“Baz? Are you OK? Listen – I’ve had another idea.” Ray’s voice, whispering in the darkness. Baz didn’t care what the idea was, not right now. He had something to hold onto, something real, and he wasn’t alone after all. Ray didn’t withdraw his hand, or show any surprise. He returned Baz’s squeeze as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and leaned a little closer.
“Listen...”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gene said it was about the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. He looked at Baz as though he were mad.
“Where the hell did this idea come from? Tell me you’re not serious.”
“You said to bring you some explosive,” said Baz. “Propane or methane, you said. Or gunpowder. Something that would explode.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean farts, for Chrissake!”
It did seem crazy when you said it like that, but Baz persevered. “It’s methane, though, isn’t it? We must be pumping it out by the gallon. Or by the bucket load, or the... however you’d measure it. And it explodes if you set light to it. You’ve already shown us that.”
Gene stood up straight. He’d been sawing through a wooden mast – a long tapering pole propped up on a couple of makeshift trestles outside the back door of the sort room. But now he left the saw stuck in the wood and wiped his hands on his T-shirt.
“OK,” he said. “So how do you figure on collecting all this gas, then? Do we take it in turns to fart into a dustbin? Or do we run about trying to catch farts in a butterfly net? You’re bloody nuts, kiddo. I don’t know how you think ’em up.”
“Wasn’t actually my idea,” said Baz. “It was Ray’s. He’s on jetty crew today.”
“Ray’s idea.” Gene rolled his head around and pulled a wide-eyed loony face. “Should’ve guessed. Well, tell Brother Ray no chance, OK? Not this time. The blue angel will not be flying tonight. Or any other night. Now let me get on with this.”
“Yeah, OK.” Baz knew Gene well enough by now not to push too hard. And today Gene seemed to be in a particularly unreceptive mood. “What’re you making, anyway?”
“I told you,” said Gene. “A cross.”
“What? So this... this is going to be it?”
“Yeah. And I’m not too happy about doing it either. Gives me the creeps.”
Baz nodded. Maybe there was a little extra leverage to be applied here. “We really need to come up with something pretty quick, don’t we?” He sighed. “Pity there isn’t any way of... I dunno’ – he half recalled some school chemistry experiment – ‘collecting gas underwater or something. Still, if you reckon it’s impossible, then that’s that. “Cos if you can’t figure it out, then no one can.”
But before Gene could comment on this, Hutchinson suddenly stuck his head round the back door. He looked very pale and puffy-eyed.
“Oi! Who said you could come out here? Get back inside!”
“Sorry,” said Baz. “I just wanted to check one of the codes. You weren’t around, so I thought I better ask Gene.”
So it was a disappointment – another great scheme that looked as though it was going nowhere – and Baz had to report as much to Ray when the jetty crew returned that afternoon.
“Did you ask him?” Ray said, under his breath. They were all in the sort room, waiting for the food tins to be set out on the floor.
“Yeah.” Baz glanced across at Gene. “No good, though. Not interested.”
Ray looked annoyed. “But did you explain it properly?”
“Hey, I tried. Why don’t you have a go? It’s your idea, and he listened to you last time.”
But then Steiner said, “OK, Hutch. Top dogs?” and it was time to play the food game.
The boys still made a daily show of diving for the tins, even though all would now be shared out equally. They guessed that if Steiner knew that it no longer made any difference who was top dog, or who managed to get which tin, he would soon devise some other way of humiliating them or making them suffer. So they played along.
Once they got back to the slob room, the tins were opened and all the food tipped into the biggest of the saucepans. Everything was thoroughly mixed and then measured out into the tins once more. It made for strange eating, but at least no one could complain that he wasn’t getting his fair share.
The boys lolled around the seating area amid the debris of their evening meal.
“Whose is that?” said Amit. One of the cans was still full. It stood on the low formica-covered table, untouched, a spoon lying beside it.
“Must be Gene’s,” said Dyson. “Gone to the jakes, I think.”
