Gene had already thought of this.
“The water butts,” he said. “Up at the sports center. We’ll get some big two-litre bottles and hang ’em upside down in the barrel we use for cleaning the tins – chuck a concrete block in there and tie ’em to that. Then we can put the gas from the little bottles into the big ones whenever we get a chance.”
“Maybe the water crew could do it?” said Robbie. “Whoever’s on that week could take the small bottles up to the sports center. They got an excuse to be goin’ up there.”
“Brilliant.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the morning following the first session of Fart Club, the jetty crew stood in the corridor outside the sort room, ready and waiting for their orders. Baz was there, along with Amit, Jubo and Dyson – all the bigger boys, in accordance with Steiner’s instructions from the night before. There had been no picking of teams this time.
Steiner eventually showed up. He was carrying a steel tape measure, its bright green casing vaguely luminous in the dim light of the corridor.
“OK. You’re gonna need pickaxes, and you’re gonna need shovels. Wait here while I go and see Isaac.”
Steiner walked away, pulling out the end of the steel rule as he went, and brandishing it like a rapier. As he reached the corner at the far end of the corridor, he allowed the rule to snap back into position, an urgent whizz of the mechanism followed by a sharp click. Then he was gone.
What lay beyond that darkened corner was still unexplored territory to Baz, a mysterious otherworld known only to the salvage crew and the capos – and to Preacher John himself. None of the boys had ever been further than the slob-room door, and could only wonder at how they lived, those hulking giants who controlled the lives of so many. Down there was the center of all power, the palace of the mighty, a kingdom. With Preacher John as its king.
There was a murmur of sound and Isaac appeared, emerging from the gloom, with Steiner following close behind. The boys stood in silence as the skipper approached. He was dressed for a day on the salvage boat – grey fisherman’s smock, navy tracksuit bottoms and cut-off rubber boots. The sleeves of the smock were pushed up above his elbows, bits of thread dangling down. It looked as though the seams had either split or been deliberately unpicked in order to accommodate his huge forearms.
As Isaac passed by the line of boys, Baz caught the indefinable aroma of adult male, threatening and powerful.
The storeroom door was a little further along the corridor, on the opposite side, and here Isaac stopped.
“How many do you need?” he said to Steiner.
“Er... just three pickaxes, Skip. We’ve already got shovels.”
“OK. Here...” Isaac handed Steiner a bunch of keys. “I want these back at the end of the day, and I’ll be here to watch you check everything in again.”
Steiner undid the two heavy padlocks to the storeroom, drew back the bolts and entered the room. Isaac positioned himself just inside the doorway, so that any view of the interior was effectively blocked.
“You got ropes?” the boys heard him say. “Take two off that hook. And I don’t want them disappearing, either.”
Steiner emerged after a few moments, carrying a couple of pickaxes. He stood them against the corridor wall and went back inside the storeroom. Isaac turned and glanced at the line of boys. Baz quickly dropped his eyes and stared at the floor.
Then Steiner came out again, this time with one more pickaxe, and some skeins of blue nylon rope looped over his shoulder. “OK. That’s the lot,” he said.
Steiner padlocked the door once more. As Isaac waited, he took another look along the line of boys. Baz felt as though they were being judged, examined. He instinctively stood up a little straighter, in case he should be found wanting in some way, but then he regretted this because Isaac said, “Getting a bit big, aren’t they, some of these kids? Who’s that one?”
“Er...” Steiner looked across. “Dyson. Been here a while now.”
Isaac nodded. “Hm... long enough, maybe.”
There was a low rumble of other voices, a distant accompaniment to Isaac’s own, and the rest of the salvage crew came round the corner at the far end of the corridor.
