Eighteen – Some weeks later

Captain Haddock sat at his desk, unmoving. He'd been here for hours, weighing his decision against his conscience. He'd already made up his mind though: he knew what was right and what was wrong. No matter what way he looked at it, there was only one solution. It wasn't a nice solution, no; but it was the right one. His conscience wouldn't rest easy otherwise. He was doing the Right Thing. That was important.

He still felt like a turd though. He felt rotten to the core; uneasy. Somewhere deep inside, a voice was shouting that it wasn't his decision to make. But it was, really. On a ship, the captain is the voice of God. The captain had to make the decisions that nobody else wanted to: when to stop looking for a man overboard, for example. When to deliver the last rites. When to cut and run and to hell with the rest. Nobody ever told you that, though, when you first join a ship's company. It was an unwritten rule. The captain does what's best, and his word is law. He is king, and the ship is his kingdom. And besides, who else was stepping up and doing what was right?

Nobody, that's who. It was left up to him, because a captain always does what's right.

Now it was just a matter of time.

He sighed and rubbed his face tiredly before settling down to wait some more.

x

A knock sounded on the door. The Captain looked at it, his heart hammering in his chest. He'd heard the bell and the calls from the bridge, even from down here. He hadn't heard the words, but he'd heard the excitement in the voices and recognised it from previous voyages. "Come," he called.

The door opened and Tintin peered around, his face split in a wide grin. Snowy pushed past his legs and trotted into the cabin, wagging his tail at the Captain. "Land ho!" Tintin said happily.

"Aye."

Tintin frowned. "Are you alright, Captain?"

"No, not really." Here it is. This is it. His heart was yammering loudly and his palms were starting to sweat. He didn't want to do this, he realised. "Sit down," he said, pointing at the chair opposite him. Tintin, still frowning, came in fully and sat at the table. He rested his arms on the top and waited. Snowy snuffled around the rag-rug and ended up hopping onto the Captain's bed and curling up.

The Captain stood up. He was prepared for this. He went to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room and pulled out the last can of beer. He couldn't let the little sod go off without a final drink: that was too cruel. Besides, where he was going he wouldn't be having any booze for quite a while. He put it on the table in front of Tintin, who raised an eyebrow at it. Then, the Captain busied himself by pouring a glass of whisky. While his back was turned on the boy, he carefully turned the key in the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. When he was ready he sat back opposite Tintin.

"You should drink that," he said. He downed his whisky in one go as Tintin stared at him.

"What's going on? Why are you acting so strangely?"

"You're fourteen years old," the Captain said quietly.

Tintin looked away for a second, and the Captain watched as the boy's face changed. Gone was the personable expression, replaced with a blank canvas. His eyes became cold and distant. When he looked back, it was as though he was a different person: older and somehow crueller; devoid of emotion. It was a startling change and it rattled the Captain. "And?" the boy asked flatly.

"You ran away from an orphanage, didn't you?"

"They don't call them that anymore," Tintin replied matter-of-factly. "They're called Group Homes."

"And you ran away from yours."

"Yes."

Silence. Tintin didn't offer any explanations. He didn't beg or plead. He simply sat and stared coldly at the Captain. "By thunder, you're a hard one, aren't you?" the Captain said with a sad laugh.

"I have to be," Tintin said with a shrug. "It's the only way to survive."

"Why'd you run away? Did they… y'know. Do stuff? At the, er, the group home?"

"They do plenty of things, but not the thing you're thinking about." Tintin sighed and shook his head, his hard veneer cracking. "You don't know what it's like there," he said at last.

"So tell me," the Captain said. "Do they beat you? Work you to death? Starve you? Shut you into cages?"

"No!" Tintin rolled his eyes. "It's not like that. It's… more subtle than that. Insidious."

The Captain shook his head. "I don't know what that means."

"It's like a… a nastiness that creeps in. And you don't notice it until afterwards."

"Give me an example."

