dad gave up on reason and prepared to fight. His body slipped into a crouch and he stepped forward to meet the attack. Deefer bared his teeth and moved with him, guarding his flank, and Dominic moved to cover the other side. Dad's eyes scanned the approaching mass, trying to pick out the leaders. He knew it was his only chance – take out the leaders and the rest just might give up.

I searched with him. Jamie … where's Jamie? There … hanging back, just off the front, shielded by Brendell, goading the others on but keeping himself out of harm's way. Too smart. What about Toms? No … no sign of him. No sign of his sergeant, either …

I saw Dad's eyes settle on Tully Jones. Jones was at the front, moving fast and wielding a pick-axe handle.

My heart was bursting with fire. I was burning up. I felt so bad I can't even describe it. Everything all at once – paralysing fear, emptiness, panic, madness, rage … my body screaming, burning, crying … my head numbed, spinning, cold, overloaded with nothing and everything …

I saw everything.

Tully Jones came on with a streetwise grin and feinted Dad with the pick-axe handle, raising it to strike then darting to one side. As Dad followed him round, two bikers sneaked up behind him. One was short and weaselly with a Stanley knife gripped behind his back, the other was a mountain man with stringy black hair and hands as
big as shovels. Deefer got the weasel, bit him in the leg, and Dom went for the mountain man. The big biker just flicked him away like a bear swatting flies, and then he was on Dad from behind, pinning his arms to his side while Tully Jones came up from the front with drug-burned eyes and the pick-axe handle cocked over his shoulder.

I thought it was all over.

Then a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, cracking open the gloom, and Lucas flew out of the house with his knife in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. He moved fast and without a sound, cracking the bottle into Jones's face then spinning round and slashing the biker's arm with his knife. Jones crumpled to the ground and the biker screamed and grabbed at his bleeding arm. Then he screamed again as Deefer sank his teeth into his backside.

The rest of the mob were momentarily stunned.

Someone said,
‘That's him!'

Then, as one, they realised who it was.

‘It's him!'

‘The gypsy!'

‘Get him!'

They started forward, but Lucas ignored them. Casually wiping a film of rain from his face, he dropped the bottle to the ground, sheathed his knife, and spoke quietly to Dad. I couldn't hear what he said, but Dad told me later that his voice was unforgettably clear. His exact words were: ‘I've left my bag in your room. It's all in there. When I've gone give it to Craine.' Then he smiled and said, ‘Maybe we'll talk again some time.'

The crowd was closing rapidly now, snapping and snarling like a pack of jackals, but Lucas didn't seem to care. With frightening calmness he shook Dad's hand and thanked him for everything, then he smiled and raised a
farewell hand to me, and finally, with an almost arrogant weariness, he turned to face the approaching horde. His body stilled and his eyes emptied. The look of Lucas: no fear, no anger, no pain, no hate … no nothing. Nothing at all, absolutely nothing. The emotionless look of an animal, a look of pure instinct.

They were almost on him now, and for one terrible moment I thought he'd given up. He was just going to stand there and take it. But then, just as the hands were reaching out and I thought it was too late, he swayed back, skipped delicately to one side, and took off into the rain.

My heart sang as I watched him run. His feet barely touched the ground. Round the edge of the yard, leaning into the wind, a quick dart across the lawn, then up and over the garden fence and he was away, flying down the lane towards the beach in all his ragged grace.

By the time the crowd realised what had happened, he was already out of sight.

I smiled through my tears.

False hope. That's all it was – false hope. He had nowhere to go. The island was still cut off. There was nowhere to run to. I knew it. He knew it. The crowd knew it. All he was doing was buying time, drawing them away from us. He might lead them a merry chase, he might hold out for a few hours, maybe even longer, but they'd get him in the end. They were always going to. It was written in his eyes. In the stars. He was born to it.

But you can still hope, can't you? Even when you know you're wasting your time, what harm can it do to hope?

The skies were darkening by the minute now. A driving wind swept in low to the ground then whipped up into the
air and whirled around the yard, scattering rain in all directions. Thunder rolled and clouds flashed in the near distance.