They were carrying their diving gear. Luke and Amos each had aqualungs hoisted loosely upon their shoulders, while Moko, bringing up the rear, carried a bundle of wetsuits over his arm. As they came to a halt in front of the line of boys, Baz realized that this was the first time he’d been in the presence of the entire crew, and so close up, with an opportunity to study them properly. He’d noticed before how similar the shaven-headed brothers were, and now he guessed they might actually be twins. He could tell them apart, though, the one called Luke having a broken nose, a white scar across the misshapen bridge. Moko was shorter and stockier than the brothers, maybe a bit older. All of them were tough-looking guys, their broad frames and stubbled faces a reminder of the vast difference between boys and men. One swipe from Moko alone could have sent the entire group of boys spinning away like skittles.
“What’s going on?” said Amos. “Trouble?”
Isaac continued to stare at the boys, looking into their faces, one at a time. “No, just weighing up stock, Amos. Weighing up stock. Haven’t taken much notice for a while, and we need to be careful. A boy gets to a certain age... things start to change.” He rubbed at the underside of his bearded chin as his attention passed from Dyson to Baz. There was no emotion in his expression, nothing beyond professional interest, a cool observation of the specimens before him. He might have been at a county fair, appraising sheep or cattle. Baz kept his head up, and found that he could meet the skipper’s gaze after all – if only for a few moments.
“Pups grow into young dogs before you know it, and that’s when they begin to get ideas. They start to get that look in their eye—”
“They do indeed, Isaac. They do indeed.”
Isaac jumped – actually jumped – as the words came booming along the corridor. Baz reacted almost simultaneously, jerking backwards in alarm, the wall behind him thudding against his shoulder blades. He turned his head, and saw all the other heads do the same, swivelling to the right as if yanked by a single thread.
Preacher John!
From the direction of the main entrance came the preacher, bearing down upon the assembly. His vast rolling bulk seemed to take up all available space, and to soak up the very light itself. Bright particles of dust flew towards him, as though magnetized, sucked headlong into the black hole of his being.
He drew so close that Baz could smell him. A vague musty aura, like stale tobacco, or burning wax. And now Baz saw for the first time just how huge and awesome Preacher John was. The man was a giant. He dwarfed his sons. Even Isaac looked insignificant by comparison, shrunken, deflated.
Baz felt a terrible urge to reach out and touch the black cloth of Preacher John’s jacket, pick at the motes of dust, examine the shiny seams. It was like wanting to reach through the bars of a cage and tug at the fur of a sleeping lion or a mighty gorilla, knowing full well what the consequences would be.
“Yes, Isaac. They get that look in their eye...”
Preacher John’s own rheumy yellow eyes looked down upon Baz... held him for an intense and terrifying moment... and then moved on. Baz felt as though he’d been momentarily pinned against the wall, searched, and then released, his guilty thoughts now in the possession of Preacher John.
“The world might have changed, but boys don’t.” The preacher was looking at Amit now. “I know them for what they are. Pack animals. Aye, and every one of them wants to be pack leader. They’re like dogs, are boys. Each of ’em chasing the one in front, ready to tear at his heels and bring him down. And they’ll go for you too, the one holding the whip, if you should ever turn your back on them. The bigger they get, the more dangerous they become. So dogs need to be kept in their place, and the whip needs to be cracked. Isn’t that right, Isaac?” He pointed a huge red forefinger at Amit. “You. How long h
ave you been with us?”
“Um... ’bout six months.” Amit kept his head low.
“Six months. And you reckon yourself top dog here, yes?”
Amit said nothing.
“I see I’m right. I’m always right. Get down on all fours, boy. On your knees, then, like a dog.”
Baz glanced to his left and saw Amit’s look of confusion, hesitation.
“Down! On your knees, I said!”
Amit dropped to the ground and placed his hands before him, fingers spread.
“Right then – you!” This time Preacher John pointed at Dyson. “Kick him.”
“What?”
“Kick him, I said. He reckons himself to be top dog – but then so do you, don’t you? So kick him while he’s down. Here’s your chance.”
“But I don’t—”
“Kick him!” Preacher John’s voice rose to a roar, and Dyson hesitated no longer. He stepped past Baz and gave Amit a kick in the ribs. There was no real force behind it, but Amit grunted nevertheless, and lurched sideways.
“Again!” the preacher shouted. “Kick him! And the rest of you – get stuck in! Come on!”
