X-Isle (2 page)

It had all happened so quickly that he still couldn’t quite believe his luck. He was on the boat, actually on the boat, and getting out of here at last. For a while, anyway. He felt a burst of gratitude towards his dad, and he peeped round the wheelhouse doorway, searching the section of the crowd that was visible from where he was sitting. Yes, Dad was still there, standing on the banks of the bowling green, his thin raincoat folded over his arm now. He looked gaunt and scruffy, his face unshaven, his hair damp and straggly from the humidity. Not beaten, though. He didn’t look beaten, like some men did. Dad was a survivor. As long as there was a pack of cards available, and men to play with, he’d survive. Best poker player around.

“What’s the first rule of gambling, son?” his dad had once said.

“Er... dunno. Don’t bet more than you can afford to lose?”

“No. Don’t make the other guy bet more than 
he
 can afford to lose. That way he’ll be round to try again. See, I make sure never to win too much, or too often. Maybe three games out of five, four out of seven. Just enough to get by – and that way we keep getting by.”

For nearly two years now, they’d been getting by. Ever since the floods came and washed the world away...

“Wheel ’em down, then!” Isaac was out on deck, organizing the Trolleymen. “Let’s get started.”

Baz could see the four laden supermarket trolleys being brought down the slipway, awkward things that needed the guidance and restraining hands of the dozen or so tough-looking men who accompanied them. Here was the scavenged wealth of the mainlanders, the pitiful odds and ends that had been raked from the ruins of the city, to be traded against the salvage goods that the Eck brothers had brought over from the island.

The Trolleymen began to unload their wares, spreading the separate lots about the tarmac slipway and along the muddy banks to either side.

“Six jerry cans o’ diesel. Three hundred litres.”

Fuel was always the first commodity to be listed for trading. After that came the things that had been brought along for private sale – various small lots and possessions packed into carrier bags. All such goods had to be handed over to the Trolleymen, who would barter a price on the owner’s behalf in return for a cut of the proceeds.

The men glanced into each bag, shouting out the contents as they went so that Isaac could chalk everything up, and begin figuring out how many tins of food or bottles of drink he would give for each lot.

“Small box of tea bags, four rolls kitchen towels.”

“Box o’ firelighters. Bag o’ flour, plain.”

“Stack of magazines – er, top shelf. Packet of barley, unopened. Box of household matches.”

“Er... cooking apples. Seven.”

Baz noticed the hesitation and surprise in the last caller’s voice, and remembered that his dad had said something about managing to get hold of a bit of fruit. Seven cooking apples, though! Who else but Dad could have found such things? He ought to get quite a few tins for them, although the Trolleymen would take their usual heavy percentage of course. Being a Trolleyman was a dangerous occupation. They had to fight off the Teefers – most of whom had ambitions to become Trolleymen themselves – so it was only the toughest and most violent who held onto the job. You wouldn’t argue with them.

“Bag o’ dog biscuits.”

“Single duvet – still in its wrapper...”

On it went, and on it would go for the next quarter of an hour or more.

The Japanese man pushed himself away from the helm with a grunt, and stepped into the doorway of the wheelhouse. He leaned against the doorpost in order to watch the trading. Baz couldn’t see what was going on anymore. He sat on his hands and looked at the kid sitting next to him.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

The boy kept his head down, eyes fixed upon his feet as they swung to and fro, his muddy trainers kicking against a coil of rope that lay on the floor. He didn’t seem particularly grateful to be here.

“Ray.” His voice had a husky note to it, as though it was about to break perhaps. Better for him if it didn’t just yet.

“Mine’s Baz,” said Baz, though the boy hadn’t asked. “Was that your mum who brought you down here?”

“Yeah.”

Baz guessed that there had been no man available. “Lost your dad, then? I lost my mum. And my sister. They were away down south when it happened.” It was always good to try and talk about it, so his dad said. Better that way.

“Never had a dad,” said the boy, “so it doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Baz felt uncomfortable. “Brilliant, though, with the cornflakes. How did your mum get hold of them?”

“How do you think?” Ray looked at him for the first time. His hair was cut very short at the back and sides, but long in the front, and his dark eyes were steady and defiant beneath the blue-black fringe.

“What?”

“I said, how do you think? Try using your loaf instead of asking dumb questions. How did your dad manage to get hold of the cartridges?”

“Um... gambling. Playing poker.”

“Yeah, well, lucky for him, then, if that’s all he had to do.” Ray looked down at his feet once more, and kicked harder at the coil of rope.

