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Authors: Kevin Brooks

Lucas (10 page)

BOOK: Lucas
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Deefer nuzzled my leg and whined.

‘All right, boy,' I said. ‘We're going.'

We headed off towards the Point and then followed it round to the shallow bay that lies beside the mud flats. The bay rises gently to a broad bank of shell-dappled silt, and beyond the bank the shore is edged with a trail of muddy tracks that wind through dunes and gorse and swathes of marram grass before eventually leading back to the bridge at the creek.

Deefer bounded off along one of the tracks, and I followed him.

Even when the weather is fine, the pathways are difficult to follow. The muddy surface is slippy and sticky, and the dunes and grasses play games with your sense of direction. There are numerous dead ends where the tracks just peter out, or get swallowed up in the grasses, or
blocked by unexpected tide pools. It's not the easiest of walks, nor the cleanest, but it's still a nice way to go.

I walked slowly, soaking up the sun and the silence, stopping every now and then to gaze into the tide pools or watch small birds as they flitted around in the gorse. Rabbits were scuttling about in the dunes, trying to keep out of Deefer's way, and when the pathway rose above the dunes I could see cormorants perching on the buoys in the bay, stretching their wings in the sun.

It was wonderful.

I could feel my head emptying.

I could feel my unwanted thoughts and fears drifting away into the air.

Then I saw him.

He was standing barefoot by a tide pool with a crab in one hand and a length of twine in the other. The twine was tied at one end with a small lump of meat, and as I turned the corner of the muddy track he was swinging the weighted twine in a graceful loop, preparing to cast the meat into the centre of the pool.

I stopped and stared.

Deefer stopped and stared.

The sun was directly behind him, silhouetting his figure in a halo of pure white light, and as I stood there my mind flipped and for the briefest of moments I was a five-year-old girl sitting on my dad's knee looking through the pages of an old-fashioned picture book, looking at pictures of angels.

The crab bait dropped into the pool with a gentle plop and the Boy turned towards me with a calmness that slowed the air. A slight movement of his head caught the sun and his silhouette disappeared along with my memory. He was a flesh and blood boy.

And I was a fifteen-year-old girl with a gormless look on her face.

‘Hello,' he said, smiling.

Without taking his eyes off me he slipped the crab in his bag and checked his line, winding the twine around his fingers. His clothes, which were weather-faded but clean, hung loosely from his frame. They were the same clothes he'd been wearing when I'd first seen him on the Stand: green canvas trousers, a drab green T-shirt, and a green army jacket tied around his waist. His boots and his canvas bag lay at his feet. The sun had bleached his tousled mop of blond hair, lightening the edges to a fine golden yellow.

‘It's Cait, isn't it?' he said softly.

For a terrible moment I thought I'd lost the ability to speak. All I could do was stand there with my mouth hanging open like an idiot. God, I thought, how embarrassing is
this?
The moment probably only lasted a second or two, but it felt a
lot
longer. Eventually I managed to get some air into my lungs.

‘How do you know my name?' I asked.

It came out all wrong. What I'd meant to say was, ‘How do you know my
name?'
in a kind of light-hearted, curious manner. But what I actually said was, ‘How do
you
know my name?' as if I was accusing him of some horrendous crime.

But he didn't seem to notice.

‘Joe told me,' he said simply.

Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself walking towards him. It seemed a natural thing to do. As I approached, his eyes never left mine. His gaze was refreshingly open, almost naive in its honesty. It was like being watched by a child.

I stopped a few metres away from him. ‘Joe Rampton?'

He nodded. ‘I was doing a bit of work for him the other day. He pointed you out at the creek.' His face broke into a smile. ‘“See that girl, yonder?” he said. “That's Cait McCann. Her daddy writes books.”'

I laughed.

‘I hope you don't mind,' he said.

‘No,' I told him. ‘I don't mind.'

Up close I could see that his teeth were as white as milk. I could see that his skin was lightly tanned. I could see droplets of sweat glistening on his forehead.

‘I've read your father's books,' he said. ‘He must be an interesting man.'

‘You could say that.'

He looked away, tugging lightly on his crab line, then looked back again. ‘My name's Lucas, by the way,' he said.

I smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, Lucas.'

He nodded, glancing down at my side. I didn't know what he was looking at for a moment. Then I looked down and saw Deefer. I'd forgotten all about him. Normally, when Deefer meets strangers he does one of two things. He either runs up and slobbers all over them, or he stiffens and keeps his distance, growling quietly in the back of his throat. That day he did neither. He just sat there, silent and serene, like a Buddha-dog, staring at Lucas. I'd never seen him like that before.

‘This is Deefer,' I said to Lucas. ‘He's not usually so timid. Are you Deef?'

Lucas just smiled. Deefer got up and walked towards him, his big tail wagging slowly from side to side. When he reached Lucas he half-circled once around his legs and then sat down next to him. I couldn't believe it. It was like watching a different dog. A well-behaved, calm, obedient
dog. He raised his heavy head to look adoringly at his new best friend and Lucas gave him a casual scratch just behind his right ear … exactly where he likes it.

‘He's a fine dog,' said Lucas.

He removed his hand to check his line again and Deefer lay down at his feet, resting his head on his paws.

The three of us were silent for a while.

Lucas pulled in his line and re-tied the bait then looped it under his arm and cast it back into the pool. Deefer raised his eyes at the sound of the plop, but apart from that he didn't move. I would have at least expected him to sniff at the meat, but no, not a flicker. If ever a dog looked at one with the world, it was Deefer.

I wiped the sweat from my brow.

The silence was surprisingly comfortable. I didn't feel the need to say anything, to fill the gap, to make small talk … I was quite happy just standing there in the heat of the evening sun watching Lucas fish for crabs. I liked the way he moved. Everything was slow and smooth, no sudden movements. It was simple, too. Nothing fancy. Nothing elaborate.

Yeah, I liked that.

His voice didn't have any trace of an accent, not that I recognised anyway. It certainly wasn't local. It was just nice and quiet, clear and precise, without being clipped. It was a
nice
voice, calm and relaxing. Simple. Nothing fancy. Nothing elaborate.

I liked that, too.

I remembered thinking about him that first day, when I was walking on the beach, just before my encounter with Jamie Tait. I remembered picturing his face and trying to guess how old he was. Thirteen? Eighteen, nineteen, twenty …? Now that I could see him at close quarters, it
still wasn't easy. He
looked
quite young. That boyish face with its smooth, beardless skin. Those innocent eyes. That lean, almost underdeveloped frame …

Yes, he looked quite young. But he didn't act like any young boy I'd ever come across. There was no awkwardness, no arrogance, no overbearing self-consciousness. There was no preening or pouting. There was no indication that he felt the need to
act
at all. He was just himself, take it or leave it. And despite his somewhat frail physique I got the impression that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself … perfectly capable.

So how old was he?

About sixteen, at a guess. Maybe younger.

Not that it mattered.

I moved over and sat down on a sandy bank beside the tide pool. The pool was about four metres long and two metres wide, with steep, almost vertical banks. The water was deep and clear. At the bottom I could make out several large rocks resting on the bed of silt. That's where the crabs would be.

Lucas was standing above me on the adjacent bank.

‘What are you using for bait?' I asked him.

‘Chicken.'

‘One of Joe's?'

He smiled. ‘He couldn't spare any bacon.'

I watched him cast the line, aiming for the shadows of the rocks.

‘Is bacon better?'

‘Sometimes,' he said. ‘It depends on the crab. Some of them are picky. I tried them on fishheads yesterday but they didn't want to know.'

‘I don't blame them.'

He pulled on the line and I watched the bait edge slowly
past the rock. He let it rest for a second then gave the twine a slight tug. Something moved beneath the rock, a rapid scything motion that stirred up a small cloud of silt, and then it settled again.

Lucas laughed, reeling in the line. ‘He's smart, this one. He remembers what happened to his friend.'

As he concentrated on the tide pool, the colour of his eyes seemed to waver in the reflected light. I watched, fascinated, as they faded from the pale blue of flax to an almost transparent tone, as faint as the blue of a single drop of water. Then, as he cast the line and the sunlight rippled the surface of the water, the colour of his eyes intensified, brightening back through the shades to a stunning sapphire blue.

