The next two days pass quietly, although we’re careful never to walk around the ship alone. This morning, I’m sitting on the sunny deck with Isobel, who is drawing.
‘I can’t go back to that hospital,’ she whispers. ‘Never ever.’
‘No, you’re going home,’ I say, watching the waves rise and fall. ‘It might take a while from France, Isobel. But we’ll get there eventually.’ Hopefully, I silently add.
She smiles. ‘Paris is beautiful. We can stay on the barge.’
‘That would be nice,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been on a barge.’
Isobel stops drawing. ‘You’re parents are scientists, aren’t they, George? What kind of thing do they do exactly?’
‘Well,’ I answer. ‘They’re analysing moon rocks and other space material, hoping to discover things that will be useful on Earth.’ Or valuable, although what my parents consider valuable might be very different to what Isobel’s parents do. ‘They try to solve world problems through science.’
Isobel smiles at me. ‘That’s what you do, too, in a way, George. I think it’s wonderful.’
I blush. ‘Well, thank you, Isobel. Maybe one day I might do something really useful. That’s what I hope.’
At sunset, Chase and I sneak Amy up onto the exercise deck for a little walk.
‘Wow,’ Chase says. ‘Being up here is like watching a movie of the world coming right at you.’
The Titania meets the black waves as she heads bravely towards the horizon as if it was the future. There is no sign of land, but I do see Pierre climbing down an emergency ladder, a royal-blue cape fluttering. He jumps, and lands sprawled like a clumsy cat.
‘Pierre!’ I help him up. ‘I thought you’d vanished.’
‘Me?’ He swirls his cape. ‘No, George, my salon is only open in the afternoons. In the mornings, I work in the ship’s library.’
Well, that explains it.
‘Anyway, peeps,’ Pierre says. ‘I must tell you that Roland was in the library researching the Great Houdini, the famous escape artist. He wanted to find out how many days you could safely lock people up in steel boxes without them suffocating.’
‘And what did you say, Pierre?’ Chase glances around the empty deck.
‘I said, “Roland!”’ Pierre puffs his chest out, ‘“that’s dangerous.”’
‘And what did he say?’ I ask.
Pierre shrugs. ‘He said, “Not my problem.”’
‘Boy,’ I say, ‘so unprofessional.’
‘Anyway,’ Pierre is poised to climb. ‘If you’re in trouble, you can always rely on a hairdresser or librarian. And I am both!’ He climbs out of sight.
‘He could’ve taken the stairs,’ says Chase.
If I may say so, I think I understand Pierre a little better than Chase.
‘Pierre is a risk-taking librarian-hairdresser,’ I say. ‘The fact that he wears a cape in public takes a lot of courage, Chase. I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing one, I can tell you.’
Chase picks up Amy. He’s laughing, although I am extremely serious. Yes, it’s true that it’s often George Parker who cheers up a chap down at the Tapley Chargers who has a wobbly chair leg, or is struggling with the lid of his lunchbox, but I’m not joking now.
‘Pierre’s cape,’ I continue, ‘is an expression of his colourful personality and daring dress sense. The cape actually gives him courage.’
‘Okay,’ Chase counters. ‘Why don’t army guys wear capes, then? A cape would help them out considerably, according to your theory.’
Chase’s tone has rather got my goat, if I had a goat, which I don’t. It’s just an expression.
‘Well!’ I squiggle a finger in the air, as though writing. ‘If you contacted the heads of our defence forces by letter or email,’ I answer, ‘and outlined my theory, you’d get a jolly good reception, Chase. A healthy self-image equals better results. For certain professions,a cape would work wonders. Although for helicopter pilots and such, I would suggest one with a weighted hem or an industrial-strength clothes-peg arrangement.’
Chase puts his arm around my shoulders. ‘Mate,’ he says, ‘you are the best kid in the world!’
The only time anyone has ever called me ‘mate’ was when a fellow yelled, ‘Mate, what the heck are you lookin’ at!’ I put that down to my short-sightedness, which can cause problems. At the zoo, I once mistook a large lady in a brown dress for an escaped American bison and called the keeper, resulting in an unpleasant moment or two.
‘Well, mate,’ I say, ‘you’re not a bad . . .dude . . . yourself!’
We leave the deck, knowing it’s time to plan for tomorrow night’s final show and how we will escape from Roland and the ship.
Isobel listens carefully. ‘I can help,’ she says.
Chase nods. ‘Yes, if we need you, Izzy. But George and I have everything under control.’
Do we?
Isobel nods. ‘I’ll be in the audience. In case of an emergency.’
‘Okay, but don’t do anything mad,’ Chase warns. ‘You being trapped in a steel box won’t do any of us any good.’
I’ll second that.