Something powerful is drawing Ward back to Devil's Island. Something he thought he had forgotten. He must evade vicious lighthouse keeper George Jaggles in order to rescue it, but Jaggles will soon be the least of his worries. Because an assassin is...
Their conversation continued haltingly through the morning. Ward's fear abated. Whatever place he was in, it could be no more dangerous than that from which he had come. He had wanted to hide, after all. He would never be found here.
Then, the revelation that the man had dreamed about him, and Jaggles, and the island. Strangest of all, that he planned to write it all down in a book. But he seemed as flummoxed by this as Ward was.
To take his mind off this unsettling subject Ward went back to the newspaper. Perhaps he would wake up while reading it. He slowly read the text on the front page, though it meant little to him, relating as it did to events of which he knew nothing, and people of whom he had never heard. The only newspaper available legally in Bareheep was the Observer, which was owned by the State, and was essentially a vehicle for disseminating propaganda. Ward wondered if he was reading its equivalent. Surely this man would not have left an anarchist newspaper lying around on his kitchen table? It didn't look like one. Those papers were printed on ancient machines, the print blotchy and cramped and laden with typographical errors. This one was pristine. He couldn't even smell the ink.
He turned the page. Before him, taking up an entire page, was a colour argotype of a very beautiful woman. He had never seen a woman dressed so. He could see her legs, and her bare shoulders. Feeling his face grow hot he turned the page without reading anything on it.
His mouth went dry when he saw what was on the next page. It was the man from his dream, the man in black: Tom Hennequin.
The Hennequin of his dream had been in his early twenties; this version was forty at least. He looked handsome and confident and assured. Ward read the article. It waffled on for a while about what it was like to meet Tom Hennequin. Clearly the author was starstruck. Hennequin was referred to as the Opposition Leader. Was he a kind of leader then, like Vernon Dervish? Yes, it appeared so. There was an election being held soon, and Hennequin was involved in it.
Elections were held in Bareheep too. They were treated more as a formality than anything else, a tradition from bygone days, a curiosity. The two opponents – there were only ever two – were on the friendliest terms, for it was impossible not to be friends with Vernon Dervish. They shook hands a lot, and seemed old chums, which they usually were. Voting was voluntary. And when the votes were counted up, somehow Dervish was always returned to power. And nobody thought this was odd – or, at least, if they had suspicions they didn't express them.
Ward gathered from the article that elections were a more serious business here, wherever here was – he still didn't know. The man had assured him he was in Melbourne. The only Melbourne Ward had heard of was the ancient city that had once stood where Bareheep was now. This was a disturbing thought. He was a practical, pragmatic boy, who didn't like mysteries. He took them almost as an personal affront. They had to be explained away, in practical terms, as soon as possible. Jaggles would have simply denied their existence and gone merrily upon his way. But Ward was profoundly unsettled by what he could not understand. His only recourse was to assure himself that he was asleep in the cave – that this was all just a dream. After all, he had been dreaming about the boy and the dying man. Hadn't he?
The man spoke then. Something about his voice made Ward look up. He was pointing at Ward's bag, and was no longer smiling.
That's mine, he wrote.
And Ward suddenly realised who the man was. Just as the man had dreamed of him, he had dreamed of the man. Except, he had not been a man in the dream. He had been a boy.
How did you get it? the man wrote.
Ward shook his head. He turned so the bag was hidden from the man's view.
A look had come over the man's eyes that Ward didn't like, and in his mind's eye he saw the bear, the terrible bear. Greed. The dice had been warning him. But now it was too late.
The man lunged at him across the table.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
