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  ‘Room service,’ said Crusher. ‘Here they can eat paddlepops in bed without getting drips on their own sheets.’

  Jake nodded. Crusher was very wise.

  ‘Or it could be the computer,’ added Jake gloomily. ‘They’ve probably found a chat room full of writers and photographers from other travel magazines.’

  Jake could see what Crusher was thinking. Run up the stairs, kick the door in, tie them up, blindfold them, send the e-mail telling the kids at school to stay away, nick off.

  ‘Wouldn’t work, Crusher,’ said Jake sadly. ‘If they caught a glimpse of you they’d know you were a teddy bear and that would arouse their suspicions immediately.’

  Crusher looked as though he understood. He also looked a bit uncomfortable. Jake realised he’d forgotten to rinse Crusher off.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, running clean water into the sink. ‘And sorry I had to use detergent, it’s all there was.’

  He plunged Crusher into the water and swirled him around a bit. Then he grabbed a towel and lifted his dripping friend out of the sink.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m not putting you in the dryer. First rule of hotel management. Never put a friend in the dryer.’

  Crusher didn’t seem to be sharing the joke.

  Then Jake saw why.

  He stared in horror.

  Crusher’s tattoos had washed off.

  Jake wished he’d never had the dumb idea of giving Crusher a bath. He’d only done it because he’d already washed all his clothes and sheets and rugs.

  Poor Crusher. He looked naked without his tatts.

  ‘Don’t panic, Crusher,’ said Jake. ‘I know exactly where the black marker is I used last time. I’m going to find it and do you some new ones.’

  The black marker wasn’t where Jake thought it was.

  By the time he found it down the back of his desk, he’d been turning his room upside down for over half an hour.

  At least Crusher was almost dry.

  Jake sat him on the lobster trap Mr Goff had given them for Christmas, and took the cap off the marker.

  ‘Skull and snake, same as last time?’ he asked.

  ‘Ripper,’ said Crusher.

  Then a thought hit Jake. He looked closely at the marker. It wasn’t a permanent one. That’s why the tattoos had washed off.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Jake, throwing the marker into the bin. ‘We’ll do them properly this time.’

  He tried to remember if he’d ever seen a permanent marker anywhere in the house.

  Of course.

  ‘Dad uses a marker to label his stock cubes in the freezer,’ said Jake. ‘He keeps some of them for years so it’d have to be permanent.’

  It was only five past eleven, so Jake knew that if he was quick he could get to the kitchen, find the marker and be back in his room by the time Mum or Dad came to the kitchen to make his lunch.

  He got to the kitchen without being seen.

  ‘So far so good,’ he whispered to Crusher.

  ‘Be careful,’ whispered Crusher.

  As Jake headed for the odds and ends drawer, he glanced out the window to make sure Mum or Dad weren’t just outside.

  And froze.

  A figure was climbing over the wire fence at the top of the cliff path.

  It was the magazine woman. The magazine man was already over and was helping her. He was holding a picnic basket.

  Jake stared.

  They must have left their room, he thought, while I was searching through mine.

  Two more thoughts hit him.

  One. He could duck into their room while they were gone and send the e-mail.

  Two. The magazine people were heading to the cave for a picnic. The tide was about to turn. Which meant they were about to die.

  ‘I wouldn’t be holding my breath for a good write-up in that magazine,’ said Crusher. ‘Not if the journalist and the photographer are both cactus.’

  Jake could see that Crusher was thinking the same as him. The email and the tattoos would have to wait.

  Jake ran through the house, yelling for Mum and Dad.

  He couldn’t find them.

  Crusher suggested they might be down at the jetty. Jake flung himself out the front door and peered down the path.

  Crusher was right.

  Mum and Dad were helping Mr Goff load what looked like old furniture onto the boat.

  Jake changed his mind about involving them.

  By the time he got down there and Mum and Dad got cross with him for being out of his room and he calmed them down and explained what was happening, the magazine people would be interviewing seaweed and plankton.

