X-Isle
Page 37
“I’d got up to go to the jakes’ – Rachel rubbed the back of her hand across her nose and sniffed – ‘really early this morning. And then Baz came in and we heard the divers talking outside the back window. They said they were going to take the little one with them. Tie her up. Tie her to the whatsit... the transom. So I... we... thought that meant Steffie. We thought they were taking Steffie out on the boat. She was gonna be on the boat! I couldn’t believe it. So I ran upstairs to the art room, and got Steff and Nad, and then we all snuck down through the kitchen, up the back stairs and hid in the library.”
“They didn’t mean what we thought they meant, though,” said Baz. “Turns out they were talking about the dinghy. They were gonna tie the dinghy to the transom.”
“Yeah? Oh. Well, I didn’t know that. The dinghy... right.” There was a pause as Rachel popped open the can – pshtt – and took a quick swig.
“Anyway, so then we tried to think about what to do if we were caught. Stef had this idea. She said there was a big bottle of stuff in the art room for cleaning the brushes. Stuff that’d burn. It wasn’t petrol, though. Something else.”
“Turps,” said Steffie. “White spirit. Dunno what made me think about it. I’d seen Preacher John that time, throwing stuff onto the altar to make the fire burn, and I dunno... I suppose that’s where the idea came from. I said, OK, if they found us we could throw turps over them, and stand there with a box of matches or a lighter, then they wouldn’t be able to touch us. Might give us another chance to run for it. We talked about it in the library. But it was only, like, an idea to protect ourselves. Then later, Ray said sh—he’d go down and have a look and see what was going on. He came running back and said that Baz’d made it, but we’d got to do something quick. Like now. And the turps was all we could think of, so we ran back down to the art room to get it. Then Ray had this better idea, with the torch thing and the jam jars. And we had a go.”
“We reckoned if we could get close enough it’d work,” said Nadine. “They wouldn’t know what was in the jars, and they wouldn’t be expecting much trouble from a bunch of girls.” She glanced across at Rachel. “I mean, you know... us and Ray.”
“Well, it was friggin’ brilliant.” Robbie rocked back in his seat, hugging himself with glee. “It was all just brilliant. The bomb and everything. Thinking it up in the first place, and then Fart Club, and building the thing... finding that pressure cooker... and then BOOF – up they all went...”
Yeah, you weren’t there, thought Baz. It wasn’t brilliant, it was horrible. And scary as hell. And trying to get back to the island, lost and all alone in that dinghy, that was horrible too...
Somebody passed him an open can of drink, and Baz took a sip. Beer. He pulled a face and passed it on. Didn’t like it.
The chattering voices grew louder, more excited, just a hum of noise now. Baz caught little snippets here and there, but he wasn’t really listening. He heard Robbie say something about seeds – planting seeds – and that caught his attention for a moment. Then Gene was going on about his ideas for rafts, and how they might be able to build a diving platform out in the sea. And Dyson was explaining to Ray how to catch a rabbit.
It was a warm atmosphere, full of hope and companion ship. Baz knew that he was amongst friends, people who truly cared about him, and that was a good feeling. But the others were already beginning to make plans, beginning to think about what would happen next. And he wasn’t ready for that. Tomorrow they might build boats and catch rabbits and grow cabbages and play football – but that was tomorrow. He was still thinking about today.
He looked across at Rachel, her head close to Dyson’s, chin in her hand as she listened to his talk. Dyson was holding a can of beer, and was consequently very talkative indeed. Rachel must have noticed that Baz was looking at her, or maybe she was thinking about him in that same moment. At any rate, she glanced over and gave him a slightly wobbly smile, rolled her eyes briefly, an indication that Dyson was being a bore.
Such beautiful eyes. He’d always thought so. How could he not have seen? How could Dyson or any of the others not see, even now? All the feelings of friendship that he’d had for Ray, the other Ray, were still there. He couldn’t change them. He couldn’t just transfer them across to this new person. Ray he’d been used to, but not Rachel. No, he wasn’t ready for Rachel. Not yet.
The nightmares that he’d been dreading never came. Baz slept with his fishing spool beneath his pillow – such luxury to have a pillow – and he dreamed of the mackerel. He was swimming with the fishes, flying with the fishes, across a bright blue sea. They were his friends. They talked to him as they guided him on, and he recognized all their voices. Taps was there. And Enoch. Even Cookie.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Baz opened his eyes and looked across at Ray’s empty bed. No matter how early he awoke, Ray was always up first. And then he remembered. Ray didn’t sleep here anymore. Ray didn’t even exist.
But Rachel did. And Rachel had slipped away with Nadine and Steffie the night before, un noticed by anyone, to go and sleep upstairs.
Nobody else was awake. As Baz sat up and looked around the slob room, he could see the bundled-up figures, all snug in the new duvets they’d taken from the store. It was tomorrow and everything was different, and everything would be different from now on.
He got up, went to the jakes, came back, pulled on his clothes. Still no movement. Baz took his fishing spool from under his pillow, picked his way through the wreckage of last night’s feast and slipped quietly out of the slob-room door.
It was strange to be in the kitchen again, the scene of so many panicky moments. Poor Cookie, frantically trying to dish up a meal for the divers, bandage trailing from his injured hand. Baz shivered, and opened the door of the food cupboard.
He rummaged around, pushing the tins and bottles aside until he found what he was looking for. Sweet corn.