He began the process again, pulling on the line, letting it rest, a slight tug, a pull, another rest …

It was cool beside the tide pool. We were in a slight shallow, shaded by gorse-laden dunes and marram grass. Although the sun was still high, the ground all around us had a fresh, moist feel to it. Gorse flowers sweetened the air with a faint smell of coconut. I could smell the seaweed in the pool, the earthiness of the mud, the sand, the salt in the air. From the shore I could hear the plaintive cry of a curlew.

Lucas was still fishing.

‘What kind of crabs are you after?' I asked him.

‘Edible crabs.'

‘Those dull red ones?'

He nodded.

‘Do you eat them?' I asked.

He looked at me with an amused smile.

‘Stupid question,' I said, embarrassed.

He was silent for a while, dragging the line round the
rock. Then he said, ‘You have to be careful not to eat the head or the green parts. Apart from that they're tasty enough. Have you ever eaten one?'

I shrugged. ‘Only in a restaurant.'

He nodded.

I asked, ‘How do you cook them?'

‘In a pot. Over a fire.'

‘Right, I see.' I looked at the canvas bag at his feet, imagining the crab inside, wondering if it was still alive, and if it was …

‘Boiling water,' he said, reading my mind.

I shuddered slightly. ‘Isn't that cruel?'

He thought about it for a second, then simply nodded. ‘I suppose so.'

It was then I remembered that Saturday afternoon at the Stand … the look on his face as he fled from Robbie Dean, leaping across a narrow gully before melting into a tangle of tall reeds … the hair on the back of his head matted with blood … and the expression on his face as he glanced over his shoulder and looked at us … looked at me … the emotionless look of an animal, a look of pure instinct – that was the look on his face now.

Cruelty? Cruelty was a fact of life.

Did he remember me? I wondered. Did he recognise me?

Without thinking I glanced at the back of his head. There was no sign of any injury.

I looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed of myself. I felt like an impostor. A liar. A cheat.

Lucas spoke quietly. ‘It probably looked a lot worse than it was.'

‘Sorry?'

He touched the back of his head. ‘It was only a small
cut. Once I'd washed the blood away there was nothing to it.' He smiled. ‘It's the blond hair – it shows up the blood.'

I looked at him. There was no anger or mockery in his eyes, just genuine amusement.

‘I don't know what to say …' I stammered. ‘I feel so—'

‘You didn't do anything,' he said.

‘I know, but—'

‘You tried to stop him.'

‘Yeah, and a lot of good that did.'

‘You tried, though.' He started winding in his line. ‘I appreciate that. Thank you.' The twine whirred around his fingers and the line slid from the pool with a gentle hissing sound. He untied the bait and threw it back into the pool, then knotted the twine and slipped it in his pocket.

He looked at me. ‘Those people you were with …'

I shook my head with embarrassment. ‘It was a mistake … well, it wasn't a
mistake
, but—'

‘You don't have to explain,' he said. ‘I've been in the same position myself.'

‘Have you?'

He nodded. ‘It's not always easy to avoid the bad things. Sometimes you have no choice. You just have to do what you think is best.' He stepped down from the bank and pulled a water bottle from his bag. It was one of those army-type water bottles – green metal with a drinking cap and a leather strap. It looked old and well-used. He poured some water into the cap and placed it on the ground. Deefer lapped it up. Lucas passed me the bottle. ‘It's a bit warm, I'm afraid.'

As I took the bottle from his hand I caught a faint drift of leather from the bracelet tied at his wrist. There was another smell, too. A barely noticeable scent of fresh soil and fish. Not the pungent smell of dead fish, but the sleek
and silvery tang of the ocean, the smell of the living animal.

I drank from the water bottle.

Lucas sat down on a flat rock and rolled a cigarette. He kept his tobacco in a small leather pouch. I watched as he scattered the tobacco on a cigarette paper and rolled it up into a thin tube, then popped it in his mouth and lit it with a battered old brass lighter. The smoke whipped away in the breeze.

BOOK: Lucas
10.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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