The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (7 page)

F
uture
carved out into the bay, responding to the slightest command like an obedient
mare. For Hans it was a relief to get under way, a homecoming in every sense.
Penny stood relaxed at the helm, wearing white three-quarter-length pants, Reef
sandals and a blue crop top, her bronzed face glistening with sea spray. Jessica
occupied herself by teaching Bear everything a stuffed toy should know about
seamanship, particularly the drills her father drummed into her around safety.
With sunlight dancing in the wave crests, the ocean was a delightful place to
be, and at a speed of six knots Penny estimated they would reach France in
twenty-two hours.

Hans settled on the cockpit cushions and opened their
guidebook. He learned that Brest was the twin city of Plymouth, the siblings
having a great deal in common – large universities, a strong maritime
connection and a challenging vernacular. Both underwent extensive
reconstruction after the Second World War, resulting in a similar conflict of
architecture, although in their attempts to bomb an enemy submarine base, it
was the Allies, not the Germans, who had reduced Brest’s skyline to rubble.

Sailing
Future
into port in the morning, Hans mused
on the likeness, as new buildings clashed with the remnants of centuries-old
design. They passed the magnificent Château de Brest standing guard over the
city’s river mouth, the castle’s crenulated walls forming a series of geometric
shapes contouring the cliff side in a similar manner to the Great Wall of
China. Restored to former glory, it was a formidable sight.

They rounded a point and the marina came into view, its
craft nudging against lines of pontoons like components in a gigantic Airfix
kit.

“Okay, me hearties.” Hans interrupted a breakfast of sausage
sandwiches and cereal. “Fenders in please, then hop ashore and tie us up.”

“Aye aye, skipper!” Penny jumped at the task with her seemingly
endless energy.

“Aye aye, skippa!” Jessica replied through a mouthful of
Weetabix, unclipping her safety line and scurrying after her friend.

They each threw in a fender, and then Penny held Jessica’s
hand as they neared the pontoon. Hans had radioed the marina to find out their berth,
and just as
Future
came abeam he blipped the engine in reverse, halting the
yacht’s forward momentum to allow the girls to step onto the floating dock.

“Whoooarh! That’s it, shipmate.”

Penny made a big deal out of pulling the boat in with
Jessica and then showed her how to tie up to a cleat. With both lines secure,
they climbed back on board to finish their food.

Later, as the three of them lounged in
Future
’s luxurious
cockpit soaking up the morning’s rays under a heavenly blue umbrella, the sound
of distant rock music carried across the water.

. . . around the edge

A long way to get here

You won’t see me cryin’

Just see me disappear

Without you

There is no way ahead

Without you-ooh-ooh-ooh . . .

Screening her eyes from the sun, Penny made out a yacht
heading straight for them.

“Wow!” She reached for the binoculars. “She’s a classic.”

“What’s a classic?” asked Jessica.

“It’s a really old boat made from wood, honey.”

“How many aboard?” asked Hans as the music grew louder.

“I’m not sure. I can only see a big fat guy.

“No! Hee-hee!”

“What?” Hans’ curiosity kicked in.

“He’s dancing! He’s got a drink in his hand, and he’s
dancing
on deck!”

“Wha—?” Hans took the binoculars.

Sure enough, a suntanned giant with a Grizzly Adams mane
carved a funky groove on the cabin roof. Wearing tight yellow running shorts
and Hawaiian-pattern flip-flops complete with pink plastic hibiscus blooms, he seemed
blissfully unaware his overhanging gut swung in the opposite direction to the
rest of his body.

As the yacht neared, they saw she truly was a thing of
beauty, cherry-golden timbers gleaming lustrously beneath aqua-green sailcloth,
a profile as sharp as an ax. The only thing undermining her vintage chic was Mr.
Disco and his booming rock track.

Using the same trick Hans had in Plymouth, the giant entered
the marina under sail, but he dropped his canvas a touch late. Having swung his
bow into the berth next to
Future
, he rushed forward, clutching his cocktail,
to grab the mooring line.

“Hallo!” was all he managed, in a Dutch accent, before the
yacht thumped into the pontoon, sending him reeling forwards, somersaulting
across the walkway and into the sea on the other side. He surfaced still
holding his glass.

