The Berserker
Chapter 17

Marcus lay awake for the most part of the night, listening for the thud of troll footsteps, but the daylight came and they all survived. He lifted his head from the makeshift pillow and looked to see if any of the others were awake.

“Wils,” he said quietly, but there was no response. “Pete,” he called out a little louder, and Pete stirred by turning his head and grunting.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked to the bed were Aimee-Lou had slept. He thought he could hear her whimpering, so he crawled to the bed, lifted himself up and called her name.

“Aims,” he said softly, but she didn’t answer. “Aims, are you awake?”

“No,” she said.

Her voice sounded sad.

Marcus reached out and touched her shoulder, and she reacted by pulling away.

“Aimee-Lou,” he said concerned, and she started to cry louder. “Hey, come on,” he said caringly.

“Lana’s dead,” she said without turning to face him. “She died because I went to the island against what was said”

“Hey now,” he said sternly, “that is not your fault, don’t go thinking that.”

“But she would still be alive if I had left Clive there as she said,” her tears were dripping on to Wilson’s bed, “But I couldn’t help it, I just had to do it.”

“Now is not the time to be worrying about that,” he said with a laugh in his voice, as though that would cheer her up. “Let’s worry about putting it right and protecting whose left. We can mourn those that are gone if we succeed with today.”

She turned over and looked at him with a forced smile.

“Your right Marc,” she said. “Of course you're right.”

“That’s the way,” he said with a rub of her shoulders, and he realised how pretty she was when she was sad. “Now let’s get the others up and go over the plan once more.”

“Okay,” she said as she wiped the tears in her sleeve.

Pete was already awake, and he kicked Wilson in the leg.

“Come on,” he said, “We need to have another run through.”

“Frick, Pete,” Wilson shouted, “You are the most miserable sod I’ve ever known in the morning.”

Pete laughed at Wilson and he chuckled back. Aimee-Lou tried to laugh as she continued to dry her tears, and Marcus was already heading down the stairs to make Pete a coffee.

Its 10am Aimee-Lou said, as she carried the ski pole in from her father’s garage.

“Better get on with the construction,” Pete said as he finished off his second coffee of the morning.

On the table was the hollowed football with the stitching unpicked from one patch, the ball of peat, which would have filled three footballs, that Wilson and Marcus had broken in and stolen from the geology class of the teacher they call Basil Brush, some metal fishing braid and a darning needle, the skiing pole from Aimee-Lou and Wilson’s father, that he would definitely miss, as one on its own was useless, a five feet length of string and a litre bottle of paraffin oil that Pete bought from the hardware store just outside of the village.

“So who’s in charge of construction?” Aimee-Lou asked, and the boys all looked at her suggestively. “Come on guys,” she said. “Surely Pete would be better at it than me.”

Wilson grabbed the ski pole and handed it to her.

“Best get a start Aims,” he said with a smile, “We’re running out of light.”

She grabbed the pole and picked up the football.

“Here,” she said to Pete, “Hold this please.”

Pete took the ball and held it in both hands. She directed Wilson to start stuffing the dried peat into the hole were the patch had been unpicked, and he carefully pushed handfuls of the oil smelling, dried mud into the hole. Marcus was handed the paraffin and instructed to squeeze when Aimee-Lou said, and he stood poised as Wilson carried on stuffing.

Whet the football was half packed, Aimee-Lou placed the ski pole in to the open patch, forcing it in until the snow basket hit the packed peat.

“Keep going with the packing,” she told Wilson, and she held the ski pole firm as he wedged the peat around it.

The packing and squirting carried on until the football was squeezed full, and Aimee-Lou took the fishing braid and began restitching the patch to secure the skiing pole. She added the string to the stitching and wrapped it around the metal shaft of the ski pole, tying it off at the hand grip.

She turned the ski pole upside down and held her invention up for the others to admire.

“Pretty impressive Aims,” Pete said, nodding his head in appreciation.

Wilson cuddled his sister and kissed her on the cheek, something he had not done since they were 4 and 5 years old.

“Hold onto that,” she said to Marcus, pointing to the paraffin. “We will need to spray the whole thing when we get to the island.”

“How do you know it will burn for long enough,” Wilson asked.

“It’s the carbon and the paraffin,” she said. “It will burn until the stitching melts on the patches of leather and the whole thing falls apart.”

“And then what?” Wilson asked, concerned. “They come and invade the mainland and we all die anyway?”

“Time to go,” Pete said, as he grabbed his keys from the table, “We only have 30 minutes to get to the island.”

Aimee-Lou carried the wheel of heaven as they rounded the corner and walked down the side of the house. She stopped at Flo’s hutch and touched it with her hand.

“This is for you and Lana,” she said, as she kissed her fingertips and then touched the hutch again.

They sat in the Pete’s RAV4 and fastened their seatbelts without saying a word. The engine roared and Pete pulled away, slowly for a change, in case he damaged the wheel of heaven, but he slammed on his brakes when something occurred to him.

“Does anyone have a lighter?” he asked, and they all looked at each other for the answer.

A murmur vibrated around the RAV4 as they all said no.

Wilson climbed out and ran back to his house, and returned in less than a minute.

“Only had these,” he said as he held up a box of matches.

“Are they safety?” Pete asked as he took them from him, but smiled when he saw they were normal red tops. “Perfect,” he said, as he pulled away from the house.

He switched the car headlights on as the night-time began to return to Blaise.