One


The lounge of the pub called La Bateau Noir was packed. The horseracing was on the television so most of the rough, weathered seamen that crowded around the bar were focused on that. They cheered on their chosen horses, half of them clutching racing forms in one hand while the others cut out the middle-man and passed money back and forth between themselves. It was a good-natured, noisy sort of din: the rabble of the rabble, as it were. Blue jokes and sarcastic retorts passed back and forth among the men like currency. Most of them were old jokes and well-rehearsed put downs that had been told and re-told a thousand times over a thousand similar nights.

At the back of the pub, sitting at a table facing it all, sat Captain Haddock and his friend, Captain Chester. They were sharing a bottle of whisky. They were sitting side by side, leaning against the back of their booth. Haddock sat with his arms folded against his chest and his legs stretched out under the table; Chester was more serene.

"It's a real shame," Chester was saying sympathetically. "He was a good kid."

Captain Haddock shrugged and looked even more annoyed. "What else could I do?"

"Nothing, I don't think. I mean, it wasn't really safe for him, was it?"

"That's what I said," the Captain said emphatically. "It's too dangerous, letting a little kid like that go running all over the world. Getting into all sorts of trouble."

"As you say."

"Did you know he got shot?" the Captain demanded. Chester shook his head. "It's true! He was minding his own business and he saw a plane in trouble. It came down in a field and when he went over to make sure everyone was ok, they just shot him."

"Never!"

"Honestly! I mean, what sort of life is that for a kid?" the Captain asked.

"That's no life," Chester agreed.

"Indeed not. He's better off where he is now. Isn't he?" he asked, trying not to sound worried and failing miserably.

"Oh aye, deff'nitly. I mean, what harm could come to him in foster care?" Chester asked. "I mean, I know he has a lot of enemies, so he probably couldn't go into actual foster care, so he'd be stuck in that home… and you do hear an awful lot about them kinds of places…"

"Do you?" the Captain asked.

"Oh aye, in the newspapers."

"I've never heard anything about them."

"Och, not in your pathetic rags like The Daily Reporter," Chester scoffed. He drained his whisky and poured himself a new one. "I mean the real newspapers, like The Guardian or The Times. Ones that deal with actual news instead of trashy garbage."

"Fair enough." The Captain couldn't argue with that. Trouble was, he quite liked knowing what Cheryl Cole and Jordan where getting up to, and who was sleeping with who in the various government cabinets, or what the Royals were doing for the weekend. "What did the real newspapers say?"

"Oh, the usual guff. Did y'hear about that thing in Ireland? That's a very Catholic country."

"Not really," the Captain said thoughtfully. "Not any more. I mean, they're very modern these days, the Irish, aren't they?"

"Are they? Did ye no' read the Ryan Report?" Chester asked.

"What's that?" the Captain said blankly.

"It's this horrific report about what goes on in them state-run schools and institutions," Chester said, warming to his gory subject. "They were more like workhouses. The kids were getting beaten and tortured mentally. Some of them were being diddled with an' all. There's stories coming out now, from adults that used to live in those places, about kids being killed and buried in the dead of night."

"Codswallop!"

"No, it's true," Chester insisted. "D'ye not remember that place in Jersey last year? Where they dug up the mass grave in the cellar of that state-run school on the island?"

The Captain paused in the act of picking up his whisky, and stared into space for a second or two. "Y'know, Chester, you're not exactly cheering me up," he said at last.

"Was I supposed to? Sorry, mate. Aye, you did the right thing putting Tintin in one of them places."

The Captain drained his glass and continued to stare in to space.

"I mean," Chester continued, "He might not want to see you, but surely that's his own decision, right?"

"Yeah," the Captain said slowly and thoughtfully.

"You've rung how many times?"

"Every day this week. And every day last week."

"And he still won't talk to you."

"No."

"Because he doesn't want to."

"Obviously."

"I find that strange." Chester topped up his own and the Captain's glass. "He was very fond of that dog."

"Oh yeah," the Captain agreed. "That dog is going mad without Tintin. He just sits and cries all day. I can't shut him up. He's driving everyone in my building nuts."

"I would have thought he'd at least want to see the dog," Chester said.

"Huh. Yes…"

"So when you ring, who answers?"

The Captain blinked. "I dunno. Some guy."

"And does he say that he'll pass the message on to Tintin?"

"Oh. Um… No, actually, not now that you mention it." The Captain rolled his eyes and tried to remember the actual conversations he'd had with the man-on-the-other-end-of-the-phone. "He just says that Tintin doesn't want to see me."

"And you believe that?"