"I can't!" Tintin said, his voice rising in desperation. "It's just… I don't know, when you say it out-loud it doesn't sound bad. But when it's happening, it's awful. It's the worst thing in the world."

"You're not making any sense."

"Look, it's run by a Catholic organization. We have to live by Catholic rules."

"You live in a Catholic country: you have to do that anyway."

"See?" Tintin said. "You don't get it!"

"No, I don't flaming get it!" The Captain could feel his blood rising. None of this was making sense. "They don't beat you; they don't starve you; they don't lock you up. They don't… do things to you. You're fourteen, lad: you're too young to be doing this sort of thing! Do you think for a second that I would have let you on this ship if I'd known how old you really were?" No, a little traitorous voice said inside him, but you still let him take that seaplane up, and camp overnight on a meteor that was bobbing in the sea, didn't you? You didn't give a toss about it then, did you? Even though he could have died a thousands times over. Because he's fun, isn't he? He's a laugh: he's good craic to hang out with.

He smothered the little voice ruthlessly. He'd been selfish, yes, but that was on the sea. There were different rules for the sea, and land was already in sight.

"They make us pray," Tintin said lamely. "When we do something wrong. We have to pray for forgiveness."

"And?" the Captain snapped. He poured himself another generous helping of whisky. "I pray every day. There's nothing wrong with a bit of praying."

Tintin bit his lip. Even he had to admit that it didn't sound bad. If they made a mistake or sinned, they had to pray. But everything was a mistake or a sin. They were orphans or children that had been abandoned for one reason or another: they were walking mistakes; they were the end result of unmarried sinning.

Looking out the window when you should have been paying attention? That's a sin.

Talking out of turn? Sin.

Shirt un-tucked? Sin.

Hair not neatly combed back or cropped? Sin.

Eyes not downcast? Sin. Have a personality? Sin.

Want to be an individual? Sin.

Sin, sin, sin.

Go and pray. Go and kneel on the hard, cold flagstones in the draughty chapel for ten, twelve hours at a time, your knees bruised and screaming in pain, your head bent and your neck stiff, your legs sore and your whole body crying out because you've had to keep the same position for hour upon hour upon hour…

Did you move? Sin.

Sin, sin, sin.

It was bad. It was cruelty. It was designed to break you down and knock the fight out of you. And they didn't even build you back up again: they just dumped you in the city at the age of 16, paid the rent on a bed-sit for a few months and expected you to make your own way, with no skills or support or any clue how to live on your own.

He'd just fast-forwarded the process. He'd found his own place to live, paid his own rent and gave himself skills. He knew how to live on his own. They should be thanking him: he'd done their job for them.

He reversed his brain and tried a different track.

"Look, Captain," he said, keeping his voice calm and friendly. "Why worry about this?" He forced a laugh. "It's not your problem, is it? It's not even a problem at all. It's… It's a blip. A small blip. Forget about it! Everything's fine."

The Captain shook his head. "I don't think it is."

"Honestly, Captain, you know me. You know I'm able to look after myself. I don't need a group home or a bunch of priests to do anything for me. You know that!"

"We'll be back in Brussels by about 6pm or so," the Captain said slowly. This was the part he was dreading. His heart started to hammer faster, so much so that he was sure the boy would be able to hear it. It was a dreadful sound, and his stomach was filled with a leaden weight. "There's going to be a huge crowd. They know we're coming."

"Who does?" Tintin asked. The Captain could see something like fear in his face.

"Everyone. The whole world." The Captain spread his hands wide. "Their eyes will be on us. Cameras beaming our images back to the four corners of earth." He stood up and went to the door. "That's why I have to do this." He unlocked it quickly and stepped through it, slamming it before Tintin was able to get through after him. The boy gave it a game try though, and hit the door hard just as it slammed shut on his face. The Captain slipped the key back in the lock. The mechanism clicked loudly as it shut the boy inside the cabin.

"Captain?" Tintin said. The Captain could hear the forced calm, the forced friendly tone straining through the sudden panic. "What are you doing, Captain?"