  ‘We’ll have to rescue them ourselves,’ said Jake to Crusher. ‘Without being seen.’

  To have even a faint chance of doing that, Jake knew, he’d need something from under his bed.

  When Jake and Crusher arrived at the cave, the magazine people were having their picnic. Jake was relieved to hear their excited voices over the surge of the turning tide.

  ‘Look,’ the magazine woman was saying. ‘Quail sandwiches. And oyster tarts.’

  Jake peered into the cave from behind some rocks, careful not to let the magazine people see him.

  They were sitting on a small ledge at the back of the cave. The magazine woman was rummaging in the picnic basket. The magazine man was gazing out to sea, munching happily. Neither of them had noticed that water was already spilling into the front of the cave.

  I’ve got about ten minutes, thought Jake. They should both fit in the dinghy. As long as they don’t eat too many quail sandwiches.

  Jake propped Crusher up in a crevice, crouched behind the rocks and heaved the big nylon bag off his shoulder. He slid out the folded-up rubber dinghy. While he unfolded it he listened to the magazine people chatting on, completely unaware he was there.

  ‘The food here’s very good,’ the magazine man was saying with his mouth full.

  ‘This morning tea is,’ replied the magazine woman. ‘I wasn’t so sure about the breakfast. Those pancakes tasted like seaweed.’

  Jake reached into the nylon bag again.

  Oh no.

  He stared into the bag. No foot pump.

  He could see Crusher was thinking the same as him.

  The foot pump must have fallen out on the cliff path. No time to go back and look for it. He peeped out from behind the rock. The water was creeping up the cave wall. In nine minutes the cave would be full of water and the magazine people would be churning around like undies in a washing machine.

  Jake put the rubber nozzle of the dinghy between his lips and started to blow.

  ‘Yummy oyster tarts,’ he heard the magazine woman say.

  ‘This is the life,’ said the magazine man. ‘Beautiful day, beautiful island, and my scrummy little flossy possum.’

  The magazine woman gave a fond squeak. ‘Bouncy bear,’ she said.

  For a second, Jake, blowing frantically, thought she’d seen Crusher. Then he realised she was talking about the magazine man.

  Jake sucked another big lungful of air in through his nose. His chest was aching, but the dinghy was only half inflated so he ignored the pain and kept blowing.

  He could see that Crusher was desperate to help, and was wishing he had lungs instead of cotton stuffing.

  ‘Kissy kissy flossy possum,’ said the magazine man.

  ‘Big gruffy hairy bear,’ said the magazine woman.

  Jake found himself wishing that the cold water would reach them fairly soon.

  He got his wish.

  A big wave crashed in through the mouth of the cave and Jake heard the magazine woman give a yell.

  ‘Kevin, look out.’

  ‘Holy heck,’ shouted the magazine man. ‘The tide’s coming in.’

  Jake’s lips were going numb, and his chest pain had spread to his neck, and the rocks were digging into his back, and the wind was trying to tear the almost-inflated dinghy out of his hands.

  Oh well, he t
hought, it could be worse. Dad could have bought me a full-size dinghy instead of just a kid’s one.

  The pain got worse.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Crusher. ‘You’re nearly there.’

  Jake kept blowing.

  ‘We’re cut off,’ he heard the magazine woman scream.

  More water surged into the cave.

  Jake blew a last lungful of air into the dinghy and pushed in the stopper. He grabbed the long nylon rope attached to one end and tied it round one of the rocks.

  All he had to do now was get the magazine people into the dinghy without them seeing him.

  He peeked into the cave. The magazine people were standing on the ledge, clinging to each other, water lapping around their waists.

  Jake pulled out his slingshot and one of Dad’s home-made Belgian chocolates. It had gone a bit soft in his pocket. Good, he thought. Won’t do any permanent damage.

  Still crouching behind the rocks, Jake aimed at the small bald patch at the back of the magazine man’s head and let fly.

  ‘Ow!’

  The magazine man slapped his hand to his head. The magazine woman spun round to him in alarm.

