Aftermath

can give it a go,” Michael replied, sounding less than confident. He didn’t see they had any alternative.
    “Your friend Harry’s already sorted out the engine,” Driver told them. “He said you lot left him here on his own for a day. He said this boat was in pretty good working order but he didn’t bother doing anything with it because it wasn’t big enough. Didn’t think he’d need it so he didn’t say anything, but he had it ready as a backup.”
    “Good man, Harry,” Michael said under his breath.
    “This is all well and good,” Caron said, eyeing the small vessel up with some unease, “but we’ve still got the little problem of trying to sail.”
    “And then we’ve got to find the island,” Kieran added. “Are there any maps or…?”
    He let his words trail away and looked at Driver, who was standing opposite them all, looking back at the burning town they were so desperate to leave.
    “Have any of you lot ever heard of a bloke called Tony Kent?” he asked. Six blank faces returned six blank expressions.
    “Was he someone you used to know who sailed boats?” Howard suggested.
    “Something like that,” he replied. He tried another question. “Do any of you know what I used to do?”
    “You drove buses,” Harte said quickly.
    “Correct. Before that?” No answer. “I’ll tell you,” he explained. “Before I drove buses I was a tour guide. Before that, I studied.”
    “Well done, you,” Lorna mumbled.
    “And before that,” he continued, “I did fifteen years service in the navy.”
    “You never said.”
    “You never asked.”
    It took a few seconds for the importance of what he was telling them to sink in. Michael was the first to twig.
    “So you think you can…?” he started to say, too afraid to finish his question.
    “What? Get you to the island? I’m a little rusty, but I think we’ll be okay.”
    Harte grinned. “Bloody hell. I always said you were a dark horse.”
    “When?” Michael asked. “Now?”
    “Well, I’ve no reason to be hanging around here. Don’t know about you lot.”
    The fact that Caron, Kieran, Howard, and Michael were already rushing to board the boat immediately answered Driver’s question. Lorna and Harte remained where they were for a moment longer.
    “So who is Tony Kent?” Lorna remembered to ask just before she stepped off dry land.
    “Who do you think?” Driver replied, thumping his chest. “It’s me, you daft bugger.”
    She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Taken aback by the sudden show of affection, he wiped a tear away from the corner of his eye and hoped she hadn’t noticed.
    “So what are we supposed to call you now?” Harte asked, determined not to let his emotions get the better of him. “Is it Tony now, or still Driver?”
    “Tony would be nice once we get to this island,” he said. “I’ve done all the driving I’m going to, I think.”
    “What about Sailor?” Harte laughed. Driver just glared.
    Lorna and Harte got onto the boat. It looked like it was going to be as tight a squeeze as he’d predicted. Driver shoved his well-read newspaper into his bag, then left it on the side of the jetty.

 
     
    61
     
    This was a boat which had never been designed for making sea crossings. More at home pottering along rivers or drifting along the Norfolk Broads and similar gentle waterways, the overloaded little vessel was clearly struggling. The group’s euphia at having finally made it off the mainland disappeared quickly, replaced with an undeniable unease. They felt uncomfortably low in the water, and despite the relatively clear sky overhead, the vicious wind continued to whip up the waves and repeatedly knock them off course. The seven survivors crammed onto the boat were cold, wet, and afraid.
    But it could have been worse.
    They could have died last September along with everyone else, Lorna thought. They could have got sick like Ellie and Anita and ended their time alone, desperately frightened, wallowing in their own waste. They could have cracked under the pressure of everything that had happened like Webb and Martin Priest and, most recently, Jas, or died senselessly like Ainsworth, Hollis, or Jackson. They could have fallen apart in any one of a hundred thousand different ways but they hadn’t, not yet. They could have been trapped in the burning chaos of Chadwick, or buried under the castle, or they might still be trapped on the first floor of the besieged hotel, but they weren’t. Unlike