"I'm doing what's right," the Captain said, his own voice emotionless. "You'll stay there until the ship is docked and the crowds have gone, and when the cameras aren't looking you'll go back to where you should be."

"What?" The forced friendliness was gone, and panic had taken over. Tintin stood on his tiptoes and peered through the round glass window set in the door. The Captain stared back, his face blank. But there was something in his eyes that Tintin recognised: a curious sorrow. He didn't want to do this. "Captain, please," he said. "Open the door."

"No."

"Don't do this. You know it's wrong. Open the door and let me out."

"No." The Captain shook his head. "I can't do that."

"Captain!" Tintin smacked the door hard with the flat of his hand. "What on earth do you think you're doing? Let me out!"

"No." The Captain turned and walked away. Tintin watched him going. His heart didn't sink – he was too bloody annoyed for that to happen – but it did stop for just a second. He started hammering on the door and shouting for help. Someone had to hear him, eventually.

x

Up on deck, the Captain took a hold of Jock, a tall, older Scotsman who had served with Haddock plenty of times before. Jock was a good man: stoic and quiet and reliable. Plus, he didn't talk much and he never asked questions. Words were rare with Jock: he was more monosyllabic than a caveman. He pulled the man to one side and hesitated before speaking.

"I need you to go down bellow," he murmured. He eyed the people around him. The deck had come to life once the shout of "Land!" had rung out. The scientists and research students had scurried to the prow to watch Belgium grow bigger on the horizon. This was their triumphant return, and they were determined to enjoy it. "There's someone in my cabin," he continued. "Just stay outside and keep watch. Do not open that door at all, unless I give the order. And unless I give the order in person, me-myself, do not open that door. Got it?"

"Aye," Jock said with a quick nod.

"Good man. Don't let anyone near that door unless I'm with 'em."

"Yes, Cap'n."

"Grand. On you go." He watched Jock walk away and tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt like a rat. Worse than a rat, even. Lower than the lowest form of life. What he was doing was right: children weren't allowed to go wandering the world on their own. There were laws against it for a reason: bad things happened. They happened every day. He was doing the Right Thing.

"I am doing the Right Thing," he said out-loud in a firm voice. "I am doing the Right Thing."

So why am I trying to convince myself?

x

Tintin had searched the Captain's cabin methodically, looking for anything to help him escape. So far, he'd found nothing. He'd even tried to put a chair through the glass window in the door, but it wouldn't break. It was made of the same thick, double-triple-quadruple glazed glass as the portholes, which were also unbreakable. Of course they were: the ship was built to stand against the worst storms imaginable. A chair wasn't going to even dent them, no matter how hard he threw it. All he'd managed to do was scare Snowy and break the chair.

There was nothing useful here either. The Captain had taken away anything that could be fashioned into a rope, and anything with a sharp edge. Tintin didn't understand that: surely by now the Captain would have understood that all Tintin wanted to do was live? Killing himself was never on the agenda, no matter how bleak things looked.

He'd tried to sweet-talk the guard around, but it was the same emotionless creature he'd met on the deck that first day, back before they'd left Belgium. All he'd ever said, as far as Tintin was aware, was 'yes', or 'no', or 'maybe'. Now, he wasn't talking at all. He'd given Tintin a blank look, then turned his back and leaned against the door. He'd refused to turn around or acknowledge Tintin after that first look. He hadn't even looked when Tintin had broken the chair off the door.

Now, he collapsed on the Captain's bunk. Thoroughly worried, Snowy jumped up beside him, whining and wondering what the matter was. Dogs, it was said, were able to sense their owners' feelings. They were sensitive when it came to their masters. Tintin was usually happy, and as a result Snowy was usually happy. He was used to seeing people angry at Tintin, but never had he seen Tintin this angry. Naturally, Snowy was now scared and a little angry, but not quite sure what he was angry at. The only way to remedy this was to curl in close and lick whatever skin he could find. Tintin let him, and started to pet him idly, thinking hard as he tried to shush the anxious animal.

