Bay of the Dead - By Mark Morris Page 0,4

a storm of protest.

If it had been good-natured banter, Toby might not have minded. But their comments were nasty, bullish, scathing. Steffan in particular made it clear that he thought Toby was not only snubbing them, but voicing his disapproval at the same time.

'Think you're better than us, you do,' he said.

'No, I don't,' said Toby.

'Yeah, you do. You think we're a load of idiots, just cos we like to have a laugh.'

'I didn't say that.'

'You didn't need to. You're like an old woman, all pursed lips and hoity-toity.'

Before Toby could respond, Stan said, 'I reckon he's just scared cos he thinks he'll get in trouble.'

Then they were all making chicken noises and flapping their arms like wings, and in the end Toby found himself tagging along just to save face. He trailed miserably in their wake as they crossed the Cardiff Bay Barrage to Penarth. He watched them shoving and jostling each other, giggling like kids on a school outing, and he felt more like a pariah than ever, even though it was they who'd insisted he come along.

He half-hoped they'd get some trouble at Penarth Quay, half-hoped the security fob would not be enough to grant them access to the Marina. But Steffan simply swiped the card, tapped in his uncle's security pin and they were through. The night-shift guy manning the Marina Office even waved to them as they passed by.

'Here it is, boys,' Steffan said a couple of minutes later. 'What do you think?'

As one, they goggled in drunken disbelief at the craft bobbing sedately on the water before them. The yacht was elegant and immaculately maintained. Constructed of gleaming white fibreglass, it had a single mast, plenty of deck space and a sizeable central cabin area. Even Toby couldn't help but be impressed, though the prospect of his drunken companions taking such a beautiful – and no doubt hideously expensive – vessel out on the water filled him with dread.

'This is so sweet, man,' exclaimed Curtis, laughing and clapping his hands.

'Bleedin' amazing,' nodded Stan, awestruck.

'Do you know how to drive it?' Toby asked nervously, and again Steffan shot him a look so scathing that Toby decided that, starting tomorrow, he would find himself a new set of friends.

'Course I do. Nothing to it, is there. I mean, it's not as if we're going to encounter much traffic.'

The boys all sniggered at Toby's expense. Steffan leaped from the jetty to the deck, staggering a little.

'Well, come on then, gents. Climb aboard.'

One by one they stepped across the divide between jetty and deck. Greg, the drunkest of them, took a few tottering steps sideways and fell over. Toby laughed along with everyone else, but anxiety still gnawed away inside him. Steffan unlocked the door that led down to the living quarters.

'There's beers in the fridge, a bog at the far end, and there's even a bed for everyone, if you fancy a little lie down.'

Curtis descended the steps into the saloon, shaking his head in gleeful wonder. 'Man, I do not believe this,' he muttered. 'This is the height of luxury.'

'Only one rule,' Steffan said as Stan and Greg followed Curtis below decks. 'No throwing up down there. If you want to puke you do it over the side.'

Toby hesitated a moment, contemplating whether to join his friends. Then he turned away and walked over to lean on the metal guard rail which edged the perimeter of the deck, deciding that he couldn't stand another minute of their drunken banter. He stood on the seaward side, looking out over the black water, the chill winter wind ruffling his hair. He wondered what Lauren was doing now. She was at Durham University, and the last time he'd spoken to her, almost two weeks ago, she'd told him she was having a brilliant time.

'Feeling a bit dicky, are we?'

Steffan asked the question as though it was a failing. Toby half-turned to face him.

'No, just fancied some fresh air,' he said.

Steffan snorted, and headed towards the small wheelhouse, which contained the engine controls and navigational equipment. Toby sighed and turned back to gaze over the black water. Blades of reflected moonlight flashed and sparkled on the crests of the swells; tiny waves lapped against the hull. From the saloon floated snatches of throaty, ragged laughter. With a low rumble the engine started up, and then the yacht was moving, sliding out from its berth, heading into the Bay, like a vast and elegant marine creature released from captivity.

It cut through