Devil's Rock - Chris Speyer [40]
The boat was never built. Instead, his father took to renovating houses. The boat was mentioned less and less often and ‘When we build the boat’ became ‘If we build the boat’ until, eventually, only Zaki’s mother seemed to believe it could ever happen, and then even she stopped talking about it. And then she went to Switzerland. It would never happen now. Why was his grandad bringing it up? It was like poking at a bruise to see if it still hurt.
‘Mortal shame,’ muttered Grandad. ‘Your dad always dreamt of sailin’ round the world, ever since he was your age.’
‘I don’t think he’s got enough money to build the boat now,’ said Zaki.
‘We could always sell this place. Be worth a bit these days to a developer.’
‘No!’ cried Zaki, feeling shock and horror. ‘You mustn’t! Please don’t. Oh, please, Grandad, you mustn’t ever, ever sell this place!’
The boat shed was the never-changing, still centre of Zaki’s universe; his refuge. Destroy the centre and everything would be set adrift.
‘Hey now,’ said Grandad gently, ‘Hey, I only said we could – never said we would. I’ll tell you what – we’ll finish up ’ere and then have a cup o’ tea. You can tell me all about that school project of yours.’
‘I should be getting home,’ said Zaki, anxious now to be gone before his grandfather became any more interested in the contents of the carrier bag by the kettle, and before there was any more talk of selling the boat shed.
‘I can run you home.’
‘That’s OK, thanks, Grandad, I can take the bus.’
‘Suit yourself.’
They worked on in silence until they finished fixing the plank and then, after retrieving the logbook, Zaki said his goodbyes to Grandad and Jenna and set off to catch the bus back to Kingsbridge. As he left the boat shed, a grey cat scampered away down the narrow lane.
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Chapter 12
Was his imagination playing tricks on him? All the way from the bus station by Kingsbridge harbour to Moor Lane, Zaki had the distinct feeling that there was someone or something behind him, like a slight pressure in the centre of his back, a tension between his shoulder blades. Sometimes when he turned his head he thought he detected the swift movement of a shadowy form slipping beyond the periphery of his vision. When he reached the main shopping street he loitered in front of shop windows, trying to use their reflective surfaces to catch sight of his pursuer. People passed by. Outside the chemist a young woman with a baby in a pushchair, wondering what could be so interesting, stopped to stare with him into the window, saw nothing out of the ordinary, gave him a puzzled look, shrugged and moved on.
As he entered the quiet residential streets behind the busy thoroughfare, Zaki began to walk more quickly. The thought struck him that, if Anusha were right, and he could dream things into existence, then he might, right now, be dreaming up a monster that would burst through into the real world at any moment. He tried to empty his mind but it was hopeless; the more he tried to keep his mind blank the more he saw shapes and shadows from the corners of his eyes. He tried to think about sailing Morveren, but that only carried his thoughts to the cave. He made himself concentrate on his grandfather’s workshop, anchoring his mind by picturing the old man patiently shaping planks for the hull of the little boat. Even then, the sense of being followed never left him.
It was a relief to reach his own front garden. He walked down the narrow passage between the side of the house and the garden fence, but as he approached the back door he stopped. He could hear raised voices. It was Michael in the kitchen and he