"Well, I am the one that… I mean, I did… y'know, help put him back there." The Captain winced in guilty remembrance. "I sort of thought he might not want to talk to me, because of that."

"Well," Chester said speculatively, "I don't know him as well as you do, but I reckon if he had a choice he'd see that dog of his. And 'cos you're the one looking after the dog, I'd say he'd agree to you bringing the dog down to him."

"Hmm."

"If I were you, I'd go down there myself, anyway, and see if he'll talk to you face to face."

"Y'know, Chester, that's a good idea…"

x

Captain Haddock rolled out of bed at about eleven am the next morning. He staggered to the bathroom to release his bladder before letting Snowy the dog out to pee. As usual, the dog went out onto the sidewalk, found a lamppost, and refused to come back into the house. In the end, like he had done every morning for the last two weeks, the Captain ended up outside in his bare feet, picking up the dog and carrying him back inside. He had to carry the dog all the way back upstairs, and could only put him down once the door to the flat was closed. Otherwise, Snowy would try and make a break for it and get back outside.

The Captain wasn't sure what the dog was doing, or planning. It wasn't as though he went anywhere once he was outside. He just lay down and cried. It was the same thing he did when he was inside. Still muttering at the dog – who was lying down on the old reclining sofa, whimpering softly – the Captain set about making his breakfast. First of all, he wanted a cup of tea. He pottered around as the kettle boiled, fetching his cup and a teabag, and finally the milk.

He opened the fridge (wait, what? his brain said) and grabbed the milk carton. He shook it (what did I have to do again?) to make sure he had enough for at least one cup, and closed the door to the fridge.

There was a note. It was held up by a collection of fridge magnets, and it was quite badly written. The handwriting was large and looped and leaned drunkenly to the right, practically falling off the page.

Go to Galmaarden, it said.

"What?" the Captain asked stupidly. He shook his head and continued making his tea, puzzling over the note. On the couch, Snowy's whines increased slightly in volume. "Oh, shut up, you!" The Captain brought his tea over and sat down beside the dog. He idly started to scratch the dog with one hand while sipping his tea.

There was something on the coffee table. He leaned forward and turned his head to the side so he could see it better. It was a train timetable.

Brussels to Galmaarden.

He thought for a second.

"Ooh! Oh thunder!" He jumped up as it hit him like a brick to the face. "I'm going to be late!"

It took less than ten minutes to get ready and another ten to coax Snowy onto his lead. He was in Bruxelles-Central in another fifteen, and shortly after that, still panting and sweating, he was on the train to Galmaarden with the dog perched on his lap and attempting to stick his head out of the window. He was finally able to sit back and relax, and it was only then that he realised he stank of his hangover. Still, there wasn't much he could do about that now, he reasoned. With any luck he'd be able to find a supermarket and buy a can of deodorant. It would have to do.

It only took about forty minutes to get to Galmaarden proper. It was a pretty little town, with old buildings and a distinctly country feel to it. There were lots of fields. In fact, it wasn't surprising that someone like Tintin would run away from a town like this. It was mean to say it was a one horse town, because already the Captain had seen two horses. There hadn't been enough space for two horses, but the effort had been made.

The children's home was just outside the town, a brisk twenty minute walk along an old road that was lined with overgrown grass verges. The road itself was badly in need of being repaved, with potholes big enough to lose Snowy in, but it was at least straight and easy to follow. And the sign for the Home was discrete, but easy to read, and written in French and Dutch. This far away from the civilisation that was Brussels, English wasn't an option.

There wasn't a long drive, and the Home looked fairly new. It was well-kept from the outside, with the windows and doors freshly painted, and the flowerbeds in front of it were well-tended and neat. Nothing was in flower because of how late in the year it was, but a few neatly trimmed bushes were still growing. The wall was low and standing on the road, the Captain could see over it and into the yard. The gate was opened.

He walked up to the door and knocked. He tried the door handle half-heartedly, but it was locked so he stepped back to wait. The door opened shortly after, with a loud noise as the key was turned in the lock. It didn't creak when it was pulled open, but it was a close call. A small man with a neat haircut and a black shirt under a bright, too-happy jumper looked out nervously. The Captain gave him what he hoped was a winning smile. "'Morning, pal. I'm here to see someone."

The man looked the Captain up and down. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Er, no. But I only need to see them for a few minutes."

"Who do you wish to see?"

"Tintin."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Tintin? That's… I don't think that's allowed."

"It's ok," the Captain said reassuringly. "My name's Captain Haddock. Your Father Pete-y knows me."

"Father Pete-y?"

"Y'know, the guy in charge?"

"Father Piatus?"

"That's the one." The Captain flashed him another smile.