Baz might have said more, but then the Japanese man, Moko, turned and scowled at them. It was a look of warning, and with it the man disappeared, apparently wanted out on deck to help with the unloading.

Isaac could be heard shouting out the rates he was prepared to offer for the goods that littered the slipway.

“Three hundred litres o’ diesel – I’ll give you five hundred tins. What? Don’t come it with me, Goffer. We’re trying to do an honest job here, and all you do is give us grief. OK, six hundred. But you’d better start cutting me a better deal on fuel, ’cos if we don’t turn up here, you starve. Moko – load six hundred in the net! Tea bags and kitchen towels – I’ll give you ten tins, mixed. Box o’ firelighters, bag of flour – twelve tins, mixed. Bag of apples – forty tins, two packs of beer. What’s next? Magazines...”

Baz did a calculation in his head over the apples. So if the Trolleymen had got forty tins for them, his dad might end up with twenty-five. Perhaps one of the packs of beer, if he was lucky. Twenty-five tins... maybe five of those would be stew or curry... two or three of fruit... the rest soup or beans. Dad could get by for over a week on that, and still have a little capital for poker stakes. Yeah, that wasn’t bad for a few cooking apples.

“Listen up.” Isaac was bringing the trade to a close. “We’re doing an extra run next week – a Special. We got baby food – jars and tins – and we got wine. We need clean clothing, men’s extra-large. Boots, jackets, jumpers, shirts, trousers – whatever you’ve got. Boys’ stuff we’ll take, but you’ll get nothing for it. If you’ve got a lad on the island with us and you want to send a parcel, then it’s up to you. But we don’t pay for it. OK, we’re ready to offload – and let’s have no funny business this time. Keep it civilized and there’ll be no trouble.”

Moko yanked the winch motor into life, a cloud of blue smoke rising from its exhaust. The boat creaked and tilted as the heavy net with its cargo of bottles and food tins was swung out over the side of the boat and lowered onto the slipway.

“Keep back!” Isaac’s voice yelled out, and Baz lurched sideways in fright at the sudden crash of the automatic – 
duh-duh-duh-duh-duh!

Maybe a few of the Teefers had edged too close, or maybe Isaac was simply taking no chances. With the boat halfway between unloading and loading, and nobody at the helm, this was always the moment when things could get dangerous.

“Sorry.” Baz had bumped against Ray when the gun went off. He sat up straight again.

“Jumpy, aren’t you?” Ray said.

“Hey – they 
shoot
 people.”

“Good job. Some of them need shooting.”

Well, you’re a tough guy
, thought Baz, 
for such a little squirt
.

Ray leaned forward and touched the helm, pressing his fingertips against the wheel until it moved slightly. He turned to look at Baz and said, “Know anyone who’s been there? To the island?”

“No.” Baz was feeling irritated. Or maybe he 
was
 just jumpy. “Not really. A girl I know had a cousin who was there for a few months. I never met him, though.”

“What happened?”

“Same as always, I s’pose. He got too big. Got too expensive to feed and so they sent him back. Probably a Teefer now.”

“No, I mean what happened to him over there? What do they make you do?”

“Dunno. Work on the salvage, clean it up or whatever. It’s gotta be better than here, oreverybody wouldn’t be trying to get on the boat.”

“Yeah. Wish I knew someone who’d been, though.”

Baz shrugged. Maybe this kid should have given his cornflakes to someone else if he was having second thoughts. He turned to gaze out of the porthole behind him, rubbing his bare elbow against the glass and staring into the blanket of steamy mist that hung upon the shoreline. On a clear day you could sometimes get a glimpse of the true horizon, miles and miles away, but clear days were few and far between now. Baz wiped the glass again, and peered closer. What was that? He thought he had seen something. Yes, a face – and there was another – pale faces coming through the gloom. Oil drums... a raft. A group of men crouching on a home-made raft...

What were they doing?

It was another long moment before Baz caught on. Oh my God...

“Down!” He grabbed at Ray’s elbow as he threw himself to the floor. “Get down!”

“What? Hey—!”

Ba-doom!
 The deep thud of a shotgun. Shouts. And then the answering fire of the automatics – 
duh-duh-duh-duh-duh...

