‘I’m ready to go, Herbert,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to give myself to the waves.’
And Herbert said: ‘The time will come, Mother. Don’t hurry it.’ But he knew it would not be long now and that when the great kraken returned for his son, Herbert would be free to go away with him.
It was during these peaceful days that they were woken by a sound that was new to the Islanders: a proud and joyful squawking that sent the aunts and children running up the hill.
And there they were! Three chicks the size of bull terriers, their feathers still moist from the egg, their yellow beaks already open as they cheeped and wriggled for food.
‘More wheelbarrowing,’ was all Aunt Etta said, because with the male boobrie still away the mother would never manage to feed her chicks alone, but the aunts were almost as proud as the bird herself. Boobries have not bred where there are humans for hundreds of years.
Even Lambert had suddenly become almost nice and this was the most extraordinary thing of all. He did his work without grumbling, he ate his food — sometimes he even smiled.
‘He too has been touched by the spirit of the great kraken,’ said Myrtle, but Fabio disagreed.
‘If that creep is being nice there’ll be a reason,’ he said.
And he was absolutely right.
The battery of Lambert’s mobile had suddenly given a spurt of life and he had dialled his father’s number. The Hurricane was now steaming towards the Island and it so happened that Stanley Sprott heard his phone ringing down in the cabin and answered it.
Mr Sprott knew better than to ask his son anything sensible, like ‘What latitude and longitude are you on?’ or ‘Are there any submerged rocks near the entrance to the bay?’ — but there was one question he did ask.
‘Those women who are holding you prisoner — are they nudists?’
‘Eh?’ said Lambert, who did not know what nudists were.
‘Are they wearing clothes?’ Mr Sprott wanted to know.
Lambert thought about this. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’re wearing clothes.’
‘And sheep? Are there a lot of sheep?’
Lambert said he didn’t think so. ‘Just a few on the hill.’ Then his battery began to play up again and he said frantically: ‘But you’re coming, aren’t you? You’re coming to fetch me?’
‘Yes, Lambert, I’m coming,’ said Mr Sprott.
It was after he talked to his father that Lambert changed. Soon now the Hurricane would come and his father would blow everyone to helclass="underline" the creepy aunts, the horrible children and the foul monsters who weren’t really there. When Lambert smiled now it was because that was what he was thinking about: all the people he hated lying dead in their own blood.
‘I feel sick,’ said Boo-Boo, leaning over the rail of the steamer.
‘I feel sick too,’ said the Little One. ‘I feel sicker than you.’
Aunt Dorothy looked at them with loathing. What she really wanted to do was throw them into the sea and make her own way to the Island. Doing good is all right when you are beating up restaurant owners or thumping people who are trapping rare animals for their skins, but doing good by taking on your sister’s horrible children is just stupid.
The steamer was hardly going up and down but now first Boo-Boo and then the Little One were sick and as soon as they’d finished they started worrying about whether they had messed up their clothes.
‘Etta is going to kill me when she sees them,’ thought Dorothy.
But though she would very much have liked to throw them both overboard she realized it could not be done so she took them down into the cabin and dabbed at the Little One’s velvet coat collar and Boo-Boo’s silly blazer, and told them to lie down till they landed.
But landing was only the beginning. After that they had to take a ferry to a smaller island and then they had to wait till the one fisherman who could be trusted not to gape or gawp or give away the secrets of the Island could take them across at night. There was no one else the aunts ever used — and just how sick these idiotic children would be in an open boat at night was anybody’s guess.
The Hurricane came in quietly at noon. She anchored to the south of the Island, hidden from the house by a copse of windblown trees, and Mr Sprott took Des and one of the gunmen with him in the dinghy for a reconnaissance.
But even if she had come into the bay by the house no one would have seen her. Fabio and Minette had taken the kraken to the north shore with a picnic and the aunts were visiting the Sybil, which they did once a week to see that she was eating properly. Even the Captain was not looking through his telescope but dozing quietly in his bed.
Mr Sprott had at first meant to come in with his cannon firing but then he had thought better of it. After all, Lambert had to be got out safely first.
As the dinghy rounded the spur of rocks, with its row of slumbering seals, he saw a boy standing alone on the edge of the sea.
‘It’s Lambert!’ said Des.
And it was!
Whatever plans Mr Sprott might have made were set aside as his son waded towards him and threw himself weeping into his arms.
‘Take me away, quick. Take me to the Hurricane. Oh hurry, please, Dad.’
Mr Sprott pulled himself out of Lambert’s clinging arms and looked at his son. He looked well. In fact he looked better than he had ever seen him look; but that was neither here nor there. The boy was obviously terrified.
‘It’s an awful place. They feed you poisoned food and then you see things,’ sobbed Lambert.
‘What sort of things, Lambert?’
‘Creepy crawly things … things that slither, and freaks with tails — only they’re not really there.’
There was a sudden yell from Des. The bodyguard knew that it was as much as his life was worth to yell when they were trying to get into a place unseen but now he stood up in the dinghy and pointed with staring eyes at a rock sticking out of the water.
‘My God,’ he shouted. ‘Look, guv’nor! It’s a bloomin’ mermaid!’
‘No, it isn’t,’ cried Lambert. ‘She isn’t really there. It’s because of what you’ve eaten. None of them are there, the other one isn’t there and the old one isn’t there and the long white worm isn’t there. They’re all because of what Art put in the—’
‘Be quiet, Lambert,’ said his father. Then to Des, ‘Catch her.’
Des didn’t need to be told twice. He slipped off his holster and dived into the sea.
The girl was Queenie, and she thought the whole thing very funny. She waited till the clumsy man was almost up to her — then she gave her silvery laugh and vanished underneath the waves.
‘She isn’t there, she isn’t there,’ Lambert went on yelling. ‘It’s what you’ve eaten — it’s Art’s seaweed flour.’
‘Don’t be silly, Lambert,’ said his father. ‘I haven’t eaten any seaweed flour and I saw her quite clearly. Unless it was a trick. It must have been a trick, but if so it was a good one.’
Des was still thrashing about in the icy water. Now suddenly he dived down, grabbed at something — and missed. But when he swam back to the boat he had two things clutched in his hand. A silver fish scale and a golden hair.
Mr Sprott examined them. Then he turned to his son.
‘Now then, Lambert,’ he said. ‘Just tell us what else you’ve seen on the Island.’
‘I haven’t seen it — it isn’t—’
‘All right, boy. Tell us what you haven’t seen, then. Tell us carefully.’
By the time Lambert had finished babbling about old mermaids with no teeth and long white worms that sucked peppermints and outsize birds the size of elephants — all of which weren’t there — Mr Sprott’s face wore a look of eager cunning. Of course it was probably all rubbish, but if it wasn’t, the money one could make! And those trees with the branches stripped off — the ones that Lambert called stoor-worm trees — they were there all right.