The man still looked uncertain. "I'll have to check with Father Piatus. Please wait here." He closed the door.

The Captain blinked. That wasn't the friendliest reaction he'd gotten, he had to admit. In fact, it was probably one of the coldest reactions he'd ever gotten. He looked down at Snowy. The dog was still on his lead, but he was standing close to the door, his nose pressed against it. Thankfully, he had stopped crying.

Ten minutes passed. Finally, the door opened again. Snowy was almost through it before the Captain tugged the lead and pulled him out. "Sorry about that," he said to the surprised face of Father Piatus. "He's just excited to see Tintin. You know how dogs are."

"I'm afraid I don't," Father Piatus replied, "and I'm afraid he won't be seeing Tintin today. You don't have an appointment, do you?"

"Do I need one?"

"Yes, Captain, you do. I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey. Please phone ahead next time."

"Well, seeing as I've come all this way, can I get an appointment for today?"

"No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't possibly disturb Tintin at such short notice."

"How come nobody told me I need an appointment all the other times I rang?" the Captain asked suddenly.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but there are rules."

"Then can I make an appointment for tomorrow, now?"

"You must ring tomorrow morning. Good day, Captain." Father Piatus shut the door. The Captain stared at it. At his feet, Snowy went back to pressing his nose against the wood and snuffling.

"What do you smell?" the Captain asked softly. Snowy's tail wagged slowly. "Who do you smell?" The Captain looked around. Something felt wrong. If this was a children's home, where the hell were all the children? It was unnatural for any place filled with kids to be this quiet. It was the Captain's experience that when there was a large number of children and teenagers together in one place, there was usually at least one kid trying to set off fireworks. At least one kid.

He bent down and quickly snapped the lead off Snowy's collar and knocked on the door again. Once more, the door opened a fraction. It wasn't much, but it was all Snowy needed. The dog slunk inside, his body seemingly becoming boneless as he squeezed in through the limited space. "Do you mind if I get the dog?" the Captain asked cheerfully.

"Hey!" the small man shouted. He opened the door wide and turned to try and stop Snowy. While he was distracted, the Captain just barged straight in.

"Won't be a second, pal!" Ignoring the man's cries of protest, the Captain followed Snowy, who had run past the polished wooden reception desk and into the corridor that lay to the right. To the left he caught a glimpse of a bright room filled with chairs and sofas, a sort of lounge area, but it appeared to be empty.

The corridor to the right was darker: the hard wooden floors and muted wallpaper did nothing to brighten up the long, narrow space, and the only windows were set high up in the walls at either end of the corridor. Snowy was outside a set of double-doors, barking at the top of his insistent little voice. A brass plaque beside the doors declared this to be the chapel.

"Do not open that door!"

The Captain paused and looked around. Father Piatus had appeared in the doorway to a room further along the corridor. He swept down to them, his black cassock billowing around him like the cape of a gothic villain. For some reason, the Captain was struck by the image of Christopher Lee.

"The dog got off the lead," he explained. "I was just getting him."

"Then pick him up and go," Father Piatus said. "He is making too much noise."

"Right." The Captain stooped down and picked up the furious dog, who continued barking and trying to squirm out of his arms. "So is Tintin in the chapel then? That's strange: he was never particularly religious."

"To be perfectly honest, Captain, it isn't your business where he is." Father Piatus took him by the arm, turned him around, and marched him back to the door. "Please leave, and do not come back."

"Now, hang on," the Captain protested. "His social worker said I could visit him."

"He doesn't want to see you."

"Have you even told him I'm here?" The Captain stopped walking, forcing the other man to stop too. "From what I've seen, he" – he pointed at the nervous little man who was hovering around – "told you I was here. You came to the door and told me to leave. Does Tintin even know I'm here? And do you mean to say he doesn't want to see his own dog?"

"Captain, if you don't leave I shall call the police," Father Piatus snapped. "Please accept that Tintin does not wish to see you at this time. Do not call here, and do not arrive unannounced. If Tintin changes his mind, we will call you. Do you understand me?"

"But" –

"But nothing. If you persist in making a nuisance of yourself, I will not hesitate to phone the police. I have a lot of children in my care, and I will not allow anything to upset them or frighten them." He nodded to the small, nervous man, who scurried to get the door open. "Please leave, Captain."

The Captain stepped out into the bright morning sunshine. He looked back in time to see the door close in his face. Unsure of what to do next, he looked down at Snowy, who peered up at him out of sad, worried black eyes. "Now what do we do?" the Captain asked.