“Oh, right. So. What’s been happening at the jetty?”
Dyson leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles. “Well, it’s weird,” he said. “We’ve been mixing concrete again, barrowloads of the stuff, but now we’re just tipping it over the end of the jetty. I mean, I s’pose it’ll help hold everything together once it’s set. The rubble and the blocks and that. But it sort of felt like we were just doing it for the sake of it, yeah? Like there’s nothing much else on at the moment.”
“So there’s been no more work on that box thing?”
“Nope.”
It had been a quiet day in the sort room too. This was hardly something to complain about, but the general lack of activity brought a sense of unease. Equally worrying was the fact that Taps had not yet been replaced. Perhaps Preacher John was thinking of gradually winding down his operation. In which case, what would happen to his workforce? Would everyone be sent back to the mainland? Or did the preacher have other more sinister plans for them?
Gene appeared from the washroom. He was carrying a plastic Coke bottle. The boys idly watched him as he walked over to his bed and reached under his rolled-up blanket. He grabbed some object, and brought it over to the table.
Baz recognized it as being the home-made rocket launcher.
“Hey – is this that thing that everyone was going on about the other day?” Dyson and a few of the others hadn’t seen Gene’s rocket toy in action, and now they sat up to take notice.
“Yeah. Gonna try a new experiment with it.” Gene set the square wooden platform in the middle of the table, and took the film canister from his pocket.
“Well, I hope you’re gonna use someone else’s lighter,” muttered Amit. “’Cos I’m nearly out of gas.”
“Don’t need any lighter gas,” said Gene. “Not if this goes to plan.” He placed the Coke bottle next to the square wooden platform. It was filled to the top – or nearly to the top – with what appeared to be plain water.
Gene took the little film canister in one hand, and held it near to the top of the bottle.
“OK. Here we go.” He unscrewed the Coke cap, and quickly placed the film canister over the mouth of the bottle. Then he gave the bottle a brief squeeze and immediately transferred the canister to the wooden platform, pressing it down onto its own original cap.
“Right,” said Gene. “We’re ready. Hey, Enoch – just check the corridor, will you? Make sure there’s no one about.”
“OK.” Enoch jumped up and opened the slob-room door. He stuck his head out, glanced from left to right, and then came back in again. “All clear.”
“Countdown, then,” said Gene. He put his finger on the lighter button that was mounted in one corner of the piece of wood. “Ten... nine... eight... Oh, forget it.” He clicked the button.
Bang!
It was an even louder explosion than before. All heads jerked backwards in surprise as the film canister flew up into the air and hit the ceiling.
“Wow!” Jubo stuck out a hand and neatly caught the black canister as it tumbled back down towards the group.
“Hey – good one, Gene!”
“What the hell was that?” said Dyson.
“That,” said Gene, “was one-hundred-per-cent pure rocket fuel.”
“What – you mean, like petrol or something?” Dyson picked up the Coke bottle. He cautiously passed it to and fro beneath his nose.
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Gene laughed. “Careful. That’s powerful stuff.”
“But what is it? What’s in there?”
“Just water – now. But what was in there was methane. Home-produced by yours truly.”
“Huh?”
“A fart, mate. It was a fart.”
“Whaaat?”
Some of the boys began to catch on, their faces splitting into wide grins.
“Yay! The blue angel!”
Baz looked across at Ray, caught his eye.
“But how did you get a fart into a bottle?” Dyson was still puzzled. “And what’s the water for?”
Gene took the bottle from Dyson and said, “It has to be done underwater. The bottle has to be underwater, with no air in it, and your bum’s gotta be underwater as well. Then when you fart into the bottle, there’s just water and gas in there. You screw the cap on – while it’s still underwater – and then you’ve got pure methane in a bottle. Like a genie. The blue angel.”
“Wow. Is that what you’ve been doing out in the jakes all this time?”
“Yeah, and it’s friggin’ impossible, nearly. I kind of sat down in the washtub and used a plastic funnel to try and make the bubbles go up into the bottle. I still lost most of it, though, so I gotta figure out a better way. Yeah. If we’re going to go into serious production, then we need a proper system...”
