Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

he are such good friends.’ His eyes were wide, his voice mocking. ‘Are you completely blind? Bad pirate Mohamed, good nakhoda Husni! Please, Paul, please, tell me you are not so naïve. You disappoint me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Paul’s voice faltered.

‘Where do you think Husni got the money to buy Fayswal? How do you think a poor family like ours can afford a big jahazi like Jamal? Now he plays innocent: the defender of Mr Paul!’ He burst into his high-pitched laugh.

Paul sat in silence. Farid entered the room and nodded to Mohamed.

‘Ah, thank you,’ said Mohamed. ‘I have a meeting with Husni. Go to your room, read my document and think about what is written. Think about what you can do for us.’

Paul sat on his bed, heavy with doubt and a sense of betrayal. Mohamed’s manuscript lay crumpled on the floor. It was useless. Husni had probably been a pirate — probably was a pirate. Husni had brought him to Galoh. Husni knew. The afternoon drained into dusk and with darkness came the fear again. The red pirate would return. It was only a matter of time. If Husni was one of them, Paul had to find a way to escape on his own.

He paced the room, unable to sleep. The direction of his escape would be simple: follow the beach south. How many days would it take to get to the Kenyan border? What would they do if they caught him? He could not afford to think about that.

Paul waited until the early hours of the morning before he tried the door. As he suspected, Farid hadn’t used the padlock. Very gently, Paul pushed it open, making sure the hinges didn’t creak. He stepped over the legs of a sleeping Farid, his AK-47 propped against the wall beside him. Paul made himself walk painfully slowly down the path to the beach, ears and eyes alert to any movement. He carried only a bottle of water and some stale injera bread in his pocket.

The night was tomblike. Palm trees stood like shaggy ghosts against the stars. Although the air was warm, Paul shivered. Over the rise, making sure his feet avoided the dried leaves. Now he was on to the beach, a wide runway of white leading to the southern horizon. He began to run, down to the water’s edge, where the incoming tide would hide his footprints, and south. Sprinting, trying to put as much distance between himself and Galoh as possible. Soon he was out of breath and forced himself to slow to a trot. There was a lot of running to come and he was unfit. The eastern sky began to purple. Before it got too light, he’d need to find a hiding place. But the beach was featureless. Inland was no better: a flat wasteland of low scrub.

On he ran, scattering the ghost crabs. He passed a dead creature, perhaps a dolphin or a seal, and a couple of abandoned dhows rotting where they stood above the high-tide line. He ran past grey containers, broken open and spilling their toxic contents on to the beach. Paul’s world narrowed to the rasp of his breathing and the crunch of his sandals on the wet sand. One foot in front of the other. Keep going.

After half an hour he stopped at the water’s edge, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. The crunch of waves on the beach produced explosions of phosphorescence. The horizon had turned salmon. How lovely, he thought.

Just then, he heard a crackling noise, the hollow puncturing of air. He looked back. Galoh was lit up with flashes. It was rifle fire. The alarm had been sounded. He set off at a sprint, whimpering as he ran. The red pirate would lead the chase. Paul was just prey to them now. After a few minutes, there was the sound of vehicles racing inland. Out to sea, he saw a white dot and heard the whine of an outboard engine.

Up ahead a dark object lay stranded at the top of the beach; he made straight for it. The jagged lump turned out to be a large, wrecked dhow. He placed his hands on the rail and pulled himself up. The white dot had resolved itself into a skiff and he could make out a tall figure in the bows. Paul dropped into the hull and hunkered down between the ribs. If the men came ashore, it would be over in moments.

The noise of the engine grew until it filled his hiding place like an angry wasp. Suddenly it stopped and the motor puttered undecidedly. There was an agitated conversation, shouting, a voice he thought he recognised. The engine flared and the skiff continued south at high speed.

He was trapped. It would soon be sunrise and there was no way he could show his face in daylight hours. He would have to sit it out until nightfall and then push on. Hopefully they wouldn’t return and search the wreck. He drank some water, took a few bites of injera and tried to make himself comfortable. Just before the sun lifted above the horizon, he drifted into a fitful sleep filled with flight: running and running, but never outstripping his dark pursuer.

 

CHAPTER 30

 

Paul opened his eyes to find the hull bathed in clear orange light. He lay motionless, listening. The sun peeped over the gunnel and the air was alive with the twitter of birds. He could not have slept for long, but he felt refreshed.

Trying to find a less angular place to lie, Paul became aware of something strange about the hull. He looked more closely at the planking. Surely not…

He could hardly believe his eyes: the timbers were stitched together. It was the mtepe.

Paul was overcome by a giddy wave of emotion and felt tears brimming. Here, now, of all times.