Free In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers by Simon J. Townley

mistake. Faro wouldn’t steal.”  
    “You two survived, somehow, on Lerwick, for ten years,” Jonah said. “You never stole?”  
    What did they call stealing? The boys had been desperate, hungry enough, to take rabbits from a trap, fish from a line, the hooks and bait strung between two posts at low tide, covered by the incoming sea, the catch revealed as the ocean receded. They’d get there first, take flounders from the hooks. They’d taken bread from the bakers tray, left out to cool in the early morning breeze. What about the binoculars he found? The man who owned them was long dead. Was that stealing? What did it mean to steal? Or lie?
    “Never, Faro never stole. Nor me.”  
    “Why was he in my cabin? Going through my things?” The captain’s voice was harsher now, angry.  
    “The boy is not his brother’s keeper,” Mrs Hudson said.  
    “They act as one.” Jonah sat back in his chair, the wood creaking under the weight, the man’s head resting on the sloping ceiling, his shoulders obscuring all light from the portholes along that part of the cabin.  
    Conall stood his ground, trying to speak firm and sound confident. “He wouldn’t steal, I know that. “You’ve helped us. We’re grateful for this chance.”
    “Can you explain why he was there?” The captain’s hands were tense, gripped together.  
    “No.” They must have questioned Faro. What had he said? “Was he cleaning?” Conall didn’t dare glance at Jonah. He felt the first mate’s eyes on him. “Was anything taken?”  
    “He was caught, before he could get away. The room was locked,” the captain said. “He opened the lock, without the key. That’s quite a trick.”  
    Faro had practiced with padlocks, doors to ruined houses. They’d broken into empty buildings, barns and storehouses when they needed shelter. Helped themselves to potatoes from the town store when they were starving. A useful skill, indeed.
    “What was he looking for? He searched my cabin, ignored a bag of silver coins, an antique watch, priceless books.”
    “Then he wasn’t stealing.”
    “What was he doing?” The captain’s voice was gruff, deep, echoing with rage.  
    “Conall if you know, you must tell us,” said Mrs Hudson.  
    “I don’t know, I was with you. Faro wouldn’t steal, it’s a misunderstanding.”  
    The captain thumped the table. “Why was he there?”  
    “Ask him. He’ll tell you.” Let Faro talk. It was his idea, he should invent the story.  
    “All he tells us is lies. Says he was looking for a map of settlements, on Spitsbergen, among my possessions, to help find your parents. Says you wanted it. Does that mean anything?”  
    Conall had to answer fast, any delay looked bad. But he couldn’t think. Why would Faro say that? There must be a reason. If he denied it, Faro’s story fell apart. Admit it, and he’d be taken as an accomplice. “I don’t remember. He must have misunderstood. We talked about finding them. I said we needed a map.” His tongue tripped over the word. Still he refused to look Jonah in the eye. “Of settlements, so we’d know where they might be living. But it was an idea, that’s all. Wondering if it existed.”  
    “You could have asked,” Mrs Hudson said. “We’d have no reason to hide it from you.”  
    “Perhaps he didn’t want to trouble you,”  
    The captain roared at him, “get out.”  
    Conall paused, but Mrs Hudson nodded, waved him towards the door. “Wait outside,” she said.  
    He stood there, the longest twenty minutes of his life, listening to them talking inside, their voices too low to make out the words. He could tell how the argument tipped one way then the other from the tone of their voices, the captain stern, his wife softer, Jonah unsure. Finally he heard the clomp of Argent’s cane on the stateroom floor and the door opened. Jonah emerged, walked past Conall without a word and went on deck.  
    Mrs Hudson came next, told him to go in. She