Snowy whined plaintively.

x

The Captain met Emilie, Tintin's social worker, in the Café au Soleil at 8pm that night. It was dark and a bitter rain sleeted down on the city relentlessly, so they took a table indoors. She looked well, her blonde hair neatly pulled back from her face in a pony tail, and her suit was smart. She looked up from the mountain of folders that were spread out on the table in front of her and smiled when she saw him.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Captain," she said, standing up and extending her hand. He shook it and sat down opposite her.

"Nice to see you," he said quickly. "Did you talk to that Father Piety person?"

She screwed up her face. "Ye-es," she said doubtfully. "To be honest, Captain, there's not a lot I can do. If Tintin doesn't want to see you, then we can't really force him to."

"But that's just what Father Pete says."

"Piatus."

"Right. That guy. Did you actually talk to Tintin?"

"No. I saw him last week though."

"How did he look?"

She shrugged. "Fine, I suppose. He was… subdued."

"Subdued?" the Captain asked worriedly.

"Quiet," she said, correcting herself. "It's to be expected: he's spent a long time living by his own rules. To have to go back to a stricter regime, with a schedule and adults in charge… It must be hard. Imagine moving back in with your mother tomorrow."

The Captain grimaced. "No chance. Even if she was alive… No. Just no." He scratched at his beard. "And did he tell you that he doesn't want to see me?"

She shrugged again. "We didn't talk about you. We talked about him. How he was; how he feels."

"And he doesn't want to see Snowy?"

She cocked her head. "Actually, he did ask when he could see Snowy."

"Snowy was with me today, and they said he still didn't want to see us."

"Hmm."

"That's strange, isn't it?"

"It is…" she faltered and chewed her lip. "But to be honest, Captain, Father Piatus is in charge, and Tintin is being well looked after. There's nothing I can do."

"I just need to talk to him for a few minutes," the Captain pleaded. "Just five minutes. Let him tell me to my face that he wants me to stay away, and I'll stay away. Scout's honour."

"You were in the Scouts?" she asked brightly. "My father used to run our local troupe."

"Er, not in the Scouts, as such," he said. "But I've always been a fan of them. In a general sort of way. So how about it? You call Father Pickle and ask if I can just have five minutes with Tintin…"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Captain, there's nothing I can do."

"But you're his social worker!" he cried. "There must be something" –

"There isn't," she insisted. "As long as he's safe in Father Piatus's care, there's no need for me. I just have to do a few check-ups every so often, and that's it. I can't tell Father Piatus how to run the Home. Believe me, Captain, if he wasn't capable of doing it, he wouldn't be allowed to do it. I'm very sorry," she added kindly. "But I'm sure Tintin will come round soon."

The Captain looked at her. He had an ace up his sleeve. He didn't want to use it, though, because he had no idea if it would work. He only had an inkling. But it had come to him earlier, on the train home. He'd asked himself; What would Tintin do? And the answer had come to him as clear as day. Use the media.

"I noticed none of this got into the papers," he said as casually as he could. Emilie narrowed her eyes, but said nothing so he continued. "When we got back from the Arctic, I mean. There was a lot in the papers about the trip and the meteor and that, but I did notice there was nothing to do with Tintin. In fact, he was hardly mentioned at all."

"So?"

"Well." The Captain paused and tugged his ear nervously. "It seems to me that you lot are trying to keep this very quiet. It's almost like you're embarrassed or something. Maybe about a very young teenager disappearing off on his own, going on wild and dangerous jaunts around the world. Seems to me that if this all gets out, it could be quite embarrassing. People would be asking whether or not the Department of Child Services are doing their job properly. I'd say there might even be a bit of an investigation, to find out how someone as young as Tintin was able to slip off without anyone trying to find him for, what? Two years? Something like that. There could be a lot of people who'd lose their jobs over that. A lot of people high up in the government."

"Maybe," she said cautiously.

"I mean, if it wasn't anyone well-known there wouldn't be any trouble, would there? But Tintin's a national treasure, isn't he? Everyone loves Tintin. Belgium loves Tintin. That's the sort of story a newspaper would love to get their hands on, isn't it? The public would sit up and take notice if it was Tintin."

"What are you getting at, Captain?" she asked plainly.

"I'm just saying." He shrugged at her. "I mean, you know he left a notebook behind, right? With a list of names and phone numbers of a few other journalists he worked with every now and again. Acquaintances. Contacts. I'm sure one of them would be willing to write about it. I'm sure they'd be dying to write about it. And the public would want to read about it. There'd probably be a bit of an outcry, wouldn't there?"

The threat hung between them quietly for a few moments. Eventually Emilie narrowed her eyes and gave the Captain the most shrewd look he'd ever seen. "Tell me," she asked, "have you ever thought about adoption?"