  While their backs were turned, Jake stood up and threw the dinghy into the cave as hard as he could. As he crouched back down, he heard it hit the water with a splash.

  ‘Kevin,’ shrieked the magazine woman. ‘A boat.’

  Jake stayed behind the rocks until the magazine people were safely in the dinghy. It took a while because the magazine woman tried to grab the picnic basket as it floated away and the magazine man yelled at her. Then the magazine man fell into the dinghy and the magazine woman thought he was going to puncture it with his pointy-toed shoes and yelled at him.

  Finally Jake saw they were in and had worked out how to drag themselves and the dinghy out of the cave using the rope.

  Jake started clambering up the cliff path so he would be out of sight when the dinghy came round the rocks.

  Then he saw what was happening to the rope.

  Oh no.

  The knot he’d tied round the rock was slipping. It was coming undone. The rope was about to fall into the water. The magazine people would drift out to sea, possibly all the way to Antarctica. Jake didn’t know much about journalism, but he was pretty sure you couldn’t write a glowing article while you were being crushed by an iceberg.

  He lunged at the rope, grabbed it with both hands just as it was slithering off the rock and hauled on it as hard as he could.

  From the sound of the magazine people’s excited voices, the dinghy was just the other side of the rocks.

  Jake felt panic stab through him.

  There was nowhere to hide. The strain on the rope was too great for him to tie it up again. He had to stay there till the magazine people were safely ashore.

  Which meant they’d see him.

  And tell all the readers of their magazine that Mum and Dad’s business was a fake and a total swindle.

  Then Jake had an idea. The dinghy bag. If he put it over his head, perhaps he could pretend he was an adult. A really short adult who’d come to the island to escape the world’s cruel jokes about his height.

  And his kid’s voice.

  And his kid’s legs.

  Just as Jake was deciding sadly that the bag was a really dumb idea, he saw the foot pump. It was lying a little way up the cliff path.

  Somehow he managed to haul on the rope even harder.

  Feet scrabbling, calf muscles killing him, he struggled backwards up the slope, grabbed the foot pump while the rope nearly pulled his other arm completely off, and managed to tie the rope to the pump. Then he jammed the pump between two rocks like an anchor and flung himself up the cliff path.

  Halfway up, his legs went totally numb and he collapsed behind a rock.

  He squinted down at the water.

  The magazine people were clambering out of the dinghy onto the rocks, laughing and crying with relief.

  Jake felt like crying with relief himself.

  They hadn’t seen him.

  Then he saw something that made the rest of him go numb.

  Metres away from the magazine people, still propped up in his crevice, was Crusher.

  Oh no, gasped Jake. I left him behind.

  Sick with panic, he prayed the magazine people wouldn’t see Crusher.

  They did.

  Silently, tearfully, he begged that they wouldn’t go over and pick Crusher up and stare at him and wonder out loud where he’d come from.

  They did.

  8

  Jake crouched outside the dining room window.

  Indigestion stabbed through his guts.

  He knew what was causing it. Guilt and sadness and worry about Crusher. That and the crumbed prawns he’d just had to gulp in his room. He’d planned to hide them in his wardrobe, but Mum had stayed to chat while he ate them.

  ‘How was your morning?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Not that good,’ he’d said.

  ‘Never mind, love,’ she’d said. ‘Perhaps this afternoon will be better.’

  Jake was pretty sure it wouldn’t.

  Not now he was peering in through the dining room window and could see the magazine people arriving for lunch.

  Please, he begged the magazine people silently. Please don’t assume there’s a kid on the island just because you found a teddy bear. Please don’t ask Mum and Dad about it.

  There was a chance they wouldn’t. They’d changed their clothes and they were chatting with Mum and Dad as if nothing had happened.

  Jake pulled the window open a fraction so he could hear.

  Perhaps it’ll be OK, he said to himself. Perhaps they don’t want anyone to know they ignored a warning notice and nearly drowned and had to be saved by a kid. Perhaps they just want to forget the whole thing.

