The very last thing I wanted to do—one hour after finally getting into bed at sunrise, and not sleeping a wink because of what I had just learned—was to be “woken” (although I was already wide awake) to go out on Jasper’s boat.

While Dad and I were out on the boat with Jasper, Mum and Aunty Alice were going to pick up Libby from Brownie camp.

Now, ever since I overheard Mum and Dad in the car on the way back from Aunty Alice’s wedding two years ago, I’ve known that they don’t really like Jasper. But they don’t know that I know.

(Adults do this thing—you must have noticed—where they kind of pretend that they’re all good friends and everybody is nice, especially family. I suppose it’s to “set an example” to us kids: you know, love and trust, don’t make judgments, the adult world is all lovely, blah-di-blah. Except we know when they’re doing it.)

In this case, it’s probably so they don’t upset Aunty Alice, because she likes Jasper. Loves him, even. And so when Jasper had said to me, “You comin’ out on me ship tomorrow, young fellow-me-lad?” I had glanced over at Dad.

The way Jasper said it was more like a statement than a question, and Dad had replied, “Thanks, Jasper, we’d love to.”

We.

I was relieved. I don’t know what Dad imagined would happen to me—maybe he thought Jasper would sail into a storm, or make me walk the plank. I don’t know. But I do know I was pleased that I wasn’t going alone.

Some people have a fear of flying. I daresay some people are scared in cars. Mum won’t ever go on a motorbike.

Me? It’s boats. I once tried to tell this to Jasper, who scoffed and told me I had to “man up,” and Dad even agreed with him, saying I can’t go through life being scared of boats. Adults, eh? You just can’t tell.

To be honest, it’s not the boat. It’s the seasickness. I throw up whenever I’m on a boat. (I even threw up on a pedal boat once on holiday in Majorca, though I didn’t tell anyone because I was so ashamed.)

Jasper had anchored his boat and moored it to one of the two long concrete piers that curve out into Culvercot Bay like arms in a hug.

Now, I know nothing about boats, but I think his is a yacht. It’s white, with a tall mast, and the sail is furled up under a blue cover along the bit that swings from side to side, which I happen to know is called the boom, so—hey!—I do know something about boats, after all.

There’s a steering wheel, which is just called a wheel, and Jasper calls the boat a “thirty-footer,” so that’s how long it is.

Jolly Roger is written on the side in jaunty letters, and there’s even a little pirate flag hanging over the back end. The bow. Rhymes with “snow,” not with “cow.” Or maybe the other way round. Like I said, I’m no expert.

When we got down to Culvercot pier, we could see a group of kids had hopped into the boat and were trying the door of the cabin.

We all saw it at the same time, but Jasper was the first to react. It was like a little bomb had exploded in his head, and he went from super-calm to super-angry in about half a second.

“Oi! Hey!” He was surprisingly fast on his feet as he ran down the pier, shouting and swearing. “You little devils! Get the hell off my boat! Geroff it now!”

Oh no. It was Inigo Delombra. Instead of being intimidated, the three boys just looked up at Jasper. The cabin door had been opened, despite having a combination lock, but they didn’t go in. Inigo Delombra spoke.

“This your boat?”

“Yes, it damn well is! Get off it!” Jasper reached out and grabbed one of the boys’ jackets, but he wriggled free.

“Oi, that’s assault, that is, old man!” Inigo continued: “Only me dad’s the harbor master, and he says there’s no permitted anchorage here between April and September, so technically you’re in breach of maritime regulations. We were just checkin’ if you were inside.”

By now the boys had clambered out and were standing facing us on the pier.

“Har-harbor master?” stammered Jasper.

“Aye. He’s a stickler for regulations, my old man.” The other two had begun to saunter off, but Inigo stood his ground before delivering his parting shot. “I’ll do you a favor. I won’t mention that you assaulted Jonesy here, but you know—y’cannit just park your boat anywhere and not expect investigation by the authorities.”

Farther down the pier, the other two spluttered with laughter, but Inigo shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered off. He turned and added:

“One more thing? Your entry code? One of the top ten.” Then he looked at me and smirked. “It’s a long walk for you to come back here, isn’t it, Linklater? You know—from Dumpsville, where you live now?”

Dad was going down the steps of the pier and didn’t hear, which I was glad about. The last thing you need when you’re dealing with someone like Inigo Delombra is to have your dad go ballistic at them. It can only ever make things worse.