He'd have to talk his way out of it. That was the only thing he could do. He was sure he could do it, too. The Captain wasn't unreasonable. He was a decent bloke. Tintin could explain and talk him round. It would be a simple thing to take one of the lifeboats when they were closer to the shore and row back by himself. While everyone was focused on the Aurora, he could pack a bag and get out of the country. He could be in Germany or France, or even Italy before anyone knew what had happened.

He'd be fifteen in December. All he had to do was keep his head down for a year and after that they couldn't touch him. He'd be legally an adult by Belgian law. And he had savings to live on. He could rent a place in the middle of nowhere and work on that book he'd been meaning to write. He had savings: it was do-able. He could make it work.

All he needed was to talk to the Captain. He was sure he could make the Captain understand.

x

At 6pm Tintin was finished bouncing off the walls and had settled down to do some escape work. He could hear screams and shouts and roars of happiness outside – too far away, but so very close. The boat's horn rang out, and had drowned Tintin's cries for help. The Captain hadn't come back, and now Tintin had the awful feeling that when he came back he wouldn't be on his own, and Tintin wouldn't be able to talk his way out of it. Outside, he could hear the sound of a microphone being set up, and the louder sound of people talking into the microphone. He recognised Professor Phostle's excited voice, then the calmer voice of Professor Contonneau, and finally the voice of the Captain, although he couldn't hear clearly what any of them were saying. Phostle and Contonneau both spoke at length, while the Captain's address was short and sweet, and sounded rather gruff from where Tintin was sitting.

He shook his head and went back to trying to work a screw out of the bottom of the Captain's footlocker. If he managed that, he might be able to use it to get the porthole open, and if he could get the porthole open he was free and clear. It was slow going though, but he hadn't got to where he was today by being impulsive and short of patience. Well, he had, a little bit, but mainly it was because of dogged determination.

He worked on, and ignored the sound of the crowd outside.

x

At 8pm the sounds had died down. The crowds were gone, or going, and soon the docks would be clear. It was dark now, the sun having slipped low in the autumn sky about an hour ago. It was fitting: everything would be done behind closed doors and under the cover of darkness. The embarrassment of having a young teenager escape from a state-owned care institution, to careen recklessly around the world for almost a year, would be swept under the rug. They could now wash their hands of the situation and pretend that it had never happened; that he hadn't outwitted them all; that he hadn't been living in their midst for this long without anyone noticing. That he hadn't been working with the police and Interpol while being a runaway.

I almost did it, though, he thought with a hint of pride. They can't take that away from me. They can't take any of it away, not really, not my memories or the stories I've written. They'll live on.

He'd given up on the porthole. He'd managed to get the screw out of the locker but it hadn't really helped much. All he had to show for his determined work was a skinned knuckle and a load of thin scrapes around the rim of the porthole. Now he was sitting on the Captain's bunk, Snowy pressed against him, waiting.

He heard them coming. They were talking softly in the corridor outside the door. Then, he heard the key turn in the lock and there they all were: Captain Haddock, the Thomsons, Father Piatus, and his old social worker Nouel Bisset. The younger woman was also there, and out of all of them she was the only one smiling. She had a nice smile.

He stayed where he was, and simply looked at them.

"Well," said the young woman. She was in her thirties, he thought. She took a chair and turned it around so that it faced him, and sat down. "It's nice to finally meet you. My name is Emilie Reyer and I'm your new social worker. I'm taking over from Nouel."

"Why?" Tintin asked. "Nouel's doing a great job." Behind the Thomsons, Nouel Bisset blushed and looked annoyed. The Captain hid his grin.

Emilie kept a straight face. "I'm sure he is," she said, "but we don't feel that he's a good match for you. Maybe there's been a bit of a… personality clash?"

"Nouel! You have a personality?" Tintin looked at Nouel, surprised. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"And there's that quick wit I've heard so much about," Emilie continued with a smile. "I must admit, I'm looking forward to working with you."