Down in the yard Jamie Tait was barking out orders and the mob were spilling around and lumbering out into the lane after Lucas. The lane was too narrow for cars, but I saw some of the bikers running for their motorbikes …

I crawled out from under the roof, hurried over to the hatchway and hit the button that operates the ladder. It groaned slowly into action. As it inched its way down through the hatch, I stepped cautiously up to the edge and gazed down at the hallway below. It was a long drop. God knows how Lucas managed it. If I jumped down there my legs would snap like matchsticks.

‘Come
on
', I said, whacking the ladder.

It carried on at the same speed … very … very … slow … ly …

From outside I could hear the sound of the crowd jostling down the lane, fading into the distance. I could hear motorcycle engines, shouts, the wind and rain picking up strength.

The ladder was still only halfway down. If I waited much longer …

I jumped onto the still-moving ladder. The sudden weight made the motor whine and half a second later something popped and the ladder dropped down and slammed into the floor. I don't know exactly what happened. All I can remember is a jarring pain in my back and then somehow I was on my feet and running downstairs and tearing out the front door into the yard.

A strong hand grabbed my arm and stopped me in my tracks. I whipped round and lashed out with my free hand, narrowly missing Dad's face.

‘Whoah!' he said. ‘It's me … take it easy.'

I glanced quickly around. The mob had already disappeared down the lane, chasing after Lucas, and the yard was almost empty. Tully Jones was trying to get to his feet, holding a dirty rag to his face, while further on the two wounded bikers were helping each other across the yard towards their motorbikes.

I called Deefer and he sprang up from the shadows.

‘See them?' I said, pointing out the bikers.
‘Get 'em!'

He set off in a loping run toward the two figures.

‘What the hell—' said Dad. ‘What are you
doing?'

‘It's all right – wait a minute.'

The two bikers turned suddenly at the sound of galloping paws. I saw their faces pale, their mouths drop, their eyes widen, and then I called out –
‘Wait!'

Deefer skidded to a halt in front of them.

‘Sit!'

He sat, watching them with hungry eyes. They weren't going anywhere.

I turned to Dad. ‘You can drive a motorbike, can't you?'

A minute later, after a little cajoling from Deefer, we had two sets of greasy keys for two greasy motorcycles. Dom got one going and Dad started the other. The powerful engines roared, headlights sliced through the rain, and black exhaust smoke billowed out into the wind. I climbed up on the pillion behind Dad and whacked him on the shoulder.

‘OK,' I yelled. ‘Let's go. Come on, Dad.
Go!'

It was hard driving. With all the rain and the trampling feet, the lane was awash with deep puddles and long stretches of thick slimy mud. Too fast and the bikes would
skid from under us, too slow and they'd stick in the mud. So we kept to a steady pace. It wasn't as fast as I would have liked, but it was fast enough. A strong cross-wind was blowing, battering the bikes from side to side, and the rain was lashing down hard, stinging my skin.

‘Look!' shouted Dad.

I peered over his shoulder, feeling the full blast of the wind in my face. Up ahead two crashed motorcycles were sprawled across the lane and two mud-spattered bikers were sitting beside them. One of them was holding his head in his hands and the other was nursing a wounded leg.

Dad laughed. ‘Looks like they caught up with Lucas!'

The wind was so cold my eyes were running with tears and I couldn't get enough air into my lungs to speak. I patted Dad on the shoulder to let him know I knew what he meant. He drove round the ambushed bikers, spattering them with more mud, then pressed on. I glanced over my shoulder. Dominic was close behind, riding hard, with his open shirt blowing in the wind and a crazy grin on his face, and further back I could see Deefer lolloping along through the mud. He looked as if he was enjoying himself, too.

I wasn't.

With every passing second my heart was getting heavier. On the horizon the aluminium grey of the sea was merging with the gloom of the sky to form an all-encompassing rise of dark air and water, like something primeval. It looked cold and hard. Like a place without air, without life, without hope. Like the end of something. That's where we're going, I thought. To the blackness, the darkness, to the place where there's nothing …

I shook the doom from my head and reached for my hope.

Hope.

Hope.

Hope.