There was no choice but to obey, or at least pretend to. The boys gathered around the kneeling figure of Amit, and Dyson led the way with another half-hearted kick – this time to Amit’s shoulder. Hesitant and bewildered, the others followed suit. Feet snaked out from all directions, and Baz found himself aiming a gentle tap at Amit’s thigh, determined to cause as little pain as he could.
But such restraint didn’t suit Preacher John.
“Kick him, you scum, before I strangle the lot of you!” The preacher stepped forward, an open hand raised, and in the face of such a threat all fellow feeling had to be set aside. The corridor became a jostling scrimmage of bodies, a football game with the curled-up figure of Amit at its center. Kick after kick landed upon the boy, and still Preacher John demanded more. There could be no holding back, and the game quickly escalated into a kind of blind violence. Baz was caught up in its ferocity, lashing out at any part of Amit that became exposed – arms, legs, buttocks – conscious only that his own skin depended upon it. He was underwater again, choking to death, and it was the same desperate struggle for survival. Whatever it took... whatever it took. And now he had to kick even harder – because he really was choking. There was something around his neck and he couldn’t breathe. Kick for your life, then. Kick yourself free...
He was being dragged backwards, a hard muscular arm yanking him away from the bundle of bodies, shaking him back into focus.
One of the divers had grabbed him – Luke – and now the other boys were being hauled off too. Baz was shoved roughly aside. He careened into Dyson, and together they fell against the corridor wall, panting, coughing. Wild-eyed faces danced around him, each bearing the same hungry look that he had seen on the day of his arrival. And he was no different. No different to anyone else.
“Dogs.” Preacher John looked calmly down at the prostrate figure of Amit. “And dog’ll eat dog, if that’s what it comes to. Pick him up, then, and set him on his feet. He’ll take no harm from this. It does a dog good to be kicked every once in a while. Reminds him of what he is – a dog. And the rest of you had better remember it. This could have been any one of you. Wouldn’t you say so, boy?”
“Eh?” Steiner realized he was being addressed. He looked at Preacher John, his face still half smiling from what he’d just witnessed.
“Don’t you dare grin at me. They’d do the same to you, given half a chance. Or to me. They’re getting too dam’ big. But I’ve got no time to make any changes, so just watch ’em. And you’ – Preacher John turned to his eldest son – ‘see that you take a lesson from this.”
There was no explanation as to what this lesson might be. Instead Preacher John raised his right arm towards Isaac, then brought it sharply down, snapping his great fingers together as he did so. The sound echoed around the corridor like a pistol shot. Like a whipcrack...
Perhaps that was the lesson. They were all dogs – boys, capos and salvage crew alike. And Preacher John held the whip.
“Now get these kids working,” he said. His tone towards Isaac was cold, utterly in command. “I want this job finished by Saturday night. If you can manage that.”
A final glance along the line of boys and Preacher John moved away, continuing his progress towards the dark end of the corridor, footsteps as silent as the shadows that eventually closed behind him.
Isaac watched him go, his eyes narrowed and resentful. Then he turned abruptly and walked in the opposite direction. The divers picked up their gear and followed him. As they passed through the main entrance doors, someone muttered something, and there was a low chuckle. Baz got the impression that it wasn’t Isaac who was laughing.
“Get him up then.” Steiner seemed subdued for once.
The boys began helping Amit to his feet.
He didn’t seem to be too badly hurt – able to stand at any rate – but his face was streaked with tears, and Baz felt sick with the shame of what they’d just done.
“God, Amit...”
“Man, are you OK?”
They spoke as though Amit had just had an accident or something. Everyone gathered round their dishevelled companion, apparently to dust him down, check him for injuries, but what they were really doing was finding an excuse to touch him, looking for a way of saying sorry without actually using the word.
Baz was the first to attempt any kind of apology, or to admit any blame.
“Amit... I’m really sorry. Sorry, mate. We didn’t... we couldn’t...”
“Yeah, sorry, Amit.”
“Sorry.”