“Hallo!” The giant grinned, shaking water from his hair and
beard. “Is it okay to park my boat here?”

Jessica and Penny fell about laughing, Hans jumping up to
help the guy ashore.

After securing his yacht and changing into dry shorts, the
Dutchman came and introduced himself, bringing along a gallon can full of his
favored concoction, along with the pungent whiff of marijuana.

“Hallo again!” he slurred, clambering into the cockpit. “My
name is Marshell. And who’s this liddle princess?”

“I’m Jessica.”

“Ahhh . . .
Jesshica
! I heard all about you, the most
beautiful princess in the whole world!”

She giggled.

Marcel – his name when sober – got down on one knee and
kissed her hand. “Will you marry me . . .
pleash
!”

“You talk funny!”

“Funny-money-bunny-honey! Wanna drink some mojito?” He held
out the gas can.

“Uh-huh!” Her eyes lit up.

“So, Father, can the princess have a liddle drink?”

“She can if she wants.” Hans winked at Penny. “But she
better not have too much, unless she wants to be sick as a pig.”

“Okay, with some lemonade then.”

Penny fetched a can of soda from the fridge.

“So, princess, if you gotta boat, I suppose you got
boyfriends all around the world!” He tickled her ears.

“No!
I
haven’t
got a boyfriend!” She gave a determined
headshake, unsure what to make of this strange man.

“Okay, then let’s have a drink!”

In the ensuing conversation they learnt that Marcel had made
a fortune in fine art. When his wife died, he’d retired to spend his days aboard
her namesake,
Sietske
.

“So how is it crossing the Atlantic?” Hans asked.

“Oh . . .” Marcel’s face flushed, his eyes flitting around
the cockpit, looking anywhere but at Hans. “Er . . . yeah, it’s okay. You gotta
pick up the trade winds, you know?”

“Right,” Hans replied.

F
or
the next three years, Ahmed and Mohamed lived in the maze of crumbling sewers
below Tangier’s hectic streets, adapting to the ways of the
shemkara
,
so-called for their inhaling of adhesive to banish a sense of rejection and
indelible memories of abuse.

The boys spent their days hustling for dirhams by any means
possible – collecting empty bottles and cans, begging for change, expropriating
any item of value not under lock and key, and always as a pair, always watching
each other’s backs, forever planning, forever scheming for the Big Out.

Life belowground was harder still – securing a sleeping
area, keeping hold of their belongings and maintaining face among the other
urchins. Rat Boy was gang leader. Mutilated as a child when a begging syndicate
poured acid over his face to increase his marketability, he had escaped his
captors, but his grotesque appearance prevented him renting his body out to the
perverts cruising the city’s sordid backstreets. Out of necessity he had
mastered the art of rat catching, gutting them with his teeth and eating their
carcasses raw. With no hope of transcending the sewer’s malodorous depths, Rat
Boy maintained control through intimidation and violence, not hesitating to
unleash it by way of a rusty blade carried in the waistband of his ragged
pants.

The gang’s female members cropped their hair, dressed as
boys and adopted male names – anything to put off the vile predators who viewed
them as subhuman prey. Every so often a child disappeared, kidnapped by one of
the many trafficking syndicates and sold into sweatshops, drug operations and
prostitution, the girls often destined for the Gulf States to begin lives as
slaves.

One night Rat Boy returned to the hive drunk on a bottle
whiskey taxed from little Faar, who stole it from a bag of duty-free purchases
while portering at the ferry terminal. Rat Boy exuded venom at the best of
times, but under the influence of alcohol his mood became unpredictable and usually
spiraled out of control. Spying Mohamed asleep, he whipped out his knife and
pounced, pinning him to the sewer’s walkway with his legs.

Mohamed awoke in a daze, his mind fogged from inhaling
lighter fluid, to find the blade shoved against his windpipe.

“
Urrhk-urrhk
!”

Rat Boy’s guttural commands made no sense, an indication he
was wasted and out of control.

