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the prey, the other is the hunter, razor-sharp teeth open to swallow him; he swims up, up, striving for the surface that floats above him, striving for safety, flinging himself from water into air as teeth snap shut. Suddenly he is free, airborne, looking down. Each beat of his outstretched wings lifts him higher – a tilt of the tail and he slips sideways, riding the wind. High above him the hawk hangs on air, haloed by the sun, then drops, talons reaching, beak outstretched, sharp as an arrow. The chase is on again and when the hawk strikes he tumbles, falling through treetops, past whipping branches into the shelter of the undergrowth. He cowers among the gorse – he is a hare – his long ears twitch and turn to catch each sound. His nose picks up the scent of fox. He is up and running, weaving, dodging, doubling back, leaping over heather. The fox is on his heels, matching turn for turn, twist for twist, leap for leap, flying behind him like a flag connected by an invisible thread. Nowhere to hide – this is certain death! Teeth knife into his shoulder – he snatches breath to scream!
    ‘Zaki . . . Zaki!’
    Zaki opened his eyes.
    ‘Bad dream?’
    Zaki struggled out of the nightmare to find he was drenched in sweat. He looked up at his father, who had come halfway down the companionway, into the cabin.
    ‘Try to sit up and drink some water.’
    Stepping down into the cabin, his father helped him to sit up in the bunk and handed him a plastic bottle of drinking water.
    Zaki could tell from the boat’s motion that they were still at sea.
    ‘Where are we?’ he asked, after taking a swig from the bottle.
    ‘We’re off Bolt Head. Not far to go now,’ replied his father. ‘We’ve had a nice reach up the coast. You missed a good sail.’
    ‘Can I come up on deck?’ asked Zaki.
    ‘How’s the shoulder?’
    ‘It hurts, but I need some air.’ Zaki grimaced as he slid out of the bunk.
    ‘We’d better put that arm in a sling,’ said his father, ‘keep the weight off the shoulder.’
    Zaki’s father improvised a sling out of an old scarf, a scarf that Zaki’s mother had left on board. The perfume from the sunscreen she used on holidays had penetrated its fibres and was released as his father arranged the soft, silky fabric around Zaki’s neck. He closed his eyes and, in that moment, it was his mother, not his father, who adjusted the sling, her familiar scent comforting and upsetting him all at the same time.
    ‘We won’t get a lifejacket over that, so don’t go falling overboard,’ said his father. ‘You go up, I’m going to start stowing everything we don’t want to take ashore.’
    Zaki climbed up the steps and out into the cockpit. Michael, on the helm, gave him a cheery smile as he emerged.
    ‘Urgh! You look awful! You’ve gone all green.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Zaki.
    ‘You’re not going to be sick, are you? Because if you are, do it downwind.’
    His brother’s banter, together with the refreshing breeze, began to dispel the nausea he had felt in the confines of the cabin. He settled himself next to Michael, hanging on to the cockpit edge with his good hand. It was perfect sailing weather: a steady wind blowing out of a clear, blue sky; a gentle swell with white horses brightening the tops of the waves. ‘ Morveren ’s going like a train,’ said Zaki, borrowing one of his grandad’s favourite expressions.
    Michael grinned. With the wind sweeping the mop of dark hair off his freckled face, he looked like the old Michael, Zaki’s best friend, the one he could talk to about anything.
    ‘I had the weirdest dream.’
    ‘Yeah? What was that?’ asked Michael.
    ‘I kept being chased by things. First I was a fish, with an otter after me, then I was a bird, then a rabbit, or something, and other things kept wanting to eat me.’
    ‘Who’d want to eat you, you smelly little toerag?’
    ‘Well, it was really weird. And there was this great big eye.’
    ‘You’ve been watching too many