Authors: Steve Augarde
“Yeah? That it?” He looked across at Gene.
“Yeah,” Gene sighed. “That’s it. Sorry... I just can’t... just can’t do it all. Can’t be the one who...”
“I know. It’s OK.”
It was like a death warrant, thought Baz. Like adding the final signature. A terrible thing to do, no matter how bad the crime, or how deserved the punishment. Did anyone ever have the right to sign away another life? Now that he saw it like that, he wondered if he could have done it himself. Maybe not.
Yet Ray could...
“OK.” Gene stood up. “Nearly there. I’m just gonna shift those cans.” He hauled the two jerry cans across, tipping them over so that they lay against the protruding lid of the pressure cooker. Then he closed the trapdoor as far as it would go, resting it on top of the jerry cans. The pressure cooker was still partially visible, but it might escape a casual glance.
Gene climbed out of the locker well. “Let’s shut the lid, then,” he said. Baz put the torch down on the floor, and the three of them gently lowered the solid hinged lid. They stood there for a moment, six hands resting on the top of the locker.
“God help us,” Gene muttered, in such a way that it was hard to tell whether he was praying for forgiveness or predicting disaster. He lifted his head and took a last look around. “Switch off the light, Baz. We’re done. Let’s go.”
The lookouts joined them one by one as they climbed back up the pathway to the school, and each boy whispered the same thing:
Have you done it? Have you done it?
Yeah. We’ve done it.
But there were no expressions of jubilation at their achievement, no air-punches or excited slaps on the back. Rather it was a silent and thoughtful crew that entered the glass doors of the building and crept along the moonlit corridor.
A heavy sense of apprehension and fear hung in the stuffy darkness of the slob room. Baz tossed around on his mattress, knowing that others were doing the same, knowing that none of them would ever sleep. They’d done a terrible thing. And maybe it was the wrong thing after all. Maybe it was their own death warrants that they’d just signed, not Preacher John’s. Maybe tonight would be their last night ever.
And who should take the most blame for that? It had been Gene’s genius that had built the bomb, yet Gene had never truly pushed for its use, thought Baz. That had been down to him. He’d been the one to insist that it must be done tonight. And there would never have been a bomb in the first place if it hadn’t been for Ray. It was Ray who had started this. And it was Ray who had finished it.
“Ray? You awake?” Baz whispered.
A few moments of silence, then a long sigh.
“Yeah.”
“Ray, I’m really scared now. This is bad...”
“Yeah. I know.”
Baz reached out towards the mattress next to him, found Ray’s hand and held it. He squeezed the slim fingers between his own, and was comforted by the brief pressure in response. But Ray was elsewhere, he could tell. Some distant place.
“Ray... what happened tonight? Tell me what happened to you.”
“Uh?”
“With Steiner and Hutchinson. You’ve gotta tell me.”
“Oh, that.” Another sigh. “Forget it. Don’t keep on at me. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does matter. It does to me.”
“Hey – I keep telling you. Nothing happened, OK? Nothing.”
But Baz couldn’t believe that. He was being fobbed off, and it hurt.
“How do you mean, nothing? Why?”
“Just go to sleep.”
Ray withdrew his hand, then, and that hurt even more.
Baz felt the bridge of his nose tingle, and quick tears stinging his eyes. He rolled onto his back again, and stared up into the swimming darkness.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
They’d made a huge mistake. It was Baz’s first thought as he woke up. He lay on his side, eyes open, looking at the grubby wall next to his bed.
A bomb. They’d built a bomb. It was out there on the boat at this very moment, sitting silently in the darkness of the locker, armed and ready to kill. And that was wrong. It didn’t matter how you looked at it, you couldn’t just go around blowing people up. Murdering people. But then, if the only other choice was to be murdered yourself...
... drowned... sacrificed...
Baz rolled over to see whether Ray was awake yet. Yes, he must be, because his bed was empty. Baz sat up and pulled on his shorts.
Ray was just coming out of the jakes as Baz entered.
“Whoa – you’re up early for once,” Ray said. His hair was slicked back, T-shirt damp here and there with splashes from the shower. “You OK?”
Last night’s coolness or exasperation had gone from his voice.
But Baz had come to a decision, and he knew it wouldn’t be a popular one.
