Tracks of the Tiger (17 page)

‘That is exactly what it has.'

‘
What?
'

‘It has a natural sunblock. Look.'

Beck poked the bottom end of the coral. Now that the water had drained away, a slimy mucus was pooling in its place.

‘It generates its own type of sunscreen,' Beck explained. ‘Factor fifty, at least! And the great thing is, it doesn't hurt the coral at all. We'll rub this on ourselves and then put it back in the sea. Everyone's happy. Here, hold it for me, will you?'

And he matched actions to words. Peter held the coral while Beck caught the dripping mucus in his cupped hands. Then he rubbed it onto his shoulders and up and down his arms and face. After that, Beck held the coral while Peter did the same.

Now that they could walk around in the sun without getting the skin burned off their backs by the sun's rays, they went fishing.

They stood out in the sea at waist depth, about ten metres apart, with the sticks Beck had sharpened the previous night.

‘So we don't use the bottle, then?' Peter called.

‘No. There's only one and it would get in the way. We need both hands now. The water's clear enough to see if a fish comes near us. We can make out the shape, but remember the light gets refracted by the water. You assume the fish is right in front of you because we're used to light moving in straight lines. But light gets bent when it hits the water. The fish won't be where it seems to be, it'll be about fifteen centimetres behind. That's where to aim.'

And so they waited, spears poised, eyes scanning the water for the dark, streamlined shapes.

And they waited, and they waited. A couple of times Beck or Peter would lunge. But the fish were playing hard to get.

Beck started to cast glances out to sea, towards the deeper water. There were rocks out there. Maybe there would be more fish there, with all the hiding places and plenty of weed to nibble.

Suddenly he heard a cry of triumph from Peter, who held up his stick with something dripping and dark impaled on the end. It looked like a thick, black, pickled leather sausage, the length of his forearm. Peter's look of glee changed comically to disgust.

‘
What
is
that
?'

‘Sea cucumber.' Beck bit back a laugh. ‘They're edible . . . sort of. Better than nothing. Take it back to shore and keep trying. Oh – and by the way, inside it isn't cucumber, but guts and intestines!'

Peter winced. ‘I should have guessed.'

Beck's mind was made up – if all they got was sea cucumbers here, he was going to try the deeper water.

He started to prepare himself for diving into deep water. First he needed some good, strong doses of oxygen. He breathed out . . .

‘
Out, out, out!
' The old diver in Borneo who had shown him this trick had pushed his fist hard into the base of Beck's stomach, forcing the breath out of him with a
whoosh
that almost made him faint with surprise. ‘
All old air, out!
'

Then: ‘
In, in, in!
' Breath had gushed into the little man's mouth and he had seemed to swell to twice his normal size. Beck had followed suit. Ordinary breathing only used a fraction of the lungs' capacity. With a bit of effort you could use much more.

They repeated the process several times until:

‘
'Nuff, 'nuff, 'nuff! No get the dizzies!
'

Beck had been at the early stages of his GCSEs and he roughly understood the science behind this. The old man just knew what worked. Oxygen is a highly reactive and toxic gas. Just the smallest amounts are needed to supply energy to the body. More than that and it actively starts causing damage. Too much oxygen in the blood leads to hyperoxia: that is to say, nausea, cramps or, as a first sign, ‘the dizzies'.

But thanks to the old man's training Beck knew when he was ready. A few of those deep breaths charged up his body. He could feel the oxygen tingling in his blood. He took a final breath, held it, and dived down.

Water roared in his ears and he could hear his blood pounding in his skull. His vision was reduced to a few blurred shapes. The salt in the water gnawed away at his eyes like an army of tiny insects, but then the sensation eased. The water was clear and the sun was shining brightly above. It lit everything up. He could make out shapes, tell what was moving and what wasn't. With a few powerful kicks and strokes of his arms he pulled himself down towards the rocks.

He needed the oxygen in his blood down here because he couldn't rely on the gas in his lungs. He was only about two metres down but the weight of the water was already compressing the air in his lungs to half its size. He didn't have long. His eardrums were also feeling the squeeze of the water pressure. Beck pinched his nose and blew gently, equalizing the pressure in his ears. They felt better instantly.

Then something blurred in the corner of his eye. A fish – maybe two or three, maybe a shoal. He couldn't see more clearly than that. He lunged with his spear in that general direction, but didn't get anything.

And now he felt his lungs bursting and it was time to go up again. He kicked himself towards the surface. From habit he held his fist clenched above his head as he went. If you accidentally surfaced under a boat, or another diver, it was better to find out with your hand than with your head. Beck smiled. If only he
had
surfaced under a boat, that would be perfect!

He broke the surface with a splash and breathed in gratefully. Water cascaded down his face and he wiped it out of his eyes. He trod water where he was and looked around. Peter had gone back into the shallows and was stabbing vaguely at anything he saw. He wasn't having much luck. They waved to each other while Beck started on a new course of deep breaths. With practice, his personal best was two minutes under water. He wondered if he could make it up to three.

And then suddenly Peter cried out in pain and collapsed into the water.

‘Pete?'

Beck forgot all thoughts of records. He dropped his spear, put his head down and ploughed through the water towards his friend.

By the time he reached the shallows, Peter was sitting up, though his face was screwed up with pain. Beck put his feet down and waded towards him.

‘
Aargh!
It
hurts
!' Peter looked miserably up at him. ‘I trod on something – don't know what but it
hurts
 . . . Think it's still there . . .'