  In which case, thought Jake with a surge of relief, they’ve probably left Crusher down on the rocks where I can get him later.

  Jake watched as Mum and Dad sat the magazine people down and put napkins on their laps. The magazine woman said something nice about the flowers on the table. Mum, wearing her best waitress blouse, looked pleased. Dad, wearing his best chef’s hat, said something nice about the flowers on the magazine woman’s frock. She looked pleased too. Although, as she pointed out, they were actually poodles.

  Jake felt his indigestion wearing off.

  Everything’s going to be fine, he thought happily. While Mum and Dad serve the magazine people a delicious lunch of sea urchins and sea slugs, I can go and get Crusher.

  He was about to turn away from the window when he saw how wrong he was.

  The magazine woman reached into her bag and pulled out something brown and furry with sad eyes and no tatts.

  Crusher.

  Jake’s guts started hurting again.

  Fighting pain and panic, he prised the window open a bit further so he could hear better.

  ‘We found this down on the rocks,’ said the magazine woman.

  Jake saw the blood drain from Mum and Dad’s faces.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum, struggling to look not very interested. ‘That old thing.’

  ‘He turned up years ago while we were renovating the kitchen,’ said Dad, struggling to look even less interested. ‘Must have belonged to a previous occupant.’

  ‘Really,’ said the magazine woman. ‘What’s his name?’

  Jake saw Mum and Dad glance nervously at each other.

  ‘Um…’ said Dad.

  ‘Crusher,’ said Mum.

  The magazine people looked at each other.

  ‘Unusual name for a teddy bear,’ said the magazine man.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dad. ‘It’s a long story. Um, I had this torch, see, and the bulb was loose, well not so much loose as bent, and…

  ‘Let me do it, Frank,’ said Mum. She smiled at the magazine people. ‘We were knocking out an old wall and Frank put his head into the hole and his torch went out and this teddy bear suddenly came tumbling out of an old cu
pboard.’

  ‘Must have been scary,’ said the magazine woman.

  ‘It was,’ said Dad. ‘Specially when I got the torch working and saw a huge poisonous spider really close to my hand. Amazing thing, though. The bear had fallen on it and crushed it.’

  ‘Which was why we called him Crusher,’ said Mum.

  ‘What a wonderful story,’ said the magazine woman. ‘I’m going to use that in the article.’

  Jake gazed through the window at Mum and Dad with love and admiration.

  Incredible. They’d just handled an unbelievably difficult situation without telling a single lie. Just the truth. Good on you, Mum and Dad.

  Jake knew Crusher would be impressed too. Once the magazine woman stopped holding him upside down by his foot.

  The magazine woman must have caught wind of what Jake was thinking, because she turned Crusher the right way up.

  Jake tried to catch Crusher’s eye.

  ‘Sorry I forgot you,’ he mouthed. Then he silently whistled a bit of the TV news theme to help with the stress Crusher must be feeling.

  Crusher didn’t change his expression, but Jake could tell he’d forgiven him.

  ‘When we found him down on the rocks,’ said the magazine woman slowly, fingering the scar on Crusher’s face, ‘we thought there might have been a child on the island.’

  Jake’s heart stopped.

  He saw Dad’s whole body sag.

  Mum’s jaw went tight.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no child here. Absolutely not.’

  ‘I mean,’ said Dad. ‘We wouldn’t be calling this place adults-only if there was a kid, would we?’

  Mum took Crusher from the magazine woman and reached up and put him on a shelf next to Dad’s chef diploma. She kept her back to the others while she spoke. Jake could see the strain on her face.

  ‘We had some optometrists here earlier in the week,’ said Mum. ‘They must have taken Crusher down to the rocks for a photo.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the magazine woman. ‘I see.’

  She and the magazine man turned their attention to their sea urchin salad.

  Jake knew he should be feeling relieved. Mum and Dad had just saved the business. They’d just saved the family from bankruptcy and raw seagull drumsticks.