Gene was racing ahead in his own mind, while others were still at the starting blocks.
“Serious production?” said Amit. “What – you want all of us farting into bottles? Are we gonna get a factory going or something?”
“Yeah,” said Gene. “That’s exactly it – a factory. A fart factory. It sounds like a joke, right? But methane’s a super-high explosive, and if you had enough, you could blow up this whole soddin’ island with it. You just need enough of it, that’s all.”
Gene looked around at the doubtful faces. “Look. Pretend it was gunpowder. Let’s say we’d been collecting gunpowder, just a pinch at a time, until we’d got a whole great barrel of it stashed away somewhere in secret. Now, that could be useful, yeah? I mean, if we really needed to protect ourselves, wouldn’t we feel safer if we had a barrel of gunpowder to play around with?”
“Yeah. Too right.”
“Well, we already got one. We’re sitting on it. See what I mean?”
“Ha, ha! Yeah! We’re sitting on it!”
“You’re a genius, Gene!”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” said Gene. “But it wasn’t my idea. It was Ray’s. He’s been going on about building a bomb for ages now, and I kept ignoring him ’cos I couldn’t see how. I still don’t know what we’d do with a bomb even if we had one. But a load of explosive could be some sort of protection at any rate. Something to work with. And I reckon if we start collecting a big store of methane now, just a bit at a time, then we can figure the rest out later. So...” Gene reached forward for his tin of food, and lifted it as though making a toast. “To Brother Ray, yeah?”
“Hey – Brother Ray!” The boys grabbed empty food tins and clanked them together.
“Brother Ray!”
The laughter died down to a general chuckle, and everyone looked at Ray – perhaps expecting him to say something. But in the pause Jubo rolled sideways in his seat and performed his party trick. Frrrrrtttt!
“There you go, man,” he said. “Sound of freedom.”
“Ha, ha! Yeah. The sound of freedom...”
It was the beginnings of a plan, and with Gene onside it had a chance of working. As they made their way to their beds, Baz felt a sudden wave of admiration for Ray. He wanted to put his arm around Ray’s shoulders and give him a hug, but he thought better of this, and gave him a kind of punch in the back instead.
“Result!” he said. “You’re brilliant.”
“Thanks. I’d never have thought of the water-thing, though.”
“Yeah, well... it was still down to you.”
* * *
By the following evening the plan had moved a stage further. There was a new atmosphere in the slob room, a buzz of excitement and interest, and the boys were more than willing to follow Gene into the jakes when he called for a meeting there.
“Have a look at this,” he said. “I made it today.”
He was carrying part of a blue plastic crate. It looked like one of the loading crates, sawn in half. Gene went over to the shower and placed the sawn-off piece of crate in the tin bath, lowering it beneath the surface of the water.
“It’s like a stool,” he said. “It means you can sit in the water without falling over backwards, or having to hold onto the sides of the bath. OK? But here’s the good bit.” Gene was holding a small white plastic funnel in one hand. He rummaged in his pocket with the other and brought out a balloon. Baz recognized it as one of the big party balloons he’d seen amongst the box of plasters in the sort room.
“So watch. Here’s what we have to do. Take the balloon and push the end of it over this plastic funnel – like this.” Gene demonstrated, and the balloon hung limply from the tube of the funnel. “Then you sit down in the water, and you make sure there’s no air in the balloon or trapped in the funnel. Lean back and get the funnel as near your bum as you can. Then fart into the funnel. So now we’ve got a balloon with nothing but gas in it, yeah? And then have a plastic bottle with you, and put that underwater, no air in it. Take the balloon off the funnel and let the gas up into the bottle. Put the cap on the bottle, still underwater, and that’s it. Fart in a bottle. We keep doing that until the bottle’s full, and then—”
“Strewth, Gene,” said Robbie. “You’re gonna have to start again. You lost me about halfway through that.”