‘C'mon, then, let's have a look . . . ?'

Peter sat back and lifted his foot out of the water. Beck winced when he saw what came up with it. A black, spiky ball the size of both fists put together clung to Peter's sole like a little alien. Beck knew better than to touch it.

‘Man, you've trod on a sea urchin.'

Urchins are covered in hundreds of needle-thin spines. They're so sharp they just slide into the skin of their victim. But because the spines are barbed, they embed themselves like an arrow and grip the flesh, refusing to let go. That's why they hurt and cause such tissue damage. They are like tiny, lethal, one-way spears.

Peter groaned. ‘Are they poisonous?'

‘Some are. They can inject a small amount of venom. It won't harm a human – but they do hurt a lot.'

‘Yep, I'll testify to that!' Peter replied through gritted teeth.

‘Let's get you to the beach.'

Beck helped Peter up onto his good foot, and supported his friend as he hopped through the shallows back to the shore. Peter collapsed onto the sand back at their camp.

‘Look on the bright side,' Beck said as he studied the urchin. ‘You caught our breakfast. Sausage and eggs!'

‘Huh?'

‘OK, sea cucumber and urchin eggs . . .' Beck bit his lip to contain a smile. ‘This isn't just going to come out, I'm afraid. The spines are barbed and embed themselves into you. I'll have to break them off.'

‘Just do it!' Peter gasped.

‘Right-oh. The good news . . .' Beck reached gingerly towards the first spine in Peter's foot. Even with just thumb and forefinger, he got several jabs from its neighbours. He twisted and the spine snapped. ‘They're made of calcium carbonate, just like our bones. So' – he reached for the next and winced at more jabs:
snap
– ‘they just snap off' – he moved on to the next:
snap
– ‘and they should just dissolve in the body' –
snap
– ‘because they're basically made of the same stuff as our bones, so the body just takes them in. It doesn't try and reject them.'

Every time he snapped one of the spines, he put more pressure on the ones that remained. Peter groaned again.

At last they all broke together and the urchin body just fell away. Beck had his first clear view of the wound. The spines were a cluster of dark dots in the sole of Peter's foot. Some stuck out by a couple of millimetres, some were lodged deeper beneath the skin. The skin was discoloured, black and purple like a bruise. But Beck knew the colour was harmless – it was only dye from the urchin.

‘How does it look?' Peter gasped.

‘You'll keep your foot,' Beck said with a straight face. Peter sighed in relief. ‘In fact, I've got a nice glass case at home you can keep it in.'

Peter scowled and flung a fistful of sand at him.

‘OK, OK.' Beck laughed. ‘Right. The shallow spines, the short ones – they'll just dissolve inside you in a few days.'

‘And the deeper ones?' Peter asked.

‘The deeper ones could need surgery – and no, I'm not going to do the job with a glass knife and a crowbar. You'd need a proper doctor to decide that in the first place . . .'

Beck trailed off and Peter looked at him suspiciously.

‘I hate it when you do that because there's always something you really don't want to tell me!'

Beck sighed. ‘We should keep the wound clean and sterile. If we washed it in sterile water, which we don't have, or vinegar, which we don't have, that would do the trick and it would help the spines dissolve.'

‘But . . . ?' Peter could tell he wasn't finished.

‘But we do have something that's sterile, and liquid, and will help the spines dissolve and probably help with the pain too . . .'

The penny dropped.

‘I don't believe it! You're talking about pee, aren't you? Pee
again
? It's not enough that we pee on our T-shirts, now you want me to pee on my foot?'

Beck shrugged. ‘Blame nature. Not me.'

Peter propped himself up on his elbows and bent his leg so that he could peer at the spines. ‘Well, for a start, I went when I woke up and I haven't got any at the moment. Plus the angle's all impossible. Well, impossible for
me
 . . .'

He gazed hopelessly at Beck, who was suddenly finding it very hard not to grin wickedly.

‘So when did you last go?' Peter asked.

‘Let's just say I believe I could deliver.'

Peter looked as if he was about to protest more, but then he gave up. ‘It hurts too much,' he muttered. ‘Just do it, will you?'

Beck stood. ‘Probably best if you lie on your front . . .'

Peter rolled over. ‘Oh, believe me, I
so
do
not
want to watch.'

It was quite possibly the most ridiculous image that Beck could have imagined, and Peter shook his head in the sand, mumbling that this really was the last time he went anywhere with Beck.

Beck tried not to laugh as he peed and kept apologizing to his friend.

‘Well, that was about as pleasant as you'd expect when your best friend is peeing on you,' Peter grumbled. He rolled back onto his front and sat up, keeping his injured leg stretched straight out.

‘Better your best friend than your worst enemy,' Beck said optimistically. ‘And out here that enemy is infection. How does it feel?'

‘Wet. And maybe a little less achy. Still bloomin' painful.'

‘Well, just stay there, and I'll make breakfast.'

Breakfast wasn't quite the sausage and eggs that Beck had described.

While Peter rubbed himself dry and clumsily got dressed, Beck used the crowbar to bash away the remaining stubs of spines on the urchin. They matted together in a thick mass that he could just brush away. He carefully made a small pile of them where neither of them was likely to tread. Then he drove the sharp end of the crowbar into the shell and it split straight across the middle. Inside was a tangled, gooey mass of guts and sand. He scooped those out with his fingers. Nestled up against the inside of the shell, he found what he was looking for – a glistening mass of small pinky brown blobs. Those were the eggs of the sea urchin.