“No, I’m not OK,” he said. “I can’t do this, Ray. We’re gonna have to get down to the jetty quick. Unwire the bomb before anyone else is up.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We can’t just—Hang on, I need a pee.” Baz ran into one of the cubicles and carried on talking. “There’s still time to sling it over the side of the boat. Dump it in the water right now, and no one’ll ever know.”
“Jesus, Baz. Have you gone
nuts?
We’ve spent weeks on this, and now
you’ve
decided it’s not gonna happen? What’s the matter with you? It’s gonna work. I know it is. It’s gonna work.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the point. It’s murder—”
“Murder? What about
us
getting murdered, then? And what about all those kids that’ve been dumped in the sea? What about Nadine and Stef—”
“Just listen. Ray... just shut up and listen a minute.” Baz tried to summon up the right words, the right argument. But into the moment of stillness that fell on the washroom came the sound of other voices, men’s voices, drifting through the open quarterlight window.
“So we’re taking the little ’un with us. That’s a definite now, is it?”
“Yeah. Gimme ten minutes and we’ll get her tied up. Rope her to the transom.” Amos and Luke, passing by the rear of the building, their heavy feet scrunching on the loose gravel.
“It’ll need two of us to sort her out, so just wait till I get there, OK?”
The footsteps faded away. Baz and Ray stared at each other.
The little ’un? Rope her to the transom?
What was going on? Who were the divers talking about?
“Oh my God...” Ray put both hands up to his face. “They’re taking...” He pushed his fingers up into his wet hair. “They’re gonna take Steffie! Ohhh no... no...” Then his eyes were furious, accusing. “But you said Hutchinson! You said they were taking Hutchinson!”
“But that’s what I heard them s—”
“Christ! Listen. Just don’t do anything
stupid
, OK?” Ray was at the washroom curtain now, pulling it aside. “If you tell, if you say anything about the bomb, or try to do anything
stupid
, then we’re dead. All of us are dead. Got that?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Just tell me you’ve
got
that, Baz. You don’t say
anything
, yeah? Not to anyone. “Cos I’m really starting to worry about you.”
“Where are you going?”
But Ray had already gone.
Baz pushed his way past the swaying curtain, just in time to see the shadowy figure of Ray disappearing through the door at the far end of the slob room.
There were six of them lined up on the jetty – Baz, Amit, Dyson, Gene, Jubo and Robbie. Ray had gone missing, his absence soon noticed by the capos. And in the hunt for Ray it had been discovered that the two girls had vanished too, the art room empty. So now there was trouble.
Baz was so terrified of making matters worse that he had followed Ray’s instruction and said nothing to anyone.
Steiner and Hutchinson patrolled the line, both looking very white and shaky. Their eyes were all gummed up, puffy slits, narrowed against the daylight. It was plain that the pair were suffering from the previous night’s drinking, and this provided some comfort at least to the others. Baz felt Jubo’s elbow nudge at his ribs and he gave a little snigger.
“Right,” croaked Hutchinson. “Somebody knows something. Where are they?”
No reply.
“Come on,” said Steiner. “We’re gonna find them in the end, so you might as well tell us now. Save yourselves some grief.”
Still nothing.
Hutchinson got specific, then, and poked Jubo in the chest. “You. Where’ve they all got to?”
“Get off me, man,” said Jubo. “I dunno what you talkin’ ’bout. Wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“Eh? You cheeky little f—’ Hutchinson aimed a slap at Jubo’s head, but Jubo easily ducked out of the way.
“Yah. You still drunk. You stink like a pig.” Jubo danced backwards a couple of paces. He was on his toes, weaving from side to side.
Hutchinson lurched after him, but gave up almost instantly. “Right,” he spluttered. “You’re in deep trouble, pal.” He pointed his finger threateningly at Jubo, then moved back to rejoin Steiner.
“Rass. You the one in grief, man.” Jubo was defiant, but kept his distance nevertheless.
“What did you say?”
“Hey, forget it, Hutch. We’ll kick the crap out of him later. Don’t worry about it.” Steiner’s voice was seemingly casual, unconcerned. But as he walked down the line, he suddenly grabbed at Baz, yanked him forward and got him in a headlock.
“Right.
Now
we’ll get some chuffin’ answers. I’ll teach you to laugh at me, you little sod! Where’s your girlfriend, eh? The cornflake kid?”