The air outside smelled fresh, chilly even, and the light was different. Baz walked down the steep pathway that led to the jetty, stumbling once or twice as he gazed up at the sky. There were clouds, thin wavy lines of cloud, pink-tinged from early sunlight. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen clouds like that, or when he’d breathed in air that wasn’t heavy and humid. He half wished that he’d put on more than just a T-shirt.
And the sea... the sea below him sparkled so brightly that it hurt his eyes. Low sunlight danced and shimmered on the water, turning the waves into a million mirrors, winking and flashing their cheerful signals at him. It was like being on holiday, like the first day of a summer holiday, with all the other amazing days yet to come.
Baz walked along the jetty, kicking up the stones and chippings that he himself had helped to lay. His palms still tingled at the memory, the agony of pushing those barrows up and down. No more. He could let go now. And the altar, when he came to it, was also something he could let go of. It seemed like a relic, a monument from another age, the blackened cross erected by some ancient tribe who were long gone. History.
At the end of the jetty Baz stood and gazed out across the sunlit water. Only yesterday that same water had threatened to swallow him up, to drag him into everlasting darkness, and yet today he felt that he could dive into its dazzling light and swim right to the horizon and back. Or he could simply wade out amongst the waves and bathe himself clean.
Clean on the outside, at least...
Through the brightness of the day came this darker thought, rolling in like a thundercloud. They were murderers. Every last one of them. Amit, Dyson, Jubo, Robbie, Gene and himself – all were guilty of the worst of crimes. Even Nadine and Steffie had played their part. And Rae of course. Rae had played perhaps the deadliest part of all, arming the bomb that had killed Preacher John.
X-Isle was an island of convicts. Not a holiday camp but an open prison. And here the prisoners would serve out their sentence, perhaps forever more.
What else could they have done, though? What should they have done? Killers or
freedom fighters... which were they? Baz knew that he would return to the question again and again, working through the threads of all that had happened in search of an answer. But right now it was beyond him.
He knelt down and began to sort out the fishing spool, unwinding the line, disentangling the knots. The scrap of old bait was still attached to one of the hooks, and Baz picked at it until it was gone. He laid the trailing line of hooks out straight, four of them in a row. Now he was ready to begin.
This was going to be his job, he’d decided. Gene could build his rafts, and Dyson could catch his rabbits, and Robbie could plant his vegetables. But he was going to learn to fish. He would be Baz the fisherman. Later he’d have to go to the library and find out about it properly, but today he’d just have a go and see what happened.
Baz lifted the ring-pull on the tin of sweet corn and peeled back the lid. Sweet corn was good, his dad had once told him. Good for bait. Dad said he’d always used sweet corn when he was a boy. Dad...
Dad...
Oh, I miss you, Dad. I miss you so much. Where are you? Why aren’t you here to help me? A great wave of emotion came rolling in from nowhere, slamming against him, choking him, flooding his throat and nose and eyes... Oh God... Oh God...
The tears rolled down his cheeks, his shoulders shook. He just couldn’t stop crying. For ages he knelt there. Waited and waited until at last his sobs began to die down. Finally he sat back on his heels and wiped his arm across his eyes. Oh God... Christ... where had all this come from? Jesus...
The shape of the cross fell across his blurry vision, and it occurred to Baz that maybe he should stop cursing God so much. Stop cursing and learn to start praying maybe. He sniffed and thought about that for a moment. No, that was Preacher John’s altar, not his. He might learn to pray, but he would never pray to that. And he was OK – as OK as he could be. Safe for the moment, and amongst friends. And his dad would be OK too. They’d see each other again. X-Isle might not be forever after all. People on the mainland would find out what had happened here. They were bound to in the end. Someday they would come, and his dad would be there among them, on the boat, on the raft, on the plane. Walking up the jetty, his old raincoat folded over his arm, ready to protect him... to look after him...
And besides, Baz reasoned, he hadn’t come here to pray. Or to curse, or cry, or decide right from wrong. He was here to fish.
Do it, then. Baz took a handful of the sweet corn and popped it in his mouth. His breathing hadn’t completely steadied yet, and it wasn’t easy to swallow, but the corn tasted good. Still chewing, he picked out a single golden piece from the tin, studied it for a moment and pressed it down onto one of the hooks. Then did the same with the other three.
He stood up and swung the lead weight around a few times experimentally. It felt solid and heavy, and Baz was hopeful that it would travel some distance. But how far? As a second thought he unwound a lot more line from the spool, coiling it loosely at his feet, making sure that it wouldn’t snag.
OK, give it a go. Baz positioned himself right at the edge of the jetty, adjusted his stance and began to swing the weight. As it picked up speed, he let out a little more line... round and round... a little more... faster and faster... now...
Baz let go of the line and watched the weight go hurtling away from him. Up it went, soaring in a high arc against the sun, the baited hooks trailing behind it... on and on... and then down into the sea, disappearing with a gloop. An amazing distance, much further than he could have hoped for. The most perfect throw.
Wow. Baz kept his eye on the spot where the weight had splashed into the water. That was great.
But what did he do now? How would he know whether he’d caught something or not? He supposed he’d just have to haul the line in every so often and have a look. Whenever he got bored, or whenever he just fancied having another throw. It also occurred to him that there were some things that he would definitely not want to find on the end of that line. A conger eel, for instance. Or a diving mask...
Or a mackerel. Baz decided that if he ever caught a mackerel he would throw it back. He would keep a flounder or a herring, or just about anything else he could get, but he would never harm a mackerel. Mackerel were his saviours and his friends.
His lucky fish.
Table of Contents
Title page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY