Moriarty was a dead weight around Ricky’s neck. Ricky’s own legs were weak with shock, but he had to keep going. They weren’t able to help Malcolm at all, but somehow he was managing to keep up, despite his injured arm . . . After a couple of minutes, Moriarty hissed at them to stop. Ricky estimated that they were about fifty metres from shore. ‘Listen,’ Moriarty breathed. He was trembling badly with the pain. They cocked their heads. Ricky heard shouting. Hardly surprising. ‘Leave me here,’ Moriarty said. ‘No way,’ Zak and Ricky told him together. ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ Moriarty whispered. ‘The islanders will be here soon – they can sort me out, patch up my knee, get me on my feet again. But you’ll never rescue Annabel with me in tow like this.’ He nodded to his eleven o’clock. ‘Go that way,’ he panted. ‘You’ll come to a helicopter landing zone. Keep skirting round there and you’ll find some deserted buildings where you can shelter. I’ll tell the islanders that I crash-landed alone.’ He nodded towards Malcolm.
