muttering. She remembered … what? Someone had touched her head. There had been a long and difficult wakening while the strange, black, clinging sleep had kept her under its surface. But someone had called her without meaning to, and she had been able to wake only because of that touch. A touch from someone she had watched shyly from the first time he had arrived in the warehouse.
Silkie sat up. At once she sensed the odd, sickly atmosphere in the Starry. She looked over toward Wesley, as she always looked to him for guidance, but his bed was empty. Quickly she got up and went over to feel the blanket. Cold. He'd been gone for a while. She looked around, her mind in turmoil. Something was badly wrong.
She went to the window, where she could see the harbor. The moon blazed unnaturally bright, illuminating the high tide spilling over the dock wall. Then her eyes were drawn to a burly figure striding along the dock, carrying a torch in one hand and a container in the other. Johnston.
As Silkie watched he approached the warehousedoor, looked around furtively, then placed the torch and container on the ground and took a crowbar from inside his coat. He forced open the old door, the wood giving way with a loud, protesting sound. Quickly Johnston slipped inside.
Silkie ran to the hatch that gave access to the rest of the building, trying to stem the panic rising inside her. The Starry could wait; Johnston was a more urgent threat.
She ran into the main part of the warehouse. It was pitch-dark, but she knew her way around without lights. Although it was cold outside, the warehouse was warm, with a sweet musty smell that reminded her of the barefoot children who lived and played here when they were awake. She moved swiftly to the door where Johnston had entered and darted up the staircase opposite.
Silkie was at the first floor now, moving quietly on the dusty floorboards. As she neared the front of the building she stopped and listened. She could hear a voice. Whatever Johnston was up to, he was
singing
to himself as he did it, his voice a deep rumble rising from below. She could see light from his torch shining through the chinks between the floorboards and hear footsteps as he moved about the room.
She was in the room where they cured and stored fish. The room Johnston was in was where the Raggies dried their damp clothes after a fishing expedition. Bothrooms smelled of fish, but there was another, stronger smell now. Silkie remembered smelling it on the river once, spilled from a passing boat. Petrol, Wesley had said it was, flicking a match into it so the surface of the water flared up and burned with a blue flame.
There was a trapdoor in the floor and Silkie eased it open. Below she could see Johnston in one corner. He was pouring liquid onto the floor from the container until it was empty, still humming loudly. When he straightened, the smell of petrol was overwhelming.
He walked across the room. As he passed the window the moonlight caught his face, his red complexion appearing pale and ghastly under his thatch of wiry black hair. At the doorway he turned and started searching his pockets.
Matches
, Silkie thought.
He's looking for matches. He's going to set fire to the place
. Frantically she wondered what to do. Then her eye fell on the fish pot—a cast-iron pan that they used to wash the catch. She was always telling the younger ones off for not emptying it, but now she was praying that it was full. Quietly she scampered over to the pot and slid the lid off. It was half full of oily water, and she recoiled from the stench of year-old fish.
“Where are those damn matches?” she heard Johnston growl from below. Silkie put her arms around the pot and heaved it off the ground. Stinking water slopped over her arms and chest and she gasped, herknees buckling under the weight as she heaved it to the trapdoor.
She looked down. Johnston had found the matchbox. He struck a match and as it flared, he held it up to his
Silkie sat up. At once she sensed the odd, sickly atmosphere in the Starry. She looked over toward Wesley, as she always looked to him for guidance, but his bed was empty. Quickly she got up and went over to feel the blanket. Cold. He'd been gone for a while. She looked around, her mind in turmoil. Something was badly wrong.
She went to the window, where she could see the harbor. The moon blazed unnaturally bright, illuminating the high tide spilling over the dock wall. Then her eyes were drawn to a burly figure striding along the dock, carrying a torch in one hand and a container in the other. Johnston.
As Silkie watched he approached the warehousedoor, looked around furtively, then placed the torch and container on the ground and took a crowbar from inside his coat. He forced open the old door, the wood giving way with a loud, protesting sound. Quickly Johnston slipped inside.
Silkie ran to the hatch that gave access to the rest of the building, trying to stem the panic rising inside her. The Starry could wait; Johnston was a more urgent threat.
She ran into the main part of the warehouse. It was pitch-dark, but she knew her way around without lights. Although it was cold outside, the warehouse was warm, with a sweet musty smell that reminded her of the barefoot children who lived and played here when they were awake. She moved swiftly to the door where Johnston had entered and darted up the staircase opposite.
Silkie was at the first floor now, moving quietly on the dusty floorboards. As she neared the front of the building she stopped and listened. She could hear a voice. Whatever Johnston was up to, he was
singing
to himself as he did it, his voice a deep rumble rising from below. She could see light from his torch shining through the chinks between the floorboards and hear footsteps as he moved about the room.
She was in the room where they cured and stored fish. The room Johnston was in was where the Raggies dried their damp clothes after a fishing expedition. Bothrooms smelled of fish, but there was another, stronger smell now. Silkie remembered smelling it on the river once, spilled from a passing boat. Petrol, Wesley had said it was, flicking a match into it so the surface of the water flared up and burned with a blue flame.
There was a trapdoor in the floor and Silkie eased it open. Below she could see Johnston in one corner. He was pouring liquid onto the floor from the container until it was empty, still humming loudly. When he straightened, the smell of petrol was overwhelming.
He walked across the room. As he passed the window the moonlight caught his face, his red complexion appearing pale and ghastly under his thatch of wiry black hair. At the doorway he turned and started searching his pockets.
Matches
, Silkie thought.
He's looking for matches. He's going to set fire to the place
. Frantically she wondered what to do. Then her eye fell on the fish pot—a cast-iron pan that they used to wash the catch. She was always telling the younger ones off for not emptying it, but now she was praying that it was full. Quietly she scampered over to the pot and slid the lid off. It was half full of oily water, and she recoiled from the stench of year-old fish.
“Where are those damn matches?” she heard Johnston growl from below. Silkie put her arms around the pot and heaved it off the ground. Stinking water slopped over her arms and chest and she gasped, herknees buckling under the weight as she heaved it to the trapdoor.
She looked down. Johnston had found the matchbox. He struck a match and as it flared, he held it up to his
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