"And I'm looking forward to someone telling me what's going on," Tintin replied.

"Well, I'm sure you remember Father Piatus" –

"Vividly."

"Quite. The fact is, Tintin – or can I call you Shane?"

"Tintin will be fine."

"Right. Tintin. Well, the fact is, you're underage and it's illegal for you to hold a full-time job or an apartment."

"Only for another year," he pointed out.

She shrugged. "It's still illegal. At the moment, you're Belgium's biggest commodity. Everyone knows Tintin. Everyone loves Tintin. You're a star, young man, and frankly we can't allow anything to happen to you while you're still, technically, under state care. Not only is it against our laws, it's also against EU laws, and if they ever found out we'd be in a lot of trouble."

Tintin held up his hand in a solemn Scout's salute. "I hereby swear not to get into any more trouble," he said.

"It's not as simple as that," she replied. "You have to go back to the group home."

"What if I don't want to go?" he asked quietly.

"You don't have a choice," she said, matter-of-factly. "You are a fifteen year old youth, and you're a ward of the state. The two detectives are here to oversee everything, to make sure everything is done nicely and you aren't unduly distressed, but when you leave here you will be leaving with me and you will be accompanying me back to Galmaarden. Your trunk is packed, and I'm sure if you give the keys to the Captain or myself, we will fetch anything else that you might need."

Tintin looked at the Captain. The man was staring at his feet now. He'd nodded at the mention of his name, but that was his only reaction. How long have you been planning this? Tintin wondered. Was it since before we left? After we left? Or did you only find out now? Did you let me hang out with you; become friends with you; knowing that this was going to happen? Were you even my friend at all? Or did you act like a friend because it was the easiest way to keep an eye on me?

Who are you, really? And where is the real Captain Haddock?

"May I have a few minutes alone with the Captain?" Tintin asked.

Emilie looked surprised. "I suppose, if the Captain doesn't object..?" She let the question hang.

The Captain looked up. He looked wary. "Er, yes, I suppose so. If you want," he added to Tintin.

"Very much so."

"Then we'll wait outside for you," Emilie said with an air of finality. "Come along, gentlemen. We'll be right outside the door," she added softly to the Captain.

They left. Tintin waited until he could hear the soft strains of a conversation start up before opening his mouth to speak to the Captain.

"I'm really sorry," the Captain said quickly. Tintin shut his mouth again and let the man continue. "But I had to do it. You know I did. It isn't right, someone your age doing all this. It's dangerous."

Tintin nodded. That was the problem: the Captain genuinely did think that anyone under the age of 18 should be wrapped in cotton wool. "I need you to look after Snowy," he said suddenly.

The Captain gaped at him. "Snowy?" he managed. "The dog? I can't do that! He won't leave you."

"Do you think they'll let me take him with me?"

The Captain looked hunted. "They must do. They can't separate you. Hang on a minute." He went to the door and opened it, and said quietly; "'Scuse me, but what about the dog? He gets to keep the dog, doesn't he?"

"No animals," Father Piatus snapped. "We don't keep animals. They're dirty and disruptive."

"Yeah, but it's his dog! You can't have Tintin without Snowy. It's… well, it's not right, is it?"

"Surely you can make an exception, Father?" Emilie asked, her voice soft.

"No. No dogs. We have enough to be getting along with without dogs running around."

"But what about the dog?" the Captain pleaded. "What'll happen to him?"

"He'll have to go to the pound."

"You can't do that!"

"Then why don't you take him, Captain?" Emilie suggested.

"Er." The Captain looked over his shoulder at Tintin. "Well, I'm not really a dog person…"

"Don't let them put Snowy down," Tintin warned him.

"Put him down!" The Captain's eyes widened.

"Yes. If dogs that are strayed don't get re-homed within a certain amount of time, they get put down."

"Flaming hell!" The Captain closed the door again and wiped his forehead with his hand. "Fine, I'll take him. Anything else?"

