Devil's Rock - Chris Speyer [14]
No sooner were they moored than Grandad’s old blue launch nosed alongside. Jenna, Grandad’s black and white collie, gave two welcoming barks then scrambled from one end of the launch and back, wagging her tail, eager to greet everyone. Grandad tossed a mooring line to Michael. Zaki loved to watch the effortless way the old man moved around on a boat, never hurried, never losing his balance; ropes always falling exactly where he intended, judging boat speed and distance with unerring precision.
‘What you done to your arm, boy?’
‘Fell,’ said Zaki, a little shamefaced.
‘Wasn’t expecting you back for a day or two.’
‘Think we should get the doctor to take a look at him,’ said Zaki’s father.
‘Doctor, eh? Don’t sound too clever.’
‘Anyway, they’re back to school next week. Won’t do them any harm to look at a book or two before they start back.’
‘Oh, Dad! Did you have to mention school?’ groaned Michael.
‘Here, if you’re ready, you can start handin’ down your bits and pieces,’ said Grandad.
‘How did you know to meet us?’ asked Zaki.
‘Telepathy,’ said Grandad, with a wink.
‘Dad called him on the mobile,’ said Michael.
‘What we call mobile telepathy,’ said Grandad.
Zaki winced as he attempted to lift a holdall over the yacht’s rail.
‘Come on, young’un, get in the boat. You look about ready to hand in your knife and fork.’
Grandad steadied Zaki as he climbed over the side and down into the launch. The constant ache from his shoulder had worn him out and his head felt a little dizzy. Jenna came to sit beside him. She beat her tail against the wooden seat and licked his face. Zaki pushed her nose away and rested his head against the dog’s warm fur. It was a relief to do nothing while the others handed the bags and gear down to Grandad, who stowed everything in an orderly pile on the floor of the launch.
Zaki gazed vacantly at the other local boats on the surrounding moorings. He knew most of the boats; these were town moorings, which seldom changed hands, often staying in families from one generation to the next. The remains of a white, plastic rubbish bag, trapped by the wind against the stern rail of a neighbouring yacht, caught his eye. The tattered edges of the bag flapped in the wind. As he watched, a small, dark hole appeared in the centre of the flailing plastic; more an absence than a presence of anything, a still, black point about which the white plastic fluttered. Something was happening around the hole, the stillness was spreading outwards, reordering the whiteness of the plastic, giving new definition to the edges of the hole. Then the hole blinked and became an eye; an eye that was regarding him with sharp attention. The shock of the transformation made Zaki catch his breath and he felt the dog beside him stiffen. Zaki glanced round to see if anyone else was watching this metamorphosis, but when he looked back, the plastic bag had gone and, instead, a large, white gull balanced on the stern rail, its eye still fixed on him. Jenna erupted in an outburst of furious barking. The gull opened its wings and, with a few powerful beats, climbed into the evening sky.
‘Quiet!’ growled Grandad.
The barking stopped but occasional tremors continued to run through the dog’s body.
‘What set her off?’ asked Grandad.
‘Didn’t you see?’ began Zaki. ‘There was a bag and then it turned into . . .’ He trailed off, realising the ridiculous impossibility of what he was about to say.
‘You’re lookin’ terribly queasy,’ said Grandad, his face serious, ‘we best be getting you home.’
A single chandlery and half a dozen small, ramshackle, wooden sheds, their slipways reaching down to the water’s edge, were all that remained of Salcombe’s once busy marine industry, most of the buildings on the waterfront having long since been converted to