“Probably easier to do it than it is to explain,” said Gene. “It’s a doddle.”
“Go on, then,” said Amit.
“What?”
“Give us a demonstration.”
“Ha, ha! Yeah, come on, Gene.”
“Well, hang on a minute – I can’t just fart any time I want to. Not like Jubo here.”
“Let Jubo do it then. Come on, Jubo!”
“Yay! Ju-bo... Ju-bo... Ju-bo... .”
The chanting voices echoed around the washroom, until Jubo shrugged and stepped up to the tin bath.
“I got nothing I ashamed of,” he said. He pulled down his shorts, amidst much jeering and cheering, and lowered his backside into the bath.
“Comfy?” said Gene.
“Yeah,” said Jubo. “It kind of... soothe me little bit.” He wiggled around in the water, and some of it slopped over the side of the bath.
“Right. Here you go, then. Try and put the funnel as close to your bum as you can.” Gene handed over the balloon and funnel, and Jubo submerged it beneath the water. His head was bent downwards in concentration, and by this time most of the boys were clutching themselves with laughter.
“Make sure all the air bubbles are out.” Gene’s voice rose above the hoots and shrieks. “OK? Let ’er rip, then. But gently. Gently, Jubo... don’t rush it... maintain control...”
Jubo’s ears began to turn red with the effort, and everyone laughed all the more. Baz and Ray were holding each other up, and Robbie was actually on the floor, writhing around and gasping for air.
“Jus’ lemme concentrate... we on the way now...” Jubo’s head was still down and his voice was muffled. There was a kind of glooping sound, and after another couple of moments he raised his head.
“Ey,” he said. “It worked! Me got one!” He fiddled about beneath the water and brought up the balloon – held it aloft for all to see. It had partially inflated, a quite respectable bladderful.
“Wow,” said Gene. “You’re a one-man gasworks, Jubo. Quick – someone grab a plastic bottle. We need to save this.”
Finding a bottle was no problem, and Enoch was out of the door and back again in a few seconds.
“Out you come then, Jubo. Let’s do the final stage.”
“But now me all wet, man!” Jubo stood up, water streaming down his
legs and all over his shorts and trainers.
“Yeah, well,” said Gene, “that’s water for you. We just need to get hold of some extra rags or something to use as towels. So. Put the bottle in the bath and make sure there’s no air in it. Then push the balloon underneath it... actually, that’s not so easy...” Gene struggled to submerge the now buoyant balloon. “OK. Just gotta be careful, that’s all. And then we let the gas up into the bottle. Like... that. Put the cap on...” Gene pulled the dripping bottle out of the bath. It was about three-quarters full of water.
“That gap you can see at the top – that’s pure explosive, guys. Gotta make sure the cap’s on good and tight, so it doesn’t leak out. And there we have it. Our first instalment.”
“Hey, that’s great, Gene! How much do you reckon we’re gonna need?” The boys stood around admiring Jubo’s efforts.
“Dunno. A good few litres. I don’t even know what we’re gonna put it in yet, or what the best gas-and-air mixture should be or anything. But it’s a start. OK. Who’s next, then?”
It gave them a sense of purpose, and over the next few days the fart factory went into full-scale production. The hour or two between supper and lock-up became known as Fart Club, the boys experimenting with various techniques, and competing to see who could produce the most gas. Jubo set the benchmark in this respect. Nobody else could match the volume and frequency of his contributions.
There were some who were too shy or too intimidated to perform in the spotlight. They needed privacy. Dyson was one of these, and Ray another.
“Anyway, I’m better in the mornings,” Dyson said. “Get more of a build-up.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Ray. “Maybe I’ve got a slow met... metathingy...”
“Metabolism,” said Gene. “That’s OK. But no cheating! I got calculations to do, and I don’t want them mucked up by anyone just blowing the balloon up a little bit and then pretending it’s a fart in there.”
Between them the boys were capturing about a half-litre of methane per day – one small Coke bottle – and soon the question of where to hide the stuff came up.
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