"The key to my apartment is in the pocket of my long coat, I think." Tintin got up off the bunk and picked up Snowy, holding the dog close to his chest. "There's a bunch of stuff in my house that Snowy needs. Most of his toys are in his dog bed – he doesn't sleep in that though, he prefers to sleep wherever he likes – but there might be a few hidden behind things. He likes to bury stuff," he added. "He only eats Pedigree Chum, and only the stuff with gravy. He doesn't eat the loaf at all. He gets a dental stick in the morning but only after he's been outside for his first pee, and he gets a Markie at night but only after he's been outside for his last pee. He gets a half a bowl of Chum in the morning, one full one in the middle of the day, and another half at night, but not too late. About 9pm or so."

"Right, got it," the Captain said nervously.

"He doesn't like baths but he likes to play in water. He doesn't like mud. He plays fetch, but he doesn't bring the ball to your hand. He drops it at your feet, and if you bend down and hold out your hand he tries to play tug-of-war with it instead. If he walks around with his toy fox in his mouth, that means he's sad and he wants a bit of attention. Don't pet his ears too hard: he doesn't like that. But he likes being scratched behind them, and along the back of his neck. He's not fussed on under his chin, but he likes it at the base of his tail because he can't reach there to scratch."

"Uh, I think I need a pencil for this…"

"That's all of it," Tintin said. "Oh, except that he doesn't like wearing collars and he won't walk on a lead. The number for his vet is on the pad beside the phone, somewhere. He's vaccinated for another six months or so, but he'll need boosters after that. And he doesn't wear a flea collar, but it's ok to use the drops. The ones that go at the back of his neck. Just don't let him get wet for a day or two afterwards, or else it all washes out." He stopped and planted a kiss on the top of Snowy's head. "Please don't let anything happen to him, Captain. And if you have to find him a new home, please make sure it's a good one. He's a good dog."

"Ok." The Captain surreptitiously wiped away a tear. This was worse than Lassie.

Tintin hugged the dog again, closely, before thrusting him into the Captain's arms. "Thank you," he said quietly. Then he went to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it. "All done," he announced.

"Good." Emilie smiled at him. "Don't worry about anything, Tintin. We're not going to let anything happen to you."

"And you never know, lad," the Captain called with a shaky laugh. "There's always adoption."

"Quite." Tintin looked back and smiled sadly. "I'm sure there is. Goodbye, Captain."

"Goodbye, lad. And good luck."

"Thank you. Good luck to you too." He turned back to Emilie and nodded.

"Follow me," she said, and they walked away.

x

The Captain went up on deck a few minutes later. He'd had to shut Snowy in the cabin – the dog was determined to follow his master. He leaned against the rail and lit his pipe and watched as the black car, led by the Thomsons in their yellow Ford, reversed out of the parking space and drove away. The crowds were long gone. Nobody would see this. Nobody would know what had happened. Tintin would just… disappear. Oh, they'd put out a story about him off chasing criminals in another country maybe, but after a while people would stop wondering about it. They'd forget him, like they forgot so many other kids.

The Captain shook his head. It wasn't fair. He wasn't some criminal to be locked away for the good of society. He was a good kid who'd had the bad luck to be born to parents that didn't want him, or couldn't keep him. If life had been different, who knew what could have happened? He was smart enough to do anything he wanted with his life. He could be anything. He could probably run the world one day if he wanted to.

No, life wasn't fair, the Captain thought. Life wasn't anything: it just was. All you could do was your best. And at the end of it, maybe the good times outweighed the regrets.

He watched the docks and pretended his eyes were watering because the smoke of his pipe was stinging them. After all, who would know the difference?

Author's Note: please, please, please wait until the first chapter of The Secret of the Unicorn is up before complaining. Please. Honestly: I wouldn't have done this if I didn't think it would all work out. I swear to you. Review the story if you want (please do) but hold off on complaining about the Captain for a few minutes.