More yelling and firing, the piercing clang of bullets against metal, and Moko came stumbling in through the doorway. Baz felt the heavy kick of a boot in his ribs as he tried to scrabble out of the way, heard the frantic rev of the diesel, then tumbled over onto his back. He squinted upwards, choking for breath, and was immediately blinded – 
ugh –
 something in his eye. All he could see was red. He squirmed into a corner beneath the bulkhead and desperately rubbed at his eyes. Blood – a long wet smear of it across the back of his wrist. It was the Japanese man, Moko, bleeding all over the place as he spun the wheel, heavy drips of bright red spattering the greasy floor of the cabin.

Ba-duh-duh-duh-duh...
more shots and curses... the boat rocked wildly, engine going full throttle. Baz tried to sit up, but was knocked back down again as the vessel struck against something solid – a horrible grinding shudder.

“What’re you playing at, Moko! Try going 
around
 the ruddy rooftops...” Isaac, yelling through the doorway.

Another few vicious bursts of gunfire, and then the motion of the boat gradually evened out. The shouting ceased, and the steady drub of the diesel was all that could be heard. Baz cautiously raised himself up, and saw that Ray was on the opposite side of the cabin, huddled beneath a bench seat. Had he been hit?

Isaac ducked into the wheelhouse, his broad bulk darkening the tiny space. He wrenched at the strap of his gun, pulling it furiously over his head. “Right, that’s it. I’m done with that lot. They can dam’ well starve for all I—What the hell...? Look at all this! Moko? What’s happened?”

“Nugh.” The big Japanese man grunted as he held up his dripping forearm, but kept his eyes on the window in front of him.

“Amos! In here, quick.” Isaac was already shouting to one of the men outside. “Moko’s been hit in the arm. Get him bandaged up. Oi, Luke, come and take the helm while I sort these kids out.”

Isaac bent down and yanked at one of Ray’s ankles. “Right, you little snot-nose – outside. Now! Yeah, you too – get up, and get out there on deck.”

As Baz staggered to his feet, Isaac gave him a shove, and he lurched into Ray. The two boys were catapulted through the doorway. Isaac followed and gave them both another push. “Get down to the stern and out of the way. Amos, see what you can do to fix up Moko. Give him some brandy or something. Luke, we might as well head straight for home. No point in doing the rounds, now that we’ve got no flaming diesel.”

“OK, but the old man’s gonna have a fit when he hears about this. What d’you wanna do with those kids?”

“What do I 
want
 to do?” Isaac’s voice roared above the clatter of the engine. “Feed them to the ruddy mermaids is what I want to do! But I’ll find out what they know first. As for the old man – you leave him to me. 
He
 should try this caper some time.”

Baz and Ray stumbled through the maze of crates and boxes that littered the deck. The yawing movement of the boat kept them continually off balance, so that their progress was awkward and slow. When they reached the stern, they turned to find Isaac already bearing down on them, his bearded face set in an angry scowl. Fear instinctively drew the two boys closer together – but this simply made it easier for Isaac to collar them both at the same time. His huge hands shot out and grabbed at their throats, and Baz found himself standing on tiptoe, with Isaac’s face thrust so close to his that he could smell his horrible black beard.

“Now then. Let’s have some ruddy answers. How long had 
that
 little scheme been planned?” Isaac’s breath stank of pickles and tinned fish.

“Don’t know.” Baz could hardly get his voice to work. “I don’t know anything about it. Honest.”

Immediately he felt himself being shaken so violently that he thought his neck would break.

“Listen, you little toe-rag! That raft wasn’t built without other people knowing about it. So who organized it – the Trolleymen? Who else was in on it? You?”

“No! I don’t know anything. I just looked... looked through the window and there they were.”

“OK, then – what about you, Cornflakes? Come on! You’re going overboard in any case, so start talking.”

But Ray seemed totally unable to speak. His mouth simply hung open.

Isaac looked from one to the other, as if making up his mind what to do with them.

“Gah!” He finally hurled the boys away from him, so that they both staggered against the bench plank at the stern of the boat. “Over a thousand ruddy cans I’ve lost today! A thousand cans! And only you little snits to show for it. That’s a hell of a lot of diving, a thousand cans. 
And
 I’ve got a man wounded, dammit!” Isaac snatched at the nearest thing to hand – an empty wine bottle – and flung it at them. The boys both ducked as the bottle whizzed over their heads and disappeared soundlessly in the wake of the boat. Isaac turned to go. “I’ll tell you one thing, though – we’ll get our money’s worth out of you two. You’re going to find out what hard work is, boyos. And then I’ll sling you to the mermaids personally. Dead or alive. Stay back there, and don’t move till I come and get you.”