Baz was doubled over, choking, Steiner’s bony forearm pressed into his face. “Ow! Let go... I don’t know... I don’t know anything!”
“Yeah? Well, here’s a memory jogger!” Steiner gave a vicious sideways jerk with his arm, and Baz thought that his neck would break... like a rabbit... like Preacher John with the rabbits...
“Arggh... arghhh...”
“Oi! Are you at it again? I told you to go and find those other kids, not beat this lot up!” Isaac had arrived.
Baz dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. The skipper stood over him, an unlikely saviour, his huge sea boots planted on the gravel surface beside Baz’s insignificant hand. Other feet passed by...
crunch... crunch... crunch
. Amos, on his way to the boat. The smooth sheen of metal caught Baz’s blurry vision. He squinted upwards and saw that Isaac was carrying a shotgun, twin barrels pointing downwards.
“How many times do I have to tell you to lay...
off?”
Baz heard the whack, and saw Steiner’s bare knees buckling as he staggered backwards. Isaac must have hit him really hard this time, because Steiner fell to the ground and didn’t move.
“What do you think you’re doing, Isaac?”
Here was Preacher John – also just arriving – his unmistakable voice booming across the jetty. But it was Preacher John as he’d never been seen before. He’d changed his long black garb for seaman’s clothing: a grey smock and big rubber boots. Baz looked up at him in astonishment.
“I’m protecting our ruddy property,” said Isaac, “that’s what I’m doing.” He stepped away from Baz.
“Protection? Is that what you call it? The day’s hardly begun and you’ve already lost three kids. Now I find another two injured. This hardly looks like protection to me. And I’ll remind you that this is
my
property, not ‘ours’.”
Baz cautiously stood up, wondering if Preacher John was now about to hit Isaac. Isaac carried the shotgun over one arm, the barrels broken for safety, the bright cartridge ends exposed. Baz was now familiar with those circular brass caps...
“Gaah.” The skipper was defiant. “Steiner needs a good thump round the ear every once in a while. He’ll live.” And it was true. Steiner was already rolling over and attempting to sit up – although his face looked horribly swollen and bruised.
“Maybe so. But he’s not much use to me like that, is he? I can’t trust him to look after this place alone, not in the state you’ve put him in. Thanks to you we’ll have to leave both capos here now, and take someone else instead. Right. You’ – he pointed at Hutchinson – ‘get him on his feet. Get him up, and listen to me, the pair of you. By the time I’m back tonight I want those other three found, got it? No excuses. You find them, and you bring them to me – or so help me God, you’re in trouble. Right?”
“Yes,” said Hutchinson. “Right.”
“Right,” said Preacher John. “And you’ – he looked at Baz – ‘get on the boat.”
“What?” Baz thought he must have misheard.
Preacher John stepped towards him, his face as red and raw as butcher’s meat. “
On the boat
, I said. Go on – get down there. You’re coming with us.”
Baz stared stupidly up at the preacher. This couldn’t be happening. “Me? But... what...”
“Hang on a minute.” Isaac looked confused. “He’s no use. We need someone who can work the tender. We’ll take the mechanic.”
“We’ll take this one,” said Preacher John.
“What the hell for? He’s no good to us!”
Preacher John stood upright and turned towards Isaac. “Are you questioning me, boy?”
Isaac held his ground. “I think as skipper I have some say in who’s gonna be on the boat – and why.” His shoulders broadened a little.
“Skipper you might be, Isaac, but I am Master. Do you understand that? I am Master, and I always will be.”
Isaac’s expression darkened in anger, bearded jaw thrust belligerently forward. The two men faced each other. A long moment of deadlock followed, a silent clash of wills, but then Isaac seemed to sag before Preacher John’s ferocious gaze. He turned without another word and walked away, heading towards the salvage boat. As he reached the edge of the jetty, he altered his hold on the shotgun. There was a sharp metallic sound as the barrels clicked into place.
Preacher John watched him go, his eyes still fierce and dominant. Then he looked down upon Baz once more. “Why are you standing there, boy? Get on the boat.”
Baz had the sudden idea that this must be some kind of test; that what Preacher John really wanted was information about Ray and Nadine... and Steffie. The boat was being used as a threat. He tried to get as much sincerity into his quaking voice as he could.
“I don’t know anything,” he said. “I really... really, honestly don’t know where they are. I’m telling you the truth.”