Dad swerved the motorbike and hit the horn, shouting into the wind. I couldn't make out what he was saying but when I leaned out I saw the smoking wreckage of two more motorcycles lying in the mud. Lucas had been busy. There was a half-buried body under one of the crashed bikes, a scabby young man in a filthy denim jacket and ripped leathers. His eyes were open, staring at the falling rain, but he wasn't moving. The other rider was kneeling in the rain beside him coughing up blood.

What's happening? I thought.

What's
happening
?

Dad rode on through the teeming rain, the engine shrieked, the skies above roared and flashed, the earth shook … it was hopeless. I closed my eyes and prayed for a nightmare. You can wake up from a nightmare. I prayed for the rain I'd dreamed of, the dream of Lucas running on the beach with people chasing after him, throwing stones at him and calling him names.
Gyppo! Thief! Dirty pervert!
Hundreds of them, brandishing sticks and bits of piping, shovels and rocks, whatever they could lay their hands on, their nightmare faces gripped with hate and streaked with tears of rain.
Dirty gyppo! Dirty bastard!
Jamie Tait was there, oiled, in his too-tight swimming trunks. Angel and Robbie. Lee Brendell, Bill, Dominic, Deefer, Simon, Dad, everyone from the island storming across the beach screaming out for blood … and I was there, too. I was with them. I was running with the mob. I could feel the wet sand beneath my feet, the rain in my hair, the weight of the rock in my hand, I could feel my heart pounding with fear and excitement as I raced along the shore, past the
pillbox, heading for the Point. The boy had stopped running and was standing at the edge of the mud flats. All around him the air shimmered with unseen colours. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at me with beseeching eyes, pleading for help. But what could I do? I couldn't do anything. There were too many of them. It was too late.
DON'T STOP!
a voice cried out. It was mine.
DON'T DO IT! DON'T STOP! KEEP RUNNING! DON'T GIVE UP! JUST RUN! RUN FOR EVER …

The motorbike slid to a juddering halt and I opened my eyes. The nightmare wasn't a nightmare. There was no waking up this time. We were at the creek. The bridge was flooded. Beyond the saltmarshes I could see the crowd stretched out along the beach, a dark amorphous mass struggling across the sodden sands towards the Point, where Lucas was standing at the edge of the mud flats waiting in the dark light of the sky. He looked so small. Then I looked again and I saw him grow, rising out of the sands, and all around him the storm was dying and the sea was calm. Silent seabirds were circling in the air above his head. The tide had receded and the slimy brown plateau of mud stretched out in front of him. A breath of wind whistled quietly across the flats, then died. Pale sunlight broke from the clouds and glistened dully on the lights of tiny seashells.

I shivered.

Dominic pulled up beside us and raced his engine. ‘What are you doing?' he shouted breathlessly. ‘What are you waiting for?'

Dad indicated the flooded bridge. ‘Too deep for the bikes.'

‘So? Get
off!
What's the matter with you?
Come on!'

Without stopping to turn off the engine he leapt off the
motorbike and started running. I snapped out of my trance and followed him. As we waded through the flooded banks of the bridge I heard Dad splashing around behind us.

‘Cut across to the left!' he shouted. ‘It's quicker.'

I emerged from the rainpool first and sprinted off across the sand with Dominic close behind. Up ahead I could see the crowd edging towards the Point. Those in front were slowing to let the others catch up. They could see Lucas waiting for them and they didn't want to face him alone. I was running faster than I'd ever run before. The ground disappeared beneath my feet and the beach passed by in a blur. I was vaguely aware of the rain falling and Dad shouting and Deefer barking, but it didn't mean anything to me. My senses were turned inside out. Nothing mattered, only running. The stormy smell of the sea, the sand, the strangely cool air – nothing. The pain in my legs and my aching lungs – nothing. The pillbox, a grey concrete lump fenced with blue and white tape, a flattened bowl of sand where the helicopter had landed … the pillbox. A dirty darkness of stale beer, whiskey, urine, fear … damp sand beneath my feet … skin, glass, cloth, hair, hands, fingers, contours, shivering flesh, opening mouths, a broken face rigid with need …