Everyone was joining in, then, saying sorry and shaking their heads as though they couldn’t understand what had come over them. And it was impossible to explain. Whatever had just happened had been beyond their control, and apologies seemed pointless. It almost came as a relief when Steiner cut them off short.
“Oi! We’ve got work to do. He’ll live, so quit your blethering. Grab those ropes and pickaxes, and follow me. Come on – stop sodding about!”
So they let Amit be. Baz picked up one of the ropes, and the crew trooped out of the main entrance in silence.
They didn’t have far to go. Instead of leading the way towards the jetty, Steiner walked just a short distance along the tarmac path and then came to a halt next to the school sign – the tall slab of stone that rose from the overgrown grass verge. He waded through the grass and took out his tape measure.
“Right,” he said. “We’re digging this up.”
Steiner paid out the metal rule until he was able to hook the end of it onto the top edge of the stone monolith.
Baz stared up at the neatly carved words. TAB HILL HIGH SCHOOL. Digging it up? Why?
“Two and a half meters tall,” said Steiner. “Metre wide – just over. Probably another meter underground. That’d be about right. OK. You... and you’ – he pointed at Dyson and Baz – ‘you use the picks. The other two get digging with the shovels. Come on.”
Baz had never held a pickaxe before. It was heavy and awkward, and it quickly became apparent that it was the wrong tool for digging through thick grass. The point of the pickaxe head simply disappeared into the vegetation, and either got stuck or failed to even reach the earth beneath.
“All right,” said Steiner. “Pull up the grass first then.”
Progress was slow and painful. Come midday there was a roughly circular trench surrounding the stone, dug down to a depth of about thirty centimeters. This was a job that was obviously going to take some time, and there had been no explanation as to why they were doing it. When someone had ventured to ask Steiner about it, he simply said, “Orders.”
And then things got worse. They discovered that the huge sign had been mounted in concrete. For the moment it was impossible to see just how much concrete there was – how far it extended or how deep it went. There could be a ton of it down there for all anyone
could tell. But there was no going through it. The only option was to dig around it.
“Great,” said Amit. “Welcome to Treasure Island.” These were the first words he’d spoken since the morning’s incident.
“Shut up and keep digging,” growled Steiner.
Later, in the slob room, as they sat on their mattresses, Baz tried to explain to Ray what had happened.
“It was like we’d all gone mad,” he said. “And it was like... like it wasn’t really Amit at all. Once he was on the ground, he was just this... thing.” He looked down towards the other end of the room, where Amit sat with some of the others. The group were talking quietly among themselves – probably about the same subject. Baz tried to recall the moment when he had been hauled off by one of the divers; the sense of... disappointment?
“Yeah,” he said. “It was like we were kicking at something else. This place, maybe. Yeah, this. All of this.” He shrugged it off. “Hey, I think I’ve got a fart coming on. Better go and add to the store.”
“I wouldn’t have done it,” said Ray. “Not if it had been you. I couldn’t have.”
Baz had no reply to that. He wanted to say, Well, you weren’t there, but then he wondered if he would have acted in the same way if it had been Ray who was down on the floor. He tried to picture that. Would it have been any different if it had been Ray?
He changed the subject. “So how’s it been in the sort room?” he said.
Ray stared down at the palms of his hands. “Scary,” he said. “Hutchinson told me that Steiner’s gonna smash the drain cover in.”
Baz forgot all about his rumbling gut, the build-up of gas that he’d been carefully harbouring. “What?”
“Yeah. With a sledgehammer. Isaac said he could. Steiner told him it’s got jammed somehow, and the handle has to be turned. So the thing is, Baz, the drain’ll soon be open again. Probably by next Sunday...” Ray’s voice faltered. “And that scared me, but I didn’t say anything. And then you know what Hutchinson said? He said, “I hope for your sake we don’t find that that cover’s been stuck down somehow. “Cos if someone’s been damaging Preacher John’s property, then they’re really for it.” Looks like they figured it out. So now I reckon it’s gonna be even worse than before – what they do to me...”
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