Hitch nodded. ‘It’s certainly a theory. I have no idea if it’s a good one, but it’s a theory.’
‘It could mean that Trilby’s death, though accidental, was actually the consequence of something bigger,’ said Ruby. ‘Something sinister. So I guess what I am suggesting is, yes, in a way his death could be an accident, nothing sinister. But in a way it perhaps wasn’t and is.’
Hitch raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m barely following.’
Ruby looked at him like he was a few blocks short of a load.
‘Maybe you need another cup of coffee or three,’ she said.
‘Maybe.’ He took another slurp. ‘And the whispering?’
‘I don’t know.’ She was thinking, trying to tunnel down to some lost thought, but whatever it was, was lurking deep in the furthest depths of her mind and she could not reach it so she just said, ‘Could be entirely imagined of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Hitch. ‘One person says they’ve heard something – then a whole lot more people imagine that they’ve heard the same thing.’
‘Yeah, happens all the time,’ said Ruby, nodding. ‘People are very suggestible.’
‘It’s true,’ said Hitch. ‘I mean if I start mentioning the words jelly and donut, do you find yourself kind of yearning for one?’
Ruby gave him a look. ‘You got one?’
He shook his head. ‘So what do you think – did those people hear the whispering or not?’ asked Hitch. ‘That little Redfort brain must be thinking something. You have any kind of gut feeling on this?’
Ruby looked at him, straight in the eye. ‘My brain is telling me I should be asleep, but my stomach is telling me that I sure could do with a jelly donut and a glass of banana milk.’
‘Well, let’s make it happen kid.’
Mrs Gruemeister’s dog
Pookie was barking…
In fact he had been barking for quite some time, but everyone aboard had chosen to ignore him, it being 5.46am.
‘Probably seagulls,’ murmured Mr Gruemeister, pulling the blankets over his head. ‘That dog will bark at any little thing.’
‘I’ve tried my darnedest to train him,’ sighed Mrs Gruemeister. ‘Only bark at intruders, that’s what I taught him, but he doesn’t listen.’
In cabin 4A, Brant Redfort sat up in bed, yawned and rubbed his eyes. He switched on the radio, but to his great disappointment the only station he could get any reception on was one playing the most awful music. In fact he wondered to himself if it was music at all.
‘What is that dreadful noise?’ moaned Sabina. ‘Sounds like violins having the most vivid of disagreements.’
Brant switched it off in disgust. He had been looking for a pleasant sound to block out the barking dog, but it wasn’t going to happen.
‘I can’t take much more of this yapping,’ he said. ‘How about an early breakfast up on deck honey?’
‘Good idea Brant. That bow-wow is beginning to give me the most dreadful headache. Honestly, you’d think they would have raised him better. Can you imagine if Ruby yelped like that?’
‘Well, no honey, but then she isn’t a dog.’
‘But you know what I mean Brant.’
‘Sure I do honey; Ruby is a far better daughter than Pookie would ever be.’
At that moment there was a large thud on deck, followed by more thuds, a yelp and a heavy splash. The barking stopped. Sabina and Brant looked at each other for a split second before struggling into clothes and hurrying towards the noise.
That’s when the screaming began.
POOR CLANCY – IF ONLY HE HAD KNOWN what was in store for him that day, he doubtless wouldn’t have made it out of bed. Morning class was interrupted by an in-person announcement from Coach Newhart.
It seemed that the whole of the grade 9 swim team had gone down with mollusc poisoning at last night’s clambake – except for Denning Minkle who was allergic to seafood. The doctor had advised that no one take part in the swimathon for fear of weak limbs and consequent drowning.
Coach Newhart wasn’t to be defeated by this alarming news – Coach Newhart was rarely defeated by anything. To Coach Newhart, this was a challenge, and a coach’s job was about nothing if not challenges. So grade 9 were all getting up close and personal with their latrines – he still had grade 8 and they looked to be fighting fit, a bit weedy perhaps, but no one was throwing up.
‘So can I count on all o’ youse for the Twinford swimathon?’ bellowed Coach Newhart. ‘I am determined that this year we will beat Branwell High.’
Clancy tried to make himself very small and very invisible, but it didn’t work.
‘Crew! I’m including you in this. I want you out in that bay, front and centre, swimming as if your life depended on it.’
Clancy had a premonition that it probably would. The idea of getting in that ocean scared the living daylights out of him, but then at this precise moment, so did Coach Newhart – Coach Newhart was not a man one said no to. No siree.
‘So Crew, you gonna be there?’
Clancy nodded his head. But that wasn’t good enough for Coach Newhart.
‘I can’t hear you sonny.’
‘Sir, yes sir,’ shouted Clancy, like he was on a parade ground.
‘That’s more like it,’ said the coach, nodding. Then he turned to Ruby. ‘And you Redfort. I won’t be accepting a note from the Governor this time. Everyone swims. And that includes you.’
‘OK,’ said Ruby, shrugging. She really didn’t mind – she was a good swimmer. In fact so was Clancy; it was a curse for him that despite appearances he was actually very athletic and surprisingly fast in water. For someone who hated water as much as he did, this was a real problem.
Once Coach Newhart had finally stopped barking, Twinford’s very own chief lifeguard, the implausibly named Slicker Dawn, gave a little briefing about bay safety. Slicker delivered all information at top volume, probably because he had spent much of his time shouting instructions at swimmers; he liked to repeat things too, so his five-minute briefing took a good half-hour.
‘Anyway,’ concluded the lifeguard, ‘Twinford Bay is one of the safest in the county. I repeat, one of the safest in the county. So long as you stay between the flags, you will not get sucked out to sea by the riptides and you will not get dragged down by the undertow.’
‘Oh boy,’ muttered Clancy under his breath. ‘I don’t stand a chance.’
‘Just to reassure you,’ shouted Slicker Dawn, ‘we haven’t had one mayday call or rescue in three weeks, not one! That’s a record right there.’
To Clancy this just made it all the more likely that there would be one soon – according to probability, a rescue was surely due.
The announcement over, Clancy tried to go back to concentrating on class, but however much he tried to engage with the subject at hand, he found that right now the life cycle of the Peruvian tree frog didn’t really have too much to do with the life prospects