Struggling for breath, Mohamed fought to control his fear,
staring into menacing eyes sunk deep in the sockets of a disfigured head. With
alcohol fumes enveloping them, masking the stench of human excrement, he
considered his options – moreover, the swiftest way to inflict pain on his
attacker. He would willingly risk having his throat slashed so long as he
exacted revenge before the life drained from his body.

Mohamed reached for his own knife, a three count coming from
within. He was about to plunge the blade into Rat Boy’s kidney when he spied a
movement in the gloomy corridor.

“Pssst!”

Rat Boy turned to see Ahmed holding out a bunch of bills,
all the money the boys made that week.

“Here, take it.”

Despite blood dripping down his neck, Mohamed attempted to
object, but Ahmed placated him with a slow nod.

Rat Boy stood up and grabbed the dirhams.

“
Urrhk
!”

He
staggered off down the tunnel toward his
flea-infested mattress.

“Why did you do that?”
Mohamed scowled. “I could have
beaten him!”

“You will beat him.” Ahmed raised a finger to his lips. “But
the best answer comes to the man who isn’t blinded by anger.”

“Of course.” The remaining enamel on Mohamed’s blackened
teeth flashed in the darkness.

“Keep your brother by your side, for without one you’re like
a man rushing into battle without a weapon.”

“One hand cannot clap,” Mohamed agreed, knowing Ahmed
proffered the wisdom of someone five times his age.

“When we hit, we make it painful. The consequences are the
same.”

Ahmed tugged the sleeve of Mohamed’s grubby T-shirt and they
sunk into the shadows.

An hour passed then Ahmed nudged Mohamed and pointed a
forefinger into the blackness. Careful not to wake the other scamps, they
sneaked along the walkway toward Rat Boy’s sleeping space.

“
Sahkaran
,” Mohamed whispered, spying their leader
facedown “drunk” on his bedding.

“Wait!” Ahmed put his arm out. “We make a plan.”

In hushed tones, they agreed roles. Ahmed would dive on Rat
Boy and restrain him while Mohamed stomped on his head. If things got out of
hand, they would pull their knives and stick the leader without mercy.

As they crept forwards, a child started coughing. The boys
froze, hearts pounding, waiting for the pitiful rasp to cease before continuing.

Reaching Rat Boy’s comatose figure, they paused just long
enough to acknowledge the look in each other’s eyes.

Ahmed leapt through the air and landed heavily with his
knees on the enemy, knocking the wind out of him as Mohamed stabbed a foot down
hard.

“
Urrhk
!”

Rat Boy shot upright, years of self-preservation wiping
aside the fog of liquor. He grabbed Ahmed by the throat and slammed his head
against the sewer wall, knocking him unconscious.

Mohamed’s heel smashed into the concrete.

“
Ahhhh
!”

He grimaced, pain rocketing up his leg.

Rat Boy pulled his knife and in a fluid motion slashed at
Mohamed, nicking him just below the eye.

Mohamed drew his blade, and as Rat Boy reversed his swing he
shoved it through the gang leader’s wrist.

Rat Boy’s weapon dropped from his grip, the metallic clatter
echoing in the hollow confines of the lair. He stared at the object spearing
his forearm, disbelief in his tortoise-like eyes as he realized his opponent
had the upper hand.

Mohamed yanked the blade free and struck again, bringing his
arm around in a wide arc. Rat Boy ducked, fumbling in the gloom for his own
knife but finding the empty whiskey bottle. He smashed it against the brickwork
to form a shank.

Overbalancing, Mohamed flailed his arms to stop himself
reeling backwards off the platform. Rat Boy reveled in the horror on Mohamed’s
face, sneering behind his ugly mask. He raised the jagged bottle neck above his
head and brought it down hard—

Ahmed thudded into Rat Boy using the mattress for
protection.

“Oooph!”

Rat Boy flew through the air, a sickening thud as his head
smacked against the far wall. His limp body rolled down into the river of human
waste.

The boys fell silent.

Woken by the commotion, the street children gathered around
them, peering down at Rat Boy’s motionless form in disbelief.

“Inshallah,” Mohamed whispered.

Ahmed hopped of the walkway into the flow of sewage.

“Inshallah.” He held up the fold of money retrieved from Rat
Boy’s pocket.

When morning came, their former leader had fled.